Martina Appendino Writing

A short commentary on Joanna Hogg’s new short film for MiuMiu: “Autobiography of a purse”

In a world where fashion celebrates the moment, Joanna Hogg explores ephemerality and memory – Michael Timsit.

Today, while working in a certain unmentionable boutique in the heart of Notting Hill, I found myself killing time by fussing over the straps of an overpriced handbag—purely for show, just to look busy enough not to scare off the browsing customers.

As I absentmindedly adjusted this particular bag—worth a few hundred pounds—I caught myself glancing at the shelves, overflowing with designer purses, then turning to my colleague, and, without a second thought, letting these words slip from my mouth: “I honestly couldn’t give a f**k about bags.”

For the past year, I’ve carried only one big, black, faux-leather beast—worn-out, misshapen, with stray threads dangling from its single strap. I found it on Vinted for £2, and it hasn’t left my side since. It’s my daytime work bag, stuffed with scarves, books, and couscous lunchboxes. By night, it’s my pub companion.

But when I got home, I stumbled—belatedly—upon Miu Miu’s short film directed by Joanna Hogg (February 2025), part of the Women’s Tales series.

At its core, the film explores the value we assign to an object that, though often overlooked, stays with us through the rhythms of daily life: bags. The protagonist—and narrator—is a white Wander Bag brought to life by the voice of Izetta Tollapi. Gifted to a teenage girl from a wealthy Tuscan family, the bag becomes a silent witness to muggings, heartbreaks, murders, and abandonment. People fade into the background—here, the bag takes centre stage.

The bag will spend its early years in a grand Tuscan villa with majestic interiors. This place, known as Locanda Sospesa, is a fully functioning B&B, available for short stays.

I’m not struck by the consumerism woven into the short film but rather by the brilliance of its cinematic direction. From a technical standpoint, the film boasts exceptional cinematography. Its uniquely framed scenes were captured using four iPhone 16s. Low angles and hushed voices draw the viewer in, creating the sensation of inhabiting a set prop.

Beyond mere functionality, bags and accessories—and fashion itself—serve as couriers of beauty, symbols of status, or vessels of memory.

The question I am left with is: What value do we assign to the objects around us? Do we appreciate them? Or are we always longing for more? Do we idolise them? Do we not want to let go?

The bag in the film subtly reproaches those who fail to recognize its worth (it is, after all, an advertisement). But beyond that—how far would we really go? Could we abandon a Miu Miu bag in the rain, without guilt, without even a flicker of hesitation? I know I could.