Giovanni’s whole job is listening to other people’s problems — which makes it darkly funny that he can’t hear his own. That’s the joke quietly sitting under Nanni Moretti’s The Son’s Room.
For the first half hour you’re watching a family potter about: Sunday dinners, a patient’s tedious confession, mild panic over a fossil the son may or may not have nicked from school. Then the phone rings and everything rearranges itself, and the film never raises its voice again. Grief here isn’t tears and thunder — it’s Giovanni sitting in his office doing nothing, or driving nowhere in particular.
I was expecting a tearjerker but instead was winded — not the same thing at all. The ending, with the drive to the border and that beach at dawn, has no business working on paper. It wrecked me anyway.