Paolo Sorrentino’s Parthenope is, at its core, a film about beauty—how it captivates, how it defines people, and how it can both empower and imprison. Set against the stunning backdrop of Naples, the film follows the life of a woman named Parthenope, who shares her name with the city’s ancient Greek origins. She is more than just a character; she is a living metaphor for Naples itself—luminous, mysterious, and full of contradictions. 

From the moment we meet Parthenope (Celeste Dalla Porta), the film presents her as an object of fascination. Her beauty stops people in their tracks, shaping how others treat her and, ultimately, how she sees herself. Sorrentino leans into this concept, using the camera not just to admire her but to explore the ways in which beauty dictates her life’s trajectory. Early on, she revels in the attention, but as she matures, she begins to question the meaning of her existence beyond being admired.

Her search for identity takes her through intellectual pursuits, romance, and loss, with Naples serving as both her playground and her prison. A significant presence in her life is a jaded writer played by Gary Oldman, who tells her that her beauty has the power to open doors and start wars. While this might seem like an exaggeration, the film suggests that being beautiful comes with both privilege and limitation—especially for a woman. 

Visually, Parthenope is pure Sorrentino—sumptuous cinematography, dreamlike sequences, and a world that feels just slightly heightened, almost as if it exists in a memory rather than reality. His collaborations with cinematographer Daria D’Antonio and composer Lele Marchitelli give the film a hypnotic, almost nostalgic quality. Every frame looks like a painting, and every movement of the camera feels intentional, designed to immerse the viewer in this world of sunlit terraces, moonlit waters, and golden-hour reveries.

However, this intense focus on aesthetics comes with its drawbacks. While Parthenope is stunning to look at, it sometimes struggles to provide the same depth in storytelling. The episodic nature of the film—jumping through decades of Parthenope’s life—makes it feel more like a series of beautiful vignettes rather than a deeply cohesive narrative. The themes of self-discovery and existential longing are present, but they remain somewhat elusive beneath the film’s polished surface. 

One of the film’s most interesting aspects is its self-awareness. Sorrentino acknowledges that his own film indulges in the very thing it critiques—the idealization of beauty. Just as Parthenope wrestles with being perceived as little more than a stunning figure, the film itself seems to grapple with whether it is truly saying something profound or simply reveling in its own aesthetic pleasure.

By the end, Parthenope has aged, and the legendary Italian actress Stefania Sandrelli steps into the role of her older self. This transition adds a layer of poignancy, as it forces both the audience and the character to confront the passage of time. What happens when the beauty that once defined someone begins to fade? In this way, Parthenope is not just about one woman—it’s about the fleeting nature of youth, the impermanence of desire, and the way time changes both people and places. 

Parthenope is a film that dazzles the senses. It is poetic, evocative, and drenched in nostalgia. While it may not have the emotional weight of Sorrentino’s The Great Beauty, it still offers a mesmerizing meditation on life, identity, and how we see ourselves through the eyes of others. It is not a film that provides easy answers, but rather one that invites us to get lost in its visual splendor and reflect on the power and limits of beauty itself.

By Antonis Lappas