Set in the aftermath of World War II, There’s Still Tomorrow (C’è ancora domani) is a delicately devastating portrait of domestic life in a moment when Italy was beginning to rebuild itself—but many of its women were still trapped in centuries-old structures of silence and submission. Shot in gorgeous black and white, the film navigates the confines of a home, a marriage, and a society through the eyes of Delia, a woman whose strength lies not in rebellion, but in quiet endurance—until endurance is no longer enough.
The aesthetic immediately evokes neorealism, but with a fresh and feminist lens. The contrast-rich cinematography pays homage to the visual language of postwar cinema while anchoring its narrative in a deeply personal, modern sensibility. The domestic space is rendered both intimate and suffocating—cracked walls, narrow courtyards, and lingering shadows reflect a world built for obedience, not expression.
Paola Cortellesi, who also wrote and directed, leads the film with an understated but magnetic performance. Her portrayal of Delia is filled with moments of restraint, forced smiles, and small private gestures that hint at a woman pushed to the edges of herself. Her pain is not performative, but internalized, almost ritualized—until the script allows it to quietly fracture.
The film is layered with social commentary: not just on gender roles, but on class, generational trauma, and the weight of appearances in a patriarchal society. Delia’s interactions with her daughter, with neighbors, with institutions, sketch out a world where even the smallest decisions are filtered through fear and duty. And yet, within that fear, there is humor, resilience, and moments of tender absurdity that give the film a surprising lightness.
The supporting cast is pitch-perfect, especially Valerio Mastandrea, who plays Delia’s husband with a chilling realism. He’s not a caricature, but something worse: a man shaped by a culture that never taught him how to be anything else. His violence is normalized, even expected, and the film smartly resists demonization, choosing instead to expose the structural complicity that enables such behavior.
What makes There’s Still Tomorrow especially powerful is its ability to depict oppression without spectacle. The narrative unfolds with emotional precision, allowing small acts of defiance—a pause, a letter, a whispered truth—to carry monumental weight. There are no monologues, no heroic gestures. Just one woman slowly realizing that life cannot go on like this.
The script is sharp and never indulgent. It respects the intelligence of its audience and the complexity of its characters. It builds toward a moment that is both inevitable and quietly radical, making the title feel less like hope and more like a challenge.
At its core, this is a film about invisible labor, about generational cycles, and about what happens when women stop waiting. It’s a story that could be set in 1946 or today. The walls may look different now, but the questions remain.
There’s Still Tomorrow is not just a historical drama—it’s a portrait of awakening, painted with bitterness, grace, and grim wit. And when it ends, it leaves behind not only emotion, but a call:
To listen to the silences. To believe in small revolutions. To remember that tomorrow doesn’t come by itself—it must be taken.
