In a world where most of us compete to be noticed, Benedetta Barzini wants to disappear. But before the former model, slash journalist, slash women’s rights activist and educator goes quietly into that horizon rowing her wooden boat, or climbing through the woods backpack in tow, her son Beniamino Barrese wants to film her for all to see. And to remember her always. As he says off camera at the start of his stunning documentary ‘The Disappearance of My Mother’ — “I was not ready to let her go.”

There is a beautiful monologue by Tennessee Williams in ‘Talk To Me Like the Rain … And Let Me Listen’, a short one-act usually included in the ‘27 Wagons Full of Cotton’ anthology. The character is called, quite simply, “Woman” and she tells her partner, “I want to go away” followed then by her intricate, personally made-up story of how she plans to disappear. There is something melancholic about Barrese’s film which reminded me of Williams’ play. Even if Ms. Barzini is not and will never be the whiling away, abused, depressed character depicted in “Talk to Me Like the Rain.”

Far from it, actually!

To fashion lovers, Barzini is that striking incarnation of beauty — luscious black hair, strong features and big beauty mark on her cheek — that would become the first Italian woman ever to be featured on the cover of Vogue. In NYC in the 60s and early 70s she was a muse to the likes of Andy Warhol and Salvador Dali. Then she became a journalist, which runs in her DNA since she happens to be the daughter of one of the greats of Italian journalism, Luigi Barzini Jr., and war correspondent Luigi Barzini Sr. is her grandfather. But in her best reinvention, Barzini turned into a feminist icon, rejecting the objectification of women’s body in fashion photography and the media and educating young women on what being a true, fearless, wondrous member of our gender should mean.

I have to admit that ever since I watched ‘The Disappearance of My Mother’ I myself have felt changed. Barzini has changed me.

I’ve embraced the possibilities of the years to come, as a woman who should no longer claim to be a girl. I am now excited to prove to myself how wonderful my “grown up” years will be, and this surreal situation of being stuck at home during Italy’s lockdown at the moment is only adding to that gusto. I can taste the joie de vivre, and honestly, I now can’t wait to be Barzini’s age, because I cannot wait to own my thoughts and ideals , and even my beauty, as powerfully as she does. I wait gladly for the day when I’ll feel like half the woman she is.

I also find myself no longer fearing the years to come, as most women who were or are considered pretty often do. Bring them on, those years down the line! I say now. I only hope I can do them as gracefully and intelligently as Ms. Barzini.

And that’s the power of cinema to the fullest, ladies and gentlemen.

Barrese is a genius with his camera. He has the advantage of being family, and even more than that, Barzini’s affectionate son. He doesn’t allow her strong will to quiet him and continues onward in moments when I know, with my own strong-willed mother, I would have stopped. But his courage in the face of her strength is also what makes the film so beautiful. He is as much a featured character in this story as his mother. And both their voices continue to resonate within me, weeks after watching, when I speak with own mother.

Barzini is bigger than life. I mean that as a compliment for this lithe, elegant woman with great posture and a sultry voice. Her frame is tiny, she herself admitted to struggling with an eating disorder when she was younger. In the film she discloses taking several medications including something for her lungs. Yet she sneaks puffs, throughout the film, on her e-cigarette. On the runway for the Simone Rocha F/W 2017 collection at London Fashion Week, she is the only woman you see, despite being surrounded by icons and younger models. That’s another magical moment in time which Barrese captures in his film. Yet before her catwalk, Barzini stands quietly to the side, avoiding the spotlight until it’s her time to grace the show. She doesn’t wear make up and yet nothing is missing from her face. Her intelligence and style are the perfect accessories, there is no need for more.

Not to be forgotten, are the infinite number of wisdoms Barzini unknowingly imparts on those of us watching and listening to her carefully. “Men invent women’s bodies… just look at Jessica Rabbit,” and my personal favorite, having traveled to the Arab world and enjoyed the feeling first hand, “we criticize those who cover up head to toe but I’d welcome walking around in my privacy.” Indeed.

Perhaps the biggest lesson I walked away with from ‘The Disappearance of My Mother’ is the beautifully imperfect relationship between Barzini and her son the filmmaker. Imperfect in that it’s human and we’re all flawed, after all. Yet beautiful because I found within it so much unapologetic love, in all its daily forms. It’s something to admire, particularly in this day and age — and this strange world we find ourselves in.

As a personal aside, when I tried to arrange an interview with both Barzini and Barrese for a different publication, I wrote my personal feelings to them about the film. In the midst of Italy’s lockdown, from Milan which is the worst hit area in Italy, Barzini herself answered back. This free sprit who must feel so incredibly constrained at the moment, took the time to reassure me, a complete stranger, with her kind words.

“The interesting side of this story is that it touches everybody in the world and nothing similar has occurred to us before,” she wrote. “We have time to think instead of running around in circles…” And that is what true elegance, the kind you’ll never be able to buy in a store, looks like.

The film is distributed in the US by Kino Lorber, a favorite indie distributor and can be watched on Breaker, a collective using blockchain technology to allow viewers to connect with the creators directly. It will change your life too, believe me.