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Lidia Poët on Netflix argues that winning a case does not change the law

Veronica Loop

The Grazia Fontana trial, at the center of this final season, is structured around a question the Italian legal system of 1887 was specifically designed not to answer: whether a woman’s suffering constitutes legally recognizable evidence in a court built by men, for men, to adjudicate conflicts between men. Lidia Poët takes the case. She argues it. She may even win it. None of that changes the architecture of the room she is standing in.

This is what The Law According to Lidia Poët has been building toward across three seasons, and the final installment earns its conclusion by refusing to make it feel like one. The season deploys a three-track structure with unusual formal precision. Lidia defends Grazia — accused of killing her abusive husband, claiming self-defense — in a courtroom where the jury is male, the presiding prosecutor is Fourneau (her partner, recently elevated to the Court of Assizes), and the press coverage is being written by Jacopo, her former lover, returned from Rome for the headline-making trial. Simultaneously, her brother Enrico, now a member of parliament, is advancing the legislation that would reinstate her right to practice law. Three simultaneous institutional tracks — the trial, the romance, the legislature — that are actually one argument: the personal is not a metaphor for the political. In 1887 Turin, they are the same vote.

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The formal geometry of the season’s central conflict is its strongest move. Fourneau has been promoted to the Court of Assizes and will be prosecuting Grazia’s trial — meaning the man Lidia is in a relationship with is the man she must defeat in court to save her best friend’s life. The series does not treat this as melodrama. It treats it as structural honesty: the institutions these characters inhabit were not designed to accommodate the lives they are trying to live inside them. The romantic triangle is not decoration. It is the argument made visible.

The season’s most specific dramatic image — Lidia and Fourneau facing each other across a courtroom while Grazia Fontana sits accused of an act the law does not yet have adequate language to describe — concentrates everything the series has argued across thirty episodes into a single geometric arrangement. Two people who share a bed. An all-male jury. A woman whose suffering is the subject of the trial but not its recognized legal category. The camera does not editorialise. It does not need to.

Within Italian prestige television, The Law According to Lidia Poët occupies an unusual position. It draws from the procedural tradition of Il Commissario Montalbano — a case-per-episode rhythm, the pleasures of investigative structure — while operating with the interiority and longitudinal female character study of L’Amica Geniale. What it adds to that tradition is a refusal of consolation. Where L’Amica Geniale ends in ambivalence, Lidia Poët ends in structural clarity: the system did not change. What changed is Lidia’s understanding of how long it takes, and what it costs, to make an argument inside a room that was not built to hear it. The series has consistently underperformed commercially — it barely scraped a Season 3 renewal — and there is something fitting about a show about institutional exclusion finding its conclusion as a scrappy survivor rather than a flagship property.

What the final season cannot answer — and does not try to — is whether the act of making the argument from inside the institution eventually transforms the arguer rather than the institution. Lidia wins cases. She builds precedent. She forces the law to look at what it excludes. And she does all of this in a system that, at the moment she makes her best argument, still does not recognize her right to be standing there. Whether that is the definition of progress, or its most sophisticated obstacle, is a question the series leaves fully open — as any honest account of the 1880s, or of any decade since, probably should.

The Law According to Lidia Poët, Season 3, streams on Netflix. Six episodes. Matilda De Angelis, Gianmarco Saurino, Eduardo Scarpetta. Directed by Letizia Lamartire, Pippo Mezzapesa, and Jacopo Bonvicini.

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