Debuting Wednesday on Netflix, the four-part Italian true-crime series “The Monster of Florence” (in Italian, with subtitles) is a twisty tale set amid the rolling hills of Tuscany. But this isn’t a story of sun-drenched vineyards and la dolce vita. Much of the series, which chronicles one of Italy’s most notorious serial-killer cases, unfolds in darkness, both figurative and literal — along deserted roads, in dimly lit bedrooms and in claustrophobic police stations.
The opening title cards, accompanied by staticky news broadcasts, quickly establish the contours of the story: Between 1968 and 1985, an unknown assailant brutally murdered and mutilated eight young couples seeking privacy in the secluded, nighttime countryside outside Florence.
The action begins in media res with the fifth killing, committed in June 1982. Tensions are high. Reporters swarm the crime scene, demanding answers law enforcement doesn’t have, and Silvia Della Monica (Liliana Bottone), an idealistic assistant prosecutor, has an idea: Comb through police records for older crimes with similar modus operandi. Soon, the police zero in on Stefano Mele (Marco Bullitta), who had been imprisoned for the 1968 slayings of his wife, Barbara Locci (Francesca Olia), and her lover, Antonio Lo Bianco (Claudio Vasile). The gun from those murders was never found, but bullets recovered then matched those from the more recent killings. Anyone with access to that gun could be the Monster.
Released from prison and now living in a halfway house, Mele has the stooped shoulders and haunted look of a man broken by life. Under questioning, Mele produces new details from that terrible night in 1968 that might help police in their hunt. From there, the show darts back and forth in time, with each episode devoted to a different suspect as Mele’s story evolves. Scenes are repeated from different perspectives or expanded, sometimes contradicting earlier accounts. Everyone is an unreliable narrator.
Despite the unrelenting gloom, the show is beautiful to look at, and the performances are uniformly excellent. But Olia, as Mele’s wife, is the standout. We first see her in flight — escaping across a sun-scorched field, her wedding veil streaming behind her. She is a woman stripped of agency yet remains unbowed. By turns vulnerable and steely, Olia shifts fluidly between disbelief, disgust and hard-won joy.
The narrative’s complexity can sometimes be confusing, particularly when it hops between time periods in quick succession. But “The Monster of Florence” rewards repeat viewings: People change, and motivations emerge with each retelling. Above all, there are no easy answers — much like the case itself, which remains unsolved.
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