Here it is not Hollywood that tells the story of the Avetrana case but above all the monster within us

This isn’t Hollywood starts from the lowest point of the horror show created around the case of Avetrana: the minibus of the macabre tourists, those who arrive to visit the town where Sarah Scazzi was murdered, with the guide pointing his finger as he explains that “this is the Misseri family’s house”. It is the first scene and already contains the choice that indicates the path of the TV series, directed by Pippo Mezzapesa and now streaming on Disney+: we talk about the murder and the horror but we also talk about us, who all got on that bus , even unconsciously. It was 2010 and never before had a television journalist been seen giving the news of the discovery of her daughter’s body to her mother live. That evening, with Federica Sciarelli and Concetta Serrano a Who saw it it was perhaps the point of no return in a history full of violence and human misery, but also of our voyeurism and Italian media sensationalism: the loss of innocence.

The series on Disney+, which arrives after yet another twist around the case – the cancellation of “Avetrana” from the title by court decision – instead carefully avoids voyeurism. Here there is no space for bloody scenes or gruesome reconstructions: the murder always remains off-screen, it is evoked but never shown, with the camera taking a step back. Instead, we investigate the psychology of the protagonists: Sarah Scazzi, the teenager in conflict with her Jehovah’s Witness mother; Sabrina Misseri, obsessed with Ivano Russo; Michele Misseri, a man full of shadows and devoured by guilt; Cosima Misseri, the sphinx woman who wants to protect her family.

This isn’t Hollywood focuses on the media circus that surrounded the entire story, as if to remind us that, ultimately, Sarah’s tragedy was the beginning of a public nightmare, a showcase in which everyone had a role. From the protagonists to the television commentators, to the journalists hunting for scoops, and even the curious who crowded in front of the cameras: the real spectacle was what happened outside the courtrooms, in the television lounges and on the talk shows where the indignation it was often accompanied by an insidious pleasure in sinking into the most morbid details.

And perhaps this is the true merit of the series. Because by showing us only the outline of the crime and remaining at a safe distance from the tragedy, This isn’t Hollywood it puts us in front of a mirror that gives us back our own desire for sensationalism: the monster, the series seems to tell us, is behind the screen.