Stefano Sollima Revisits Italy’s Darkest Unsolved Mystery in Haunting New Series

One of the most disturbing and unresolved crime cases in European history returns to the spotlight this autumn as acclaimed Italian director Stefano Sollima premieres his new four-part television series at the Venice International Film Festival. Created with longtime collaborator Leonardo Fasoli, the series explores the origins of the infamous “Monster of Florence” case and will later debut on Netflix on October 22, marking the streaming platform’s tenth anniversary in Italy.

Presented out of competition in Venice, the series revisits a sequence of eight double murders committed between 1968 and 1985 across the Tuscan countryside. The victims—young couples parked in secluded rural areas—were all killed using the same .22 caliber Beretta handgun. Despite decades of investigations, trials, and accusations, the identity of the killer has never been definitively established, leaving the case a source of enduring national trauma.

Sollima, known internationally for his gritty and politically charged storytelling, spent more than a year researching the case. Rather than constructing a conventional procedural, he traces the roots of the violence back to the social and cultural conditions of postwar rural Italy. The series opens in the late 1950s, long before the murders that would later terrify Tuscany, grounding the narrative in a rigid, quasi-feudal world shaped by poverty, patriarchy, and silence.

At the centre of the opening episodes is Barbara Locci, portrayed by Francesca Olia, a young woman trapped in an arranged marriage to Stefano Mele, played by Marco Bullitta. In a striking early sequence, Barbara is seen fleeing across open fields in her wedding dress, desperately attempting to escape a fate she clearly does not want. Her attempt fails, and she is forcibly returned to the family that has effectively traded sheep and land as her dowry.

The series presents this environment as one of deep misogyny, where women are treated as property and valued primarily for their ability to produce heirs. Violence, both emotional and physical, is portrayed as routine and socially sanctioned. Sollima does not soften this reality, instead depicting it as a breeding ground for resentment, brutality, and moral decay.

As the story unfolds, Barbara becomes entangled in a web of affairs and power struggles. Stefano, financially desperate, takes in Salvatore—an unsettling presence portrayed by Valentino Mannias—as a lodger. Salvatore soon begins an affair with Barbara under Stefano’s own roof. Later, Barbara also becomes involved with Salvatore’s brother Francesco, played by Giacomo Fadda, who openly asserts dominance over Stefano and demands access to Barbara.

These relationships are depicted not for shock value but to illustrate a corrosive social order in which exploitation thrives. The narrative suggests that such conditions enabled violence to flourish unchecked, setting the stage for crimes that would later horrify the nation.

Sollima structures the series across multiple timeframes and perspectives, revisiting key moments from different viewpoints. Scenes are recontextualised as new information emerges, forcing the viewer to question initial assumptions. This fragmented approach, while deliberately disorienting, mirrors the confusion and contradictions that plagued the real-life investigation.

The first officially recognised victims of the Monster of Florence were Barbara Locci and her lover Antonio Lo Bianco, portrayed by Giaime Lewis. Salvatore was convicted of their murders and imprisoned. However, further killings occurred while he was behind bars—murders carried out using what appeared to be the same Beretta handgun—casting serious doubt on the verdict and deepening the mystery.

Visually, the series is meticulously crafted. Sollima captures the Tuscan landscape not as a postcard idyll but as an ominous, oppressive presence. The cinematography lingers on fields, forests, and rural roads, imbuing them with a sense of menace. Alessandro Cortini’s electronic score further amplifies the unease, underscoring the story’s psychological weight rather than its physical violence.

The series does not shy away from the emotional consequences of these events, particularly for Barbara’s young son Natalino, whose trauma becomes an unspoken throughline. At times, the relentless bleakness and morally squalid behaviour of the characters may test viewers’ endurance.

Critics may also be divided by the series’ ambiguous conclusion. Sollima resists offering closure, instead reflecting the unresolved nature of the case itself. For some, this refusal to provide clear answers will feel unsatisfying; for others, it is an honest acknowledgment of a mystery that continues to haunt Italy decades later.

By returning to the origins of the Monster of Florence case, Sollima’s series is less a whodunit than a chilling examination of how violence can grow out of social structures, secrecy, and systemic abuse. It is an unsettling, meticulously researched work that reopens one of Italy’s deepest wounds—without pretending it can finally be healed.