Interview by Luca Ciuti
Editor Silvia Tarquini
Venice 81 showcased two films you worked on: *Iddu* by Fabio Grassadonia and Antonio Piazza, featuring Toni Servillo, Elio Germano, Barbora Bobulova, Antonia Truppo, and with the participation of Tommaso Ragno (set for release on 10 October, distributed by 01 Distribution), and *Il tempo che ci vuole* by Francesca Comencini, starring Fabrizio Gifuni and Romana Maggiora Vergano (due for release on 26 September, also distributed by 01 Distribution)…
Iddu is the story of Matteo Messina Denaro. The film was written before his capture, but it found its raison d’être even after his arrest, albeit with less mystery, as Denaro was previously a character whose face was not well known. After his arrest, the human and material squalor in which he lived came to light—squalor we witnessed because we filmed exactly in the same places where he was protected by the local population, who knew full well of his presence and greeted us with the same indifference they showed him: the areas of Selinunte and Castelvetrano. Like all period films, it presented certain challenges. In period films, a lot of time is spent removing and adding cars, cleaning the environments of contemporary elements, etc. However, those places in Sicily have changed very little. This aspect was more complicated for Francesca Comencini’s film, Il tempo che ci vuole, mostly set in Rome. Paradoxically, a film set in the 1970s and ‘80s is the hardest to make, because if you’re doing a film set in the 1800s, you strip everything away and add a single carriage. If you’re portraying the 1970s, you have to rework everything: cars, motorbikes, bicycles… When I’m told we’re going to make a period film, I tremble! To recreate some scenes from Luigi Comencini’s films, we even resurrected—much to my horror—old cameras I never wanted to see again: the vintage ARRIs and the even older Mitchell. You know, I’m a proponent of digital.
These are two period films but completely different. Iddu uses the key of the grotesque, while Francesca’s film is more dramatic, more personal.
Il tempo che ci vuole is a very personal film, almost autobiographical. We chose a somewhat period way of using colour and contrast. Iddu, on the other hand, remained with normal colour and contrasts, while the characterisation was entrusted to the acting. It’s a deliberate caricature; reality is reinvented. And there are also some fantasy sequences. But as always, if you ask me to think about the films I’ve made, the first thing that comes to mind is the marvellous talent of all the actors. The more I do this job, the more I realise that my approach, whether concerning lighting or camera positioning, is to safeguard and prioritise the actors’ work: to be quick, flexible, light, and as unobtrusive as possible. I very much enjoy shooting with three cameras, because it gives you the ability to capture wide shots and close-ups simultaneously, the possibility of having a scene in a single sequence without forcing the actors to repeat the same actions, gestures, and intonations for shot and reverse shot at different times. This way, from one take to another, the actors are freer; they can improvise, and change something. This, in my opinion, is one of the many possibilities that digital offers us. The idea of shooting with three cameras today is feasible, economically sustainable, and advantageous even from a photographic point of view. If an unexpected cloud arrives, the sequence is saved anyway, also from a photographic standpoint. Digital has not only freed us cinematographers from many obligations, but has also freed actors from constraints that rightly belong to prehistory.
What you’re saying is very interesting and stimulating, because many of us, on the contrary, are often afraid to use too many cameras because they fear not being able to manage all the different viewpoints. Has your approach led you to think differently about cinematography?
Actually, I’ve always wanted to shoot this way, but film stock didn’t allow it because it wasn’t sensitive enough. But a window is the light of a window; the light source is always that, whether reinforced or not. The positioning of the actors relative to the existing light, whether from a window or a lamp, is an aesthetic choice, which was only partially possible before; today, however, it is possible because now even the light of a candle is enough to illuminate our shots. So the relationship between the director and the cinematographer, in my opinion, is significantly different today. Now you can shoot 360 degrees, with no limitations: no constraints, no hindrances, no wasted time, and no clutter of lights, stands, reflectors, or flags. In return, we decide together with the director where to place the cameras, and where to place the actors depending on the existing light (reinforced or not). The relationship between the set designer and the cinematographer is also different, because the scene’s lights, the ambient lights, are often, increasingly, the lights we use to shoot. Therefore, they need to be coordinated together. I believe that this democratisation, if I may call it that, is generated by the sensitivity, versatility, and cost-effectiveness of digital technology. Then the nostalgia for film stock, which I sometimes see lingering among colleagues or directors, is something that leaves me stunned, something I don’t understand. Do you like grain? Fine, we’ll add it in post-production. Then there’s the other argument, that the cost of film stock preserves a “seriousness” of approach… I don’t believe that, thanks to digital, being able to repeat many takes leads to being less precise or less attentive, because time is the most precious thing we have; time is much more precious than film stock. With digital, the concentration on set is absolutely the same. Moreover, film stock then has to be digitised. If the film stock were projected on film stock, using it could make sense in terms of transparency, but since it is projected digitally, and is digitised anyway, I don’t understand why it should still be used. I don’t know why I’m talking to you about this, but evidently, it’s a subject that touches me and is closely linked to my love for the actors’ work. I think that sometimes we give too much importance to cinematography. There’s a sort of media mystification around the role of the cinematographer. It’s a colossal deception. We take advantage of it because, in the end, very few people truly understand light: it’s an intangible tool. No one really understands how the light is added or removed; they only see the final result. This gives us tremendous power to do incomprehensible things and hide behind this apparent incomprehensibility, justifying our role and often doing useless things. This is where the absurd and overrated power of the cinematographer originates, resulting in wasted time or limiting the freedom of movement of the actors and the camera.
You said that digital has created new forms of relationships between the cinematographer, the director, and the set designer. But I wonder, faced with two such different films, for example, I imagine you approach the camera and lighting differently. Can you maintain this approach with all directors?
I don’t feel like I arrive on set with a predetermined will. You know, over time I’ve become convinced that films that you think about too intensely, that you prepare too intensely, end up being “denatured.” For this reason, I never pay attention to any storyboards. I detest having a precise idea of the shot I want to make, because reality is much more complex, and the unexpected is much more interesting. I detest the idea of having a lighting plan in mind the day before shooting, or worse still, at the beginning of the film, with references, because reality is unexpected. There can be bright days or cloudy days. The film itself can take unforeseen, surprising paths. I work a lot on instinct and improvisation. I find this approach correct and a source of harmony on set. If you imagine too much what you’ll shoot the day before or the month before, and then you face a different reality or different requests from the director or actors, you might go into crisis and find yourself in conflict. I prefer, therefore, a form of “determined recklessness”, but open. So I can’t really answer you. I’ll give a concrete example: I believe that in the case of a film about Matteo Messina Denaro, the formal research is determined by being politically aware and informed about the context. Knowing who Matteo Messina Denaro was, the world he lived in, what he represented, is much more important than making a lighting plan or deciding how to position the camera. The knowledge of the theme and the context being discussed is more important than any preconceived idea of how it should be formally represented. The culture and curiosity of the cinematographer are fundamental to understanding what kind of film you’re making and what kind of light you need or don’t need. I’m more interested in politics, society, travel, literature—all that has nothing to do with cinematographic technique. When someone asks me, for example, which lens I prefer or whether I prefer shooting with certain lenses or brands, I find it nonsensical. I don’t care about the quality of the lenses or similar issues; I’m much more interested in understanding the social and political context we’re living in. I think that technique is useful but not decisive.
I agree. But there’s a fact. When watching your films, it seems there is incredible formal and aesthetic research. I don’t say this to flatter you, but you are a cinematographer whose touch is noticeable.
Actually, I hope not!
Don’t misunderstand me. I mean that aesthetically there’s always a great interpretative capacity, a depth of introspection. Perhaps it comes from studying and understanding what’s around you, but it’s evident in your representation. We’ve all seen and loved your films because they are beautiful. Beautiful in the sense of being appropriate for the story you’re telling each time. That’s your great ability.
I hope they help to accurately represent the reality they narrate. For example, if I had a precise aesthetic idea of what is “beautiful”, I would probably always do the same thing. If, for instance, I always liked backlighting, I couldn’t imagine doing without it. But choosing whether or not to use backlighting depends on what we’re telling, how, and where we’re telling it. If, for example, we’re depicting a proletarian house or a Roman bourgeois home, as in Francesca Comencini’s film, or the house of a mafia fugitive, as in Grassadonia and Piazza’s film, evidently the photographic approach must be different and respectful of sociological reality. Or again, in Grassadonia and Piazza’s film, we need to portray differently the party of wealthy Palermo residents and the fugitive life of a criminal forced to live hidden within four walls. This type of approach — without wanting to seem presumptuous — I would call sociological, and it’s what interests me. To have such an approach, one shouldn’t be concerned with what’s “beautiful” or “ugly”, but with society, politics, and culture. I hope to have a political approach to what I do, more than an aesthetic one. I believe that sometimes it’s necessary to make films that are formally “ugly” if it helps to better tell a story. I don’t think the pursuit of “beauty” is always necessary; we need to create lighting and framing appropriate to the story we’ve chosen to tell, together with the director and screenwriter. I have no preconceived ideas about what is “beautiful” or “ugly”.
Perhaps you now have such experience that everything comes to you innately, but the depth of your vision is evident. Today there is a homogenisation of visual style; there’s a tendency to seek an aesthetic model that’s becoming increasingly uniform. For me, this is detrimental, but that’s just my opinion. Perhaps it’s because people no longer delve deeply as you do; they don’t analyse the story and what’s behind the narrative enough.
Often there’s a personal aspect, an aesthetic choice that feels right. I think that’s correct, but I also believe that regarding the formal issue — returning to the quality of lenses or specific techniques — there’s a big difference today compared to the past. Thinking about film stock, when I did colour correction, once the film was finished, I could make everything warmer, cooler, lighter, or darker. But now, in colour correction, I can make incredible transformations. Everything I can’t achieve on set, in terms of contrast or darkness, I do in post-production. For me now, the “form” of films is more linked to the post-production phase, while on set I’m obsessed with being as fast as possible. Being quick is a duty. Essentially, I rely entirely on the actors, the director, and improvisation. Then, in post-production, I do what I need to do with great care. I could no longer do this job if I were forced to use film stock or if I were prevented from operating the camera. I operate the camera, and I think it’s fundamental. The position of the camera — even a small shift of a few centimetres—affects not only the framing but also the photography. If I place it lower, higher, or shift it to the left or right, I capture more or less of a window, a part of a wall in shadow; it’s a matter that concerns the photographic aspect of my work. When I hear certain old-school cinema unionists say that the cinematographer shouldn’t operate the camera, it makes me very angry. I’d rather stop doing this job; I’d prefer to be the camera operator rather than the cinematographer. When there are two or three cameras, I handle the widest shot and leave the tighter ones to the other operators because I think the wide shot — even if it’s not edited — is what establishes the contrast, the position of the actors, and the brightness or darkness of the scene.
But do you have control on set? Do you already have a sort of colour grading or final look?
No, I don’t have a DIT (Digital Imaging Technician). I have a data manager for handling the media, but I’m not interested at all in seeing on set what the final image might look like; I’ll see it later in the colour correction phase. I just try to send the footage to the colourist as soon as possible to get a first version, some stills to look at. But on set, no. I’ve heard of people who stay inside a tent far from the set and instruct via radio what needs to be added or removed in terms of lighting. I’d rather go home! I don’t have many certainties in life, but these I do: I don’t care about lenses, I’m not interested in the DIT, I don’t want to see storyboards, and I don’t want to create lighting plans.
At this point, then, a provocative question: do you have a preference? What kind of cameras do you usually shoot with? Can you satisfy our curiosity, considering that each camera has different characteristics?
I shoot with RED because, up to now, I’ve always worked with it, and it seemed the most suitable choice precisely because it allows me to use very few lights and, with HDR, to have a second reading in the highlights. It allows me to shoot against a blown-out window or a blazing bulb without generating strange overexposure effects. Our eye is much more adaptable than film or video; it can read both shadows and highlights very well, and the RED brings me back that sensation. I don’t want to create a mythology around cameras: if there are better alternatives, so be it. I’m used to working with RED, but I’m ready to change. However, I’m not particularly interested in the brand; what matters to me is that the camera is small and practical. Whether it’s a RED, an ARRI, or a great iPhone, it’s irrelevant to my way of working. Frankly, I think it’s the least of our concerns. The only thing that recently really excites me is LED panels, which are large, soft, and directional. LEDs are a great invention: they’re lightweight, change colour and intensity, are flexible, consume little energy, and can be plugged into household sockets. When I see overly large electronic setups on set, it makes me feel ill. I prefer to avoid using them as much as possible to keep the set as light and flexible as possible, without cluttering it with unnecessary equipment. I have a “minimalist” approach to energy consumption, not only for bioethical reasons but mainly because I want the set to be agile and fast.
Regarding colour grading, you always work with the same colourist. In your book La luce necessaria, you mentioned that you often use the same collaborators. How do you manage that? How much time do you usually dedicate to colour?
I try to have the same people with me for a minimum of 10 and a maximum of 20 years. The same goes for directors. In my opinion, it’s not right to work with the same director for more than 15-20 years. After so many films, you part ways because it becomes impossible to continue: you know each other too well, and there are no more surprises. As for collaborators, I choose to work, if possible, always with the same crew. And for many years now, I’ve also worked with the same colourist. One of the conditions I set is to choose the lab for colour grading. I’ve never had any difficulty doing so. The time spent on colour grading varies because I start with an initial phase on the iPad, quite happily, meaning I get the film with a preliminary grade. I take stills and mark on those stills with the iPad pen where corrections are needed — in colour, shadows, etc. Then I send them back to the colourist, who applies them. Following that, of course, I go to the lab for a variable amount of time — 5, 6, up to 10 days at most. Generally, 5 days are enough. I do a lot of reframing, meaning I shoot with an extra margin of 5-10% beyond the original framing. I set markers to slightly tighten the frame so it can be cropped not only at the top and bottom but also on the left and right. This is very useful, especially when working with two or three cameras, to leave a bit more room on the left or right afterwards. But the final work relies entirely on trusting the colourist implicitly. Very often, I do more reframing work than colour grading. 80% of my notes concern reframing.
It’s like having an extra off-screen area to use.
Exactly, it’s like having a margin of error to work with. But I insist! These technical and formal issues about lenses, cameras, filters, etc., are all pointless. Nowadays, you can achieve focus even where the focus puller didn’t quite manage, within certain limits. Sometimes there’s more sharpness than necessary, so it’s a matter of reducing it afterwards. I think that if people stopped worrying about technique and focused more on creating images that make sense in relation to the subject, it would be better. The issue is that we need to focus more on real life than on these trivialities. We need to be concerned that injustices are increasing, that the planet is sinking into a climate crisis — which amplifies social injustices — and that suffering is immense. These are the problems, not the lenses or the cameras.
But we’re curious to know how you shoot your films…
Yes, but dealing with these issues, personally or socially, is part of the cinematographer’s job. If you’re a reckless madman just trying to create a perfect image, in my opinion, you won’t succeed. Because you waste time in uncertainty, doubt, and selfishness.
So you don’t have any preferred lenses?
No, I use the lenses needed at the moment. When I can, I use zoom lenses; when I have to, I use primes. I use the fastest lenses, the most convenient ones. In short, I’m not particularly interested in them. The quality of zoom lenses is inferior, but I don’t care. They allow me to work faster. Prime lenses might be more beautiful, but they’re slower. I can correct the image even during camera movement, so I use the zoom. If there’s a lack of sharpness, I add it; if there’s too much, I reduce it. Frankly, I don’t see the problem. Of course, when working with very strong lights, like blown-out windows or visible bulbs, I need there not to be too many flaws. But by now, almost all lenses are good. Frankly, I refuse to talk about technique because it’s the least of our concerns. On set, I always tell myself: “Too much light? Is it blown out? I’ll sort it out in post-production.” I never worry about these things on set. Also because I’ve never had, and would never want, too much formal perfection.
Would you like to add something about these last two films of yours? From a purely artistic point of view?
It’s difficult for me to talk about these two films because they haven’t been released yet. The moment I truly understand the work we’ve done is when I see them in a cinema together with the audience. To understand a film, you need the empathy of the cinema hall — the silent, empathetic transmission of the audience’s feelings. It’s the shared experience in the theatre that makes you realise if the film works or not. Cinema is a collective art; it needs to be made and viewed collectively. Only in this way can it be understood. Until I see a film in the cinema, I don’t know what I’ve done.
