Kapodistrias (2025)

As Ioannis Kapodistrias strives to unite a newly liberated Greece and rebuild its identity, his moral resolve is tested by rivalry, betrayal, and the heavy cost of leadership.

A divisive story about unity. There are films that divide audiences, and then there are films that expose the divisions that already exist. Yannis Smaragdis’ Kapodistrias manages both. It became a superb example of unity and fracture at once – not only thematically, but socially. Critics overwhelmingly attacked it; audiences overwhelmingly embraced it. The harsher the reviews became, the longer the queues for the cinema grew, and they still grow. This fascinating oxymoron alone is reason to look closer.

Visually, the film is often striking. Aris Stavrou’s cinematography frames Greece as both mythic and intimate: sweeping landscapes, aristocratic interiors, and modest living quarters coexist in painterly light. The deliberate, sometimes questionable, alternation between static and handheld camera is not random; at times it captures the stillness of political ceremony, at others the instability of a nation being born. Not every choice is equally motivated, but the intention is palpable – to place the viewer in both history and immediacy.

The performances range from decent to genuinely compelling. With such a vast cast portraying figures whose emotional registers we cannot fully confirm – how did people of that era joke? Break down? Rage? – The challenge is immense. Actors here are not reconstructing personalities via footage, but attempting to re-inhabit emotional worlds accessible only through written testimony. That they achieve credible humanity at all is an accomplishment.

Editing – though curiously uncredited on IMDb – largely succeeds in sustaining momentum, tension, and inevitability. We know where the story leads; the assassination is a historical fact. Yet the film still compels us to hope against what we know. That dramatic irony is a core strength. However, some transitions feel rushed – most notably the abrupt unification of the captains under Kapodistrias (Antonis Myriagos). Scenes that should feel earned instead feel narrated, their emotional impact flattened. The moment Mando Mavrogenous (Mary Vidali) learns what Kapodistrias did for her is the polar opposite, as the scene is inundated with emotion.

Smaragdis’ script consciously chooses emphasis over totality. It foregrounds Kapodistrias’ triumphs – unifying Switzerland, aiding France, strengthening Russia, and liberating Greece – while marginalising other dimensions. That selectivity, grounded in the director’s and his historical team’s perspective, is exactly what potentially enraged many reviewers. Yet cinema is always interpretation; what is challenged here is not accuracy alone but the politics of perspective.

And this leads to the heart of the matter. The film positions Kapodistrias as the figure who sought to reunite Greece with its lost identity, to transition from four centuries under Ottoman rule into freedom and prosperity grounded in shared contribution. For many viewers, this still resonates painfully today. Those with much refused then – and refuse now – to relinquish privilege and give anything. Those with little gave – and still give – everything. The film wounds precisely because the wound remains open. Greece continues to navigate between external European demands and an internal identity long weakened but not restored.

The audience recognised themselves. The critics recognised a political provocation. As a researcher, I ask: why? Why is it that a cinematic achievement, however flawed, is trashed by people who are eager to sell words? Is this yet another example of the division Kapodistrias tried to heal? Are we still fighting the one or many who try to give just to the country? Have we still not learned?

The off-screen story only deepens this reading. Smaragdis publicly spoke of funding cuts, institutional obstruction, grief over losing his wife and producer Eleni, and the need for diaspora support to keep the project alive. Supporters framed the film as a national rather than private undertaking, while the director accused cultural “circles” of fearing the film’s message. Whether or not one accepts these claims in full, they reveal the emotional and political battleground surrounding the film – a battleground that mirrors its narrative of divided power, wounded vision, and contested leadership.

Kapodistrias is not without flaws – sometimes rushed, sometimes rhetorically heavy. But it is also cinematically ambitious, emotionally resonant, historically provocative, and a rare big-screen achievement for the country. It dares to argue that leadership rooted in ethical vision is not simply part of the past but urgently needed in the present. It asks whether Greece, after two hundred years, has yet learned how to be whole.

And perhaps that is why audiences embraced it: not because it is perfect cinema, but because it is painfully relevant cinema.