The film belongs to the tradition of Italian horror, but not through bloody spectacle; instead, it reflects on faith, loss, and the human need to find relief—even at the expense of personal freedom. The story is set in Remis, a small Alpine village that presents itself as “the happiest place in Italy.” Beneath that idyllic surface, however, lies a disturbing secret: every night, the townspeople line up to embrace Matteo, a withdrawn fifteen-year-old who, inexplicably, has the gift of absorbing the sorrow and pain of others. Each hug leaves a faint mark on those who participate in the ritual, but the sensation of relief is so powerful that the entire village regards it as a miracle. For some, Matteo is a saint; for others, merely a boy trapped in a spiritual prison.

The arrival of Sergio Rosetti (Michele Riondino), a physical education teacher and former judo champion, introduces a new tension into the community. Sergio comes burdened with his own grief, accompanied only by a parakeet named Oslo. He attempts to start over in Remis, but soon discovers that the collective well-being depends on the young boy’s sacrifice. His sympathy for Matteo is not just professional or paternalistic: he recognizes in him another victim of the same inability to process suffering that plagues Sergio himself. Giulio Feltri, in his cinematic debut, portrays Matteo with a blend of fragility and mystery. His distinctive white streak of hair makes him easily recognizable, but what truly sets him apart is his relationship with the pain of others. Feltri manages to convey a presence that never fully settles: neither saint nor monster, but rather an adolescent burdened with a weight he did not choose.

The screenplay, written by Strippoli together with Jacopo Del Giudice and Milo Tissone, avoids the easy path of moralism. Ambiguity governs the narrative: is Matteo a savior or a hostage? Is the ritual a blessing or a form of collective repression? The boy’s own attraction to Lorenzo, the school bully, adds another layer of complexity, where desire, violence, and power intersect.

Visually, the film finds an essential ally in Cristiano Di Nicola’s cinematography. Wide shots, with blurred edges and a desaturated tone, convey the oppression of an Alpine landscape that is as sublime as it is suffocating. The atmosphere at times recalls the style of Ari Aster, though Strippoli chooses a more restrained and direct approach, relying on the slow build-up of tension rather than gratuitous jump scares. The score by Federico Bisozzi and Davide Tomat adds a liturgical dimension, reinforcing the idea that each embrace functions like a form of communion. Strippoli constructs a universe where the boundaries between religion, superstition, and emotional need become blurred. The people of Remis are not seeking true healing, but rather a shortcut: erasing their pain instead of working through it.

Here lies the film’s most unsettling reflection. The Holy Boy does not merely question the Church as an institution; it explores the human tendency to deny suffering. Matteo’s embrace is a palliative, a narcotic that prevents wounds from being confronted. As Captain Kirk once said in Star Trek: “I don’t want my pain taken away… I need my pain.” The quote fits perfectly with the logic of the film, which reminds us that to grow, mature, and live means to accept losses rather than delegate them to a supposed miracle.

Toward the end, Strippoli heightens the narrative until it reaches an operatic climax. It may feel somewhat overblown, but the journey maintains the coherence of a film that prefers to think horror through rather than illustrate it with gore. The result is a work that, without entirely reinventing the genre, offers freshness and confirms that Italian horror cinema still has much to say.