The fleeting reign of Maria José of Savoy, Italy’s ‘May Queen,’ is a story that has long fascinated historians and filmmakers alike. But what makes this tale particularly compelling is not just its brevity—27 days on the throne—but the profound historical and personal contradictions it encapsulates. Now, with Ginevra Elkann’s upcoming film Maestà, we’re invited to revisit this moment through a lens that feels both intimate and monumental.
What strikes me immediately is the irony of Maria José’s position. Here was a woman born into royalty, groomed for a life of majesty, only to find herself at the helm of a crumbling institution. Her marriage to Prince Umberto II, son of a king who collaborated with Mussolini, thrust her into a role she may have dreamed of but in a context she could never have imagined. Personally, I think this tension—between personal aspiration and historical inevitability—is what makes her story so tragically human.
From my perspective, Maria José’s brief reign is a microcosm of Italy’s tumultuous post-war identity. Her 27 days as queen coincide with the nation’s referendum to abolish the monarchy, a decision that marked the end of an era. What many people don’t realize is that her story isn’t just about the fall of a royal family; it’s about the collapse of an entire worldview. She was a woman out of time, a symbol of tradition in a country desperate for change. If you take a step back and think about it, her reign wasn’t just short—it was symbolic of the monarchy’s irrelevance in a modernizing Italy.
One thing that immediately stands out is Maria José’s own character. Described as ‘rebellious’ and ‘surreptitiously anti-fascist,’ she was no passive figurehead. Her intelligence and cultural sophistication set her apart from the typical royal archetype. In my opinion, this is where the film has the potential to shine: by exploring how a woman like her navigated a role she was destined for but perhaps never truly wanted. What this really suggests is that her tragedy wasn’t her brief reign, but her growing awareness of its futility.
Marco Bellocchio’s involvement in the project adds another layer of intrigue. Known for his unflinching portrayals of Italy’s fascist past, Bellocchio sees Maria José as a figure caught between dreams and reality. His commentary that her ‘fairy tale was dramatically shattered’ by her marriage and the brutality of fascism is particularly poignant. What makes this particularly fascinating is how her personal story intersects with Italy’s broader reckoning with its history. The film isn’t just a biopic; it’s a reflection on the end of an era, told through the eyes of someone who was both insider and outsider.
Ginevra Elkann’s vision for the film is equally compelling. As a director, she’s drawn to stories of disconnection and transformation, themes that resonate deeply in Maria José’s life. Her emphasis on the queen’s ‘hopes and doubts’ during those fateful weeks in May 1946 feels deeply humanizing. What many people don’t realize is that Elkann’s own background—as a granddaughter of Fiat’s Gianni Agnelli—gives her a unique perspective on legacy and identity. In a way, she’s telling a story about the weight of inheritance, both personal and political.
Chiara Barzini’s observation that Maria José was ‘dramatically on the threshold of an irreversible historical transformation’ is spot on. This isn’t just a story about a queen; it’s about the universal struggle to let go of the image we’ve constructed of our destiny. Personally, I think this is where the film could resonate most powerfully. We’ve all, at some point, clung to dreams that no longer serve us. Maria José’s story is a reminder that sometimes the most courageous act is to accept the end of a world.
What this really suggests is that Maestà isn’t just a historical drama—it’s a meditation on identity, power, and the passage of time. It raises a deeper question: What happens when the life we’ve been prepared for no longer exists? From my perspective, this is what makes the film so timely. In an era of rapid change, Maria José’s story feels eerily relevant. It’s a reminder that even the most entrenched institutions—and the people who embody them—are not immune to history’s tides.
As someone who’s always been drawn to stories of transition, I’m particularly excited to see how Elkann and Bellocchio handle the film’s tone. Elkann’s promise to tell Maria José’s story ‘without nostalgia nor condemnation’ is a bold one. It’s easy to romanticize or vilify figures like her, but the truth is often far more complex. A detail that I find especially interesting is her decision to focus on the queen’s daily life, gestures, and thoughts during those 27 days. It’s in the small moments, I believe, that we’ll find the humanity of her story.
In the end, Maestà isn’t just a film about a queen who reigned for 27 days—it’s a film about the fragility of dreams and the resilience of the human spirit. What this really suggests is that Maria José’s story, though brief, is universal. We’ve all stood on the threshold of change, wondering if we’re ready to let go of what we thought we wanted. Personally, I think that’s what makes her tale so enduring. It’s not just history—it’s a mirror to our own lives.
