Gomorrah's season two premiered in Italy on May 10th. An excellent excuse to talk about one of the finest works of televised storytelling to break out of the country in recent years: the show was sold in 130 countries all over the world, including the U.S.
The first season details the fall of the powerful Savastano clan, kings of drug trafficking in the impoverished, crime-ridden Neapolitan suburbs of Scampia and Secondigliano. Pietro Savastano (Fortunato Cerlino), the family's imposing patriarch, is worried that his son, Gennaro (known as "Genny") might not be ready to take his place within the family business. So is his wife, the loyal and strong-headed Immacolata (Maria Pia Calzone). Genny is spoiled, immature and sentimental; his closest friend, and rising star within the clan, is Ciro Di Marzio (Marco D'Amore), an ambitious and calculating young man who aspires to become Savastano's second-in-command, and possibly one day take over the reins of what appears to be a solid empire.
Like Matteo Garrone's film of the same name before it, Gomorrah is based on Roberto Saviano's international bestseller. The TV adaptation is looser, more character-driven than Garrone's work, which required subtitles even for Italian audiences, such was the thickness of the dialect spoken by its actors. The language spoken in Gomorrah is a softer, more intelligible variety of Neapolitan, one that is rooted in the great theatrical tradition of Eduardo De Filippo and gives the acting a vivid, solemn quality. Pietro Savastano's menacing growl, Donna Imma's intensity, Genny's evolution from boyishness to aggression (possibly as a result of severe PTSD) and Ciro's coolness are all the better conveyed by the rhythm of their speech. Gomorrah is more than a crime drama: it is a grand tragedy, one in which destiny is almost as ruthless as men and the only justice is the one they seek to make for themselves. Its violence is savage, often emotionless: killing is a rite of passage, a gateway to becoming a man.
A lot of Gomorrah rests on the recreation of a culture that is peculiar to Naples and the surrounding areas, one in which tack substitutes taste as a marker of wealth (to wit: Donna Imma's animal-print tops, the ubiquity of gild in the Savastano home), the only music is the sentimental pop played by the neomelodici (think Eurovision Song Contest with warbly, Arabian-influenced vocals about sex, crime and betrayal), unemployment is sky-high and joining the camorra is the only means of survival for scores of young men. Gomorrah has been compared to The Wire for its unflinching depiction of urban violence, but its flavour is distinctly italian. Everything about it, from the story's measured pacing and slow-burning post-rock soundtrack (composed by Mokadelic) speaks of an entirely different storytelling tradition.
Season two is off to a great start, with the Savastanos in disarray and a new alliance trying to find its footing. Although it'll probably be a while before the box sets reach U.S. shores, you might want to catch up on the first season. It's definitely worth a watch.