“A poignant and achingly beautiful exploration of fractured love.”

The end of any relationship can be challenging, but the involvement of children can only complicate matters. Antonio Capuano knows this all too well, as it forms the foundation of L’isola di Andrea, a stark social realist drama in which he tells the story of a married couple whose relationship has dissolved beyond the point of being saved, and who have decided to divorce. What ensues is a bitter custody battle, all told through the eyes of the titular Andrea, their son who becomes nothing more than a pawn in their attempts to take dominance of the situation, involving assessments and therapy sessions that reveal not only the roots of the declining relationship but also expose their innermost vulnerabilities and insecurities in the process. A simple, elegant film that avoids spectacle and heavy-handed demonstrations of emotion in favour of a quiet, piercing observation into the lives of a family undergoing a difficult change, which the young protagonist quickly realises that he will be carrying with him for the rest of his life. It’s a film with some bold ideas, and the bravery to explore some harsh aspects of reality without needing to reduce itself to simply a bundle of unnecessarily dense emotions, becoming one of the more effective and haunting depictions of the journey towards an enormous domestic change, and the challenges that are faced by those who are caught in the middle.   

It is always a positive experience to find a director who favours intimacy over spectacle, which is exactly what we find defines this film and Capuano’s approach to it. The focus here is not on the overwrought emotions, as L’isola di Andrea consists primarily of quieter moments shared between characters, rather than explosive courtroom scenes or overly intense confrontations that would add little to the narrative beyond drawing attention to a particular subject, being melodramatic without any real substance at their core. Capuano is far more interested in the intimate moments, building this film around a straightforward question: Is it possible to divide love? The immediate response will likely be negative, but the director is very careful not to base the conversation solely on these assumptions.  The ideas informing this film are much more complex, particularly in how we see the efforts of Andrea and his parents to go through this process without making him the victim, a fruitless attempt considering he is the one who bears the brunt of seeing his parents’ marriage dissolve, his childhood becoming defined by the conflict between the two people he loves the most. This transforms an ordinary story of a custody battle into something far more interesting, a universal story of separation and resilience, and the fragility that can be expected when searching for a sense of balance after an enormous rupture in a young boy’s otherwise pleasant life.

The execution is always going to be the primary reason that a film like this is viewed as successful, and there are multiple elements that draw our attention, most of which are built around the core trio. The titular protagonist is played with remarkable naturalism by Andrea Migliucci, becoming the emotional centre of the film and the person from whose perspective we see all of these challenging moments. It’s rare to find a child performance that is so authentic, actively avoiding being too precocious and instead working to come across as entirely genuine. Considering how much of L’isola di Andrea is built around his quiet despair at having to choose between parents, lamenting the time that will be lost with the other, regardless of the outcome, is beautifully conveyed through this quiet, poignant performance. Teresa Saponangelo and Vinicio Marchioni play his parents, and they’re both exceptional – the mother is portrayed as a volatile, neurotic woman who has allowed her eccentricities to define her, while the father is more withdrawn, his quietness being mistaken for aloofness, but also reflecting his innate inability to engage fully with the conflict. Rather than being portrayed as malicious or cruel, both parents are shown to be deeply flawed, desperate individuals, each convinced that they are right while still being deeply tethered together through their shared love for their son.

This film tells a universal story, one that may be quite specific in the details that surround the central family, but which has a deep resonance. Separations and the ensuing custody battles are familiar experiences, and the director is aware of the fact that many people have their own firsthand accounts of the process, which tend to be very personal to them. His effort here is to present an example of such a scenario, capturing a separation with a sense of clarity and restraint, avoiding being too overwrought but also willing to insert some strong emotions where they make sense. The avoidance of melodrama or sensationalism allows L’isola di Andrea to feel more authentic, told through a series of gradually developing moments that showcase the accumulation of tension and frustration from the perspective of all three of these characters as they search for some form of balance, and a sense of normalcy in this ongoing storm of emotions. A modest film that grows on you rather than announcing itself, L’isola di Andrea is likely to linger with the viewer, appealing to those who are attuned to subtle, more humanistic approaches to the storytelling process. At a glance, it seems like the director is trying to make a private battle between two individuals feel universal, but once we look closer, we find that it is inviting us to reflect on the nature of loss and the inevitability of change, which is a subject that will resonate, regardless of background. Ultimately, it’s a story that may be about separation, but eventually reveals itself to be more about the fragile ties that bind individuals together, even in times where they find themselves in conflict, being a poignant and achingly beautiful exploration of fractured love.