The climax of the film is a surreal, mystical journey. During a final heist, the tomb collapses, trapping the group. In this liminal space between life and death, Arthur finally lets go of his grief. He accepts that Beniamina is gone and that he must choose life.
Arthur escapes the tomb, emerging from the earth reborn. He runs away from the tombaroli life and toward the sea, where he intends to start anew. The final shots suggest he has finally broken the spell of the chimera, choosing the uncertainty of the living world over the silence of the dead.
There is a moment in Alice Rohrwacher’s La Chimera where the frame seems to breathe. The grainy, shifting ratio of 16mm film expands into widescreen, then collapses back again. It feels like a heartbeat, or perhaps a gasp. This is the rhythm of the film itself: a suspended animation between the world of the living and the world of the dead, between the grime of the Tuscan soil and the golden perfection of the Etruscan afterlife.
If you are looking for a standard action-adventure about tomb raiders, La Chimera is not your film. But if you are looking for a lyrical, melancholic fable about grief, grace, and the thief who wept for what he stole—step inside.
Co-written and directed by Rohrwacher (the mind behind Happy as Lazzaro), La Chimera is a visual poem. Cinematographer Hélène Louvart shoots on grainy 16mm film, giving the picture a texture of memory. The colors are washed out—the Italian sun feels harsh and pale—creating a world that is already half-in-the-grave. La Chimera
The film moves in disorienting jumps. Characters burst into Neapolitan songs. The aspect ratio shifts. Time collapses. This is intentional. Rohrwacher wants us to feel like Arthur: unmoored, caught between the present and a past that refuses to stay buried.
The story follows Arthur (Josh O'Connor), a young British archaeologist and scholar of Etruscan antiquities. Arthur possesses a special, almost supernatural gift: he is a "tombarolo," a grave robber who can sense the presence of ancient tombs underground using a dowsing rod. He can "sing" the earth into revealing its secrets.
At the beginning of the film, Arthur is released from prison. Disheveled and heartbroken, he returns to a small town in Tuscany. He is grieving the loss of his great love, Beniamina, an Italian woman who has recently died under mysterious circumstances. Arthur moves into the dilapidated home of Beniamina’s mother, Flora (Isabella Rossellini), a faded aristocrat living in poverty.
While Flora hopes Arthur will use his education to tutor her daughter’s children, Arthur instead reconnects with a ragtag group of local tombaroli. They lead chaotic, noisy expeditions to dig up Etruscan artifacts, which they sell on the black market to a corrupt art dealer named Spartaco. Arthur participates not for the money, but out of a desperate need to be close to the earth and the past, feeling closer to Beniamina in the silence of the tombs. The climax of the film is a surreal, mystical journey
The narrative takes a turn when Arthur meets Italia (Carol Duarte), a Brazilian singer and migrant worker living in a shantytown nearby who bears a striking resemblance to the lost Beniamina. Italia challenges Arthur's obsession with the past. She is vibrant, alive, and struggling for a future, contrasting sharply with Arthur's morbid desire to stay buried in history.
What makes La Chimera so profound is its treatment of the past. In a modern world of concrete apartment blocks and sterile train stations, the Etruscan tombs are cathedrals of color and life. When Arthur breaks through the dirt into a sealed tomb, the camera lingers on the frescoes—vivid paintings of banquets, dancers, and blue demons. The dead, Rohrwacher suggests, lived better than we do.
But there is a moral weight here. The film asks a difficult question: Can you love the past while destroying it? Arthur respects the dead; he takes off his shoes before entering a tomb. Yet he is a conduit for the desecration of their rest. The black market dealer (Isabella Rossellini, fierce and regal) buys the stolen artifacts to adorn the walls of the wealthy, severing the objects from their souls.
The film never preaches. Instead, it presents a magical realism where the dead have agency. In a stunning final act, the artifacts literally revolt. They cannot be possessed. They can only be borrowed, and eventually, they will return to the earth—or pull you down with them. He accepts that Beniamina is gone and that
Much has (rightly) been made of Josh O’Connor’s performance. He is a long way from Prince Charles in The Crown. Here, he is all knotted sinew and downward gaze. Arthur moves like a man who is constantly falling in slow motion. He lopes. He slumps. He has a laugh that sounds like a cough. But his eyes—his eyes are the film’s true special effect. They are hollow, then suddenly, terrifyingly full of light. He can see what others cannot: the invisible thread connecting the living to the buried.
O’Connor’s Arthur is not a romantic hero. He is a mess. He sleeps in a crumbling villa with a hole in the roof. He is adored by the tombaroli for his “gift,” but he despises himself for using it. Every time he finds a tomb, he is one step closer to finding Beniamina. And every time he sells a relic to the enigmatic, scarf-wearing dealer Spartaco (Alba Rohrwacher, the director’s sister and regular muse), he is complicit in erasing the very past he is trying to commune with. That is the film’s moral knot: to chase the chimera of the dead is to desecrate them.
La Chimera’s strengths are its atmosphere, visual lyricism, and moral subtlety. Its deliberate pace and elliptical storytelling may frustrate viewers expecting a conventional plot or resolution. The film asks patience: much of its emotional payoff accrues from cumulative mood rather than explicit narrative catharsis. Some critics have praised Rohrwacher’s compassionate eye and elegiac tone; others note that the film’s ambiguity and episodic momentum occasionally undercut narrative propulsion.