‘The Monster of Florence’ Review: A True-Crime Puzzle That Still Haunts Italy (Netflix)

One of the most famous serial murder cases in Italy gets the miniseries treatment in The Monster of Florence, a four-part thriller that attempts to unravel a mystery that has fascinated Italians for over half a century — one that even inspired part of the Hannibal Lecter saga. Centered on a series of killings of couples caught having sex in parked cars on the outskirts of Florence, this strange and twisting story focuses on one of the main theories behind the case, the so-called “Sardinian trail.”

It’s a bizarre case from every angle, and the celebrated Stefano Sollima — director of the TV series Gomorrah and the film Sicario: Day of the Soldado — jumps in halfway through the investigation, as the fifth double murder occurs in 1982. The modus operandi is almost always the same: in remote wooded areas outside Florence, where young couples go for privacy, a man approaches, shoots them, and sometimes takes a “souvenir” from the woman’s body. The problem is that the murders are scattered across time — the first believed to be in 1974, two more in 1981, and then this one — and not identical. What they do share is the same weapon: a .22-caliber Beretta.

That detail prompts investigator Silvia Della Monica (Liliana Bottone) to connect the crimes to a previous double murder in 1968 with similar characteristics. This becomes the narrative thread of the series, tracing the complicated story of a couple whose strange relationship may hold the key to all the killings. It all begins — or at least seems to — with the marriage of Stefano Mele (Marco Bullitta) and Barbara Locci (Francesca Olia), a union that turns toxic when she begins a string of affairs while her meek husband looks on, silent and defeated.

So when Locci and one of her lovers, Antonio Lo Bianco, are murdered in 1968, suspicion immediately falls on Mele. Yet as the investigation expands, the connection to the later murders becomes increasingly murky. The four episodes introduce a growing web of suspects: Francesco Vinci, another of Locci’s jilted lovers; Giovanni Mele, Stefano’s violent brother; and Salvatore Vinci (Valentino Mannias), Locci’s first lover and a man with a deeply troubled past. Meanwhile, Stefano remains mute, and the couple’s young son offers shifting versions of what he saw, muddying the truth even further.

Sollima and his writing partner Leonardo Fasoli make the risky choice to jump constantly across decades, often confusing the timeline and the viewer along with it. From 1982, the series leaps back to the 1960s wedding, then further to the 1950s, and ahead again to the 1980s murders. Rather than building a conventional police procedural, the show constructs a grim portrait of twisted families whose members all seem capable of violence — a story as much about toxic masculinity as it is about unsolved crime. Beneath it all lies a portrait of rural Italy steeped in repressed desire, misogyny, and superstition.

Each new episode adds more contradictory perspectives: in one version, Locci is portrayed almost as a sex worker; in another, she seems more victim than seductress. The shifting testimonies and lies pile up, and what begins as a straightforward investigation grows ever more confusing. The tenuous links between cases and the moral decay of nearly every suspect create a sense of both fascination and frustration — a dense fog of guilt, fear, and denial that mirrors the community itself.

Set against the picturesque landscapes of Tuscany, The Monster of Florence exposes the shadows lurking behind postcard beauty. For decades, the case haunted local families and reshaped their sense of safety. So much so that, according to reports, many conservative parents preferred their teenage children to have sex at home rather than risk becoming victims of “Il mostro.” Perhaps that, told as a dark comedy, would have been an even better story.