Isola is a feature film written and directed by Nora Jaenicke, an Italian-German filmmaker working across cinema and the visual arts. The film stars Fanny Ardant and Joanna Kulig in the lead roles, supported by an international ensemble cast. Shot in English and set on an unnamed Mediterranean island, it is an Italian-German co-production. After the world premiere at the Torino Film Festival, it will have its U.S. premiere on February 27 at the Sedona International Film Festival, in Arizona.
Interview by Silvia Tarquini
Valentina, you were born in Naples, you live between Los Angeles and New York, you hold dual citizenship — EU and US — and you work as a director of photography all over the world. You are the first Italian woman to have been admitted to the highly prestigious American Cinematographers Association, the ASC. Can you give us, in a few words, an overview of this journey?
I left Italy at 18. Back then, it was hard to get into the Centro Sperimentale. So, to try to make my dream come true, leaving was the only option. Honestly, I didn’t want to leave Italy — and especially Naples, a city I’ve always loved and felt at home in. I also got to know a harder side of Naples, in the ’90s, when it was much more violent than it is today. And yet I always loved it — I didn’t want to go. It was a forced choice, one that turned out to be right and fulfilling. It opened my eyes to the whole world and taught me how to work with all kinds of directors, producers, and actors, in places with very different cultures. I went to London, studied at college there, and after two years I got a scholarship to both UCLA and New York University. I chose NYU because my idol was Spike Lee, and I knew he taught there. Living in New York in my twenties was an extraordinary experience — it felt like a bigger Naples, with this incredibly powerful energy. I love the energy of places and people, and that’s something I look for in my work too.
Isola had its world premiere at the Torino Film Festival at the end of 2025. Did you travel to Italy from Los Angeles for the occasion?
I truly loved the Torino Film Festival. It has a reputation for being the European Sundance, and that felt very much alive during my time there. Spike Lee was also present this year with his new film — I had worked with him previously on a series — Knowing that he was there too was especially meaningful. I already knew Turin, but during the Festival the city takes on a different, more intense atmosphere. It’s an important place for filmmakers, an environment that genuinely values cinema and the shared experience of watching films together. It feels culturally vibrant, yet simple and grounded in its everyday life. I was also struck by the presence of a Palestinian neighborhood and, more broadly, by a certain sensitivity toward the Middle East — something that felt significant, and that conveyed the image of an Italy more open than the one I remembered. The screening itself was a powerful experience: a huge screen, an engaged audience, and a film shot in anamorphic — seeing Isola under those conditions was truly moving.
Were you there alongside the director and the cast?
Yes, Nora was there, as well as the lead actress, Joanna Kulig. Fanny Ardant was not there.
Would you like to tell us how you first met the director and how you approached defining the look of the film?
I’ve known Nora for about ten years. We first met at a screening of one of her short films, and years later she remembered me and wanted to work together. I admire her deeply — also for her concrete commitment in supporting women in cinema, something I feel strongly about and have always championed, because for us this profession is often an uphill road. We found ourselves aligned in our vision, in a shared way of approaching both the work and the relationships on set. When I accepted her offer, an incredible creative dialogue began immediately. Nora wanted to make an “essential” film. After reading the script, I suggested ideas that would preserve that sense of essentiality while introducing a more distinctive visual element, in keeping with the subtle thriller quality of the story — which centers on two profoundly different women: one rigorous, almost obsessive; the other instinctive and free. I was drawn to the idea of holding them within the same frame, heightening the tension of their differences. That’s where the choice of anamorphic came from — it allowed us to keep them both within a single composition, often at opposite ends of the frame, one on the right, one on the left, their contrasting personalities and goals pulling against each other. I loved the script because it carried a subtle, understated Hitchcockian echo — never overt, always restrained. It’s an elegant film, built on a refined psychological game, and I tried to craft images that would linger, that would continue to resonate long after the screening. My exchange with Nora was wonderful: we watched many films together, and I encouraged her to look at paintings as well. The story is, in many ways, a painting itself.
There is also a painting in the film, one that carries its own mysterious force. It depicts a volcano, and for you, being from Naples, that must have been a powerful suggestion…
Being Neapolitan, I was born with Mount Vesuvius as a constant presence — for us, it’s a very powerful symbol. The director and I always said that alongside the two subjective points of view of the characters, there was also the objective point of view of the volcano: the story is always being observed from that perspective as well.
From the outside? From the island’s powerful natural presence?
Yes — there’s a shot in which the two women are gazing out at the horizon, and the volcano gazes back at them. Whatever you do, there is always something watching: the universe, looking on. The film holds two points of view, those of the two characters, but the place itself is a character in its own right — and above all, the volcano offers a third perspective, one we deliberately tried to bring into play. It’s a layered film, and that’s something I truly appreciated.
As for the locations, I felt they were every bit as important as the characters: the green island revealed at the opening through an approaching aerial shot, the villa, the whole atmosphere — which isn’t strictly Mediterranean. Nora is half German, half Italian, and to me there is something mythical in her vision of Italy, almost a fairytale dimension. The two women inhabit an isolated, self-sufficient world — intensely interior, almost psychoanalytic. It’s a sparse, depopulated Italy, suspended in time, far removed from the vitality we usually associate with it. I was curious how you experienced that atmosphere, given that you were born and raised in Italy and carry within you the exuberance of Naples.
In a way, I feel similar to Nora — only partially Italian. I was born and raised in Naples, but I’ve spent most of my life abroad, and I’ve always lived within this interweaving of cultures. I’ve never felt like a stranger in my own country, and yet arriving on an island I had never visited gave me a fresh perspective. Northern Italy, too, has always been somewhere I’ve passed through rather than truly inhabited — I’ve worked in Milan and Turin, but only for stretches of time. My roots are in the South, and the differences between North and South are real and felt. In that sense, I shared Nora’s position: she was born in Germany and grew up in Florence, and she carries within her two identities, two worlds.
To close on your creative exchange with Nora — you mentioned painting earlier. What visual ideas did you bring to the table, and what were the pictorial references? And more broadly, what were the other guiding principles around which you built the film’s visual language?
Nora wanted a slightly vintage look — somewhat faded, almost pastel — while always preserving strong contrasts. So who better to turn to than Cézanne, Matisse, Gauguin, Basquiat, Hopper, Picasso, Munch, and Van Gogh? At the same time, I suggested we draw inspiration from shadow. We looked extensively at Artemisia Gentileschi, Kara Walker, Zurbarán, Rembrandt, and Godfried Schalcken for the candlelight quality — heightened shadows, deep contrasts. Gentileschi, for instance, is a kind of female Caravaggio; her golden and red tones influenced us enormously — the costumes worn by the two protagonists were directly inspired by those hues. We also studied certain frames from Bergman’s Persona, a film that probes the psyche, female identity, and the charged relationship between two women. Another key reference was the cinema of Fassbinder: I love his use of mirrors, and we returned to them often. Many shots are built through reflections, because identity was one of our central themes. Joanna’s character looks at herself in the mirror, but Ada is always there behind her, watching — and that exchange of gazes slowly builds into an obsession. For shooting style and camera movement, I showed Nora Scorsese’s The Age of Innocence. It was less celebrated in the United States than some of his other films, but I wanted to bring a similar fluidity to the storytelling. More broadly, it was important to Nora that the setting remain deliberately undefined. The island is clearly Italian, yet no specific references are ever made. Ambiguity is a constant, essential quality of the film — something she sought from the very beginning.
Could you expand a little on the idea of essentiality you mentioned earlier?
Nora had wanted to make this film for many years, and once the financing was in place, she told me she wanted to approach it simply. I proposed a form of simplicity that was willing to take risks — and she embraced that. One example: we chose to shoot with vintage lenses, which are notoriously difficult to light, because every light source produces reflections off the curvature and sensitivity of the glass. Each lamp essentially became a mirror, bouncing light off curtains and surfaces — which demanded extremely precise, painstaking work. But that quality was exactly what helped us build the suspended, layered image we were after.
In this film there are no overt reflections — rather, just a few delicate, almost imperceptible flares…
Exactly. At a certain point I had to completely rethink my approach to lighting. At the outset, my gaffer Gabrio Contino and I were caught off guard, because the reflections were constant. I had to restructure all the lighting plans I had prepared. I began lighting from above — very high above — finding a precise height that would avoid casting shadows on the actors’ eyes and, above all, keep the light from entering the lens directly. The house was a real location: a well-known villa on Elba, frequently used for events and ceremonies. Fortunately, it had very high nineteenth-century ceilings and balconies, which helped enormously — I could keep the light source elevated without it hitting the lens. But I had less light available, and I had to contend with white walls that read as very flat on camera. Since it was a historic villa, no structural changes were permitted, so the production designer and I rethought everything together. I went with him and Nora to choose the curtains at a market on Elba. I often work with light veils that allow light to pass through and absorb the color of the fabric — a technique I first learned while working in India. Nora chose the tones, but I indicated the most suitable materials, because if the fabric is too heavy it blocks the light entirely, and if it’s too sheer the white walls reflect everything back, flattening the image — particularly with vintage lenses, which are highly sensitive to reflections. I usually build my lighting from the background forward, as in a painting: I create depth and dimensionality in the back of the frame and rarely fill from the front. But here, every backlight risked bouncing into the lens, at times even tracing the outline of the windows in the glass. So I had to reduce the number of sources and work at lower intensities, calibrating every element with great care. I also brought light bulbs from the United States, which I treated with amber paint to achieve a warm tone consistent with candlelight — adapting them, of course, to the Italian electrical system. And I used real candles as well. I wanted the atmosphere to feel as natural as possible, something close to Barry Lyndon — organic light rather than artificial light.
Real candles, yes?
Real candles — reinforced with these bulbs, initially clear and then painted amber or other colors. The green in Joanna’s room, for example. It was a wonderful collaboration: the production designer, and the set decorator Agata Trojak, told me that from that day on she suggests this approach to cinematographers on every film she works on. She said she had learned from me how to do a great deal with very little — how to create color out of almost nothing. When the two characters face each other in the most charged moments, you see the red curtains in the living room, and I worked to build contrast through other colors: red against blue, amber against a green dress, or even through the colors of the lipsticks. Since I couldn’t bring in much light, I played with these effects — not only chiaroscuro, but color itself. And at a certain point a world emerged: the characters’ world, which was precisely what Nora had wanted — a vintage world. And vintage produces, on a temporal level, the same effect that geographical ambiguity produces in terms of place. Ada arrives on the island with a vintage suitcase. What era are we in? Where, exactly, are we? A sense of uncertainty takes hold, and the audience begins to wonder what is really happening. We had to achieve that through the light as well — through framing and camera movement — giving visual form to the story and to the inner lives of the characters. Every nuance was there to carry the emotional landscape of the film.
What was it like lighting an icon such as Fanny Ardant?
Fanny is a timeless actress. You never need to set a mark for her, never need to explain where the light is — she already knows. The moment she steps onto the set, she doesn’t even have to look. She moves, finds her position, and lands in exactly the right spot. I remember that while I was still lighting, she wanted to stay in the room. I said, “Fanny, could you move just a little? I wouldn’t want a light to fall on you.” And she replied, “No, no, I want to stay here.” We were all astonished by her mastery. I’ve worked with many remarkable actors, but I had never witnessed that level of instinct, that kind of innate precision. And she knew exactly what light suited her. Joanna, on the other hand, was something else entirely. She would move more freely — I had to chase her with the light. And I loved that about her. That unpredictable energy. In the end, the actresses were opposites too, not just the characters they played.
Having two actresses with such contrasting approaches, and having to hold them together within the same frame, must have been quite a challenge…
Having everything come easily has never interested me. I’m used to challenges — I’ve worked extensively in the Middle East. One of my first films, a Palestinian production that premiered in US at Sundance Film Festival earned me the award for Best Cinematography, was filmed in very hard conditions. We were surrounded among many explosions, we lost many locations because they had been destroyed, and for two weeks we had to take shelter in basements. For me, cinema is life: it is a human experience as much as a creative one. I seek out difficulty — it’s what nourishes me.
Which camera did you choose for Isola?
I shot with the Sony Venice and Hawk 74 vintage anamorphic lenses. I chose the Sony because I was working with limited lighting units, and it gave me the option — if needed — to push to a higher ISO in low-light situations, though in the end I never had to. Otherwise I would likely have gone with ARRI, which in my view renders skin with a different kind of resolution. To soften complexions and give the beams of light a slightly more pronounced quality, I used 1/4 Hollywood Black Magic filters, and in certain cases I placed stockings behind the lens: cut and mounted at the rear element, just as I used to do when shooting on film. My first camera assistants, Gaia Germi and Marcello Bernardi, helped me prepare them. I had Fanny Ardant, who is over seventy, and Joanna, who is much younger: I wanted the difference to be visible, but not underlined. It had to be softened, not erased. And I didn’t want a flat, soap-opera aesthetic — that’s not my language. I was looking for contrast, but carried with a certain softness. At the premiere, many people told me the cinematography was beautiful, very elegant — especially in the interiors, in the half-shadows shaped by lampshades, candles, filtered light. I was deeply moved, because it was the first time I had seen the film on a big screen. I don’t think we could have had a better premiere, and it mattered to me that it happened in Italy, in a theater of that quality. The colors struck me too: I had worked on the grade with colorist Andrea Facchini, a dialogue that had begun in pre-production and continued throughout and after the shoot. Every day at wrap, my DIT Filippo Loccioni would pull stills that I would work on and send to Andrea as references — he would study them and recreate the same look on the footage. That process helped us enormously during the grade itself, which we did remotely over ten days — ten days during which I woke at four in the morning to work with him from a distance. We had calibrated the monitors, but I was seeing the film in fragments, on a calibrated iPad screen. I had supervised every detail, but I had never seen the film whole, in a theater. And then, with the sound, the music…
Isola offers a very particular exploration of femininity. Neither of the two characters is “positive,” at least not in the conventional sense. At first you believe they are both essentially good — and then, gradually, you realize they are not quite so straightforward. Could you talk about how you approached the visual translation of that evolution, the slow shift in the relationship between these two women?
There is a scene in Joanna’s room where Ada confesses she has never had anyone, that she has always been the one taking care of others. In that moment we framed them together — within the same shot, often in profile, using rack focus to keep both women present in the image. At the funeral too they are united within the frame, because at that point they are still accomplices. It was a precise grammatical choice: up to a certain moment we wanted them to be perceived as a single body, held within the same composition. Then, as the relationship begins to fracture, the image fractures with it: separate close-ups appear, especially of Joanna, who starts to pull away. Mirrors enter the frame; she looks at herself, while Ada appears behind her — intrusive, watching. Through framing and light we wanted to make that shift visible, and to me it is one of the most important elements of the film. As cinematographers, we always work in service of the story and of the characters’ inner lives: light and composition must express that emotional state. An image can be very beautiful, but without narrative motivation it serves no purpose. The strongest images are those that carry meaning, even when they are not technically perfect. I think, for example, of the scene in which Joanna burns the clothes: it’s a pivotal moment, because it marks her transformation. I cared deeply about shooting through the fire, letting the camera pass through the flames. It was a costly scene and at one point there was talk of cutting it, but Nora insisted to stay. We had planned 360-degree movements, later edited differently, but for me it was essential to move through the fire — because it represented her change. The point is that reading the script is not enough: you have to enter the characters’ emotional state. Cinematography must follow their evolution. In every project — films, series, commercials — what matters to me is this creative journey with the director: translating the characters’ emotions through light, camera movement, framing, color, and contrast. It is always about that. A clear example is the Palestinian film I filmed on film, Pomegranates and Myrrh, which follows a couple on the eve of their wedding; the husband is arrested and everything changes — handheld camera, bleach bypass, more grain, desaturation. Then, at the end, when the character finds her way back to dancing, the image transforms again. Cinematography accompanies the story and its emotional shifts. Otherwise it becomes decorative — and that is not what our work is for.
Is there anything you’d like to add?
I also want to add that I am very grateful to Nora and the other directors and productions from around the world who have chosen and continue to choose me as their DOP for their projects. When there is inner energy and love for what you do, beyond the technical aspects, there is light, there is creativity, innovative ideas and a great deal of collaboration that positively influences every cinematic moment.
Thanks Valentina.
