There is an almost electric energy in how Oriana Fallaci is portrayed in the new Rai television series. Her writing, her sharp gaze, her relentless dismantling of the powerful with surgical precision – everything about her embodies conflict, passion, and ruthless intelligence. Miss Fallaci doesn’t merely recount her biography; it seeks to step inside her mind, capturing the tension of a life lived on the edge, balancing journalism and activism, words and action.

The direction moves between authentic settings and meticulous details. Objects, environments, and furnishings evoke the era’s spirit: smoke-filled newsrooms, the clatter of typewriters, switchboards buzzing with voices, and the incessant ringing of Bakelite phones. Yet it is the protagonist’s gaze that guides it all – a woman always in the wrong place for those wishing to categorize her, but always in the right place to tell the truth.

The heart of the series lies not only in Fallaci’s confrontations with power but also in her private choices, sacrifices, and the solitude imposed by her profession. There’s the young Oriana of the 1950s, fighting to be accepted in a male-dominated world, and the seasoned reporter, fearless but paying the price for her uncompromising nature.

Her first interview with Henry Kissinger begins with a portable tape recorder. Oriana carefully removes it from its black leather case, attaches the microphone, and presses the large button to record. The red light pulses, a signal of memory being etched onto magnetic tape. Kissinger smiles, slightly uncomfortable, “You manage to make people say things they’d never say. And besides… I’m not used to being interviewed by women.” She doesn’t flinch, focused on the little machine that becomes a witness to history.

In the newsroom of L’Europeo, the world of machines forms an orchestra of sounds: the rhythmic tapping of typewriters, the bell at the end of a line, fountain pens scratching paper, lighters clicking, and switchboards merging distant voices. Objects are never just objects; they are part of the ritual, the craft, the life.

At home, Oriana is surrounded by other mechanical presences: a small white enamel stove, a Bialetti moka, an Elchim hairdryer with a black thermoplastic handle. A world of details that tell her story. When her mother brings lasagna to heat, Oriana responds laconically, “The oven is broken.” There’s no nostalgia for domesticity; her place is at the Lettera 22 typewriter, where thoughts become ink and battles take shape on paper.

The Lettera 22 becomes central in one of the series’ most intense moments. After a suicide attempt leaves her in deep despair, Oriana faces a long writing block. She breaks it with an almost ritual gesture: changing the ink ribbon, cleaning the typebars, inserting a blank sheet. As she adjusts the keys, one slips, striking her finger and drawing blood. She dabs the wound onto the paper, leaving a red mark. From that wound, that unintentional trace, writing comes back to life. The typewriter resumes its relentless hammering, and the block is broken for good.

The journey to New York marks another encounter with intrusive modernity. On the plane, while her male colleagues smoke, sleep, or read, she nervously embroiders a flower on a small hoop – an ancient, private gesture of a woman defying the world in her own way.

In the Hollywood hotel lobby, a television set becomes symbolic. The walls are lined with photos of Hollywood stars, framing a dark-wood television with a convex screen, buttons, knobs, and an antenna. Still a luxury at the time, it was already transforming how people perceived the world.

Her hotel room transforms into an improvised newsroom: the Lettera 22 on the table, a map of the city pinned to the wall. In this artificial city, where Hollywood reconstructs the Wild West rather than filming it in the nearby desert, Oriana moves with ruthless clarity. Her photojournalist colleagues capture events with Rolleiflex cameras, but she prefers to capture details with words.

Interviewing Jayne Mansfield, she is enveloped in a delirium of pink: pink walls, pink floral sofas, ruched pink curtains, a rose-tinted copper gramophone, an ivory-pink telephone. Jayne, swathed in salmon-pink chiffon, says nonchalantly, “To conquer America, a woman doesn’t need to use her brain.” Oriana, sharp as ever, asks, “So all this – the pink, the poodles, the postcards – is all planned?” Jayne smiles, “Of course. I just had to use sex, like Marilyn Monroe.” Oriana, catching the deeper truth, replies, “The same way Hollywood does.”

Oriana constantly encounters the machines of civilization. Returning to her hotel, she comes across a vacuum cleaner for the first time. Spotting it in her doorway, she pauses. The manager, noticing her curiosity, says proudly, “Don’t you have these in Italy? It’s the latest model. Fantastic.” She smiles slightly. “Mind if I give it a try?” And so, between letters and interviews, even the vacuum cleaner becomes part of her worldly experience.

Back in Florence, as Domenico Modugno’s Volare plays, Oriana’s mother opens a large package to find a vacuum cleaner – a large sphere, half blue, half dark green, with a handle and a flexible hose ending in a brush. Her father eyes it skeptically, “What’s this?” Her mother chuckles, reading the note, “Mom, throw out the broom. Oriana.” Curious, she picks up the hose. “A vacuum cleaner? Let me give it a try.” But she stops, noticing the American plug. Shaking her head, she sighs. Her father takes the appliance, determined. “I’ll figure it out.” Peering into the box, he asks, “Is there anything else in here?” Her mother laughs, running a hand over the glossy surface. “No, just the spaceship.”

In London, as Oriana gets ready in her hotel room, the Minerva “Venezia” radio fills the air with warm sound. Two knobs – one for volume and tone, one for tuning – encased in dark wood with brass details and light fabric protecting the speakers. Elegance and function combined.

And then comes the arrival of the “Geloso” tape recorder – more than an object, it is her weapon. A small box with two brown reels spinning lightly, colorful buttons – red, black, yellow, green – ready to capture every nuance of voice. Testing it with a sardonic smile, she says, “So, Mr. Pieroni, how badly do you want to kiss Mrs. Fallaci?”

Miss Fallaci isn’t just a series about the journalist Oriana Fallaci. It is a portrait of an era, a civilization shaped by machines, and modernity entering people’s lives, changing gestures, words, and thoughts. Oriana meets every innovation with curiosity and challenge, never reduced to a mere spectator. Because, in the end, the true engine of history is always her.

Opening image: Miriam Leone in Miss Fallaci, 2025. Photo Francesco Marino