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 life. Here was a woman born into royalty, groomed for majesty, yet thrust into a role that was already crumbling around her. Her marriage to Prince Umberto II, heir to a throne tainted by fascism, was less a fairy tale and more a collision of ideals. Personally, I think this tension—between her democratic upbringing in Belgium and her entanglement with Italy’s fascist-aligned monarchy—is where the real drama lies. It’s not just a story of a queen; it’s a story of identity, disillusionment, and the weight of history.
Marco Bellocchio, whose involvement in the project is no small feat, has described Maria José as a figure whose dreams were ‘dramatically shattered.’ What many people don’t realize is that her story isn’t just about the fall of a monarchy; it’s about the collapse of an entire worldview. Her anti-fascist leanings, her intellectual curiosity, and her eventual abandonment of her husband all paint a portrait of a woman who was both a product of her time and ahead of it. If you take a step back and think about it, her brief reign becomes a microcosm of Italy’s post-war reckoning—a nation grappling with its past while trying to forge a future.
Elkann’s decision to focus on the month of May 1946 is, in my opinion, brilliant. Those few weeks were a crucible of emotions: hope, doubt, resignation. Maria José’s tragedy, as Elkann notes, wasn’t her defeat but her growing awareness of the monarchy’s irrelevance. This raises a deeper question: How do we reconcile the lives we’re born into with the realities we face? Her story isn’t just about the end of an era; it’s about the universal struggle to let go of the destinies we’ve imagined for ourselves.
Chiara Barzini’s observation that Maria José was ‘dramatically on the threshold of an irreversible historical transformation’ is spot on. What this really suggests is that her story is as much about Italy as it is about the human condition. We’re all, in some way, witnesses to the end of worlds—whether personal, cultural, or political. Maria José’s dilemma—her inability to fully detach from the monarchy despite recognizing its obsolescence—feels eerily relevant in an age where many of us are grappling with outdated institutions and ideologies.
One thing that immediately stands out is the film’s potential to humanize history. By centering on Maria José’s daily life, her gestures, and her thoughts, Maestà promises to make the abstract tangible. This isn’t just a historical drama; it’s a psychological study. A detail that I find especially interesting is how the film avoids nostalgia or condemnation, opting instead for respect and nuance. In a time when historical narratives are often polarized, this approach feels refreshingly honest.
From my perspective, Maestà is more than a biopic; it’s a meditation on power, identity, and the fragility of dreams. It invites us to consider how individuals navigate moments of seismic change—and how those moments, in turn, shape them. As someone who’s always been drawn to stories of transition, I’m eager to see how Elkann and Bellocchio bring Maria José’s inner world to life. Her story, after all, isn’t just about the end of a monarchy; it’s about the beginning of a new way of seeing ourselves in history.
*In the end, what makes Maria José’s tale so enduring is its ambiguity. She was a queen who never truly reigned, a rebel who was bound by duty, a woman who understood the past but couldn’t escape it. Her story challenges us to think about the roles we play in our own lives—and whether we have the courage to step away from them when they no longer serve us. Personally, I think that’s a question worth exploring, not just in the context of history, but in our own lives. And that, perhaps, is the greatest gift *Maestà could offer.
