To the eyes of some, Irene (Jasmine Trinca) leads the life of a regular Italian young woman. She struggles to maintain a balance between the different parts of her life, she tries to sort out her feelings for her married quasi-boyfriend, and she maintains a tough exterior while yearning for connection. To her friends and family, she’s a student. To another segment of the population, she is Miele (Italian for "Honey"), an angel of death who provides Mexican-bought barbiturates to help her terminally ill clients die with dignity.
Irene, played with quiet intensity by Trinca, has no qualms about the service she provides. She never explains exactly how she came to this profession, although she alludes to her mother dying from illness ten years prior. Miele not only provides the drugs to assist suicide, but is also a source of strength in sickrooms, guiding caretakers as they serve their loved ones a final meal, as they make one final sacrifice for a spouse suffering unendurably. The film shows Miele in several such scenes, handling them with tact, yet never slipping into sentimentality and remaining admirably honest about the death taking place before our eyes.
Irene’s values are tested when she provides drugs to Carlo (Carlo Cecchi), a cynical professor who later reveals that he is not sick, only depressed. Her usual icy demeanor gives way to passionate outrage at this violation of her personal code. She bursts into Carlo’s apartment trying to recover the drugs. Carlo refuses to comply but, intrigued by Miele’s contradictions, the two begin to exchange thoughts and an unconventional friendship is born. But can it last?
“Honey” is a lyrical debut from actress turned director Valeria Golino. The heavy subject matter is handled deftly; the film is content to pose difficult questions without presuming to have definitive answers. Golino draws excellent performances from both of her leads. Cecchi brings a dark humor and pathos to his role, a man who still displays an idle curiosity about new things but sees life as pointless, a decision made not with bitterness, but with resignation. Trinca, a relative newcomer to American audiences, gives a powerfully understated performance, keeping both the audience and other characters at arm’s length, while her eyes show a woman burning inside with passion and purpose.
Another star of the film is Gergely Pohárnok, the cinematographer. The film looks alive, brimming with close-ups and rhythmic motion that complement a diverse and effective soundtrack. Golino and Pohárnok do an excellent job of revealing Irene in her quieter moments, in scenes not strictly relevant to the plot yet wordlessly evocative. One exception to the rule of close-ups are the wide-shot deathbed scenes - couples looking at each other one final heartbreaking time while Irene looks on from the far side of the frame, integral to the action yet a world apart, remote yet feeling. “Miele”, both the film and the character, encompass these contradictions to create an affecting, vital experience.
