By Mo Moshaty

The Holy Boy (La valle dei sorrisi 2025) ⭐️⭐️⭐.5

In Italy’s happiest village, a haunted teacher discovers dark secret behind weekly gatherings where locals seek healing from a teenage boy’s embrace. His quest to save the youth reveals the sinister nature of a community hiding behind joy.

Italy’s happiest village is haunted, though not by ghosts. In Paolo Strippoli’s The Holy Boy (La valle dei sorrisi), the specter is grief itself. After a catastrophic train crash wipes out half the population, the survivors of Remis find a peculiar balm: weekly gatherings to embrace a teenage boy named Matteo (Giulio Feltri). His arms offer what pills, prayers, and time cannot, a momentary reprieve from absence. It’s no wonder the townspeople line up like Shake Shack.

At first, teacher Sergio (Michele Riondino) watches with disdain. He sees hysteria where others see healing, sycophants where others see disciples. But then he too accepts Matteo’s embrace, and what follows is less a conversion than a slow erosion. Once touched, grief feels both sharper and easier to bear, like a wound that begs to be pressed again. The danger isn’t just that Sergio joins the cult of comfort, but that his intimacy with Matteo threatens the delicate choreography of denial the entire town depends on.

Strippoli, co-writing with Jacopo Del Giudice and Milo Tissone, places this unraveling in a valley of perpetual smiles. Sunlight spills across cobblestones, laughter hums in the background, and yet the happiness looks airbrushed, strained. The film’s horror doesn’t come from shadows lurking in corners but from touch itself, an embrace that soothes, consumes, and repeats until there’s nothing left but need. Matteo’s father Mauro (Paolo Pierobon) gladly exploits the boy’s status, basking in the reflected glow of a son mistaken for a saint. Even Michaela (Romana Maggiora Vergano), the barkeep who tries to offer Sergio joy the old-fashioned way, leads him first to Matteo’s arms. In The Holy Boy, grief isn’t an individual affliction. It’s a communal faith.

Horror has been circling grief for decades now, as if each filmmaker is trying to solve the riddle of mourning with genre tools. Jennifer Kent’s The Babadook (2014) told us grief can’t be destroyed, only fed and kept at bay. Ari Aster’s Hereditary (2018) suggested grief is an inheritance we can’t escape, passed down like cursed family heirlooms. Danny and Michael Philippou’s Talk to Me (2023) turned grief into a party drug, letting teens chase lost loved ones through a possessed hand, and let’s not forget Bring Her Back (2025), where the boundaries of body, spirit and torture are constantly pushed for the promise of a reincarnated embrace. Each film underscores the same truth: we’ll do almost anything not to feel the full weight of absence.

Where The Holy Boy diverges is in scale. Most grief horror traps us in the isolation of the mourner. Strippoli asks: what happens when an entire community conspires to forget? The answer is unsettling: grief doesn’t vanish, it metastasizes. Matteo’s embrace becomes less about healing and more about erasure, a narcotic ritual that binds everyone in complicity.

This is the sly brilliance of The Holy Boy: it suggests consolation itself can be monstrous. The film refuses the neat arc of “acceptance” we’re taught to crave. Instead, it lingers in that dangerous middle ground, where sorrow is smoothed over, not processed. The smiles in the valley are masks stretched taut, and beneath them, grief is ravenous.

In the end, Strippoli asks us to fear what we’ll sacrifice for the illusion of relief and perhaps most chillingly, he shows us how dangerous consolation can be when it becomes a creed.


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