Set in the northern Italian comune of the same name, Maura Delpero’s Vermiglio (2024) follows a family over the course of one year, as the seasons change and World War II comes to an end. The film’s cinematography is a canvas of still life, providing not only insight into the everyday routine of this time and place, but is also a statement unto itself, remaining still in the presence of movement and change.

Most of the film takes place in and around the home of the Graziadei family, headed by schoolteacher Cesare and his wife Adele, with rooms full of sons and daughters, ranging from young adults to newborns. Their lives are spent in the home, tending to the farm, and at the one-room schoolhouse, where Cesare is teacher to his own children. Staying in the barn, separate from the main house, are Cesare’s nephew Attilo and his fellow soldier Pietro, a deserter and Sicilian who can barely communicate with the northern family hosting him.

Narrative information is provided very delicately, gathered together through questions asked by the younger children. The family dynamics of who’s who between father, mother, children, plus the father’s sister, her son, and his wartime friend, take some time to be revealed, though the particulars feel less relevant given their unity as one singular household, experiencing life’s joys and sorrows together as family.

As a family of limited means, the close quarters also impede any notion of privacy. In fleeting moments, individual family members lock themselves into rooms when no one is looking, hide behind corners, or linger in the empty barn, just to have some time to themselves. Similarly, there’s nowhere to hide when hardships arise, and having to be present and visible. Following a tragic loss, the eldest son is unable to process or mourn, when he’s sharing a bed with his inquisitive toddler brother, who surely can’t grasp what has transpired.

In addition to the psychological strength required, the dynamic of a full house also tests the economic pressures of getting by. The parents can’t afford to send all the children on to further their education, and have to decide who among their daughters shows the most promise for school, and who is better suited to be a housewife. The eldest daughter, Lucia, also becomes caught in an impossible scenario, unable to work but also (according to societal norms) unweddable, leaving her with limited options as a woman of that era.

As these elements transpire – the family dynamics, opportunities and gender inequalities – the camera capturing them is typically static, emphasizing the feeling of stillness and stagnation. The frame rarely moves, and the image’s energy comes only from the actors and farm animals in motion. The perspective is objective, from one single vantage point, watching events play out, and also has a finite quality. The world as presented by the camera is all in this community, and does not budge, where the space and options within view are limited.

It’s with this rigorous, deliberate visual perspective that the moments of conflict and resistance within this way of life are all the more powerful. How the characters are able to transcend the hands of fate, and navigate to carving out a better future, is what makes Vermiglio a touching, though bittersweet, portrait of a family during an era of change.