Collettivo Chiaroscuro meets Italo Petriccione. We collaborated with Italo on both a podcast episode and this interview. While the interview focuses specifically on his work for Cristina Comencini’s film The Children’s Train, the podcast offers a broader and more personal conversation with him.
Both interviews are curated by Corrado Serri CCS and Stefano Paradiso CCS.
SP The Children’s Train by Cristina Comencini is based on the novel of the same name by Viola Ardone and inspired by a true story. I’d love to know about your relationship with literature. For your work, did you draw inspiration directly from the novel, or did you rely more on the screenplay?
I read the book 3–4 years ago when it was first published. It struck me. It has been translated into about 40 languages worldwide, was a literary sensation at the Frankfurt Book Fair, and made Ardone a highly sought-after writer. As soon as I finished it, I picked up the phone to recommend it to my friends and colleagues—Fabrizio Vicari, Claudio Palmieri—and received enthusiastic feedback. I have a deep connection to Naples—my father was born there in the 19th century. My childhood memories include Naples in the early ’60s: the bassi (ground-floor dwellings), the alleyways, the living conditions of children who would cling in clusters to moving taxis or trolleybuses. Even back then, there were towering piles of garbage, heavy traffic, and a pervasive stench from the rotting waste. From a young age, I also visited my aunt in the Treviso countryside, so I was familiar with the rural northern world depicted in the film. When Cristina Comencini offered me the project, I was thrilled. My visual inspiration came from my memories of Naples’ poorest areas and the children’s harsh living conditions—barefoot, in rags. In the countryside, it seemed that even the poor could maintain a more dignified life. I didn’t rely heavily on the book—or rather, I leaned on it in the same way it leaned on a reality I myself remembered, even though the novel is set slightly earlier.
SP So, you had a personal memory of the city… How did you work with the director?
With Cristina Comencini, this was our fourth film together. Cristina is a determined director, a highly intelligent woman, and a great team builder. She personally selects her collaborators, even for the smallest roles, and fosters a relationship of trust, respect, and solidarity with the crew. You can feel that she genuinely cares about her team. We sense it, and as a result, we become even more committed because there’s an almost intimate, deeply personal connection beyond just the professional one. In this case, Cristina carried a certain level of responsibility toward Netflix—the expectations were high.
SP How was your experience working for Netflix?
I had been told that Netflix tends to take a fairly hands-on approach. In serialized productions—which, as the Anglo-Saxons say, is Netflix’s core business—the production team is more involved in the creative process. However, in this case, both Netflix Italy, with Tini Andreatta, and Netflix Europe showed great openness and respect toward us. They followed the project closely but without interfering.
SP Going back to Cristina, I’m familiar with the qualities you describe…
She involves the crew in a very broad way. All directors should do this. The crew is her team aboard a ship, her crew, and she motivates everyone towards the goal. Her approach fosters harmony, even among collaborators. Her sister Paola was often present—she’s incredibly talented—as well as Maurizio Leonardi, the production designer. There’s a strong sense of shared effort on set. My relationship with Cristina is hard to define because it began about 15 years ago with a completely different film, Quando la notte. Then it evolved through a couple of comedies, where she proved to be very skilled in that genre as well. And she was excellent with the children in The Children’s Train. We faced some complex situations—80 small children, you understand? Plus 160 adult extras, 200 parents on set. It was an almost unmanageable situation, yet she handled it brilliantly. She’s the youngest grandmother in Italy, and that certainly helped! (smiles)
SP How did you develop the film’s visual style?
When I’m offered a project, the first thing I do is imagine it—just like when you read a book and picture the story. So, the first step is imagination. Sometimes, my vision aligns exactly with the director’s storytelling approach, and other times, there’s a slight difference. And I believe that this very difference is where a cinematographer’s creativity and collaboration come into play. When we started discussing how to bring certain scenes to life, if I had a slightly different vision from Cristina’s, I would suggest it. But if she asked me to follow her direction, I did—because I firmly believe that the director is the film’s one true storyteller. For example, one moment where we had differing perspectives was in how close we wanted to be to the children. My entire team, which has worked with me for 30 years, would have preferred to shoot more intimate close-ups. Cristina, however, chose a more distanced approach. The film has been, and continues to be, very successful—so she was right. Once we understood her vision, we all worked to enhance it. Cinematography exists to elevate storytelling, to highlight the actors’ performances and expressions, and to enhance the production design, which in turn helps make the story feel authentic.
CS The difference in perspectives on distance from the characters is very interesting. In my experience—which is more limited than yours—I’ve often seen the opposite happen. Usually, the director wants to go for close-ups, while the cinematographer tends to suggest, “Let’s step back a little, let’s take in the environment, the light.”
I also wanted to ask if you had any painterly references or other inspirations, either from you or Cristina. Given the subject and historical period, one might think of 1900 by Bertolucci… We didn’t really reference 1900—it didn’t come up. But we had plenty of other inspirations covering various aspects. We had a vast collection of photos of children, life in the alleyways of Naples’ bassi, and rural settings. The production design and costume departments did an incredible amount of research. We also talked about films I had worked on before—for example, I’m Not Scared, which, though set in a completely different time and place, also had a cast of very young children. Now that I think about it, that was probably why I instinctively wanted to get closer to the children in this film—because the experience of I’m Not Scared was quite eloquent in that sense. Young children, lacking verbal confidence, compensate with their faces. Their expressions and body language are extraordinary. But Cristina was rightly concerned that getting too close would make them self-conscious.
SP They also have fewer filters…
Yes, they don’t have a conditioned worldview. Instinctively, I focused on their expressiveness, also because films with children sell all over the world—from Japan to India, from Russia to China. I’m Not Scared proved that to us. Children have a universal language. The true story that inspired the film is epic. Moving nearly 80 children from one part of Italy to another, right after the war, was an extraordinary feat. Cristina spends a lot of time in France, and she told me that the French were surprised that such a significant act of solidarity wasn’t more widely known. The left-wing political forces at the time believed in mutual aid between people. These children were starving—they had to be helped.
CS Can you tell us about your cinematographic choices?
I chose a specific photographic texture based on the settings, costumes, and the way Cristina wanted to tell the story—classically. A classicism built on a high level of execution, which requires strong direction, harmony across all departments, and solid production support. Palomar immediately put us in the right conditions to do a great job. It was probably their first film with Netflix, and they were keen to do it well. When you have strong production and distribution, the crew is even more motivated to produce quality work. The film was shot in a way that, in my opinion, no Italian producer would have accepted.
CS What do you mean?
In Turin, we had the entire crew, then we all moved to Salerno to film the vicolo (alleyway) scenes set in Naples—because in Naples, you can’t just shut down the city for a single alleyway scene. In Salerno, we found a small street that worked, and we transformed it into a 1940s street. From there, we went to Naples for the scenes actually set there—the conservatory, the monastery square… Then we moved to Emilia to film the farmhouse scenes, and to Grosseto for the bombed-out Naples train station, since it has a historical railway museum with old trains. After that, we ended up in some truly incredible locations: the cemetery, which is always visually striking—candles always help with cinematography! The real cemetery exists; it’s called the Cimitero delle Capuzzelle, but it has partially collapsed and is no longer accessible. So, we completely rebuilt it in a tuff quarry near Naples, complete with skulls—some real, some fake. The actual cemetery was a hellish place, abandoned, with broken glass everywhere, immense in size… The production realized it wasn’t feasible to bring children there, so we reconstructed it elsewhere. I also want to highlight that the film’s production design was crucial and was managed with incredible dedication by Leonardo Di Maurizio. When we were in Emilia, we needed a location for the Communist Party headquarters but couldn’t find the right spot, so we ended up filming it in Rome, in a villa in Parioli. The guiding principle for this film was: “We have to do it right.” Of course, we still had to keep costs in check, but the production went to great lengths to ensure everything was done in the best possible way.
SP To wrap up our discussion on the film, we were particularly curious about the cinematographic work on the train scenes.
Eighty children on a train—it wasn’t easy. On top of that, there was a real risk of injury. Filming with a stationary train would have been the simplest production solution, ensuring both safety and technical quality. But Cristina immediately understood—and I fully supported her—that the children wouldn’t have reacted the same way if they were sitting still compared to being on a moving train. So, we had to shoot in motion, even though it was a challenge to manage. We filmed while traveling along a railway track in the Val d’Orcia—a 50 km stretch with greenery on both sides, which allowed us to match the footage with different locations in the edit. I had already used that railway for other films. We tried to save the close-ups for when the sun was lower. The season—late September through November—was ideal because the sun remained fairly low. In one sense, this was an advantage: you never had a harsh zenithal light, which can be unflattering on faces in outdoor scenes. On the other hand, it posed some challenges because, for interior shots, the daylight would disappear in an instant. There were moments when we had a scene starting around 3:30 PM, and I knew that by 5:00 PM it would be dark. For example, in the scene where the child takes a bath, I couldn’t expect to film it in just an hour or an hour and a half. I had to set up white panels outside to “hold” the daylight.
CS I’d like to follow up on what you said about the train journey. The film itself is a journey—starting in Naples, traveling up through Italy, and arriving in Emilia-Romagna. You had to plan an evolution of the lighting, which, as you mentioned, was complicated by the fact that you shot across different locations throughout Italy.
Five different locations. The change in lighting was very simple. We start in the South—poor, dirty, dusty, dense air—but still golden, because there’s sunlight. The icons of Naples are the sun and the sea. Then we arrive in Emilia, where there’s fog, it’s cold, and light struggles to enter the houses. Even in Naples, in the basso (ground-floor dwelling), light has trouble reaching the interiors—but because there are no windows. That was my biggest challenge with the basso, and I lost sleep over it at first. It’s literally a room without windows, just an opening onto the street. I had to work with contrast—separating characters from the background, playing with the expressive beauty of Serena Rossi, the child, areas of shadow and light. When we arrive at Derna’s house, a country home, light still struggles to reach the interiors. The lights are always on. I remembered my aunt’s farmhouse in rural Trentino—it was very basic, and she always had a light on. Heating was an issue, so the windows were small, the rooms were small, the ceilings were low. That said, the evolution of light in the film moves from warm sunlight with a dense, almost earthy atmosphere to a colder but clearer light. By the time we reached November in Emilia, the days were getting darker and foggier, and I leaned into that, so the child would feel an even stronger nostalgia for home—for the sun.
SP Can you tell us about some of the technical choices? The camera, LUT, lenses…
I should mention that I had a health issue that forced me to step away from Salvatores’ film, Napoli New York, just five days before shooting started. I had already arranged all the equipment, the cameras, and—after five years of trying—I had finally secured a set of anamorphic lenses. But fate decided I wouldn’t use them. I still had the feel of the camera I had tested for Salvatores in my mind—it was the ALEXA 35, and I really liked it. Cristina Comencini’s film suited the ALEXA 35 because it was a classic film in terms of cinematography, production design, and staging. I also tried to get the anamorphic lenses, but they didn’t fit the budget. So, I had to let go of that photographic vision, and looking back now, I think it wasn’t the right approach anyway. It was more appropriate to use vintage lenses—the same ones I had already used for Marrakech Express, Tournée, and Mediterraneo: the Cooke S2/S3 series (some were from a slightly later series). I had just eight of these lenses—not many—so I added a couple of short zooms and a 24-290 long zoom. Cristina doesn’t use zoom lenses, and neither do I, though I don’t demonize them. They can be useful when you need to shoot both a shot and a reverse shot simultaneously, requiring the same focal length but not having it available. In certain cases, mounting a short zoom on the Steadicam helps the operator fine-tune the framing, and sometimes it simplifies lens changes—you just adjust the focal length instead. Some of these short zooms are very interesting when used sparingly, especially since I was working with vintage lenses.
Then Cristina became very fond of the 25mm and 18mm, and she started having me shoot all the close-ups with the 18mm. I won’t deny that the 18mm was interesting, but it forces you to hide lights in the background. The first part of the story needed to feel distinct from the second part, and in my view, it had to have a certain harshness—something rough, raw, dry, cold, an image reminiscent of the 80s aesthetic. I would have liked to use Canon lenses, but they were also too expensive, so I opted for a set of Leitz Prime lenses. These lenses are the complete opposite of the Cooke S2s. The Leitz Primes are modern—maybe 15-20 years old, or slightly more—but still built with a contemporary design philosophy. The Cookes, on the other hand, date back to the 1950s, with lenses glued together using Canada balsam, the adhesive method of the time, which yellows over time and affects the softness and resolution. For the historical part, I needed lenses with that softness and, if you will, even a slightly lower quality. The 25mm focused sharply in the center but softened towards the edges. But those imperfections—what used to be considered flaws—actually help bring a sense of organic texture to the CMOS sensor, which, in itself, is highly precise and technological. In my opinion, sensors are too perfect and need a little disruption. An old, imperfect, imprecise lens—possibly even an anamorphic one—can provide that. That said, the beginning of the final sequence was shot with the Prime lenses. Of course, when viewed on a small TV screen—even a 55” or 70” LED—you don’t really perceive the difference. But when I saw the film projected at the Rome Film Festival, on the massive screen of the Auditorium Parco della Musica, I thought, wow, you could really feel it. I also gained a deeper appreciation for the quality of vintage lenses—despite their flaws, they have an incredible softness and, I’ll say something a bit bold here, a unique ability to evoke emotion in the audience. They belong to a certain era of cinema, and they carry that visual heritage with them.
CS Can you tell us something about the color correction?
The interesting thing is that I did two different color corrections—one for the copy that was to be screened at the Rome Film Festival, and another for the streaming platform. I invited Netflix to the first session, but they politely told me that they were only interested in the version for the platform. The copy shown at the Rome Film Festival was wonderful, I have to say. The work required was different because the viewing systems are completely different. Some might tell you that you just press a button and the machine does the conversion, but that’s not true at all. Cinema projection involves light reflecting off a screen, while screen-based viewing involves light being emitted directly into the viewer’s eyes. Of course, it wasn’t about making two distinct color grades, but about adjusting the density of certain critical scenes—some that were shot in low light or others with highlights. In those cases, I made small but, in my opinion, crucial corrections. That said, I was able to recognize the film’s quality even on TV. Netflix was very pleased with their version. They care a lot about the cinematographer personally overseeing and fine-tuning the final copy for distribution.
CS Did anything change in your approach during shooting, knowing that, aside from the festival, the film was primarily meant for streaming?
Yes, mainly for close-ups. Television allows you to take in the entire image at once. When I saw the film at the Rome Film Festival, in the huge screening hall of the Auditorium Parco della Musica, with an audience of 1,300 people, the screen was massive. With such a large screen, the viewer actively selects what to focus on. That changes everything. Emotionally, in theater projection, the film was powerful—it hit hard. At the end, the audience erupted into applause. As we know, emotions multiply on the big screen.
SP CS Thank you.
