There’s something deeply satisfying about watching a film that doesn’t just talk about teenage boredom but embodies it. Giovanni Tortorici’s Ketticè isn’t just a coming-of-age story—it’s a masterclass in how to let the emptiness of adolescence breathe on screen. And yet, what makes this particularly fascinating is how it weaponizes that emptiness against the absurdity of adult life, using Monica Bellucci’s campy, self-aware performance as a kind of emotional anchor. I’ve seen directors try to mine teen apathy for drama, but few have done it with the kind of precision and irony that Tortorici achieves here. It’s not just about a rich kid with nothing to do; it’s about how privilege and purposelessness can coexist in the same body, and how that tension feels both alien and achingly familiar.
Let’s start with the obvious: Monica Bellucci is a national treasure, and yet she’s criminally underused in the kinds of roles that let her shine. In Ketticè, she plays Vittoria, a bourgeois mother whose disdain for her own life is so palpable it’s almost charming. But what I find especially interesting is how Tortorici lets her performance hover between caricature and authenticity. She’s not just a joke; she’s a character who knows she’s a joke, and that meta-awareness is what makes her so compelling. It’s like watching a queen of melodrama realize she’s just playing dress-up in a world that no longer needs her. And yet, she wants to be needed. That contradiction is what gives the film its emotional heft.
Now, the real star of the show is Giulio, the 16-year-old who’s perpetually on the verge of failing school, drifting through life like he’s waiting for a script to drop. Tortorici’s genius lies in how he captures the paradox of privilege: Giulio has everything, yet he’s trapped in a void that no amount of money can fill. What many people don’t realize is that this isn’t just about wealth—it’s about the psychological weight of being handed a life without ever being asked to choose it. His parents live in a historic palazzo, his school has small classes, and yet he’s more bored than any working-class kid I’ve ever seen in a film. Why? Because he’s not struggling—he’s bored. And that boredom is a luxury, one that makes his existential crisis feel like a punchline rather than a tragedy.
The film’s visual language is another masterstroke. There’s a scene where Giulio gets into his car after kissing his girlfriend, and the camera lingers on the floor, making him look like a giant. But when he gets a breakup text, the shot shifts to eye level, shrinking him back to his actual size. It’s a subtle but devastating metaphor for how identity shifts depending on who’s watching. I’ve seen directors play with perspective before, but Tortorici uses it to highlight the fragility of youth—a reminder that teenagers are constantly performing for an audience they can’t control. And in this case, the audience includes their parents, their peers, and a world that’s already decided they’re not important enough to take seriously.
Then there’s the class divide, which is handled with a kind of brutal honesty that’s rare in modern cinema. Ketty, the girl from the wrong side of the tracks, is a walking contradiction: confident, street-smart, and yet trapped in a cycle of poverty that feels almost preordained. Her world is one of survival, where every interaction is a negotiation, every friendship a potential betrayal. Meanwhile, Giulio’s world is one of excess, where he can afford to waste €20 a day on weed and still have his parents cover his mistakes. What this really suggests is that privilege isn’t just about money—it’s about the freedom to be bad without consequences. And that’s a kind of power that most people can’t even imagine.
But here’s the thing: Tortorici doesn’t just pit these two worlds against each other. He shows how they intersect, how Giulio’s fascination with Ketty isn’t just about rebellion—it’s about finding a version of himself that doesn’t come with a trust fund. And yet, even that fascination is laced with the same entitlement that defines his life. He’s not trying to understand Ketty; he’s trying to prove he can handle her. It’s a toxic dynamic, one that mirrors the way many of us navigate relationships in our own lives, where validation is currency and authenticity is a luxury we can’t afford.
The soundtrack also deserves a mention. The use of Oumeima El Khalil’s music, which feels both out of place and perfectly suited to the film’s mood, is a stroke of genius. It’s like the soundtrack of a dream you can’t quite remember, and that dissonance is exactly what makes the film linger. Luca Guadagnino’s influence is there, but Tortorici has his own voice—a blend of melancholy and mischief that feels entirely his own. If you take a step back and think about it, this film is a love letter to the idea that adolescence is a kind of liminal space, a time when everything feels possible and nothing really matters. And that, I think, is what makes it so resonant.
In the end, Ketticè is more than just a portrait of teenage ennui—it’s a mirror held up to a world that’s forgotten how to be bored. It’s a reminder that sometimes, the most profound moments come not from action, but from the spaces between. And as much as I admire the film’s technical brilliance, what I’ll remember most is the way it makes you feel the weight of that emptiness, not as a flaw, but as a kind of quiet rebellion against a world that’s too busy to listen.
