La Chimera begins with a man in a rumpled cream linen suit, waking up on a train. It's one of those old-fashioned trains with compartments and wooden fixtures, and it suits his outfit. After some conversation with his fellow passengers, a brief but aggressive confrontation with an overly familiar salesman and some long looks out the window at the Italian countryside, he arrives at his destination.
This slightly scruffy man is Arthur (an incredible Josh O'Connor). He's returned from a spell in prison, a hazard of his profession: Etruscan graverobbing.
There's little exposition in La Chimera. Information isn't given to us immediately, but rather drip-fed to us through offhand comments and context clues. Neither the script (Alice Rohrwacher, Carmela Covino, Marco Pettenello) nor the direction (Rohrwacher) ever hit us over the head with what they're trying to say. Instead, we're left to interpret and come to our own conclusions, with questions left unanswered—although not unsatisfyingly so.
This clash of ancient and modern, of changing landscapes, is seen again and again. Whether through the repurposing of a derelict train station to house a commune of women and children, a giant energy plant atop ancient burial sites, or a family urging their ageing mother to move to a care home, the old and the new are in constant conflict. With the power plant literally making the earth toxic, Rohrwacher is clear in her message that the past deserves respect. The old need not be destroyed or disregarded; it still has meaning and purpose.
The idea of theft and the right to possession is central. Who is allowed to take from these tombs? When does archaeology become desecration? From the graverobbers we meet, Arthur is the sole person who genuinely seems to care about what's being found. His co-conspirators are focused solely on how much money they can make, and are quick to sniff at burial sites that won't bring them satisfying returns. There aren't even trinkets left on the skeleton, they complain; the ceramics aren't anything special.
Throughout the film, we're encouraged to appreciate the mundane. Flashbacks, soft-edged and ponderous, show us flocks of birds across a clear sky or a herd of sheep in a field. These memories, held in soft focus, are what Arthur dreams of. These small moments are to be valued just as much as life's more ‘significant' landmarks.
When we look at ancient relics, it's often difficult to connect them to a real society, to the real people who held and cared for them. La Chimera forces us to confront this, compressing time to remind us that these were once valued possessions. What will we, individually and as a civilisation, leave behind, it asks us. What will be your legacy?
As Arthur grapples with the moral and ethical weight of stealing from the dead, he deals with his own personal grief—something he seems unable to confront directly. Loss is its own presence throughout the film, despite the fact that it's never discussed outright. Instead it's a perpetual background hum, driving Arthur's decisions and the path of his melancholic life.
La Chimera is a difficult film to pin down. It's packed with philosophical questions but never feels overstuffed or prescriptive; it has a dilapidated charm without being overly romantic; it leans heavily into magical realism but remains grounded in the human experience. It's a beautiful film, and one that will stay with you.
La Chimera is in cinemas from May 10.
