THE HAND OF GOD (Paolo Sorrentino 2021)

[Chris Knipp]

I hope I won't get in trouble for reprinting Mike D'Angelo's Patreon private subscription "review" (they're more like personal cinephile journal entries than his more explanatory published reviews) of THE HAND OF GOD. I said not everyone likes coming of age films. It seems there is also a group of viewers who've had their fill of filmmaker coming-of-age films. But it's good to see how someone much less sympathetic describes the film. It's very valid, though I'd say despite his Italian name, Mike may have less sympathy for the Italian point of view than I do. We can't really fault Italian men for being Italian men, nor is a lack of interest in sports - remarkably sweeping - an excuse of passing over the central unifying role of Diego Maradona in THE HAND OF GOD. He's even the source of the title. Note: in D'Angelo's ultra-severe private film-nerd grading system, a 57 isn't as horrible as it might seem, just not great. It's in good company. He gave De Sica's TERMINAL Station a 58, THE FRENCH DISPATCH a 52, KING RICHARD a 61; THE TRAGEDY OF MACBETH (Metascore 90%),which he seems to like, a 58. (D'Angelo was one of the earliest significant online-only film critics. He seems to have gotten a lot less work lately as paid movie reviewers retire or die off and are not replaced. But he still gets to see a lot more important first-run movies much sooner than I do.)

From Mike D'Angelo.

The Hand of God (2021, Paolo Sorrentino)

57/100

Surprisingly conventional, albeit in a very Italian-male sort of way; it plays very much like Sorrentino's Amarcord, right down to the adolescent fixation on older women's enormous breasts (coupled with said women's suspiciously convenient penchant for titillating/seducing boys). His teenage alter ego never quite comes into focus as a character, which perhaps explains why Hand of God opens with Patrizia meeting the Little Monk—a fanciful scene, more in line with Sorrentino's standard mode, at which Fabié wasn't present (though racing to her rescue afterward with his parents was clearly a crucial memory), but one that offers a sense of beauty (that grounded chandelier!) and mystery (limo saint!) rarely seen again after the kid's perspective takes over. Furthermore, the central tragedy—reportedly autobiographical, even if I was reminded that the exact same unsensed horror befell "Weird Al" Yankovic's mom and dad—is doubly tragic in that it deprives us of the film's two most vital presences. Mom's love of slightly cruel practical jokes counterbalances her over-the-top marital anguish, and of course Servillo is Servillo, twinkling with private amusement; their final moments are beautifully handled, and intensely moving if you're aware (or can intuit) that Sorrentino has re-imagined the worst thing that ever happened to him as a tender tribute to their respective natures. (I also rolled my eyes at the running gag in which we never see Daniela, who's always in the bathroom, only to be caught off guard by the catharsis when she finally emerges.) Fabietto losing his virginity to the upstairs Baroness, on the other hand, feels dully familiar despite being somewhat outré, and I'd argue that the world could get along just fine at this point without another portrait of the aspiring filmmaker as a young man. As for Maradona, he means nothing to me—not a sports guy—but replace him with, say, Memoria ("sorry, Mom and Dad, it's only playing this one week and then I might never have another chance to see it") and I feel like my Joe fandom would likely be forever tainted by survivor's guilt. That's a potentially interesting aftermath, but it ain't this film's.