LUCIA’S GRACE. Resembles a Kind Of Missionary Endeavor

Looking back from today, it is easy to see why the late 2010s were so often described as a period of genuine renaissance for Italian cinema. The most prestigious international festivals were showering filmmakers from the Apennine Peninsula with top awards, and audiences—once again in love with the expressive, relaxed yet elegant style of Italian film—were flocking back to cinemas. Yet even in the best of nests, a cuckoo’s egg can appear. Perhaps this, too, was a by-product of that sudden abundance of grace. Lucia’s Grace, according to its distributor, was meant to be a comedy about a woman whose life has recently taken a turn for the worse.

Lucia (Alba Rohrwacher) has just split up with her partner and is raising a rebellious daughter on her own. She works as a land surveyor, a profession that does not exactly guarantee a steady flow of commissions. The opportunity to carry out measurements for the construction of a massive building called “The Wave” therefore feels like a gift from fate. While doing her job, Lucia experiences an apparition of the Virgin Mary, who has very different plans for the virgin land earmarked for this architectural monstrosity. She wants Lucia to persuade others to build a church there instead of “The Wave.”

An apparition of the Virgin Mary is more of a curse than a blessing for a contemporary individual living in a secularized Europe. Such an experience would more likely be interpreted as the onset of madness or a mental disorder. “Nobody has time for faith in God these days,” the film’s protagonist says during a conversation with a psychiatrist. Director Gianni Zanasi thus employs the motif of theophany and the figure of a modern woman (is Lucia’s name a deliberate nod to Our Lady of Fátima?) to create a comedy with a Christian message. On paper, this surreal, revelatory premise sounds at least intriguing and seems full of comedic potential. In Zanasi’s hands, however, it becomes the foundation for a story that is neither funny nor coherent.

The film’s gravest sin lies in the creators’ attempt to cram the most pressing problems of contemporary Italy—and Europe at large—into a single narrative, only to gesture at them superficially. Zanasi’s film touches on corruption, the migrant crisis, and unemployment, with the cure for all these ills supposedly embodied by the Virgin Mary herself—an apparition no one, according to the film, really needs anymore. The director seems unable to decide what story he wants to tell, leaving the viewer with something resembling a muddled catechism. The screenplay, credited to four different writers, may explain the lack of cohesion.

As a result, the camera’s attention suddenly shifts—at the least expected moments—to characters who have so far contributed nothing to the story, while the Virgin Mary inexplicably and senselessly changes the purpose of her apparition to an ecological one. It is genuinely easy to lose one’s bearings.

Viewers may also struggle to accept the filmmakers’ conviction about the redemptive power of faith, largely because the Virgin Mary fails to inspire any sympathy. It is in the surreal confrontation between the non-believing Lucia and the Virgin that one searches for the film’s comedic elements—those meant to be the most satisfying. There are, of course, no wild gags à la Bruce Almighty, but worse still, what is supposed to be funny in Zanasi’s film mostly provokes embarrassment. The Virgin Mary, played by Israeli actress Hadas Yaron, comes across as bland and dull, while the comic dimension of her conflict with the protagonist is reduced to scuffles and hair-pulling.

The film is also burdened by its music. It feels as though Zanasi simply selected tracks by his favorite alternative bands—such as Goldfrapp or Radiohead—and loosely inserted them into the film. The songs do nothing to underscore what is happening on screen and often distract the viewer instead.

The brightest element of this failed film is Lucia as portrayed by Alba Rohrwacher. While the Italian star is at her best when working with her sister, director Alice Rohrwacher, it is clear that she can also demonstrate her acting prowess for other filmmakers. Pale-faced and fragile, Alba convincingly plays a woman who believes she may be at the onset of mental illness following the ill-fated Marian apparition. Vladan Radovic’s cinematography also deserves mention, bathing the images in a magical golden glow that transports the viewer to the postcard Italy we think we know.

A promising premise, beautiful visuals, and a superb Alba Rohrwacher, however, are not enough to persuade audiences that faith in God can help overcome the most pressing problems of the modern world. Zanasi’s film resembles a kind of missionary endeavor—one that, much like the contemporary Catholic Church itself, struggles to reach the hearts and minds of its audience.