Interview by Stefano Paradiso
Avemmaria stems from a double autobiographical process, as it is based on a novel by its director, Fortunato Cerlino. I’d like to begin there. How did this project come about?
The novel is titled Se vuoi vivere felice (If You Want to Live Happily), and its protagonist is called Fortunato. At first, the film was going to keep both the title and the character’s name, but it eventually became AVEMMARIA, and the protagonist was renamed Felice. That creates a slight distance from the more overtly autobiographical source: the character no longer bears the author’s name, even though he remains very closely based on Fortunato’s own experience. Fortunato laid himself bare in telling this story. He portrayed a very difficult childhood, growing up in a family living only just above the poverty line, marked by unemployment and financial hardship. It was a reality shared by many families in Pianura, the district of Naples where he grew up (although, for production reasons, we shot most of the film in San Giorgio a Cremano and Ercolano).
The film tells the story of his childhood dream of becoming a neomelodico singer. In that environment, it represented one of the few possible routes to a better life. Simply performing at weddings, christenings or village festivals could bring a degree of financial security. More than a story of social mobility, though, the film is about a boy’s longing to escape the world into which he was born.
One of the earliest creative decisions was that the film should not adhere too closely to reality or to a documentary-like depiction of events. Even from the screenplay, it was clear that Fortunato wanted to interpret that reality through a distinctly personal perspective. From its opening scenes, the film introduces a subtly surreal dimension—a constant departure from pure realism that runs throughout the narrative.
We’ll certainly come back to that, as it gradually reveals itself throughout the film. But first, tell me: how did the title come about? Avemmaria?
That’s a good question, and one I can only answer up to a point—you’d really have to ask Fortunato himself. My impression is that he wanted a title with a different kind of evocative power. Religion also plays a significant role in the life of the family portrayed in the film, and there are images that resonate directly with the title.
There’s one particularly striking scene in which the young boy points a gun at the forehead of a statue of the Virgin Mary. While we were shooting it, we all wondered whether it would survive the final edit—it did! Fortunato showed real courage in conceiving that scene.
The mother, memorably played by Marianna Fontana, is also deeply shaped by her religious faith. She is portrayed as a deeply devout woman, almost under the sway of a neighbour who is even more religious and bigoted than she is. Seen in that light, the title ultimately takes on a powerful significance within the world of the film.
The film begins in what might seem like the familiar territory of stories set in the working-class districts of Naples, with the poverty, religious faith and family dynamics we have come to associate with that world. But, as we were saying earlier, it soon moves in a different direction, introducing a dimension suspended between reality and imagination that gives the film a striking sense of unpredictability. I’m thinking, for instance, of the opening scenes between the boy and the mysterious figure. At first, their relationship isn’t clear: you sense that this character belongs to a different plane of the narrative—perhaps a vision, perhaps a dream. It is only in the final moments that everything falls into place and the character’s true significance becomes clear. To me, that lies at the very heart of the film. From a creative perspective, how did you approach this duality? How did you and the director work together to sustain this ongoing dialogue between reality and the film’s visionary dimension, scattering clues throughout the narrative without disclosing their significance until the end?
The film certainly contains elements of social realism, but they are not its defining feature. Over the past few years, Naples has almost become a genre in itself, and with it a distinctive visual style. First Gomorrah, and then, years later, the television series of the same name, created an immensely powerful visual language that has since been echoed, referenced and, in some cases, imitated. It’s a highly effective aesthetic, and one that has inevitably influenced many films set in the same environment.
Fortunato—who, incidentally, first came to prominence as an actor thanks to Gomorrah—had a very clear vision. It was already evident in the novel, and even more so in the screenplay, that crime, the Camorra and all the familiar elements associated with Naples in the news had to be present, but only as a kind of background hum. They are there, they are part of the world the characters inhabit, but they are not what the film is about.
I think that’s a really interesting point.
I realised this from my very first reading of the screenplay, where a number of surreal sequences appear almost straight away. Fortunato even described them as “Lynchian”—an adjective that, when you come across it in a screenplay, is quite a daunting one, if not an outright dangerous one.
There are many moments when we enter the protagonist’s imagination: the boy sees himself sitting in the classroom wearing an astronaut’s helmet; he transforms his family during moments of greatest tension; or he imagines himself inside the television as a young neomelodico singer. These are constant excursions into his inner world. It was a fascinating creative process to develop that dimension together.
Fortunato is an extremely cultured person and a passionate cinephile, and that was already evident from the screenplay. During pre-production he was constantly talking to me about the films he loves and the cinematic references that had inspired the project. His favourite film is Mirror by Tarkovsky—a reference that is as inspiring as it is daunting, because, in my view, we’re talking about one of the greatest filmmakers of all time, alongside Kurosawa.
The screenplay was full of references to shots from films that had made a strong impression on him. It’s something many directors do and, for us cinematographers, it can be both useful and delicate: the danger is slipping into quotation or imitation. I found those references valuable mainly because they helped me understand the direction he wanted to take. The real challenge, as we’ve been saying, was to strike a balance between a deeply realistic setting and a narrative that continually opened itself up to the protagonist’s imagination.
Once I understood what he was aiming for, I brought along a few references of my own that I felt were in tune with that approach. I was thinking, for example, of Amores Perros and Y Tu Mamá También: not recent films, of course, but ones that shaped a distinctive way of portraying reality through a strong authorial vision, and which, to my mind, resonated with what Fortunato had in mind.
Looking more closely at the preparation, one thing that really deserves to be said is how extraordinarily precise Fortunato was. Even though this was his first feature as a director, he arrived with a complete shot list for the entire film. The project had been in development for several years, so he had had plenty of time to imagine it in every detail. In the end we didn’t follow that shot list during the shoot, but for me it was an invaluable starting point because it revealed how he visualised the story. From there, I was able to build on his ideas with my own suggestions.
Some of the technical choices were equally well defined from the outset. Fortunato had envisaged a film built around very wide-angle lenses, and that’s exactly the path we followed. We worked with a set of Leica R lenses rehoused by GL Optics, supplied by Camera Service Group, making extensive use of the 19 mm, the widest focal length in the set. We often used it even for close-ups of the young boy, in order to preserve a strong relationship between the character and the space around him, creating images with considerable depth and ensuring that the environment remained a constant presence throughout the film.
The camera is almost always very close to the characters, and we often shot with a fairly shallow depth of field, so that the background remained.. soft. The film also relies heavily on handheld camerawork, yet there are moments when the visual language shifts. I almost had the impression that two distinct visual approaches coexist throughout the film. How did you develop that grammar? When did you choose handheld camerawork, and when did you move towards a more controlled style?
The basic principle was actually quite simple: handheld camerawork belongs to the everyday reality of Felice as a child. Whenever we move into the perspective of the adult Felice—played by Salvatore Esposito—the visual language changes completely. For those scenes, we opted for a much more stable camera, using a dolly and other support systems to create a greater sense of control.
There is also an intermediate zone where the two worlds intersect. Whenever the two versions of the character share the frame, or whenever the story enters a more suspended, dreamlike dimension, we often used the Steadicam. I’m thinking, for example, of the long final tracking shot in the catacombs, when the adult protagonist stands before that enormous underground moon. That entire sequence was shot on Steadicam.
More generally, then, the sequences linked to the visions and to the overlap between the two versions of the character are defined by smoother, more controlled camera movement, whereas everything that belongs to Felice’s everyday family life was shot entirely handheld.
There is, however, one significant exception: the scene in which the boy imagines himself on television as a neomelodico singer. In that sequence, the camera literally enters the television screen on a slider move. I believe it’s the only moment in the film where we used that particular piece of equipment.
You mentioned the moon, which on the one hand evokes one of childhood’s most universal dreams, while on the other it plays a pivotal role in the film’s final sequence. I was wondering whether it was conceived simply as a visually striking element, or whether it carries a more specific symbolic meaning. It was one of the very first things I noted down while watching the film—it really makes a powerful impression.
The moon has a very specific meaning for Fortunato. It’s no coincidence that the film opens with a radio broadcast of the 1969 Moon landing. Later, the boy imagines himself as an astronaut, and in moments of greatest tension he sees his family transformed into astronauts as well. The moon thus becomes a metaphor for the boy’s longing to escape—for his need to be somewhere else.
And, incidentally, the film opens with an image that almost inverts this metaphor: the story of the burglar-parachutist who falls from a bell tower to his death. The film begins with someone attempting to fly and failing, and ends with its protagonist symbolically achieving what the other could not.
It’s an incredibly powerful metaphor.
ortunato devoted a great deal of attention to this aspect, working closely with the production designer, Luca Servino. In the final shot, for instance, when the adult Felice, having just met his newborn son, sees the young Felice once again, the boy is dressed as a parachutist and stands beside a large glass dome. Fortunato wanted its surface to be decorated in a way that would evoke the moon.
In fact, he scattered this kind of symbolism throughout the entire film. Some of it is immediately recognisable, while other elements are more subtly concealed. That layering was an integral part of the project and gives the film a greater sense of depth. Even in the primary school teacher’s house, for example, he wanted a row of spherical lamps running along the corridor, so that the luminous shape of the moon would recur throughout the narrative. It’s a motif that was already present in the novel, and one that is given even greater emphasis in the film.
Let’s turn to the cinematography. It struck me that the film is built around an almost bichromatic palette, based primarily on the interplay between blue and yellow. The world of the adult Felice also has its own distinctive cinematography, just as it has its own production design.
From a cinematographic point of view, how did you establish the visual distinction between the realm of reality and the visionary one? It’s an almost imperceptible difference, yet you can clearly sense that the visual language changes, particularly in those moments when the two worlds begin to overlap.
We wanted the world of the adult Felice to be visually more desaturated and dominated by white. That’s how it was described in the screenplay. The opening scene, for instance, shows him with his pregnant partner in an entirely white apartment, deliberately lit in a very even, low-contrast way. It was a very specific request from Fortunato, one that grew out of ideas he had been developing over the years the project was taking shape.
The ending follows the same logic. The hospital room where Felice first meets his newborn son is an almost entirely white space, with very little shadow. We wanted his present to have a visual identity that was markedly different from his childhood memories.
The sections centred on Felice as a child, by contrast, are more grounded in reality but also much higher in contrast. Some scenes are deliberately very dark and, as you noticed, blue and yellow are the two dominant colours.
The way we arrived at that choice is interesting in itself. At first, we were trying to solve a question of realism: we had to portray a large family living in a very small flat. I pointed out something to Fortunato that I’d noticed while living in Naples for a few months. If you look up at the windows of apartment blocks in the evening, you see some flats lit with warm light and others with cool light—and quite often you find exactly the same mix within a single home.
You see that everywhere.
Exactly. And, almost without realising it, I gave him an idea. Fortunato picked up on it straight away and said, ‘Perfect. Then let’s use cool lighting in their home. In fact, let’s have it coexist with warm light—that’s even more truthful.’ So we decided to use light sources with different colour temperatures within the same space, just as you find in so many real homes.
That was an important moment for me as well, because it reminded me of something I feel very strongly about: a cinematographer shouldn’t pursue formal beauty at all costs. It’s very easy to follow your instincts and always chase the most “beautiful” image, but our real responsibility is to serve the film and the director’s vision, even when that means giving up a degree of visual elegance.
I couldn’t agree more.
The rooms of the house were lit with warm light, while the corridor connecting them was illuminated with a cool light that was deliberately harsher and less inviting. As for the night exteriors, we always started from the existing practical lighting we found on location, reinforcing it only when necessary.
It’s worth bearing in mind that the film was shot in just four weeks and with very limited resources, so the entire approach was based on keeping things as simple and economical as possible.
There’s one scene that particularly struck me: the one with the car stopped at the traffic lights. It seems to be lit almost entirely by the red traffic signal. It’s a very realistic choice, yet it’s pushed just far enough to become almost unreal.
More generally, could you say a little more about your approach to the night scenes and the interior lighting?
The traffic-light scene is one of my favourites. It begins in an entirely realistic situation, but then moves well beyond it. The red is extremely intense, almost exaggerated, and, as you probably noticed, time itself begins to stretch: the traffic light stays red far longer than it ever would in reality, there are no ambient sounds, no other cars drive past, and there are no passers-by. The car stops at the lights, but from that moment on the film enters a different dimension.
That scene also says a great deal about the way I worked with Fortunato, because it grew out of a very concrete creative discussion. I had imagined a different framing: the car was seen from a three-quarter angle, with the crossroads visible, a side street leading away from it, and even a house in the background. It was a more dynamic shot and, from a cinematographic point of view, probably a more “beautiful” one.
Fortunato, however, wanted to change it. He opted for a perfectly frontal, head-on composition: the stationary car, the wall behind it, and the red traffic light, positioned off-screen, flooding the frame with its glow. At first, I tried to persuade him to keep my version, but he explained his decision with a remark that has always stayed with me. He said, ‘I don’t want there to be any way out in this frame. This boy doesn’t have one.’
The perspective I had imagined, with a road opening up in the background, subconsciously suggested the possibility of escape. For Fortunato, by contrast, it was essential that the composition itself should convey the idea of a destiny from which there was no escape.
We had similar discussions about other scenes as well. Fortunato wanted every visual choice—not just the cinematography, but the composition of the frame itself—to carry symbolic meaning.
I remember that, at the end of that day’s shoot, I spoke to my gaffer, Gabrio Contino, who did an extraordinary job on the film. At first, he too had been convinced that our version of the traffic-light shot was stronger from a cinematographic point of view. But after watching the scene as we filmed it, he turned to me and said, ‘You know, he’s right. Our shot was more beautiful, but this one is genuinely unsettling.’
That was another moment when I realised that cinematography should never pursue beauty for its own sake, but rather the image that is right for the film.
It’s the very essence of our profession. But I have to say that, in all its complexity, the dialogue between you and the director really comes across. It was only after a few days that I realised just how richly layered the film is.
We’ve talked about the camera and the lenses; as far as the lighting is concerned, I imagine you took a fairly restrained approach.
As far as the lighting was concerned, the film was made with a relatively modest package. We shot all the interiors without a generator, relying mainly on LED fixtures—a combination of ARRI, Astera and similar units—without using a particularly elaborate lighting setup.
The night exteriors required a little more work, although everything remained in proportion to the scale of the production. We had a 4 kW HMI and a number of tungsten fixtures, used primarily in the courtyard of Felice’s home. We were also rather fortunate, because Gabrio Contino and his team managed to find a way of controlling the street lamps in the square, switching them on and off whenever we needed. That allowed us to use the existing street lighting either as backlight or as side light, depending on the needs of the scene.
We also positioned two 5 kW tungsten fixtures with sodium-colour gels on the rooftops, recreating the characteristic look of sodium-vapour street lighting whenever it was required.
The final scene with the great moon is one of the film’s most unforgettable images. Where did you shoot it, and how did you create that moon?
The production designer, Luca Servino, found it. It’s actually an element commonly used for events: a large inflatable moon that can be assembled in just a few minutes and is normally employed as a scenic installation. We were filming in a series of small catacombs beneath a church in Ercolano. The moon already had its own internal illumination, but to achieve the particular shade of white we wanted, we added a small flexible Godox LED panel, about 30 × 30 centimetres, which was more than enough for the effect we were after.
The Steadicam operator on that sequence, Michel Franco, did a truly outstanding job, together with the second Steadicam operator, Guido Peluso. The long take moves through stairways and several corridors of the catacombs, making it quite a demanding shot. The scene is lit almost entirely by sources visible within the frame: practical lights, a few concealed Astera tubes, votive candles and, of course, the moon itself.
The ending is really beautiful
In fact, that final image ended up becoming the film’s poster.
There’s another scene that has really stayed with me: the one in which the adult Felice points a gun at the young Felice and tells him to kill himself. It’s an incredibly powerful moment.
It’s one of the film’s toughest scenes. At that point, the relationship between the two characters has not yet been revealed. Some viewers may suspect it, but it’s only later that we understand they are one and the same. The adult Felice is reliving his own childhood, seeing it through the eyes of the man he has become. Both the novel and the film tell us that he has gone on to achieve success: he has become an actor and has overcome the financial hardship of his childhood. That journey into the past is, ultimately, a confrontation with the child he once was.
Ecco una versione in inglese britannico, naturale e adatta al tono dell’intervista:
It’s only after watching the film, when you think back to the relationship between the two characters, that many scenes take on a different meaning. The scene with the gun changes completely as well: you realise you’re witnessing the physical embodiment of the thoughts of a child who grew up in an environment where violence and guns were part of everyday life. These are images that continue to resonate with the viewer long after the film has ended, and, to my mind, that’s what sets a truly good film apart.
Ecco una traduzione in inglese britannico, fluida e fedele al tono dell’intervista:
Without going too deeply into Fortunato’s private life, I think he put a great deal of himself into the film. He portrayed his family as they really were. That world genuinely belongs to his own lived experience.
In that sense, it’s a deeply autobiographical film.
Ecco una traduzione in inglese britannico che mantiene il tono colloquiale dell’intervista:
Absolutely. Fortunato has said that he only learned to speak Italian as a teenager. As a child, he spoke only Neapolitan, and later he was fortunate enough to have a primary school teacher who shaped his education, just as in the film. Over the closing credits, you hear a recording of a telephone conversation with the real teacher, to whom the film is dedicated. That’s another important message.
There’s one last thing I’d like to ask you. I noticed a few pictorial references in the film…
Ecco una traduzione in inglese britannico, naturale e scorrevole:
They came to us while we were scouting the locations. Pictorial references are always something of a warning sign, because there’s a risk they may feel too explicit and end up pulling the audience out of the film. That’s true of references in general, but even more so when they come from painting. By that stage, though, I already trusted the way Fortunato worked.
I’m thinking in particular of the prison visiting scene towards the end of the film. At one point, all the other prisoners and visitors disappear, leaving only the two protagonists in complete silence. By then, the audience finally understands that what they’re watching no longer belongs to the realm of reality, but is an inner reconstruction.
What were the references?
There were two references. The first echoes The Fourth Estate by Giuseppe Pellizza da Volpedo: on one side are the prison visitors, while in the reverse shot the prisoners are seated along the table, waiting to meet their families. The second reference, which is the reverse shot itself and even more unmistakable, is Leonardo da Vinci’s The Last Supper. If you look closely, even the costumes mirror the painting’s colour palette, echoing the robes worn by the Apostles. It’s an almost literal quotation. At first, I was worried that such an overt reference might feel too obvious. Instead, it works remarkably well.
I think that’s because it never feels like an end in itself. Thank you, Corrado, for sharing your story.
TECHNICAL SPECIFICATIONS
Camera Rental: Camera Service Group Srl, Milan
Camera Operators: Corrado Serri; Guido Peluso (Steadicam); Michel Franco (Steadicam)
1st Assistant Camera: Imma Napoletano
2nd Assistant Camera: Alfredo Scaletta
DIT: Nico Esposito
Video Assist: Amalia D’Onofrio
Gaffer: Gabrio Contino
Key Grip: Francesco Leonardi
Cameras: ARRI Alexa 35; Panasonic P200; DJI Inspire 3
Aspect Ratio: 1.85:1
Lenses: Leica R rehoused by GLS; Angénieux Optimo 25–250
Colourist: Christian Gazzi
Laboratorio: Grande Mela srl
