I Want Her Dead (documentary) ★½

Two archenemies, a longstanding family feud, the scenic stage of a remote Calabrian village where the ruins of an antique amphitheater reminisce about more grandiose battles than the one at the center of Gianluca Matarrese’s cinematic curio. Though everything about the parodic portrait of a proliferate quarrel between in-laws Maria Luisa Magno and Imma Capalbo reeks of crime comedy conventions, the scenario is presented as a true story. Of said story, however, there isn’t much. Magno and Capalbo fell out over renovation bills for a shared housing complex in rural Calabria. Judged by the appearance and lifestyle of the warring parties, neither of them really depends on the money. 

As is common with rows between middle-class clans who have the leisure, energy, and material resources to invest themselves in puny conflicts, the question of specific costs has become one of principle. Or maybe even one of routine. The Italian original title Il quieto vivere translates literally to “The quiet life”. While it is easy to read this as irony in light of defensive duos’ disdain for each other, the words point to the normalization of riffs among relatives. Of the latter, there are, of course, more than just the ardent antagonists. Three elderly aunts watch the aggravating conflict with apprehensive looks, attempting in vain to negotiate between the parties to the dispute. 

This unlucky trio serves as a modern equivalent of a Greek chorus, lamenting a seemingly unchangeable course of events and commenting on the obvious. Such gestures towards grandeur feel pathetically serious underneath a thin varnish of persiflage. “Where blood ends, peace begins; where peace ends, blood begins,” insists an opening quote that sets the tone of egocentric exaggeration and melodramatic mannerisms. Verbal skirmishes play out like Western duels, personal confrontations come with the aura of spectacle like gladiator fights. Mattarese treats his scenario as a tragicomic opera, though soap opera would be more fitting. Behind the sneering stylization, larger-than-life personalities, and piercing dialogues lies little substance. 

The fact that the director is himself a member of this extended clan has his hybrid drama look a lot like self-projection. Threading a thin line between observation and obfuscation, his idiosyncratic mockumentary becomes a form of filmic Freudian family romance. Real rage and rivalry serve as the momentum of orchestrated altercations. Its female characters are reduced to crude caricatures, embodying a number of backwards stereotypes—cattiness, vanity, materialism—with an uncomfortably sexist tendency. Attempts at meta-comedy and social commentary feel overly blunt in their disregard for economic hierarchies and patriarchal perceptions that see conflict among men as brave, tragic, or fearsome, and conflict among women as ludicrous and menial.

Even with less than a 90-minute runtime, the repetitious bickering becomes exhausting. Social media reels and sales pitches punctuating the feud provide fleeting diversion and no actual insight into the mechanics of the punitive publication of intimate affairs. These interruptions contribute little to a stagnating plot that oscillates between non-fictional immediacy and theatrical invention. At times, the shouting matches, insults, and mutual provocations feel like a grotesque sitcom: overused and painfully banal. How much truth remains underneath the deliberately constructed set pieces seems ultimately irrelevant. Watching the endless insults, threats, and petty grievances reveals nothing except what’s already well known: voyeurism for some is as hard to resist as exhibitionism is for others.