Interview curated by Paolo Carnera CCS
The Dostoevskij series by the D’Innocenzo brothers really impressed me. I found it incredibly powerful. As you know, I know Fabio and Damiano, and I’m very curious to hear how you met them, and whether a visual concept for the film took shape from your very first meeting or if it developed along the way…
They sent me the script, and I read it in one go. I’d like to emphasise something: this is the first series in my professional career, and that’s no coincidence. Over the years, I’ve considered various series, but I’ve always found them rather uninspiring, even just in the reading phase, before even thinking about the visuals. I’d get bored after just a few pages. This also has to do with the fact that I don’t watch many series—I rarely feel drawn to them. In general, I like films that have a beginning and an end, where the universe is born and dies within the film itself. With Dostoevskij, I read all six episodes in one sitting, with the feeling that I was reading the script of a single long film. It was a wonderful starting point for our discussions. Fabio and Damiano immediately mentioned a beautiful Australian film called Snowtown, directed by Justin Kurzel (2011), with cinematography by Adam Arkapaw—a grim, filthy setting… It wasn’t a visual reference as such, but something deeper, and I immediately understood why Fabio and Damiano had placed it at the heart of the discussion. Snowtown portrays a provincial town and a tragic true crime case in an extremely simple way. There’s no sense of artifice, yet it’s incredibly expressive, both visually and in its direction. That’s where we started. Then they sent me a collection of images they had gathered during the writing phase—drawings, portraits, paintings, photographs—genuine emotional inspirations. I looked at them again recently and recognised the essence of our creative journey. We spoke about “horizontal” storytelling and the “vertical” development of the characters. Then came three months of preparation—location scouting, costume tests, and, most importantly, invaluable time spent together. That time is essential—it forms the foundation of a strong creative collaboration. It’s what allows you to build a shared vocabulary, made up of words, images, and sensations.
Did your visual concept change during the location scouting, or did it simply solidify by anchoring itself to the physical reality of the places?
The overall visual identity of the series was always there, particularly thanks to Fabio and Damiano’s writing, especially in their scene descriptions. Their storytelling conveys a strong sense of place—you can almost hear the sounds and smell the air. The images, the light, the contrasts, and the half-light emerge almost naturally. The location scouting helped give it concreteness. We would lose ourselves in the places, taking photos even in locations we knew we would ultimately discard. Those photos were a challenge, a way to exchange ideas and compare perspectives. This method continued throughout the shoot, always in search of the most effective frame for that particular moment in the story. We followed a principle of simplicity and immediacy, which led us to the decision to shoot with a handheld camera.
Were you the one behind the camera?
Yes. I was behind the camera for the entire series. We shot with a single camera, as if from one single perspective, one gaze, always thinking of the big screen, of cinema, making the most of the freedom offered by handheld shooting. The camera was both a tool for exploration and for capturing the scene. It was a small camera, a Super 16, very agile—we could place it anywhere. If we saw something interesting, we shot it. If the first take didn’t feel right, we quickly changed position and moved on.
Did the decision to shoot on film come from the directors, or was it your suggestion?
We did some photographic tests. A location had already been chosen—the protagonist’s home, a fisherman’s house at the mouth of the Mignone River. It was ideal, far better than running tests against the sterile walls of a rental house. It was also a way to simulate a day on set together. Carlotta Gamba and Filippo Timi were available, so we brought them along. We wanted to experiment by pushing things to the extremes. We took an ALEXA Mini LF and a Super 16, shooting the same images first with one and then with the other. Many of those shots actually ended up in the series. I’ll admit, one beautiful image captured digitally made it in as well—but I challenge anyone to spot which one. Shooting on 35mm was out of the question because it didn’t offer the same agility as Super 16, even in terms of magazine duration. We spent the whole day testing, and then, quite simply, a couple of days later, we went to the lab, projected the footage on the screen, and it took us no time at all to realise where we needed to go. It was crystal clear—we absolutely had to shoot on Super 16 film.
Why? What was it about Super 16 film that immediately made you realise it was the right medium to convey the emotion of Dostoevskij?
That film stock was rough—so rough it almost felt like skin. It created a kind of gritty surface between the film and the viewer. But the most incredible feature of Super 16—the one that defined our choice—was the way it rendered certain colours, especially skin tones. That was crucial because it allowed us to get inside the characters, to hear their thoughts. Another decisive factor was how film captures darkness—relentlessly, yet with fascinating undertones. We pushed its limits, using energy-saving bulbs and old sodium-vapour streetlights. We embraced the imperfections—they never stopped surprising us. The film was mistreated, underexposed, and developed with forced processing. We followed instinct more than technique.
So you kept the natural imperfections of the film stock?
All the dirt and grain you see is natural. We didn’t do any digital clean-up. Of course, the scans of the dailies weren’t the same 4K scans we used for the final film. Sometimes, there were imperfections in the dailies that we loved but didn’t appear in the final scans. In one scene, we even had to recreate the dailies’ grain with VFX because Walter Fasano had edited that sequence with those imperfections as a fundamental part of the image. Dostoevskij is a brutally intense story with a raw, at times extreme, visual style. The protagonists—Enzo Vitello (Filippo Timi) and the girl, his daughter, played by the brilliant Carlotta Gamba—represent two completely different worlds. Empathising with either of them wasn’t easy. Fabio and Damiano, and you, through the cinematography, did you ever try—if so, how—to connect with their darker side? To empathise with both of them? We never approached our characters from a place of judgment. The protagonist has a deeply dark side—he’s obsessed with his work, obsessed with the serial killer Dostoevskij. We accept him as he is. We accept Niels, Dostoevskij, too. They are tender, fragile, even poetic figures. We told the story through Enzo Vitello; everything revolves around him, and this was reinforced by the handheld camera, which created a kind of symbiosis between the visual and human elements. Filippo Timi and I moved together as if in a dance. But nothing was improvised—we always worked from Fabio and Damiano’s storyboards.
Were they actual storyboards, or the beautiful drawings they are known for?
They were their drawings—you know them very well, too. They’re storyboards that resemble comics. Intense, beautiful. Next to each drawing, there was also a description, a kind of rewritten version of the scene. They each draw independently, creating their own version of the same scene. In the morning, we would find ourselves with two storyboards that were sometimes astonishingly similar—an incredible case of twin telepathy! Other times, though, they would take completely different directions, not just in terms of imagery but also in staging. At that point, a choice had to be made, and that decision became part of our creative process. Then instinct would take over when I was behind the camera. We often shot with short and ultra-short focal lengths, and as I mentioned, I was frequently right up against Filippo. How many times did I find myself sitting on him, in his lap! How many times did I have one eye in the viewfinder while the other watched what he was about to do—just to stay in sync with him, to breathe like him.
And with Carlotta?
With Carlotta as Ambra, the approach was different. It’s always Vitello’s gaze that falls on her—he is the one who leads us to her. And this allows us to welcome her without coldness, even though, instinctively, one might feel inclined to keep a certain distance because her character is incredibly dark; it takes her a while to find the light. I tried to frame and light her with gentleness, stepping softly into her thoughts.
Speaking not as an interviewer but as a viewer, I personally think she is a marvellous character. As an audience member, I felt a deep connection with Ambra, especially because her narrative arc is incredible—it’s amazing where she starts and where she ends up. And Carlotta Gamba is extraordinarily talented. But I wanted to touch on something else… Three months of preparation is exceptional in the Italian industry. I imagine you also had an intense working relationship with the production design and costume departments. We know that our images don’t exist without the colours of the set, without the scenography, without the costumes. How did you collaborate with Roberto De Angelis? Did you also have input on the costumes designed by Luca Canfora and Elena Del Guerra? Or was it more of a distant relationship?
It was a very close collaboration. I knew that the image would be largely built upon the environments and costumes—the colours of the locations, the surroundings, and all the elements within the frame. I wanted my “technical” intervention on set to be minimal, which meant working on every single detail in advance. Once we had chosen the locations, we started working on colours and how to arrange the scenic elements within the space to create depth. The lighting is, at times, highly expressive and, at other times, naturalistic—it either transforms or enhances the locations. For me, preparation is when films come to life. Seeing the actors in costume and makeup helps me to visualise. It’s the same with production design. We did countless scouting trips, first from an artistic perspective, then a technical one. We visited dozens and dozens of locations—many of which were ultimately discarded, but they were invaluable in shaping the series’ visual identity. With Roberto De Angelis, his team, and his set decorator, Andrea Gullace, we talked extensively about colours, materials, and how to layer elements within the frame. We sought balance—only to break it.
What has this experience left you with, working with two such creative directors—among the very few who truly write with the image in mind? What do you think the series will leave you with as a viewer? On a human level, both the positives and the challenges? Because it’s an extreme series, one that demands the viewer endure pain and experience it fully.
Professionally speaking, I can say this has been the most beautiful and rewarding experience of my career. I can say that without hesitation because it has been a true evolution for me in every sense. It was an incredibly long shoot—125 days is a lot, something I’d never experienced before. And believe me, Paolo, I would have gone on for another 200 days! I have a vivid, unique memory of each of those days.We arrived on set every morning filled with fear and curiosity, hoping we could bring to life what we had envisioned. We drove there together, talking about the scene, about the lighting. Sometimes we t alked about completely unrelated things—just a way to relax. We were scared, but we were ambitious. The three of us built a relationship rooted in absolute honesty. We tore down all formalities and spoke to each other directly. We searched for the right shots, celebrated them when they worked, and compared them to bad films when they didn’t! Sometimes Fabio would take the camera and say, “Can I do it?” “Yeah, sure.” Then he’d come back and say, “The viewfinder fogged up—I couldn’t see a thing.” “Yeah, the shot was completely crooked…” It was playful, a way to balance out the dark themes of the story. I’m fully aware that what we’ve told here has a powerful impact. This series is not light, it’s not something just anyone can digest. There are elements, both in the narrative and visually, that are extremely unsettling. But at the same time, I believe it has the power to bring about change in those who watch it, in those who grasp its deeper layers. That’s what happens with all forms of art—cinema, television, painting, literature. Sometimes, things need to be said with force, even with violence. And often, they hurt. Caravaggio’s paintings hurt—they are painful, brutally violent. But they reach deep inside you. Throughout my life, certain books I’ve read, paintings and films I’ve seen, even music I’ve listened to, have literally changed me. Or rather, in that moment, they changed the way I saw my present—and that, in turn, allowed me to take one path instead of another.
In your journey between Italy and Germany—or rather, in your journey through the world—after Dostoevskij and your encounter with the D’Innocenzo brothers, what will you be looking for? Where do you want to go as a cinematographer and visual storyteller? I know this is a very delicate question because I’ve experienced it myself. The deepest desire is to make films that come as close as possible to our inner selves. I know you’ve just finished another film—what direction do you want to take?
It’s a difficult question, a very delicate one, and in a way, deeply personal. I completely understand what you mean because I imagine it’s a question you continue to ask yourself, too. It’s a question that never really has a definitive answer. No matter how many films I make in my career, I will always have seen more films than I have made. Always. Even if I were to shoot ten films a year, I could never surpass the number of films I have watched—the films I deeply love, the ones I have loved, and those I will love in the future. There are films from the past that have shaped me, films I’m deeply attached to—great films, but also mediocre ones that somehow bewitched me. What I look for when reading a story, a script, and in dialogue with a director, is something worth dedicating months of my life to—something that I want to be a spectator of in the end. Certainly, Dostoevskij has raised the bar for me, both as a viewer and as a filmmaker. While shooting the series, I kept saying—I was sure of it—that after Dostoevskij, it would be difficult to find something, not necessarily at the same level, but something capable of opening up that same world inside me, both narratively and in terms of artistic collaboration. I want to take on challenges bigger than myself—much bigger than myself. I want to wake up in the morning and go to set with the fear of being fired, with the fear of not being able to convey the emotion that a particular moment or scene demands. I want to go to bed after a day on set feeling that I have given my best, that I have been sincere in my pursuit. Sometimes I have succeeded more, sometimes less. I want to find stimulating collaborations, interesting films, complex characters. I am also very open—opening a dialogue is something that fascinates me, especially in an era where so many borders have been broken down, thanks to the way we live, to streaming platforms, to so many things. I want to break down cultural and linguistic barriers as well, to engage more and more with realities beyond the world I know. I want to work with directors and crews from different cultures. Recently, I shot a film in Turkey where everyone spoke Turkish—except me. Everyone! And the English they spoke was terrible. And yet, I had an amazing experience. I managed to communicate, I managed to make the film. Cinema is a universal language—it’s a beautiful thing to communicate through cinema.
Matteo, can you tell me how Sky producers Nils Hartmann and Chiara Cucci reacted to the choice of Super 16? What were their reactions during the screening of the tests, with the entire Sky entourage lined up to decide whether to shoot on film or digital?
We’re sitting in the screening room, watching the footage we shot on film—it’s beautiful. Fabio, Damiano, and I are thrilled, very proud. But everyone else is thrown off—it’s not what they were expecting to see. At one point, Nils Hartmann says, “This material needs to pass the quality control,” meaning the technical review, which is the most crucial step for it to be approved for broadcast on Sky Atlantic and internationally. The review would take place in London. So, what happens? At the end of the meeting, we have an idea. The film scan was very raw because I had explicitly requested that no digital clean-up be done—I wanted the image exactly as it was, to see everything in it. So I say, “Let’s not clean up the image. Let’s send the raw, dirty footage to London.” I figured they would object to the dirt and only the dirt—and that was something we could easily fix! So we send the footage to London. A week later, we get the technical report: they say there’s too much dirt. Perfect! We do a digital clean-up, send it back, and it gets approved. And that’s how we ended up shooting on film.
Fantastic!
In that meeting, Romanzo criminale (2008–2010), directed by Stefano Sollima and produced by Cattleya and Sky, was brought up because it was also shot on Super 16. That was our main argument. And Nils said, “Yes, but that was a different era, another geological age, a completely different time…” And I replied, “But it was still Sky, it was you.” In the end, the series embraced that aesthetic, which was more common back then, but it never posed any issue for the audience. And if you watch Romanzo criminale today, for me, it has the same impact as it did back then.
Sky keeps airing it.
And that’s no coincidence!
Thank you, Matteo.
Camera: ARRI SR3
Lenses: Elite s16
Film: Kodak 7219 – 500T
Aspect ratio: 1:1.85
Rental: D-Vision
Post-production: Cinecittà (development/scanning) and Laserfilm (Color Grading)
Operator: Matteo Cocco
Focus Puller: Davide Lonigro
Gaffer: Mauro Belli
Key Grip: Roberto Fucci
Colorist: Nazzareno Neri
