SHREWSBURY FILM SOCIETY
| Director | Julien Colonna |
|---|---|
| Country | France |
| Year | 2024 |
Julien Colonna’s The Kingdom is a rare kind of crime film, one that feels both steeped in the traditions of the Mafia saga and quietly revolutionary in the way it shifts the centre of gravity. Instead of following the familiar path of mob patriarchs and their lieutenants, the story unfolds through the eyes of fifteen-year-old Lesia, a girl whose summer holiday in mid-1990s Corsica becomes an unexpected initiation into the hidden world that has shaped her family for generations. The result is a coming-of-age drama that carries the emotional weight of a tragedy and the tension of a thriller, all while maintaining an intimate focus on a father and daughter who are learning, in very different ways, what loyalty costs.
Lesia begins the film as a typical teenager. She is living with her aunt, spending time with cousins, and nurturing a tentative romance with a local boy. Her world is small, sunlit, and full of the ordinary hopes of adolescence. That world collapses without warning when she is driven to a remote villa in the hills, a fortified hideout where her father Pierre Paul is living under threat. The sudden shift is bewildering for her, and the silence that surrounds the decision only deepens her confusion. She senses that something is wrong, but no one will tell her what.
The villa is both a refuge and a trap. Pierre Paul is a commanding presence, a man whose reputation in the Corsican underworld is built on fear and respect. Yet with his daughter he is affectionate, patient, and even playful. He teaches her to cook, corrects her driving, and tries to make up for years of absence with small gestures of care. The tenderness between them is genuine, and it becomes the emotional anchor of the film. At the same time, the villa is filled with men who treat Lesia like a mascot, a child who is welcome but not to be trusted with the truth. She learns about the escalating mob war not through explanation but through overheard conversations, television news reports, and the grim evidence of violence that surrounds her.
One of the film’s most unsettling moments comes when Lesia sneaks into a morgue and sees the mutilated remains of her godfather. The shock of this discovery marks a turning point. She begins to understand that the world she has entered is governed by cycles of revenge that stretch back decades. Her father’s life has been shaped by these cycles, and he knows that they will eventually consume him. In one of their most intimate conversations, he reflects on the anger that drove him as a young man and the way that anger has shaped everything since. His words carry the weight of inevitability, and the film allows the audience to feel both the sadness and the danger in his confession.
As Lesia spends more time in the villa, her feelings shift. The longing to return to her aunt’s home fades, replaced by a growing fascination with her father’s authority and the sense of belonging that comes from being close to him. She begins to see herself not only as his daughter but as someone with a place in his world. The film captures this transformation with remarkable subtlety. Lesia’s pride in her father coexists with her dawning awareness of the violence he commands. Her love for him becomes entangled with fear, admiration, and a desire to be seen as more than a child.
The Corsican landscape plays a crucial role in shaping the film’s atmosphere. Sun-drenched hills, quiet coastal roads, and isolated villas create a sense of beauty that is constantly undercut by tension. Violence is rarely shown directly, yet it is always present in the margins, from the bulletproof vests hanging in the villa to the whispered conversations that stop when Lesia enters the room. The film avoids glamorising the Mafia. Instead, it presents a world where brutality and tenderness coexist, where family loyalty is both a source of strength and a trap from which there is no easy escape.
What makes The Kingdom so compelling is the authenticity of its performances. Both Benedetti and Santucci are non-professional actors, and their naturalism gives the film a sense of lived reality. Their scenes together are filled with small gestures and unspoken emotions that reveal more than any exposition could. The film’s slow-burn tension, its careful attention to character, and its refusal to sensationalise violence all contribute to a story that feels grounded, humane, and deeply affecting.
The Kingdom stands as a powerful reimagining of the Mafia film, one that places a young girl at the centre of a world she is only beginning to understand. It is a story about inheritance, identity, and the painful clarity that comes with growing up. It is also a reminder that the most gripping crime dramas are not about the mechanics of violence but about the people who live in its shadow.
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