The Law According to Lidia Poët is an Italian-language Netflix series based on the life of Lidia Poët, Italy’s first female lawyer. Despite having earned her law degree in 1881, working in a law practice for two years, and passing the Order of Advocates of Turin examination, Poët was prevented from practicing law because she was a woman until 1920. Described as a mature version of Enola Holmes, the combination of strong female character, period drama, and murder mystery is irresistible to me so I had to check it out.
Lidia is a sharp, gutsy, tenacious young woman who doesn’t waste time explaining why she isn’t what society says she is. She just gets on with her work, catching things her arrogant male peers don’t and quickly seizing upon opportunities to find clues. One episode features a lesbian relationship and though Lidia is heterosexual, she’s not interested in marriage or children. She creates opportunities for her niece, who seems to be legitimately in love, to spend time alone with her boyfriend. We also see in Lidia’s sister-in-law a woman who is resigned to patriarchy and grooms her daughter for a life of obedience and male servitude. She doesn’t approve of Lidia’s feminism but has no choice but to tolerate her as Lidia is living in her home and has somehow managed to twist her brother’s arm into allowing her to work for him behind the scenes. Matilda de Angelis offers an energetic and engaging portrayal of the feminist heroine.
Unfortunately, the series falls back on tired pseudo-feminist elements, wasting a lot of time doing so. My first critique is that independent female characters are never made all that independent and The Law According to Lidia Poët is no exception. Lidia insists the guy she’s sleeping with isn’t her boyfriend and true enough, she doesn’t pine. One gets the sense that she genuinely likes or may even love him but maintains her focus on her career and cases. A question few seem to ask is why female characters have to have romantic relationships with men in the first place. Over and over again, we get the message that women can be capable, autonomous beings, but there always has to be some man – or men – inserted into the story who is more than a friend or could become more. The imperative of romance is ever-present.
Viewers may appreciate that far from being chaste, Lidia is sexually active and unashamed. Still, we’re presented with that false dichotomy: belong to a man or have casual romps. How feminist can a woman be if she sleeps with men who use prostituted women? Surely this isn’t something the real Lidia would have done. The subliminal message to women is that men must be in the picture.
My second critique is the predictable female objectification. There’s an unwritten rule that the bodies of strong female characters must be exposed. The camera must capture carefully angled shots of her naked, hairless body, and erect nipples. Male viewers are rewarded with female nudity while female viewers – the intended audience – are reminded that women are ultimately never full human beings. There are a couple of quick pans of man bum. In one scene a man stands in the blurred background with his tackle out (one wonders if it’s prosthetic or CGI). Anyway, it doesn’t compare to the amount of gratuitous bare breasts on display. Another scene has Lidia investigating a wealthy murder suspect; naturally, on that very night he’s hosting a sex party. What does any of this have to do with a woman who fought to include her sex class in the legal profession? These decisions are deliberate.
Now for the third critique, related to the second: saucy fantasies and period dramas aren’t cool unless they include some depiction of prostitution. A boring plot gimmick that provides more opportunities and excuses to show tits and ass, brothels feature in tons of fantasy and period dramas, including Game of Thrones, The Witcher (including Blood Origin), Carnival Row, and Black Sails. The sex trade is often represented in an uncritical light or simply an inevitable fact of life. The oldest profession, don’t you know? In The Law According to Lidia Poët, Lidia visits an opium den to further her investigation. Naturally, there are high, sex-starved women draped everywhere and a half-naked temptress saunters over, advertizing her wares to a male patron. The theme of prostitution is sprinkled throughout, and though Lidia notes at one point that it’s hardly a good life, it comes off as opportunistic.
My fourth and final critique is that strong female characters are always portrayed by women who are conventionally (and exceptionally) attractive. Even if the historical person being portrayed isn’t particularly beautiful, only a dazzling actress is selected to play her. Matilda de Angelis is indeed gorgeous and does a commendable job, but these choices perpetuate sexist beauty standards, reminding women that we’re never good enough. Apparently it’s not enough for Poët to be an average-looking or even plain woman with an above-average intellect. Unless you’re a man, looks matter even if you’re a genius. A Review Geek article says of de Angelis (note that the writer is male):
Everything about her – hair and makeup, costumes – is compellingly crafted to embellish Poet’s appeal.
Arnav Srivastava for Review Geek
Her appeal to whom? If the principle audience is women, why should it matter to us whether the actors are beautiful? Surely this is more alienating than anything to the average woman. Why should we care about hair, costumes, and makeup, except to assess whether they’re well executed and historically accurate? This is the obligatory injection of femininity. It seems the assumption is that without the glossy femininity, romance, and sex, women wouldn’t enjoy a murder mystery series about Italy’s first female lawyer. Apparently one cannot make a modern production that’s exciting and provocative without these ingredients. Apart from perpetuating liberal sexism, it’s unoriginal and tiresome. With only six episodes to tell Lidia’s story, instead of focusing on what must have been a fascinating and groundbreaking development in women’s rights, the producers reduced the show to a smutty bastardization of Lidia Poët’s life. It wasn’t until the final episode that we see any depiction of feminist organizing. There are women demonstrating on behalf of her legal appeal, shouting from the back of the courtroom. She doesn’t even look at them. Somehow she has no idea women are gathered outside her home in a candlelight vigil to her honour her fight; she only finds out because she has to walk past them and even then, she doesn’t engage with them. Imagine what they could have done with the source material!
It’s unknown whether the show will return for a second season and the ending of the first deviates drastically from what we know about the course Poët’s life took. The Law According to Lidia Poët is clearly intended as liberal feminist, sex-positive entertainment so if you’re looking for an honest biography that engages with Lidia’s circumstances and the struggle for women’s rights, I’m sorry to say you’ll be disappointed. At the very least, the series may inspire people to learn about the real Lidia Poët, a brilliant feminist whose astounding accomplishments benefitted not only herself but women as a class.
Lavender Blume 