The Hand of God, Paolo Sorrentino’s Most Personal Film Yet
Image credit: Gianni Fiorito/Netflix
Contains plot spoilers
Content warning: This article contains discussion of parent loss and sexualisation of women
The latest film from renowned Italian director Paolo Sorrentino (The Great Beauty, Il Divo) has been hotly anticipated since its streaming confirmation in July 2020. Finally, on 15th December, The Hand of God (È stata la mano di Dio) was released on Netflix to critical acclaim; as I write, it has won eighteen awards and been nominated for an Academy Award for Best International Feature Film. I would like to join many other reviewers in praising the film for its dynamicity, visual beauty, striking use of sound and silence, and its way, at once bold and tender, of recounting the director’s personal tragedy.
The film follows a teenage boy, Fabietto (Filippo Scotti), growing up in Naples with his brother, Marchino (Marlon Joubert), his sister, Daniela (who never leaves the bathroom), and his parents (Toni Servillo and Teresa Saponangelo). He is passionate about cinema, dreaming of becoming a film director - an ‘idea pazza’ (a crazy idea), he says. He is also enthusiastic about football, a passion which is amped up when his local team, Napoli, buys Diego Maradona for a record-breaking transfer fee. When his parents go away, Fabietto decides not to go with them, preferring to stay to watch Maradona play at home. Little does he know that this decision would save his life, as his parents are poisoned by carbon monoxide in their holiday house. As his uncle puts it: ‘È stato lui che ti ha salvato! [...] È stata la mano di Dio!’ (‘It was him that saved you! [...] It was the hand of God!’) The film follows Fabietto’s abrupt coming-of-age, as he reels from the loss of his parents; he reveals his infatuation for his aunt Patrizia, and begins to learn what it means to live as an orphan, wondering whether happiness will ever truly be within his reach.
In a monumental shift for Sorrentino’s films, The Hand of God is highly personal, Fabietto representing Sorrentino’s childhood self and the plot telling the true story of Sorrentino’s parents’ deaths and his obsession with football and Diego Maradona. I must admit, I didn’t know this before I watched the film; I only discovered the truth of the film’s narrative in researching afterwards. Perhaps, I should have read up better before I watched the movie; however, I maintain that this shaped the way in which I watched. Finding out that this event, portrayed so tragically in the film, really happened to the director, made the film all the more gut-wrenching.
I have often found Sorrentino’s work confusing, and this film is no exception. It is initially difficult to understand what is going on - owing to the fact that there is not much dialogue and there are many, many characters - but, from previous experience, I felt sure that sticking with the film would make it all make sense. And I wasn’t disappointed.
As ever, the jewel in the crown of Sorrentino’s cinema (in my opinion) is his cinematography, which is visually stunning, and is that which keeps drawing me back to Sorrentino’s films. While I have previously been uncomfortable with the heavily masculinist, perhaps bordering on misogynistic, directorial gaze of Sorrentino, I found that The Hand of God was far less uncomfortable from this perspective. It no longer feels like the women in the film are needlessly sexualised and objectified, as I found to be the case watching The Great Beauty. The Hand of God opens with a panoramic view across the coast of Naples at sunset, instantly enveloping the viewer in the setting which is so integral to the film. One cinematographic moment which particularly stands out to me is when Fabietto and his brother, walking through the city, spot Maradona in a car; at this point, the camera begins panning slowly, exhibiting those in the city who have also stopped to gaze in awe at the footballer. Each person is almost entirely still, giving this segment a freeze-frame-like quality, but all the while there are slight movements in the surrounding environment which remind the viewer that they are witnessing a moment of activity and emotion. This is a technique not unfamiliar to Sorrentino’s films; it calls to mind The Great Beauty, for example, and its contrast between still, pastoral settings and lively, noisy parties. These contrasts and instabilities are part of what captivated me about The Hand of God; the continual tension between movement and stasis, the sense that even the stillest moments are dynamic.
Image credit: Gianni Fiorito
I had held off watching the film for a few days: finding myself completely deaf in one ear, I decided to wait until I felt better, as my favourite elements of Sorrentino’s films have always been their soundtrack. The music in The Great Beauty was exceptionally well-chosen, at once disconcerting and perfectly in harmony with the narrative. However, perhaps I needn’t have waited, as what is notable about The Hand of God is its lack of music. Sorrentino does not shy away from an uncomfortable silence; at the funeral of Fabietto’s parents, for example, there is no music at all, leaving the viewer inescapably immersed in the situation, totally vulnerable to the sounds of emotion and footsteps and the comments of his grieving family members. Having said this, the few moments at which music is used prove that the soundtrack is just as well-chosen as Sorrentino’s previous films. Most of the pieces featured are contemporary and minimalist, helping in the creation of the feeling of discomfort familiar to viewers of Sorrentino’s other work. Nadia Sirota’s haunting and dissonant Étude 3 is heard at many of the film’s most detached moments, while Holst’s rich St Paul’s Suite accompanies another panorama of the Napoletan coast.
The message of the film is perhaps difficult to ascertain. While Marchino wants to find happiness and live his life after his parents’ death, Fabietto struggles to do so. Perhaps, then, the message of the film is whatever the viewer makes of it. Marchino sums up the differences in their worldviews best: ‘Si chiama perseveranza. Io non ci avrò mai. E tu dovre’ avercela per forza, Fabiè.’ (‘It’s called perseverance. I will never have it. So you’d better have it, Fabiè.’) Maybe, just as in the case of the two brothers, Sorrentino recognises his viewers’ individual capacity to decide what they take away from this film.
