Suburra: Blood on Rome – Crime Opera Masterpiece Review
ByThe Att
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Streaming platform: Netflix Premiere: 6 October 2017 | Episodes: 3 seasons, 24 episodes
Rome has never looked this seductive—or this damned. Suburra: Blood on Rome plunges viewers into a pre‑internet capital where gangsters run Ostia's shoreline, Vatican financiers launder sins, and ambitious politicians bargain for slices of eternity. Adapted from Giancarlo De Cataldo and Carlo Bonini's novel, the series fuses the operatic sweep of The Godfather with the street‑level grit of Gomorrah, delivering a relentless tale of power, loyalty, and doom that feels both ancient and violently current.
Woke Rating: 5/5 – Not Woke Crime Purity
Despite featuring a gay relationship, Suburra earns the top score because the series treats identity as raw material for character conflict rather than for messaging. Spadino's sexuality is intrinsic to his clan's Sinti culture and the ostracism he faces; it is never sermonized, scored, or brandished as moral superiority. Female figures—Sara Monaschi, the matriarchs of Ostia—wield influence through intelligence, manipulation, and traditional leverage, not super‑human invincibility. There is zero gender‑or‑race swapping from source material, and historical references—Mafia Capitale scandals, Vatican banking intrigues—are dramatized with brutal fidelity. In short, the show's focus remains squarely on power and consequence, letting audiences wrestle with the characters' choices instead of absorbing lectures. The result is storytelling that feels dangerously alive, unencumbered by contemporary identity politics.
The beating heart of Suburra is its meditation on corruption as Rome's eternal currency. Religion, politics, and organized crime form an unholy trinity: each institution cloaks avarice in the language of salvation. The writers repeatedly contrast sacred ritual with profane violence—baptisms overlap drug deals, funerals mask land grabs—underscoring the idea that sin is merely another commodity in the Eternal City. Yet friendship—particularly the brotherhood between Aureliano and Spadino—offers a fragile alternative. Their bond suggests that genuine loyalty can bloom even in poisoned soil, but the series is clear‑eyed about the cost: every step toward power demands a pound of flesh, and redemption is rarely paid in full.
"Rome doesn't reward the good, only the bold."
starts as an impulsive Ostia surf‑rat dreaming of empire; , the closeted heir to a Sinti clan, craves respect. Their unlikely alliance evolves from survival pact to familial devotion, chronicled through gestures rather than monologues: a shared cigarette after a gunfight, a wordless nod before betrayal. The series masterfully tracks how their ambitions warp personal codes—Aureliano's quest for legacy drags him deeper into bloodshed, while Spadino's desire for authenticity forces him into open rebellion against his own clan. The tragedy is Shakespearean: the closer they grow, the narrower their paths to freedom become. Supporting arcs—Lele's corruption, Cinaglia's moral slide—mirror this dynamic, reinforcing the show's thesis that Rome devours even the well‑intentioned.
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