The Milan of urban renewal and its vertical gardens is Bianca’s territory. Her dad is a lorry driver and her mum a housewife. A student at the Arts High School, Bianca looks like a star from the Forties. She paints her nails blue with four little stars on each one. She knows two things about life. She knows she doesn’t want to be like her mum, prematurely burned out, sleepwalking through emotions and aspirations, subservient to her husband’s and her son’s needs, but blind to the glimmers of hope in her daughter’s eyes. Bianca knows she wants to be a film star, the object of female envy and men’s dreams. And to do it, she’s ready to listen to the blackest part of her hear. Lie, manipulate, seduce. Kill. She sees her body as a lethal weapon, an instrument for gaining affirmation and recognition. A body-weapon for not dying anonymous. Newspapers, magazines and sociologists dealing with the dissatisfaction of the young only get to a certain point. Bianca da morire digs deeper and touches the authentic wad of wishes and solitude that give rise to shocking events. Bianca is the terrible incarnation of our frustrated ambitions and the childish fears that never leave us. Bianca is a nation entire and its most flawed reflection is Milan. Bianca is every one of us.