It’s fitting — maybe even more than coincidence — that I stumbled upon Vermiglio, a film deeply rooted in the trials and joys of parenting, just 72 hours before my wife and I are set to welcome our daughter, Lucia, into the world. It is also the name of the film’s protagonist, a young woman in a remote Italian Alpine village whose life is upended by love, war, and duty. Though set in 1944, Vermiglio never feels like a relic. Instead, it allows us to see the past not through the condescending lens of modernity, but as the world our grandparents were born into — one of hardship, sacrifice, and resilience.

Maura Delpero, a documentarian making her first narrative feature, crafts Vermiglio in the grand tradition of Italian neorealism — Rome, Open City comes to mind — favoring an observational, restrained style and a cast that includes non-professional actors. Like the genre’s finest, it finds drama in the everyday lives of ordinary people, capturing their struggles with a compassionate lens and unvarnished truth. The film lingers on small but telling details — like the family cow standing as a source of vitality, sustaining them through long winters, not just a creature of utility.

The film follows Lucia Graziadei (Martina Scrinzi), the eldest daughter of the local schoolteacher, Cesare (Tommaso Ragno), a man who rules his home with a kind of distant, paternalistic authority. In their village, life is governed by rigid expectations, and a girl’s future is dictated more by necessity than personal ambition. When Pietro (Giuseppe De Domenico), a Sicilian deserter, arrives, he brings both love and disruption, falling for Lucia and setting in motion events that will alter the family’s fate.

At its core, Vermiglio is a story about motherhood — its beauty, its burdens, and its quiet heroism. Delpero does not sentimentalize the experience; she understands that pregnancy, childbirth, and raising children — especially without modern medicine — can be as grueling as it is profound. As I’ve learned over the past year, expecting a child is both joyful and humbling. In Vermiglio, new life is met with both hope and trepidation — another mouth to feed, another life to protect in a world where not every child makes it.

Part of what makes Vermiglio so compelling is its refusal to impose easy moral judgments. The film acknowledges the limitations women faced in this era, but it does not flatten history into a simplistic tale of oppression. In one quietly devastating scene, Cesare informs one of his daughters — still just a child — that she has reached the end of her education. He does this not out of cruelty, but necessity — she is needed at home. While it’s heartbreaking, it’s also clear that this was the reality of provincial life, where survival depended on sacrifice.

That same nuance extends to its male characters. Pietro is flawed, but he’s not a villain. And while he falters, other men — like Cesare — are shown as figures of strength and responsibility, upholding order in a world that demands sacrifice from everyone. Delpero’s script doesn’t reduce anyone to easy archetypes. These are people bound by duty, faith, and circumstance, navigating a world that offers them little choice but to endure.

Delpero seamlessly weaves Catholicism into the fabric of Vermiglio in a manner that’s neither performative nor dismissive — it’s as alive and transformative as Christ’s presence in the Eucharist. Prayer, sacraments, and faith shape these characters’ lives, offering both solace and restraint. One of the film’s most striking sequences is the village’s annual celebration of Santa Lucia (Saint Lucy), a symbol of divine illumination. The moment carries spiritual weight, mirroring Vermiglio’s deeper themes — clarity through suffering, redemption through sacrifice. Here, Delpero achieves something Best Picture nominee Conclave, despite its prestige, never quite pulls off: theological depth.

The film’s visual beauty is breathtaking yet unromanticized. Cinematographer Mikhail Krichman frames Vermiglio in painterly compositions, making the Alps feel at once majestic and unforgiving. This is not the Italy of Instagram reels, but a land of harsh winters and hard choices. That a film as visually stunning as Vermiglio was reportedly made with just 4.3 million euros — pennies by Hollywood standards — reminds us that cinema doesn’t need bloated budgets to be this rich and immersive. Hollywood should make ten of these a year.

The film won the Grand Jury Prize at the Venice Film Festival, a well-earned recognition for a work of such craftsmanship and depth. As Italy’s official submission to The Academy for the International Feature Film category, its Oscar snub is baffling — though perhaps unsurprising for a film more concerned with honesty than political pandering. But Vermiglio doesn’t need golden statues to prove its worth. It is a work of understated power — richly acted, visually stunning, and deeply humane.

The film’s wisdom can be seen in the lasting impression it left on me. I’m grateful that my Lucia will be born into a world with more opportunities than these women had — but I’m also not embarrassed by the life our ancestors lived. It defined them, and in turn, it shaped us.