Q&A WITH GIANFRANCO ROSI

Q. Why did you want to make a film about Naples?

A. Most of my films come about by accident. There is always some encounter, some person, or some situation that brings me somewhere. I’m not from Naples and I’d only visited as a tourist, passing by for two or three days. I always felt the complexity of the city when I was there, although I never felt like I’d make a film about Naples. Then my friend Pietro Marcello, who made Martin Eden and Duse, said, “I think you should make a film in Naples.”

So, as I was promoting my film Notturno in Naples, I started to look at the city in a totally different way — with the idea that it could be a film. It’s a diverse city. It’s a laboratory for the future. It’s like New York. It lives in a future-perfect. But also, there was one element of it that became very important to me: the weight of the past. It is constantly there and I wanted the film to be a reflection of this idea that Naples is immersed in suspended time.

I wanted the film to be about time. About time from a zone of transition — between what Naples was, what it is, and what it could be. That became a four-year challenge. I tried to encounter stories and situations that embodied these ideas, which was in itself very abstract. Then, I tried to translate this abstraction into filmed reality. It’s very important for me to work to transform reality. I don’t care much about the word “documentary.” What’s important for me is that a film always uses the language of cinema to transform reality into something else, into suspended time. This involves an element of subtraction and storytelling.

There are so many different stories in the film. Each of these could be a documentary on its own. The challenge is how to bring all of these stories into a film through editing. To find how these stories talk to each other. I start without a script and let the encounter with reality become part of the work. Without an encounter, my work does not exist. The first encounter is with a place, then within this space with people. Then, I try to find harmony between these things through an editing structure. Storytelling starts within my frame, with an encounter.

Q. This is your first film shot in black-and-white in a while. What motivated your decision to shoot in this format?

A. Black-and-white, for me, was always the beginning. Boatman, my first film, was shot in black-and-white. After that, ten years passed and I did not make a film because I thought that I had nothing left to say. It was my school. It’s how I learned: the distance, the frame, the storytelling, the encounter. 

In Below the Clouds, black-and-white was a narrative choice. It was not an aesthetic choice. I had to learn how to look at things in black-and-white. The difference between Boatman and this film was that with Boatman we were shooting on 16mm. So, when I was looking through the viewfinder, I was looking in color. I had to imagine the black-and-white. It’s different with digital, but I still look through the viewfinder because, for me, everything starts when I look inside the frame. It’s like a scientist looking through the microscope discovering a reality that you cannot see with your bare eyes. 

Black-and-white allowed me to uncover different kinds of truths. It invites the imagination and pushes you. It makes the eye see a new way. I had to learn how to perceive the world around me through shades of gray. When I think about the film, I think that black-and-white helped create the distance between the different layers in this zone of transition: between what Naples has been, what it is, and what it will be. 

I also wanted to include archival footage from the start, but I didn’t want to use it as a counterpoint. In a way, the present, in black-and-white, becomes archival. It immediately becomes part of the past. 

Q. There are always multiple stories overlapping in your films. Since the coverage in your work is so extensive, is there a method to how you select who and what stories make it into the final edit?

A. Someone asked me that question and I said, “If I found a method, I would probably stop making films because I’d be so bored.” It’s different every time. I can only open myself to something and not impose myself on that. I can only let reality come to me and talk to me. 

At the end of this film, after four years, I asked myself, “Where did this story come from?” I don’t know. I don’t remember. All those stories were already there. I just had to look at them. To represent them. But, I don’t know how this happens. 

My method is like a game. I like to be enchanted by the splendor of reality. Every film I do is like the first film and the last film. Always. That attitude gives me freedom. It allows me to not become obsessed with whether a film will be successful or not. I can always say, “I can fuck it up this time because it’ll be my last film.” 

Q. What is the last film you saw and loved?

A. Luis Buñuel’s Los Olvidados.

Q. Where is your favorite place to watch movies?

A. When I was studying, I immersed myself in cinemas. That’s where I learned everything. New York, in the ‘80s, was a perfect laboratory for filmmakers. I remember going to the matinees at 10 o’clock. You would just immerse yourself in these cinemas and watch all of Bergman, Buñuel, Antonioni. You went from one place to another place. That was incredible. I believe that the cinema is the most important place to watch a film. When I make a film, I never think about the small screen. I always think about the cinema. The larger screen. 

What I love about seeing a film on the big screen is that we are smaller than what we are watching. That is the beauty of cinema. But now we’ve forgotten this. I was recently on a plane and I was looking at a guy who was staring at his wrist for hours. I thought, “What the fuck is he doing? Is he looking at the time? Is he counting time? What is he doing?” Then I realized he was looking at a film. He was watching a film on his wristwatch, so he had to keep his arm up for hours. This is terrible. We’ve lost perspective.

Q. Who, or what, do you think is the future of filmmaking?

A. Think about the broken cinema in Below the Clouds, where I film a screening in a space where people once shared cinema together. An abandoned theater, for me, is like an archaeological site. It echoes stories that are buried. As I was filming, I felt the memory of cinema was still there. I still believe that our generation, at least, perceives cinema as an important part of the collective memory. 

Unfortunately, I believe that the production landscape is destroying the point-of-view. Right now, most streaming platforms don’t even list the name of the director. I feel like they want to cancel the strength of the point-of-view, of authorship. That’s probably where cinema is going, with the idea of algorithms creating stories that are more and more accessible. That happens when you watch some of the series on these platforms. You can watch them, go cook, come back and still follow the story. It’s absurd. It’s become something else: a consumption of images. It’s no longer a journey. I’m very afraid cinema is cancelling the power of the individual, of the point-of-view, of the director, of the screenwriter. 

Q. Who is an underappreciated artist you admire and why?

A. There are so many people I thought would become great directors and did not succeed. I started this journey with so many friends that got lost. Unfortunately, it is hard to keep making documentary films. I am very, very privileged. I have an incredible producer and the freedom to take my camera places to shoot. I also now have the privilege to have a budget for my films, but before I had to do everything on my own. 

Boatman. Below the Sea level. Sicario. These were all films I made without a producer. With no money. Still, they gave me incredible freedom because if I’m unable to put together a budget for a film tomorrow I can still go and film. This is what I want young filmmakers to understand: you don’t have to wait for a producer to make a film.

A lot of people I meet say, “I don’t have the budget.” But you can now make a film with a phone. You just have to film. I made my films with zero budget. I worked for 20 years without recognition. I persisted. Then I was lucky enough to win a prize with Sacro GRA  at the Venice Film Festival and, from there, things changed for me. It became much easier to put together a budget. But, again, the biggest investment in my work has been time. For me, the ultimate film would be one that I could start tomorrow and would never end. One that someone else would edit. Filming. Filming. Filming. That’s my ultimate idea for a perfect project. Something you start and never have to edit. 

Q. What image would you like to end this interview with?

A. As soon as you asked me that, what came to mind is the last frame of my film. At the end of the film, I would like the viewer to ask themselves a question. “Is there still hope?”

Sooner or later, our civilization will be submerged like the Roman statues in the last part of the film. The question for me with that image, when everything becomes blurry and everything disappears, is, “What have we left behind?”