Written and directed by Silvia Luzi and Luca Bellino, Luce tells the story of the protagonist’s life, split between her daily work at a tannery in Solofra, Campania, and her existential pain and disorientation. It stars Marianna Fontana, Tommaso Ragno (appearing as a voice), and the real workers of the factory. Produced by La Sarraz Pictures, it premiered in competition at the Locarno Film Festival and was released in Italian cinemas on 23 January 2025. Collettivo Chiaroscuro met with the cinematographer, Jacopo Caramella CCS. The directors previously made La minaccia (2008), Dell’arte della guerra (2012), and Il cratere (2017). Il cratere was presented at the Venice International Film Critics’ Week and won the Special Jury Prize at the Tokyo International Film Festival.
Interview curated by Mirco Sgarzi CCS and Silvia Tarquini
Let’s talk about your work on Luce by Silvia Luzi and Luca Bellino. Could you tell us how you met the directors and how you worked together in preparing the film?
We met by chance. I had been invited by Alessandro Pesci to be one of the speakers at an event at the Casa del Cinema, organised by Gianandrea Pecorelli. The discussion revolved around cinema, film sets, and cinematography. As it happened, Silvia and Luca were among the audience. They were intrigued. They watched my first film, Europa, which was close to their cinematic language, and a week later, they called me to arrange a meeting. In the meantime, I had watched their first fiction film, Il cratere, which I found particularly interesting because it combined the realism of handheld camera tracking with more suspended moments, using out-of-focus shots and decadrage to suggest thresholds, openings into the characters’ inner world, and emotional projections with a dreamlike potential. That’s how they first involved me in their idea for Luce, and later, they asked me to work on the film with them. I found it stimulating that they wanted to collaborate with a director of photography, as they had done everything themselves on Il cratere. Luca was used to handling the camera—since they strictly shoot handheld—and taking care of the cinematography. Il cratere had a strong documentary approach: non-professional actors, real locations, a long shooting period, editing happening alongside the filming, reshoots, adjustments in progress, and an extremely small crew—just four people.
Luce is a more structured story, with a more classical cinematic approach, a five-week continuous shooting schedule, a full (though minimal) crew, and proper film equipment. However, the directors didn’t want to lose that freer, lighter spirit—a certain agility in practice and thought, the ability to shoot in narrative sequence, and to edit during filming to construct the film in real time. The preparation started with these principles in mind, and all our choices aimed to balance narrative needs with this ideal “lightness” of structure. It was a long preparation—more than three months in Solofra, Campania, where the film was shot. The first phase was exploratory: we carried out a real location scouting process, and then gradually started to visualise the film. The lead actress, Marianna Fontana, also built her character over these months in Solofra. By the directors’ choice, she had not read the script; instead, scene by scene, through rehearsals, she gradually discovered and shaped her character. Luca and Silvia worked with Marianna on location, while I studied the environments to find cinematographic solutions that would allow for 360° shooting. Later, we worked together, defining the actress’s initial large-scale movements to start structuring the long takes, which were then enriched by Marianna’s input—her sensations, her needs. We returned multiple times to the locations to refine the most complex long takes. It was a rather long and constantly evolving process.
Even the script evolved along the way, influenced by the locations and the people we encountered. In the film, alongside Marianna and the voice of Tommaso Ragno, there is Gigi Bignone, a brilliant actor who plays the role of a ceremony photographer. All the other roles are played by non-professional actors. The choice of the factory took into account both the location itself and the human element, as the female workers played themselves. Once the tannery was selected, Marianna spent a couple of months working there to learn the trade. We planned to film during real working shifts at the nailing machine, where hides are stretched out before being sent into the oven. If they aren’t properly stretched with pliers, they burn in the oven. Marianna was one of the workers handling the hides and had to learn to work as part of a team. She needed to emotionally understand that world and integrate herself into the group of female workers so that her interactions with the non-professional actors would later feel authentic. We accompanied her in this exploration, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. An assistant director would accompany Marianna to the factory, staying in the background and taking notes in a diary. She transcribed the most interesting dialogues, identified key personalities and the relationships among the workers, and reported her observations to Luca and Silvia.
The script was greatly enriched by these elements. Of course, many of the dialogues in the film drive the narrative forward, but around them, a context and a colour emerged that almost resemble ethnographic work. I was there, alongside them—I would often go to the factory, taking my photographs in silence, making my observations and reflections, and gradually, over the course of those months, I got closer and closer to the workers. At first, they looked at me a bit strangely, but within a few days, I was already invisible. I started taking photographs right above the nailing machine, next to them, and they got used to having a constant external presence. A month before filming, we did a test day at the factory with the camera and lenses, and that was when the workers broke the ice with the camera. In the film, we were always just a span away from the actors, but by then, the workers were used to having me around and even bumping into me. That test day completed the preparation process and launched us onto the set. Luca and Silvia’s concern was that we might be too intrusive, that we would bring the artificiality of cinema into the naturalness of their world, contaminating it. But by approaching things gradually, everything worked from the very first day of filming.
The workers were very natural, very at ease, and never distracted. I also spent many days in the other locations of the film, with a documentary gaze, listening to the spaces and trying to enhance them for what they were—searching for the genius loci of each place and tuning in to its atmosphere.
I can add that it was also important to take the time to build a close working relationship among us. Luca and Silvia are very particular directors, used to working on their own. It took time to create a strong rapport, from which the necessary trust could then emerge. As I mentioned, Luca was used to operating the camera, and in our very first meeting, he told me that he would generally prefer to keep it that way. That was absolutely fine with me—the film must always come first. If the director expresses themselves best by seeing the scene up close with the actors, by experiencing it directly through the camera, then that’s the right approach. We never discussed it again. As we moved forward in the preparation, we worked through various organisational, logistical, and other challenges together, which strengthened our collaboration and mutual trust. About a month before filming, Silvia and Luca told me that I would be the one operating the camera. I believe this decision was beneficial for the film, as it freed them from certain technical aspects and gave them more space to focus on shaping the overall vision.
Can you tell us right away which camera you chose and why? What lenses did you decide to use?
We considered various options and ultimately used the ALEXA Mini. Luca, Silvia, and I always had a lot of discussions, even about the technical aspects. At first, I had proposed shooting on 35mm film because I found the idea of film particularly interesting within the factory environment. More generally, we were looking for a dense image, not overly sharp, with a certain opacity, while also working extensively with the darkness of the nights. However, film might have shifted the balance of the movie too much towards its cinematic aspect rather than the scene itself—starting with the limitation of takes to 12-15 minutes depending on the format. Given the nature of the film, we didn’t want to take that risk, instead opting for a lighter and more flexible setup. We considered the ALEXA Mini LF for its depth of field capabilities at close distances, as well as its variety of lens options, but in the end, we preferred the Super 35 of the Mini. Regarding lenses, we tested vintage anamorphic series. To me, Luca and Silvia’s cinematic world starts from a foundation of realism, but it is intrinsically suspended, immersed in the characters’ obsessions. The environment itself is almost a ghostly projection of their inner world, their needs, and their desires. I believe that anamorphic lenses, when used in a certain way, create an image that feels slightly suspended, with an unpredictable, non-uniform three-dimensionality, especially when combined with certain handheld camera movements, taking advantage of the characteristic aberrations of each lens series. Anamorphics could have been an interesting choice for the depth of field, the bokeh, but above all for the fall-off of the focus—its drop-off—creating a more dreamlike, hazy quality at open apertures compared to spherical lenses. The main limitation of anamorphics, however, is their minimum focusing distance, and in Luce we needed to stay extremely close to the characters, to make the proximity and breath felt. In the end, we prioritised this closeness to the character—almost suffocating, obsessive. I chose the Zeiss Uncoated T1.3 because they are “dirty” lenses, highly reactive to the environment and unpredictable: when you move, any light source entering the frame veils the image, staining it; the image always feels temporary, suspended, which makes the film’s world even more dynamic. The image shifts along with the constant movement of the camera through Marianna’s labyrinthine paths—it changes its density, its contrasts, it becomes saturated with colour or light for a moment, yet it maintains the sharp, raw rendering typical of Zeiss glass, especially on skin tones and textures. I love the internal contradiction of these lenses—they are extremely sharp, with an immediate focus fall-off, yet they are full of flares and imperfections. They felt like a possible sensory translation of the film’s emotional polarities.
Coming back to what you were saying about the framing that defines the film… Was the decision to stay so close to the characters, particularly the protagonist, a directorial choice, or did you arrive at it during preparation?
The script for Luce is written in the first person, already suggesting a close distance and an exploration of the world from within the character’s perspective. Moreover, Luce is, above all, a “phone film,” where the voice on the other end of the line immediately reminded me of the power of radio—a “tribal drum,” as McLuhan put it. A voice that takes hold of you, that you cannot escape from, devoid of visual elements yet emotionally intense. The restriction of the visual field is embedded in these choices. However, we considered a gradual approach to this proximity, not too rigid, keeping the frame slightly wider in certain situations to convey more of the context and staying tighter during phone calls. This structure, though, risked becoming too symmetrical, and we weren’t working with a funnel-like narrative structure but rather a sequence of alternating blocks: the world of the factory, the world of the home, the world of phone calls. These worlds needed to interact with each other through visual rhymes and contrasts. Throughout the film, there are scattered iconic echoes, even within the confined space of close-ups. We focused on visually capturing each environment, exploring its variations and internal developments more from a cinematographic perspective than a narrative one. For example, to me, the house represented the protagonist’s protective nest—a shell that shields her from the outside world, from change, but at the same time imprisons her in a “timeless” childhood state. We only see Marianna’s home at night, when she finishes work and returns to her cat. At the beginning of the film, it is darker, wrapped in shadow, illuminated only by the streetlights outside, sheltering her from the street noise, which reaches her in a muffled way.
When the cat runs away, Marianna opens all the windows, in a way breaking that protective membrane, allowing the outside world to burst in. We had chosen that house because its windows opened directly onto the street level—the exterior was in constant dialogue with the interior. By the end, the house is much brighter; the protective darkness has dissolved, and the sounds and lights from outside have become part of the home. The only moments where the camera moves away from the character are instances when, after closely following Marianna, it slows down and stops, letting her continue into a wide shot. These moments punctuate the film and always represent thresholds that either Marianna or the film itself crosses. They appear at the “boundaries” of the film: at the beginning, when we move from the family portrait at Rosanna’s communion to gradually lock onto Marianna’s close-up and follow her to the beach; and at the end, when, after a long lateral tracking shot in close-up, the camera stops, allowing Marianna to walk away, revealing the industrial landscape on the horizon. There is a medium shot when Marianna, together with the photographer, flies the drone over the prison wall to deliver the miniature phone, triggering the film’s narrative. Another moment of “abandonment” occurs along the road when she receives the first mysterious phone call—another threshold crossed, marking the beginning of her relationship over the phone. There is another, again in the street, when Marianna desperately searches for the cat and finally disappears into the deep darkness. The loss of the cat irreversibly unsettles her emotional balance. One last moment takes place in the factory when Marianna, punished, struggles up the stairs carrying hides on her shoulders to the third floor. There, she breaks yet another prohibition by opening the terrace door and stepping outside—an act that foreshadows a claim for independence and liberation from the various forms of power she endures: the power of discipline, of labour, of restriction, but also the power of the paternal figure—the archetypal masculine authority. The male voice on the phone, in fact, runs parallel to the world of work, where the factory supervisor is—significantly—a man, while the workers are all women. This is no coincidence: power is a male-coded force, one that must, in some way, be broken free from.
Do you want to return to the home environments? You’ve already mentioned an interesting progression from darkness to greater brightness… Are there other aspects to explore?
As I was saying, we interpreted this space as a maternal darkness in which she finds protection. In this case, black had to be truly black, even at the cost of being photographically unconventional: there was no fill light, no key light suggesting a “night effect.” In the first phone call in bed, this idea of protective darkness is present—she remains unseen until she answers the phone, and the screen light reveals her face. The glow of the streetlights outside filters through the shutters, a hint of the external world attempting to seep into the home.
When I first visited the house, it was empty. It was interesting because it had windows on two different sides of the building—on one side, the windows were seven metres above the street, offering a view of the cityscape, while on the other, the French doors were at street level. This allowed us to construct a sense of depth, which we tried to explore. The streetlights surrounding the house cast a very soft glow inside, subtly tracing the walls. This slightly suspended atmosphere reinforced my vision of the house as a shell—a protective nest, precariously balanced, always on the verge of breaking. I tried to capture that sensation in the cinematographic interpretation of the house, even with the limited resources we had, especially in the first part of the film. In the last long take inside the house, it’s as if a balance has been found between inside and outside, light and darkness. The kitchen and living room are illuminated, the exterior remains visible, while the parents’ bedroom—where Marianna had only entered to look for the cat—stays in darkness. That’s where the long take ends, in front of the wardrobe that will be reopened after a long time, in the dark—a darkness that, this time, marks a new beginning.
Given the constraints of keeping the camera so close to the actress, and the limited equipment—also a choice made by the directors—it’s interesting to hear what lighting tools you had for this film and how you used them. Did you rely more on practicals rather than additional artificial lighting?
We had a fairly small budget, so I had to keep my equipment list minimal. In some locations, the lighting truck wouldn’t have been able to reach the set, and on top of that, Silvia and Luca preferred a small crew, with as little obstruction as possible. I had three electricians and two grips. The house interior, where all the scenes take place at night, was also our cover set. We spent half a day doing a prelight while off-schedule, rigging expandable poles throughout the rooms so we could move in and out of spaces quickly. Inside, I used various practicals, but they were almost never the key lights. For example, in Marianna’s bedroom, she had a pink LED flamingo, a bedside lamp, and a decorative red lamp. In the living room, there was another bedside lamp and the chandelier. All of them were dimmed and reinforced to avoid clipping. We had a 4×4 blanket in the living room and another in the bedroom. There were also many Astera tubes, either rigged with a chimera or a snapgrid. Each long take had its own lighting design. The challenge, once again, was finding the right compromise that allowed the actress and camera to move freely without casting camera shadows on her close-ups. From outside, we needed to replicate the effect of streetlights hitting the curtains. I used four Fresnel 2000s, which were replaced with four AX10s on rainy days. The AX10s are waterproof and battery-powered, but they’re a compromise in terms of quality. We didn’t have a cherry picker, so on the left side of the house—where the windows were seven metres above the ground—I sometimes had to light from below, which forced specific angles and made it harder to soften the light. The difficulty here was that the actress repeatedly moved between the balcony and the interior during the long takes, so we had to find the right light intensity—soft enough for the curtains when seen from inside, but also suitable for the actress when she stepped onto the balcony. With a cherry picker, achieving the desired intensity and softness would have been much easier. In the factory courtyard, where Marianna meets the ceremony photographer, I faced the same challenges: an outdoor night scene with distant streetlights, which prevented a full 360° camera movement around the characters. I had to turn everything off and redesign the lighting, using a 4×4 blanket for top light, three Skypanels hidden for the initial walking sequence and the factory interior, and AX10s and Asteras distributed throughout the background. Again, without a cherry picker, the top light was limited to what we could manage by reaching out from the factory structure. The dance hall scene, which features a 12-minute long take starting indoors and ending outside, was entirely lit by us. It was actually a school ping-pong room, with salmon-coloured walls and ceiling-mounted neon lights. Working with the production design team, we enhanced the background with coloured and flashing lights. On the ceiling, we placed three 4×4 blankets with diffusion, while various Astera tubes were scattered throughout the space with different effects. We used table lamps for the tables and lit the window curtains from outside. When Marianna steps outside and stays on the phone for a long time, she moves across the entire back courtyard in multiple directions. Since we couldn’t use a top light, we had to design a combination of lights coming from the high windows of the school, ensuring she remained illuminated throughout her movement without casting the operator’s shadow, while also lighting the entire background in 360°. From the windows, I used three AX10s and a Skypanel 120, and for the background, we had five AX10s, two 2000s, two 650s, and ten Titan tubes. Between the interior and exterior, we had more than 60 lights running simultaneously. A lot of simple setups, but they had to be managed quickly and efficiently.
E come hai lavorato nell’ambiente della fabbrica? Probabilmente quella location aveva qualche vincolo in più…
Prima di tutto non bisognava invaderlo con la troupe. All’inizio della preparazione questo significava andare solo con la macchina da presa. Lungo il percorso che ci ha portato alle riprese, come dicevo, abbiamo consolidato una sorta di confidenza con quell’ambiente e pian piano ci siamo concessi uno “spazio cinematografico”. Del resto, avendo girando in sequenza tutto il blocco fabbrica, per di più con la fabbrica in attività, ci siamo trovati a non poter sempre scegliere gli orari migliori o a trovare delle condizioni fotografiche non adatte alle atmosfere che avremmo voluto in certe scene. La fabbrica aveva il primo piano a 20 metri dal suolo, il secondo a 30 e il terzo, con il terrazzo, a 40. Era impossibile lavorare dall’esterno e i grandi finestroni ci costringevano alla luce naturale. Da dentro non potevamo intralciare la vita della fabbrica. Dal terrazzo del terzo piano calavamo panni 6×6 che fissavamo a terra con le corde: mettevamo Full Grid, Half Grid e nero e li spostavamo velocemente a seconda delle condizioni del sole, che era sempre molto variabile, d’inverno, in un contesto montuoso come quello. In fabbrica avevo due M18 su una balconata interna che all’occorrenza venivano accesi e filtrati; la balconata era comoda perché restava molto in alto e affacciava sul primo piano, dove c’è l’inchiodatrice: potevamo avere un rinforzo di luce chiave di taglio sulle operaie all’inchiodatrice senza occupare lo spazio della fabbrica. Poi avevo due kit di Astera Titan che potevo usare per sostituire alcuni neon o per illuminare i fondi, un kit di AX10 che usavo soprattutto per i fondi e per i muri delle scale, e tre Skypanel per fare le notti in fabbrica o i riempimenti del secondo piano dove non c’erano operai attivi e si poteva lavorare più comodamente.
There was a 10-minute daytime long take that started in the locker room, went up to the second floor, and then returned to the mezzanine. In the edit, this sequence was drastically shortened, but when we shot it, we had to balance HMI, Skypanel, Astera, and AX10 with the sunlight constantly shifting—even during the take. I reached the upper floor, and the weather had already changed. We had to reposition the diffusion panels in real time and constantly adjust the intensity of various lights inside. The long take leading to the terrace, on the other hand, was shot at sunset, with the sun low on the horizon. Whenever possible, I reinforced the practicals with Astera banks—all the night-time close-ups were lit this way. During the day, however, I had more constraints. We worked extensively with all the factory’s neon lights, filtering them from inside the fixtures or shaping them with tape. Gradually, we were able—where possible—to place some flags and frames, even near the nailing machine, because at a certain point, we no longer felt like an external presence.
In terms of preparation time, with two grips and three electricians, how did you manage?
In the factory, things moved very quickly, especially for the daytime interiors. In the locker room, I had six double perimeter-mounted ceiling fixtures installed; all we had to do was place twelve Astera tubes inside and close the fixtures. Then there were CRLS reflectors mounted on an expandable pole to bounce the natural light coming in through the windows to various points. The setup time here was very fast. Then, we would adjust the light intensities depending on the scene to allow for 360° shooting as much as possible. For all the nailing machine scenes, we always had two M18s positioned on the balcony—when needed, we would simply aim them and adjust the apertures. Additionally, we had diffusion panels outside, which we lowered from the third-floor terrace, but within 30 minutes, they were fully operational. We handled all of this during Marianna’s preparation and the first rehearsals with the camera. In the house, every time, we had to rig the blankets, adjust them, hang the Astera tubes, and run power lines outside to surround the entire building—since the windows faced two different sides of the structure. We also had to set up fixtures at awkward heights, aim them, and light all the backgrounds visible through the windows. These were relatively simple tasks, but they involved a lot of elements. For the long takes in the house, we gave ourselves two hours of preparation. We used an experimental continuous eight-hour schedule. After one hour at most, the interior was ready, and we started rehearsing, first without and then with the camera. By the second hour, we were shooting. The long takes in the house lasted between 7 and 10 minutes. We shot for more than five hours, with 30–45 minutes of reset time at the end. We would complete 6–8 long takes, continuing until we had two solid takes from all perspectives, ensuring we captured a high amount of usable footage. When working with single environments, of course, preparation times were much shorter, and we would set up parallel locations in advance for the next scenes.
What about the night-time factory scene across two floors?
That day, we first had a locker room scene, while simultaneously preparing the stairs and the upper floor. In one hour, everything was ready. We had three Skypanels in the warehouse, some Astera tubes rigged overhead, AX10s for the background, and work on the staircase’s neon lights, which were diffused and directed with skirts to reduce the brightness on the walls. The staircase sequence wasn’t included in the final cut, but after the first rehearsal, we always had time for final adjustments.
To conclude, can you say something more about your relationship with the actress?
Yes, because there aren’t many films made this way. I had already worked on Europa by Haider Rashid, which was entirely handheld, entirely in close-up, with long takes lasting 7 to 10 minutes. It tells the story of a young man crossing the border from Turkey into Bulgaria, who then has to survive for three nights and three days in the Bulgarian forests, following the “Balkan route” towards Italy. In terms of camera work, it was a more extreme film—we crawled with the character, climbed trees with him, waded through rivers, and traversed impassable terrain. So I had already experimented with this language, with the technical difficulties of staying just a hand’s span from the actors without casting shadows on them while filming in 360°, with the challenge of building long takes that felt natural and unforced. But above all, I had explored the relationship between the camera and the actor. Marianna, compared to Adam Ali in Europa, has much more experience in cinema, but she, too, wasn’t used to having a camera just a few centimetres from her, circling her for the entire film. On top of that, like Adam in Europa, she is on screen from start to finish. It wasn’t easy. The first reaction an actor has, I think, is the feeling of restriction—the fear of bumping into the camera. After all, the camera moves only when the actor moves, never anticipating them. It doesn’t take long to understand this practically, but subconsciously, the actor perceives the camera as an obstacle, a distraction—something they might unconsciously pay attention to, losing energy and authenticity in their small gestures, in their impulses. Then there is a major visual restriction in all the “leading” shots. I believe there are three stages in the development of the actor-camera relationship. The first is this sense of obstruction. The second comes when the camera becomes invisible—the actor no longer notices it, gets used to having a visual barrier, and understands that when they move, the camera will move as well, giving them more freedom than they initially thought. The third stage happens when the actor starts to realise that the camera is an extension of their body—an expressive extension. If they trust it and internalise this, or rather, if they absorb it unconsciously while focusing on their role, they begin to use the camera directly. At a certain point, they almost become a conductor—just like in responsive environments or installations, where the surroundings shift with movement. Every gesture they make produces a variation—in this case, in the camera itself. If the actor instinctively grasps this, it’s as if they are the one moving the camera. Behind the camera, the process is similar. I have to tune in to the actor’s movements, and above all, their gait. Marianna, for example, has a swaying walk—she shifts her weight from one foot to the other as she moves. Little by little, I absorbed that movement, learning to follow her in sync, shifting right and left, redefining my own balance during moments of stillness. But every actor is different. Over time, you also begin to understand their micro-gestures, their performance, their tiniest expressive variations, their subtle rotations—emphasising and interpreting these moments through the inherent dynamism of handheld cinematography. These are the most synergistic moments that this kind of language can create. I think in some cases, we achieved that. The relationship between Marianna and the camera definitely changed from the beginning to the end of the film. There’s never enough time on set, and I always told her: “You’re not acting alone, we’re acting together—I with my tools, you with yours. Don’t think of it as a solo scene, think of it as a duet.” When it turns into this kind of dance, it works, and the radical choice of tracking the character in close-up feels less oppressive, less formal.
So in a way, you guided her…
In our own way, yes, but it was a process that unfolded throughout the film. Marianna was completely immersed in the character—we hardly spoke on set. She’s very “German” in that sense—you always see her focused, needing her space. And it was a truly difficult role—an entire film in close-up. The fewer things you say, the better. There were almost never marks on the ground. We rehearsed, then discussed. I gave my notes on positioning and movement, sharing them with her, Luca, and Silvia. Sometimes we gave broad indications for the transitions within the long takes, but often it was better not to insist on a rigid movement pattern. It was worth sacrificing the beauty of a perfect close-up to allow for more freedom and focus in the performance. Beyond the technical side, what really matters is the connection between actor and camera. It’s a performative question—one that renews itself in every single moment of the take. There’s only so much you can discuss in advance, as we’ve done here, but then you have to shoot together. And when you start shooting, through small details—a smile, a word left unsaid, an expression—little by little, you begin to understand each other. You notice when something works better, when something else works less, and the bodies have to find their rhythm again. It’s something that has to be lived—you can’t solve it at a desk. At the table, you can say the smartest and most insightful things, you can design the most precise choreography—but in the end, it has to become a dance. The colour of every moment has to be felt in the moment. Over and over again.
Thank you, Jacopo.
Camera: Arri ALEXA Mini
Lenses: Zeiss High Speed Uncoated T1.3
Shooting format: Open Gate ARRIRAW 3.4K
Aspect ratio: 2:1
Rental: Panalight
Post-production: Flat Parioli
Camera operator: Jacopo Caramella
Focus puller: Simone Cirillo
Gaffer: Antonio La Barbera
Key grip: Marco Valerio Giussani
Colorist: Daniele Cipriani
