In Vermiglio, director Maura Delpero transports viewers to a remote Italian Alpine village during the waning days of World War II, weaving a quietly gripping story of a family’s everyday struggles and small triumphs against a stark, snowbound backdrop. Inspired by Delpero’s familial roots in Trentino-Alto Adige, the film balances a historically grounded narrative with universal themes of love, resilience, and identity.
Set in 1944, Vermiglio opens with the Graziadei family awakening to a frigid winter morning. Cesare (Tommaso Ragno), the austere patriarch and local schoolteacher, presides over a cramped household that includes his wife, Adele (Roberta Rovelli), and their children of varying ages. Into this insular world steps Pietro (Giuseppe De Domenico), a Sicilian deserter fleeing the war. Drawn by necessity—and perhaps an unspoken desire for connection—he seeks refuge in the Graziadei’s barn.
Pietro’s arrival tests the family’s already fragile equilibrium, particularly when he and Lucia (Martina Scrinzi), the eldest daughter, form a tentative bond. Their relationship, tender yet fraught with uncertainty, underscores the film’s core tension: how personal desires collide with harsh realities in a time of scarcity. Although World War II remains largely offscreen, its presence ripples through daily life—felt in rationing, passing soldiers, and whispered rumors. Rather than emphasizing battle sequences, Delpero focuses on how global upheaval permeates even the most remote corners of ordinary existence.
Each member of the Graziadei family has a distinct voice and arc. Lucia (Martina Scrinzi) stands on the cusp of adulthood, torn between familial duty and her yearning for freedom. Scrinzi imbues her performance with quiet curiosity and emerging resolve. Pietro (Giuseppe De Domenico) appears stoic yet exhibits moments of vulnerability, particularly in his gentle interactions with the younger children. De Domenico reveals a haunted past through subtle gestures rather than overt expositions. Cesare (Tommaso Ragno) embodies old-world patriarchal authority, grappling with the weight of responsibility and a growing awareness that wartime chaos diminishes his power. Ragno’s portrayal is stern but never one-dimensional. Ada (Rachele Potrich), Lucia’s younger sister, navigates the turbulence of adolescence, quietly rebelling against the village’s stringent social norms. Her moments of religious guilt and self-discovery enrich the film’s portrayal of female constraints in a restrictive society. By offering each family member emotional space, Delpero forms a nuanced tapestry of interpersonal dynamics that reflect both individual conflicts and collective hardship.
Cinematographer Mikhail Krichman captures the Italian Alps with striking artistry. Expansive wide shots of snow-laden peaks contrast with dimly lit, close interior scenes, emphasizing the family’s claustrophobic existence and the vast wilderness just beyond their door. A subdued color palette of grays and blues mirrors both the region’s icy climate and the emotional challenges faced by the Graziadei family.
Krichman’s patient, observant camera lingers on small yet significant details: steam rising from a kettle, footprints in deep snow, the weary tilt of a mother’s head. These details enrich the sense of place while hinting at unspoken tensions, ensuring that the landscape becomes as much a character in the film as its human inhabitants.
A key facet of Vermiglio is its regional dialect. Instead of standard Italian, villagers speak in local vernacular, underscoring the unique cultural fabric often overlooked in mainstream depictions of Italy. Meanwhile, the war’s offscreen presence feels both menacing and distant. Vermiglio thus reframes World War II as an ongoing hum in the background—one that shapes the Graziadei’s world but does not fully define it.
Krichman’s patient camera captures the foreboding beauty of the Alps and the intimacy of a cramped household. From the leads down to minor characters, naturalistic acting grounds the film in emotional truth. Detail-oriented storytelling (dialect, daily routines, chores) transports viewers to the village’s time and place. The film unfolds slowly, which may alienate viewers seeking a more plot-driven war narrative. Tension often simmers beneath the surface rather than erupting, which some might find too subdued.
Ultimately, Vermiglio is a reflective, richly detailed portrait of how world events echo through even the most isolated communities. Delpero’s focus on family, faith, and forbidden affection results in a film that feels both intimate and universal. In a cinematic landscape often brimming with grand spectacle, Vermiglio resonates through its quiet depiction of everyday endurance—gently revealing the soul of a place and its people long after the final frame.
For those who appreciate patient storytelling, thematic depth, and deeply human performances, Vermiglio offers a profoundly affecting experience. Although its subdued tempo may not appeal to every viewer, its quiet resonance lingers, reminding us how even the remotest lives are shaped by global turmoil—and how, in the face of hardship, human connection remains a beacon of hope.