Primavera Film Review: A Standing Ovation

Music and power intertwine in Primavera, as Antonio Vivaldi teaches an orphan virtuoso how to imagine a new destiny for herself.

The orphanage, in dire need of rejuvenation, hires Antonio Vivaldi (Michele Riondino), a down-on-his-luck composer and priest desperate for an opportunity. He immediately identifies Cecilia’s talent, promoting her to first violinist. An artistic relationship between student and teacher blooms among the stifling setting, of Venice at war in 1716 and of the Ospedale della Pietà itself, in which the girls are presided over by an uncaring prioress. 

There is some truth to this tale: Vivaldi did indeed teach at an orphanage for almost 40 years, finding reverence only after his death when his sheet music was discovered. But Primavera is Cecilia’s film. We encounter her as a lost soul, writing letters to an absent mother, fated to marry a soldier once the war is over. At her promotion to first violin, she labels herself a pointless investment. There will be no music once she is a wife.

As Vivaldi whips the orchestra into shape, it soon becomes the talk of the town. The girls, clad in modest clothing and masks to conceal their faces, perform for nobility. Even when playing to attendees at the orphanage, they are hidden behind a grille. Cecilia’s wings are constantly clipped: “why get a taste of life if you have to come back here?” she asks on her return to the orphanage, after performing by the banks of a beautiful river for a rich family. Children in lavish frocks skip jovially around her as she plays, anonymous, as if taunting her. The joy she provides isn’t hers to feel.

By way of contrast, much of Primavera takes place among austere hallways, lit by emotionless candles. Cecilia and her fellow musicians are all but prisoners. Their hopes of freedom, if they can be considered such, are in the hands of wealthy men who pay the orphanage in return for a young bride. To them, the girls are compliant assets; beauties who will quietly abide as they are dragged from the world of have-nots. Music, especially the lush baroque compositions the girls play, has a way of revealing one’s inner workings, and here it is a constant display of rebellion against the noblemen who would have the orphans submit to marriage. 

As with all the best fairytales, the stakes seem insurmountable. Cecilia, as nobody’s daughter in a world where great talent affords you nothing, appears doomed. She peers from behind a door at the King of Denmark’s guests playing parlour games with abandon, imagining a life of such liberation. What justice is there in her being so locked away? Insolia’s deep eyes speak for Cecilia when she is silenced behind a mask, showing devotion to her musicianship, admiration for her teacher, and an increasing awareness of what it means to have passion in a place that moves so swiftly to extinguish it. 

Vivaldi, for his part, is a meek advocate for Cecilia. He needs her like a muse, but wields little influence to go against society’s traditions. Cecilia criticises him for needing praise, while Vivaldi compliments her for the opposite. One of them finds in music the possibility of another life, while the other relies on it for acceptance. This is not Vivaldi’s story – his glory comes too late for him to enjoy in his lifetime – but his partnership with Cecilia sets in motion her new destiny. 

Director Damiano Michieletto deserves a standing ovation for how he has taken Primavera’s source material, Tiziano Scarpa’s novel Stabat Mater, and crafted something magical. Note by note, Cecilia begins to imagine a new future for herself, one that is not prescribed by the orphanage and its business. If money is power, then so too, after all, is music. A triumph.

Primavera had its World Premiere at TIFF on September 6, 2025.