Interview by Fabrizio La Palombara CCS
Battiato – Il lungo viaggio will be broadcast on 1 March on Rai Uno, in a slightly abridged version compared to the theatrical release. The full cut will be available on RaiPlay. I would like to open this conversation by congratulating you on the cinematography you crafted for the film. What struck me most is the restraint of your approach: it never overreaches, it is economical, yet precisely for this reason it does not flatten the film — on the contrary, it lends it great richness and expressive range. The atmospheres you built adhere perfectly to the film’s narrative arc. I am not privy to the production budget, but this does not appear to be a particularly lavish shoot, nor one that enjoyed a generous number of days; all the more remarkable, then, is the result — because achieving work of such accomplishment under constrained production conditions is no small feat. Let us begin at the beginning: how did you first meet Renato De Maria, and how did your collaboration come about?
I first met Renato De Maria several years ago, on the occasion of his film Lo Spietato. The soundtrack featured the song Malamore by Riccardo Sinigallia, and Renato wanted to turn it into a music video; the production company got in touch with me. It was a fun and very enjoyable encounter. Five years later he called me again, saying he remembered me for the way I moved with the camera — for my affinity with the instrument. From that point a dialogue began, immediately stimulating. I was genuinely pleased, because when someone seeks you out on the strength of how you have worked, it means there is already a solid foundation on which to build a shared vision.
What stylistic directions did he give you?
We prepared the film very thoroughly, also thanks to the mutual understanding we both sensed from the outset. Dialogue was central — a constant exchange and development of each other’s ideas. One of the first things Renato told me was that, for this film, visual references might not be necessary; what mattered more was that we align on our vision of Battiato. We were dealing with an icon, not a figure to be constructed from scratch. We had to portray him faithfully — not only in terms of facts, but in spirit — otherwise we would have diminished his presence. The approach had to cleave to reality, while at the same time nurturing that spark of creative freedom in harmony with Battiato’s nature.
One of the directions Renato gave me — on which we built the film’s aesthetic, and which filled me with enthusiasm — was to try to replace digital visual effects with a more artisanal approach, one more consistent with the character and with the period we were portraying. He showed me his film La Vita Oscena, where, together with Daniele Ciprì, he had developed effects directly in camera, in a meticulous and hands-on way. From there, many ideas began to take shape. It was a decisive stimulus; for me it is a joy to work this way, because it opens up enormous creative possibilities. Over the years I have learned to trust what I feel — that instinctive perception I continually cultivate through my relationship with reality. It is the filter through which I translate things into cinema. And in this case, that instinct was not merely permitted, but constantly encouraged.
I find myself listening with great fascination, because in some ways these are things I experience myself.
My relationship with Renato was in constant evolution: we encouraged each other to seek the most effective solution, without being intimidated by difficulties and without either of us overriding the other. On paper it was an almost impossible project — four weeks of shooting, 55 locations, music videos, concerts, Sicily, Milan, Mount Etna. A highly complex production structure. And yet we refused to be daunted; on the contrary, we approached everything strategically, turning the difficulties into an integral part of the creative process. The screenplay was rich in visual and atmospheric references, layered in its sensations: it was clear from the outset that the narrative could not be linear — it had to convey that emotional complexity. The film demanded richness, a structure unfolding across two timelines, and a depth of characterisation that would portray him both as an icon of Italian music and as a profoundly human individual — without ever losing sight of the spiritual and revolutionary dimension that defined Battiato’s life.
What was your relationship with the production like?
È stato fondamentale avere un regista in ascolto e una produzione capace di accogliere le proposte in un confronto costruttivo. All’inizio ho avanzato idee che potevano sembrare ambiziose, persino vertiginose, ma poco alla volta, trovando un equilibrio, sono riuscita a dimostrare che erano realizzabili, grazie anche a D-Vision Movie People che ha creduto nel progetto e mi ha sostenuta. Mi riferisco al fatto di aver concentrato le forze produttive sul reparto macchina da presa, snellendo e riducendo le attrezzature light and grip prima a Milano e ancora di più in Sicilia, dove avevamo una crew ridotta, non perché lo volessi, ma perché era un compromesso che avrebbe sostenuto altre mie proposte. Ho sfruttato il più possibile la luce diegetica e impostazioni che dessero libertà di movimento e agilità nella realizzazione, perché il movimento era l’altro obiettivo fondamentale: quasi tutto il film è a mano. Doveva esserci spazio per quel “guizzo” di cui parlavamo prima, per l’improvvisazione e la libertà, non solo mia ma di tutta la scena. L’impostazione doveva permettere articolazione e apertura, per quanto possibile. Allo stesso tempo avrei ridotto i tempi di realizzazione e snellito l’impianto d’illuminazione. La produzione a un certo punto mi ha detto: “Va bene, proviamo come dici tu”, ed è stato un passaggio importante. Non era affatto scontato. Quindi ho potuto osare sulla parte dell’attrezzatura dedicata alla macchina da presa, pur essendo un low budget.
Which cameras and lenses did you shoot with, and what artistic and production considerations informed those choices?
From the outset, the proposal was to differentiate the timelines: the Sicilian strand, focusing on Battiato’s childhood, and the Milanese one, tracing his artistic evolution from the ‘70s–’80s through to a return to his later Sicily and Mount Etna. I therefore chose to propose two different types of lenses; at this stage, I particularly appreciated the openness to dialogue shown by Massimo Proietti of D-Vision Movie People. Together with Renato Berta, we decided to depict the childhood period using Technovision anamorphic lenses, drawing on their distinctive image texture, painterly qualities and focal plane separation, with lower sharpness and greater distortion. These characteristics aligned perfectly with our idea of the past, further enriched by the aberrations typical of anamorphic lenses, which lend a sense of unpredictability to the image – a quality I personally value greatly.
— in some way organic to reality. From a chromatic point of view we also established a clear distinction. We wanted to move from a more naturalistic and delicate palette for Battiato’s childhood, toward something more striking — acidic colours alternating with a more realistic chromatic range that would nonetheless speak to the era being portrayed. In this respect, the use of incandescent light was essential.
For the Milan section set in the 1970s and 1980s, we opted for a change of format, shifting to spherical Large Format — an ARRI ALEXA Mini LF combined with K35 lenses — in order to preserve the sense of breadth and openness that had been present from the very beginning of the film. In the screenplay this transition already felt like a sharp break, and we executed it as such: as we enter the 1970s, Battiato begins to sing Fetus inside a fuchsia bubble. I remember a phone call with Renato — I asked him how he wanted to approach that scene. The recording studio was original, from the 1970s, and beautiful, yet we needed to set it apart from the others. He said: “Sara, I need to feel as though I’m inside a womb.” It had to be a belly, a uterus — so I decided to render it entirely in fuchsia. Battiato would detach from the background through a chromatic separation created by the costumes and…
and by the incandescent lighting. From the very first tests, Renato and I understood that generous wide-angle lenses were essential: we wanted the environment to be in constant dialogue with the character. The idea was that space should never function as mere backdrop, but as an integral part of the narrative. The use of wide angles allowed us to convey the character’s transformations, continuously weaving together setting and subject.
Camera movement, too, had a precise function: it was music, it was rhythm — accompanying the characters in an almost choreographic way. This sensibility carried through even into the close-ups; we never wanted to lose the relationship with space. It was for this reason that, for the Milan sequences, I chose Large Format, in keeping with this logic of breadth and visual continuity.
You were speaking about the idea of the womb, and that is where the use of colour comes to the fore — something I found particularly striking. There are several moments in the film — especially those linked to the past, to the 1970s, to the musical sequences and to the protagonist’s more visionary passages — in which red emerges. I would describe it as a vermilion red, at times tinged with yellow or amber, creating a feverish, almost hallucinatory sensation. What can you tell us about that?
When I read a screenplay, I imagine each scene with its own atmosphere, its own feeling, its own emotion. These atmospheres then take shape by entering into relation with one another in ever-shifting ways. In this case, colour was a fundamental element both in portraying those years and in creating a clear break from the childhood narrative. The Sicilian section is more monochromatic — almost dusty, more delicate in its chromatic range. Then we enter the 1970s: a world in constant flux, highly variegated. For us, diversity meant narrative richness.
My favourite scene is the Fetus concert — that is where you find the delirium, that vermilion red, as you call it. I employed a series of creative — and I would say artisanal — strategies, achieved directly in camera. That red also derives from the use of original period projectors, the four-lamp units typical of concert lighting. It is a red built upon a base of incandescent light, onto which I then added colour. And then there was the spark — the creative freedom — which in this case found its fullest expression for me in the handheld camera and in the use of filters applied directly during the shoot, placed onto the lens: one hand on the camera, the other moving the filter, putting it on and taking it off at will throughout the scene. It was a very free and playful way of working. The colour there had to be felt in a direct and enveloping way — it had to surprise, to dazzle.
Immediately afterwards there is a conversation in the dressing room, where the same colour palette continues. That dressing room was entirely reconstructed: we shot in a black box theatre space, completely bare, everything built from scratch. In this I had an extraordinary ally in the production designer Mariangela Caggiani, with whom the dialogue was constant and always perfectly attuned.
And then the costumes – that jacket…
Battiato really did wear jackets of that kind, and apparently he would even go around wearing a gas mask. These were real elements, therefore, but reinterpreted by Andrea Cavalletto and Olivia Bellini through their meticulous work on the costumes. It is only in this way — as a team — that you can render an era with a precise flavour: details matter, nothing within the frame is accidental. I found the costumes extraordinary, always exact in their colour and texture.
Do you operate the camera yourself?
Yes, I operate the camera myself; it is part of my work. It allows me to be inside the scene, to sense the actors’ breathing, their small gestures, their needs. I always establish a very strong dialogue with the actors. Not being there – especially with very tight schedules – would mean losing something. If you have generous time to complete a project, you can afford more distance and reflection, and therefore staying at the monitor and delegating the operating to someone else might feel more natural. But when everything has to be condensed into a few minutes, with many scenes per day and demanding rhythms, being constantly inside the scene helps. It is also a personal inclination: handheld camera work is something that feels natural to me. When I put my eye to the camera, I enter completely into the world we are telling. This allows me to make full use of the point of view within the scene and to grasp it in the smallest details. Operating also generates a different internal rhythm within the camera department. On this film my 1st AC was Elena Chiappa. She knows me well – we have worked together on many projects – and she was truly invaluable. I push the camera department a great deal, and I must say they were all excellent, becoming a driving force on set. They allowed me to operate freely, at times improvising when necessary, which was complex to manage. I am genuinely grateful. On this film I also worked with a second operator, Diego Capelli, very skilled and respectful. He studied my way of working, watched my previous projects and gradually found his way into the film. We had an excellent dialogue, and I am truly satisfied with his work. I strongly believe in collaboration; I am not closed within my own ideas. I believe in professional integrity, in the quality that comes from empathy, in a constructive process and in the necessity of harmony.
Did you always shoot with two cameras?
Yes, throughout the three weeks in Milan we did; for the week in Sicily we did not, as we were working with a reduced crew.
I’m very interested in the work with filters. There are certain effects during the sequences when Battiato is unwell — the image doubles, focus shifts rapidly, there is the use of a bodycam… It becomes an almost psychedelic sequence. Was it all achieved in camera?
Yes, everything was done in camera. That section could have been handled digitally, but as I mentioned we had committed to an artisanal approach. From the meditation scene onwards, certain effects begin to appear and then develop throughout the more visionary passages: in the Fetus concert, with blades of light and filters, building progressively through to the tram scene, where Battiato’s hallucination reaches its climax. There we alternated an objective handheld point of view on him with images distorted through filters — very wide-angle lenses placed extremely close to the character to create a sense of compression — and the use of a bodycam.
What did you mount on the bodycam? Did you switch cameras?
We used the same camera, streamlining it as much as possible. The setup had to remain consistent with the rest of the material we had shot — it was essential that even that extreme point of view should stay integrated within the film’s visual language. First and foremost, of course, we discussed it with the actor, Dario Aita. I believe the effect we were aiming for succeeded in large part thanks to his openness.
The image undergoes very pronounced variations and may even be slightly disorienting, but that was precisely the intention: to create an angle and a proximity to the actor that would break with the established visual setup. Dario is highly professional, physically present, and above all receptive — he absorbs what the set offers and integrates it immediately. If an idea emerged, you would shape it together with him on the spot. We left room for freedom, and he was very skilled at riding that wave. Playing such a well-known figure carries real risk: you are exposed to constant comparison. Yet he managed — through restraint, among other things — to carve out his own space within the character. He has a strong awareness of his relationship with the camera and with space; he understands that everything is choreography — actor, environment, camera. And he never stepped out of character. On set, for us, he was always “Franco”.
Could you tell us something about the use of smoke in the film?
I do not use smoke indiscriminately; for me it is a narrative tool, not a decorative one. I use it when it makes sense within the scene, or when it helps give substance to the image: smoke, like water or wind, creates depth, makes volumes visible, lowers contrast, unifies. In certain sequences it allowed me to shape actual shafts of light. That said, it has to be controlled very carefully. Ideally you need a dedicated person, because with smoke, continuity becomes extremely delicate — even the slightest variation is immediately visible in the edit. If there is no budget for someone to manage it, you have to find a balance together with the gaffer and the grip team. It is important to decide beforehand what density you want and then maintain it consistently. When properly calibrated, it becomes part of the wr iting of light.In this film it was almost a necessity. With digital cinematography I immediately sense a risk of excessive cleanliness — particularly with certain LED sources, or when the image feels too contemporary in its clarity. Since we were portraying the 1970s, I needed a different kind of organic quality, something that would restore texture and atmosphere. Smoke helped me to slightly dirty the image, to shed that overly sharp, overly pristine feeling. And beyond aesthetics, at that time people smoked everywhere — in recording studios, at concerts, in dressing rooms, truly everywhere. The film could not exist without smoke.I am not particularly fond of the traditional smoke machine, as it produces an effect that is too white and compact — I find it artificial. I used it only in the nightclub scene, where it felt appropriate. For everything else I preferred a haze machine, or even incense, dosed with great care.
In the second part of the film the artist comes to the fore and music becomes central. How did you construct the musical sequences and the video clips? Were there real references to draw on?
Yes, there is a clear evolution. The first part is more existential, more inward-looking; in the second, music erupts and becomes language. For the musical sequences we carried out research, but we did not want didactic reconstructions. Some references drew on real archival material from the period — concerts, television appearances, the emerging aesthetic of early video clips. We wanted to remain faithful to what he had actually done and to understand his approach. He was an artist with a very distinctive way of representing himself, including in his video work, and that signature had to be respected. The intention, however, was not to replicate his original material, but to convey its spirit: this was not an exercise in imitation, but one of interpretation.
— not philological, but rather a search for balance between memory and interpretation. Some moments are more performative, others more conceptual. Each song had to have its own visual identity. We worked extensively on the language of the period: theatrical backdrops, incandescent lighting, saturated colours, simple yet incisive camera movements. The era had to be felt, but so too did our own gaze. In some cases we opted for a more abstract, almost visionary mise-en-scène, because we wanted to portray the artist and not merely the performance. For example, Cuccurucucù never had an actual video clip, so we created one ourselves, internalising Battiato’s language. Together with Renato and the production design department, we conceived a solution in which he appears three times against a frosted background, with shifts in colour and a luminous element passing across him. It was a very powerful creative moment, experienced as a shared game — and yes, we also had fun. When something is genuinely lived on set, you can feel it in the film. We spoke about music, about emotions, about spirituality; at times I found myself moved while we were shooting. A general harmony emerged that allowed us to work without excessive rigidity, with a sense of calm — and much of that we owe to Renato.
hich scene was the most complex to shoot? And which one are you most proud of?
There were many complex scenes — the project was extremely demanding throughout. One particularly delicate sequence was young Battiato’s arrival at Gaber’s home, at the beginning of his Milan period. It had to be a long take that conveyed the flavour of the era: the encounter with Gaber, Battiato hungry and penniless, his first contact with that warm and generous environment. It was a very demanding scene because it brought together several situations at once. We were on the fifth floor of a real apartment — low ceilings, many characters, tight spaces, no possibility of lighting from outside. From a technical standpoint it was complex, but thanks to the collaboration with the production designer we managed to convey a genuine sense of authenticity. Even though it was slightly trimmed in the edit, the initial dynamic remains, and I believe the result preserves the truth we were after. As for the scene I am most fond of — as I mentioned earlier — it is the Fetus concert. I had tremendous fun shooting it.
And then there was Mount Etna…
Yes, the true emotional resolution of the film came with Mount Etna. The fact that we shot it at the end was, in my view, a blessing: we arrived up there carrying the entire journey within us, all the emotions we had accumulated. We had internalised the film, and that was essential in order to face a scene so conclusive and so intimate. I believe deeply in what one carries inside while shooting — it inevitably finds its way into the images. Etna was an extraordinary place — a snow-covered volcano, an almost monochromatic landscape. Through the anamorphic lenses it was something incredible. Yet precisely because of the overwhelming beauty surrounding us, choosing the camera position was extremely difficult. Moving just a metre, or raising the camera by a few centimetres, changed everything. We had to bring order to that vastness, to find the frame that truly conveyed something without repeating ourselves. It was a peculiar sensation: we were almost encapsulated within that environment, which gave us so much yet demanded clarity and synthesis. We shot it in a single day, turning back very early because of the extreme temperatures — it was almost like one continuous take. At that altitude — over 2,600 metres — with the equipment and the cold, it was far from simple. It was a demanding film for my crew in every respect.
Is there anything you’d like to add?
To conclude, I would say that for me cinema holds immense communicative potential. It is important that storytelling never loses sight of emotion, because it is emotion that makes it universal — that allows a story to cross an ocean and still be understood. Our approach must necessarily engage with sensitivity: with the way we perceive life, the way we respond to situations. It is what we carry with us onto the set and then pour into the images.
When I speak with younger people, I always tell them that they must cultivate their own point of view — one shaped by experience, by sensation, by lived life. Only in this way can what we tell become truly universal, and truly authentic.
I believe that in Il Lungo Viaggio, this comes through. Thank you, Sara.
TECHNICAL CREDITS
Diego Capelli – Camera Operator / 2nd Camera (Steadicam)
Elena Chiappa 1AC 1º Camera
Valeria Schifeo DIT
Niccolò di Guida 1AC 2º Camera
Rocco Cirifino 1AC 2º Camera
Alice Priante 2 AC
Federico Bellotti Video Assist Milano
Giulia Zappala Video Assist Sicilia
Paolo Giovannetti Gaffer Milano
Claudio di Lorenzo Grip Milano
Davide Dalescio Gaffer Sicilia
Paolo Catalano Grip Sicilia
Maeve Tealdi Trainee
Angelo Francavilla Colorist – Laboratorio Grande mela
Rental: D-Vision Movie People
