Once upon a time there was a princess named Diana who died weeks before my uncle’s wedding, a few months before my birth. My aunt had an healthy obsession for her and, for years, she made me fell into the trap of making Diana a saint. What she had told me about this lady, about the love the people had for her, her beauty and the legacy she left in royalty, made Spencer a perfect but confusing experience. Who was, in fact, Diana — the idyllic princess I was introduced to for years, or a profoundly human person with a relevant background for today's standards and many lives?

After my first watching, I had to stop reading Frank Herbert's Dune to venture into articles, biographies and seven hours of podcasts about the real Lady D in order to prepare for a second rematch. And I was not wrong the first time: this is top notch cinema, for various and detailed reasons that I honestly don't want to dive in. There’s something about this story, this movie, that really touches me; it’s too intimate, too personal. I'm not even going to add fuel to the fire on Kristen Stewart's performance, who delivers the best performance of her career by not only capturing the princess' mannerisms and voice tone but for showing an extraordinary physical ability to shine amidst the rare moments of stillness in which you can feel the threat of explosion and tension in her knuckles.

Larraín's direction, with Claire Mathon's ghostly photography and Jonny Greenwood's vibrant, intrusive music (this guy exceeded himself in 2021!) gave Diana, as proof of ultimate love, the fate that a fairy tale would give her, like the princess she is. Despite all the anxiety and goth terror brought on by Sandringham's ancestral walls and traditions, she has the illusion of escapism and a less lonely ending, and the beauty of this idea is as pure as bittersweet. Conventional art done right in an absolutely unconventional way that captures the true essence of what Diana was. And, certainly, of what we all are.