Alla 26ª edizione del Festival del Cinema Europeo di Lecce, abbiamo incontrato Ludovica Rampoldi, regista e sceneggiatrice di “Breve Storia d’Amore”, il suo atteso esordio dietro la macchina da presa. Il film, un intreccio brillante e inquieto di romance, thriller psicologico e ironia sottile, nasce da un’idea che l’autrice custodiva “in un fascicolo del computer da molto tempo”.

La storia segue due coppie – i trentenni Lea e Andrea, e i cinquantenni Rocco e Cecilia – il cui equilibrio si infrange la notte in cui Lea e Rocco iniziano una relazione clandestina. Da qui si sviluppa una spirale emotiva che porta i personaggi a un confronto finale “divertente e drammatico”.

Rampoldi racconta che “Breve Storia d’Amore” affonda le radici nel suo immaginario giovanile: “La prima bozza l’ho scritta a 25 anni”, ricorda. Quel momento ha lasciato il segno: “Avevo delle idee molto intransigenti sulle relazioni umane, che andando avanti nella vita sono cambiate”.

È proprio questo sguardo evolutivo sulle relazioni a costituire il cuore del film: non una morale, ma un interrogativo aperto. “Mi piace interrogarmi e interrogare lo spettatore su come si deve stare all’interno di una coppia, quali sono i confini, cosa è lecito, cosa non è lecito”.

Uno degli aspetti più affascinanti dell’opera è la volontà di non giudicare nessun personaggio. Rampoldi lo rivendica con lucidità: “Nel film non c’è nessuno che sia davvero innocente e nessuno che sia totalmente da condannare”. Per lei la sfida è raccontare la complessità: “Siamo tutti capaci di cose meschine e cose meravigliose allo stesso tempo”.

Questa ambiguità morbida, realistica e profondamente umana permette allo spettatore di riflettersi in ogni figura, di riconoscere fragilità e desideri.

La regista ammette che il nodo più complesso è stato armonizzare i registri narrativi: “Conciliare il romance con aspetti più di inquietudine, di thriller psicologico, insieme all’ironia, è stata la sfida più grande”.

Determinante è stato il lavoro sulla colonna sonora: «La musica di Fabio Massimo Capogrosso tiene insieme queste tre anime».

Il risultato è un film che cambia pelle, sorprende e porta lo spettatore in territori inattesi. Esattamente ciò che Rampoldi desiderava: “Mi piacciono i film che iniziano in un modo e poi ti portano in territori che non ti aspettavi”.

Gran parte della storia si svolge in interni, quasi in un laboratorio emozionale. E non è un caso che uno dei personaggi, interpretato da Adriano Giannini, abbia un formicaio in casa. Rampoldi spiega: “Mi piaceva immaginare questi personaggi come delle mosche in un bicchiere, intrappolati in uno schema mentale”.

L’ultima scena, invece, si apre letteralmente al mondo: un gesto simbolico di liberazione dopo la tensione.

Un altro elemento innovativo di “Breve Storia d’Amore” è la dinamica tra le due protagoniste femminili. Mentre il triangolo amoroso tradizionalmente alimenta rivalità, Rampoldi sceglie un approccio opposto: “Mi piaceva che questo rapporto tra due donne… diventasse molto reale e salvifico”.

Il personaggio di Valeria Golino, psicanalista, “offre gli strumenti per uscire da quel famoso bicchiere” alla giovane interpretata da Pilar Fogliati.

L’ironia è lo strumento con cui Ludovica Rampoldi affronta i temi più delicati: “È lo strumento più affilato per andare in profondità”. Una lezione appresa anche grazie alla scrittura di The Bad Guy: “È la chiave per raccontare delle cose che sono quasi indicibili”.

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Alla 26ª edizione del Festival del Cinema Europeo, il direttore Alberto La Monica ribadisce fin da subito la natura profonda della manifestazione: non solo un evento dedicato al cinema, ma anche un luogo di riflessione civica e culturale. “Il Festival del Cinema Europeo non è solo un evento culturale… è un movimento culturale”, afferma con convinzione.

Il manifesto di quest’anno nasce proprio da questa esigenza: “Non potevamo… non porre questo segno, manifestare un’attenzione, un sentimento, una necessità”. Una presa di posizione necessaria in un momento storico complesso, che il festival rielabora attraverso film e sezioni capaci di leggere criticamente il presente.

Per Alberto La Monica, la missione del festival è chiara: “Avere uno sguardo aperto alla realtà che ci circonda, ai temi profondamente importanti per la nostra vita”. Molte opere selezionate raccontano proprio questo: l’impegno civile, la possibilità di cambiamento, l’azione del singolo.

Il festival diventa così un osservatorio privilegiato su ciò che accade nel mondo, ma anche una piattaforma per riflettere su memoria, ambiente, inclusione, identità culturale e popolare. Lo dimostrano i documentari dedicati allo sport come spazio di riscatto, a Elvira Notari, e alla tradizione locale in La pizzica di Romolo Crudo.

“Il Festival del Cinema Europeo è diventato un punto di riferimento non solo italiano ma europeo”, ricorda La Monica. L’edizione di quest’anno accoglie lungometraggi presentati a Cannes, Berlino, Locarno, Sarajevo: opere che trovano qui la loro anteprima italiana.

Accanto al concorso europeo, non mancano gli omaggi ai grandi autori: “Lars von Trier… straordinariamente noto anche per il suo essere trasgressivo” e “Saverio Costanzo… una delle voci più significative del cinema italiano”. Retrospettive che offrono al pubblico un’occasione preziosa per comprendere l’evoluzione dei loro linguaggi.

L’attenzione ai nuovi talenti è uno dei pilastri del festival. “È una missione quella di porsi al servizio del territorio e dei giovani autori”, spiega La Monica. Centrale, anche nel 2024, la sezione Puglia Show, dedicata ai registi pugliesi under 35, da anni trampolino di lancio per nuove voci che spesso tornano poi al festival con il loro primo lungometraggio.

Emozionanti, racconta il direttore, anche le opere realizzate grazie al Fondo Cinema per la Scuola: “È sconvolgente l’emozione che suscita vedere entrambi i film… lo vedi proprio dai bambini, dai ragazzini”.

Durante la conferenza stampa si è parlato della crisi del cinema, ma Alberto La Monica dissente: “Non penso assolutamente che il cinema europeo sia in crisi”.

Riprende le parole del produttore Nicola Giuliano, premio Olivo d’Oro alla carriera, ricordando che la parola “crisi” accompagna il settore da decenni, spesso senza reale fondamento. “Mai come in questo momento tutti gli attori famosi del cinema italiano sono sul set”, afferma, sottolineando l’intensa attività produttiva in corso.

Più complesso, semmai, il nodo della distribuzione in Italia: “Siamo troppo vittime di ciò che è imposto dal mercato… fatto 100 i film, 90 sono americani”. Qui i festival, compreso il FCE, svolgono un ruolo essenziale: aprire lo sguardo, offrire film che altrimenti non vedremmo mai.

Alla domanda su cosa lo spinga a ricominciare ogni anno, La Monica risponde senza esitazione: “L’attenzione del pubblico, la partecipazione del pubblico”. E aggiunge: “Ci ha emozionato tanto l’attenzione che abbiamo avuto dai distributori e dai produttori”.
Per lui, questa rinnovata fiducia è il vero motore che rende possibile ogni edizione.

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In competition at the 23rd Alice nell Città, Ronan Day-Lewis presented his directorial debut, Anemone, co-written and starred by his father, actor Daniel Day-Lewis.

The film, coming out in Italian cinemas from November 6th with Universal Pictures Italy, marks Daniel Day-Lewis’s return to the big screen, 8 years after the release of Paul Thomas Anderson’s Phantom Thread.

Anemone is a compelling film that delves into the tumultuous journey of a man confronting his past and seeking redemption. The film showcases a narrative of two painful yet rewarding journeys: reconnecting with a brother and embracing fatherhood.

With a screenplay written by father and son, Anemone features Daniel Day-Lewis and Sean Bean as two brothers who, estranged for a long time, meet again in the wilderness where one of them has chosen to live in isolation after a family crisis. Day-Lewis plays Ray, a man who abandoned his wife and young son because of wounds too difficult to manage and buried secrets. The encounter with his brother, once a fundamental bond, brings all the resentments to the surface, along with a confession and perhaps a second chance.

Inspired by his work as a painter, Ronan Day-Lewis crafts a film that is visually meticulous down to the smallest detail, like a succession of tableaux. His camera slowly follows the path of his protagonist, Ray, as he brings unresolved matters to light; and if at first it must chase him, showing him only from behind or in profile, little by little it manages to catch sight of his face, up to a final confrontation.

Ronan Day-Lewis explains that his protagonist, Ray, is experiencing a form of spiritual crisis, having disconnected from his identity and loved ones. The film opens with Ray isolated, while the camera visually reflects his emotional state. Initially shot from behind or at angles that hide his face, the cinematography symbolizes his reluctance to face himself and others. As the story unfolds, the camera gradually approaches, mirroring his internal opening up. The pivotal scene with his former wife, Jem (Samantha Morton) marks a turning point, where the camera finally reveals Ray’s face fully, symbolizing acceptance and emotional vulnerability.

The visual style of Anemone combines mythic elements with everyday realism. The director worked closely with the cinematographer to craft a balanced language inspired by 16th-century illuminated manuscripts and 1990s Sheffield street scenes. This synthesis of the fantastical and the mundane creates a unique aesthetic that underscores the film’s themes, highlighting the tension between myth and reality. The use of music, particularly shoegaze, further enriches the film’s atmospheric tone.

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At the 20th edition of the Rome Film Fest, the director Chloé Zhao presented her latest work, “Hamnet”, in a heartfelt conversation about art, grief, and the metamorphosis of the human spirit. Adapted from Maggie O’Farrell’s acclaimed novel, “Hamnet” revisits the emotional landscape behind Shakespeare’s Hamlet, exploring the timeless cycle of love and death, and how creation can rise from loss.

When asked about the recurring themes in her work, Zhao reflected on her cinematic journey: “The first three films I made were very much about loss and people losing their sense of identity. But then the last two, Eternals and Hamnet, deal with grief differently. Ultimately, Hamnet is about metamorphosis.”

For Zhao, “Hamnet” represents a new creative stage — one where separation dissolves into unity. “It’s about the capacity to alchemize human experiences from one extreme to another, and to get to a place of oneness. All living things must die, passing through nature to eternity — and in this case, through art.”

This philosophical approach defines Zhao’s vision: art as a bridge between the material and the spiritual, between suffering and transcendence.

Throughout “Hamnet”, imagery of darkness and renewal resonates deeply — from the black void of grief to the rebirth through art. “Everything… there is life after death. It’s a cycle. The void is waiting for you, but from there life comes again. It’s like compost,” Zhao says with quiet conviction.

Her reflections draw a direct link between human pain and natural regeneration — death as the fertile ground of transformation. This recurring idea permeates “Hamnet”, from its shadowed forests to the Globe Theatre.

During the interview, Zhao spoke about how art can save and transform: “I’ve lived through the alchemical power of creativity. It heals my psyche, it pulls me out of deep grief and loss, gives meaning to my pain, and it grew me spiritually.”

She challenges the romantic notion that artists must suffer to create: “I really do not agree that artists have to be in pain to create. That’s a myth. The inside has to come first. The work is the inner work.”

For Zhao, filmmaking is not an act of control, but of surrender — a dialogue between the unconscious and the divine.

The director recalls filming the film’s most devastating sequence — Agnes’s scream after losing her child, performed by a stunning Jessie Buckley: “That scream… it’s collective grief coming out of her. Our ancestors knew how to express emotions through the body — they wailed, they danced, they screamed. We’ve forgotten that.”

Zhao’s method channels this ancient energy into cinema: “If I don’t experience catharsis myself while making the film, then there is no catharsis for the audience. I have to live it too.”

Her filmmaking becomes an act of emotional truth, mirroring the cycles of nature and myth.

When discussing the mystical aura surrounding “Hamnet”, Zhao connects feminine intuition with ancient forms of storytelling: “Witchcraft really is just having great sensitivities and trying to listen instead of speak. It’s about listening to what your environment is trying to say through you.”

This, she adds, is the balance she seeks in all her films — between chaos and order, spirit and matter, freedom and containment.

In Zhao’s own words, “Hamnet” is a story of metamorphosis: “Love doesn’t die; it transforms. It is the greatest metamorphosis in this universe.”

As she prepares to bring “Hamnet” to audiences worldwide, Zhao continues to redefine what cinema can be — a space where grief becomes grace, and storytelling becomes alchemy.

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At the 23rd edition of Alice nella Città, director Max Walker-Silverman presented his deeply personal new film, “Rebuilding”, a poetic and humanist tale of loss, memory, and regeneration.
Inspired by his own family’s experience, the filmmaker recalls, “The film is based on seeing my grandmother’s house burn in a wildfire, which was at first one of the great tragedies that has happened in the family, but in the weeks and months afterwards, it became a more complicated and interesting thing.”

For Walker-Silverman, the film’s genesis was not the fire itself, but what followed. “It became about going back to this land that had been black and dead and seeing it covered in wildflowers,” he says. “There will always be a melancholy to it, but there’s a beauty there still, and a sense of life and community, and somehow a path forward.”
From this experience came a story that transforms devastation into rebirth.

Although “Rebuilding” deals with the aftermath of a natural disaster, its emotional core lies elsewhere. When asked whether the film is a story of survival, Max Walker-Silverman reflects: “It is a story about survival, but I hope it’s more than that, because it’s not just about the physical basics of survival, it’s about the emotional side too, and the community side.”

He continues: “After fires, or floods, or earthquakes, or even wars, the way that people care for each other is really just the most amazing thing. It usually doesn’t last as long as it should, but there’s a hope in it nonetheless.”
The film thus captures the fleeting yet transformative power of human connection — the solidarity that emerges when everything else has been reduced to ashes.

At the heart of “Rebuilding” is Dusty, played by Josh O’Connor, a stoic rancher struggling to start anew. Through this quiet character, Walker-Silverman explores a more vulnerable form of masculinity. “This is a man who really believes that he’s self-reliant and that that’s his strength, without realizing how much harder that is making his life and the life of his family,” he explains.

In Dusty’s journey, strength becomes synonymous with openness. “At the end, it’s a story about this guy accepting not only that other people need him, but that he needs other people. And that’s not weakness; that is strength, and that takes courage.”
In a subtle critique of the myth of the self-reliant cowboy, the director exposes the emotional cost of isolation, particularly in rural America. “That story is real and needed everywhere, but especially where I’m from,” he adds.

Throughout the interview, Max Walker-Silverman returns to the themes of memory and home — notions made fragile by loss but strengthened by remembrance. “Somewhere between our memories of a place and our hopes for it is home,” he reflects. “I’ve seen the places change too much to believe it’s entirely a physical thing. But what we remember, what we hope for — if those revolve around a single idea or place — I think that’s probably home.”

This reflection connects to one of the film’s most touching moments, when a grandmother speaks of keeping her brother’s memory alive. For Walker-Silverman, this memory becomes more powerful than loss itself: “The things we’ve lost can still be very real and can still be very much with us, and it can be worth having had them even if they’re lost.”

Asked what he hopes audiences will take away from “Rebuilding”, the director’s answer is simple yet profound: “The greatest experiences of art to me are when I close the book or take off the headphones and look out the window and just enjoy what I see a little bit more. I hope there’s some experience of beauty in the film that makes someone’s life just a little more colorful.”

With its quiet strength and luminous empathy, “Rebuilding” reminds us that beauty can survive catastrophe — and that sometimes, rebuilding means learning to see the world anew.

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During the 20th edition of the Rome Film Fest we spoke with Michel Franco, director of “Dreams”, starring Jessica Chastain and Isaac Hernández.

The movie delves into the complex themes of physical and psychological borders, presenting raw insights on the blurred lines between love and destruction, privilege and oppression. At its core, “Dreams” explores a tumultuous relationship between a Mexican immigrant and a privileged art patron, and while their personal connection and sexual relationship is central, the story subtly exposes the broader political landscape—highlighting how nowadays borders are both geographical and psychological. Also portraying how the American Dream can today morph into a prison itself, especially for migrants forced to seek survival beyond their homeland.

“Dreams” director Michel Franco stressed the attention on how many Mexicans and other Latin Americans don’t choose to migrate; they are forced by the circumstances. The film, indeed critiques how immigrants are often exploited, becoming merely a tool for economic and political gain without true access to social security or any type of rights, being only valued on the base of their labor.

Michel Franco answered also on how the issues that emerge in the film are very close to the director’s roots themselves, examining how talent and work are valued by the US often only on a utilitarian basis. Immigrants are there tolerated as long as they serve a purpose, yet are denied the protections afforded to citizens, exposing harsh realities of inequality and systemic exploitation. These complex themes enrich, in the end, a film that truly urges viewers to reconsider perceptions of borders, labor, and dignity, through the eyes of a toxic relationship of mutual power, control, and even vengeance.

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At the 23rd edition of Alice nella Città, the director Laurent Slama, presented his film  “A Second Life” Out of Competition. After traveling from Tribeca to Karlovy Vary, Slama’s film arrives in Rome with its delicate mix of realism, intimacy, and social reflection — a story about isolation, perception, and the search for connection in a modern world mediated by screens and noise.

For Slama, bringing “A Second Life” to Alice nella Città means engaging with the very audience the film was made for. “Yeah, it’s something very special because I think that the film will talk to a young audience,” he says. Yesterday I had some meetings with like 20 teenagers from high school. It was so… so nice and so deep in terms of exchange.”
The filmmaker reflects on how young viewers approach his work with unique sensitivity: “They are very, I don’t know, very sensitive. Because they are building themselves, and so yeah, it’s very… I feel very humbled to have the chance to show the film to this audience.”

The idea for “A Second Life” emerged unexpectedly, born from creative frustration and a powerful encounter. “So the idea comes from— it’s an old idea. I’ve been working on a totally different script in Paris and I was not happy with the film, so I let it aside,” Slama recalls.
Then came a turning point: “I met Agathe Roussel, the main actress, for another movie. It was like seven months before the Olympics, and it struck me that she was perfect for that hard-of-hearing character.”

From there, the process became urgent and instinctive: “I get back to work with the idea of writing a script for her to shoot during the Olympics. It was speedy and intense writing, and also preparing the film at the same time… I like this very strong and deep energy.”

Set during the Paris Olympic Games, the film turns the city itself into a living presence. “It’s more like a big documentary,” Slama explains. “I’m also holding the camera, so I’m really into the shooting with the actor.” Despite fears of chaos, the experience surprised him: “Paris was not so crowded at that time… all the Parisians were very afraid of the Olympics, so they left the city. It was a very nice moment, even if they decided to kick out all the homeless of Paris and there was some kind of social repression before the Olympics.”

The paradox between celebration and exclusion gives the film a political undercurrent — an echo of real-life contradictions hidden beneath global spectacle.

The protagonist, Elisabeth, is a hearing-impaired American living in Paris, and her perception defines the film’s emotional rhythm. “The main character is hard of hearing, so it’s not something very common in cinema,” says Slama. “But I like to explore the state that she’s in between. She’s between people who can hear and people who cannot hear. And she’s also between people who live and people who don’t live, because she’s experiencing depression.”

For Slama, sound becomes both a boundary and a bridge: “There was a strong attention on sound designing, because I wanted the cinema, the theatre to be like the experience of her perception. That’s why it’s important to see a film in cinema — because the sound is important and you can feel it.”

Across his work, Slama explores the relationship between people and the city. “Maybe because I am always shooting very freely in the crowd. This is what I like,” he admits. “We have such a revolution in terms of technique with the digital cinema revolution. We have very small cameras — it was the dream of the French New Wave — and I want to continue to explore that and explore the link in the city.”

A fascinating autobiographical thread runs through the film: the protagonist’s name, Elisabeth Vogler, was once Slama’s pseudonym. “I used the pseudonym for my two first features… I was very into this Bergman film Persona. When I wanted to leave the pseudonym, I decided to give it to the character so I can let it go. It’s some kind of ritual, I guess.”

Finally, the meaning behind the title: “I think it’s, for me, just some kind of hope, you know? Hope that you can change, you can start something new. There is always a moment that you can break a circle and try to change a little bit and have a new perception on life.”

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At the 23rd edition of Alice nella Città, Carla Simón, the acclaimed Catalan filmmaker behind “Summer 1993” and “Alcarràs“, talks about her new film “Romería”.

A delicate and deeply personal work, “Romería” closes a trilogy in which Carla Simón has explored family, loss, and identity through the lens of memory and imagination.

“When I started with my first film, Summer 1993, I didn’t know I would make two more films about my family,” Carla Simón explains. “But it just happened. I have a very big family full of stories.”

With “Romería”, the director completes a cycle that began with childhood and ends with motherhood, marking a turning point in her creative and personal journey. “After Romería, I feel that I already talked about all of them somehow,” she reflects. “Now my perspective has changed — I’m part of the middle generation.”

In “Romería,” Marina travels to Spain’s coast to meet her late father’s family, as Carla Simón turns loss into a journey of memory and love.

One of the most striking aspects of “Romería” is its exploration of cinema as a way to create memories that never existed. As Simón says, “I realized that I have cinema to create these images that I was lacking. If you’re conscious that you are imagining it, you know that you can get close to reality, but it will never be reality.”

In this sense, “Romería” becomes both a reconstruction and a reinvention, a poetic act of healing through storytelling. Simón’s own loss inspires the film — both her parents died of AIDS when she was a child — and her effort to reconnect with her father’s family years later.

Her words are as moving as they are lucid: “If my parents were alive and they told me their love story, maybe it would not be exactly as they tell it anyway. So I thought, why not imagine it?”

After the observational realism of “Summer 1993” and “Alcarràs“, “Romería” introduces a dreamlike, lyrical dimension. “I wanted to have more poetry,” Simón admits. “Cinema can be many other things, and here came the idea of having this part more imagined or more dreamy.”

This shift is reflected in the film’s rhythm and visual tone, which move fluidly between memory, imagination, and gesture. A key sequence, featuring a musical interlude, evokes the collective energy of Spain’s 1980s youth. “I thought it was a nice way to tell that this happened to many other people,” she says, noting that the chosen song is from Vigo, her father’s hometown.

For Simón, family is made of gestures as much as words. “There are many things in family relationships that are not said, that are more through gestures,” she explains. In “Romería” , Marina’s actions — handling the ropes of a boat as her father once did — become a form of inheritance, a physical echo of belonging.
“I relate the sea to my parents,” she says. “My father used to sail, and my mother talked about the sea in her letters. It represents the freedom they felt in that time.”

Known for her work with non-professional actors, Carla Simón continues her commitment to authenticity. “If you are portraying a family, you need to create intimacy between the actors,” she says. Through rehearsals and improvisations, she helps them “create a shared memory,” allowing emotions to feel real on screen.

Asked what memory she feels she’s finally created through “Romería”, Simón smiles: “It gave me the chance to create a lot of images from my parents’ story. But the most important one was their love.”

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At the 20th edition of the Rome Film Fest, FRED Film Radio met director Julien Temple and photographer and collector Johnny Pigozzi to talk about their latest collaboration, “I’m Curious Johnny”, a vibrant and unconventional documentary presented as a special screening at the festival.

The film dives into the extraordinary life of Johnny Pigozzi, a man who has been called many things — photographer, art collector, entrepreneur, philanthropist — but who, as the film suggests, might best be described as a collector of people and moments. With appearances by Mick Jagger, Michael Douglas, Diane von Furstenberg, and Graydon Carter, the documentary captures a lifetime of encounters with icons, while also offering an intimate glimpse into Pigozzi’s self-made mythology.

When asked how the project began, Johnny Pigozzi explained: “It started during COVID. I decided to do some interviews with friends of mine. And I spoke to about 50 people. I said, you can ask me whatever question you want. Obviously, I could edit them… So I had all these interviews, but I didn’t really know what to do with them.”

After showing the material to producer Jeremy Thomas, the idea evolved into something larger.

“We made it a much bigger, more fun, and more diverse and very visual, and very different kind of film than a regular interview film,” Pigozzi said. “The film we made… is not boring.”

Director Julien Temple, known for his groundbreaking work in music and documentary cinema, embraced the challenge of turning digital limitations into creative strength. “The interviews were on Zoom, which is different from a formal interview,” Temple noted. “It’s interesting because you see a version of the real person that’s different from the formal setup… despite the quality being shit, basically.”

Temple emphasized the aesthetic richness that comes from working across formats — VHS, DigiBeta, Mini-DV, and 70mm: “There’s incredible information in the way something is recorded. That’s also at the heart of this film. It was fun using Zoom as a subject as well as a means of viewing.”

The film draws heavily from Johnny Pigozzi’s personal archives, amassed over more than 50 years of photography. “I want my archives to be as public as possible,” he explained. “I think they’ll be even more interesting in a hundred years’ time… I’m not a paparazzi who’s behind the tree with a long zoom lens. I’m usually 20 or 30 centimeters away, so the pictures are much more intimate.”

Temple compared Pigozzi’s visual legacy to that of the early French photographer La Tigue: “A hundred years later, La Tigue’s photographs are the most interesting record of that time and that society. In a similar way, Johnny’s images capture moments where people are at home with being photographed.”

When asked if Johnny Pigozzi could be considered a rockstar himself, Julien Temple replied playfully, “Maybe he’ll become one. He’s a great percussionist, by the way.”

To which Pigozzi laughed: “One day I was at a party with Mick Jagger, and he introduced me saying, ‘This is Johnny Pigozzi, who’s been to more Rolling Stones concerts than myself.’ But I’ve fallen asleep at Led Zeppelin concerts, ACDC concerts… I’d rather take pictures and go home than jump around.”

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At the 20th edition of the Rome Film Fest, filmmaker Ari Aster presented his latest film, Eddington — a story set in small-town New Mexico, where a fragile community spirals into conflict and paranoia. The film, starring Joaquin Phoenix and Pedro Pascal, reimagines the American Western through the lens of modern technology and social division.

Speaking with FRED Film Radio, Ari Aster discussed the film’s origins and the atmosphere that inspired it.

“The film is set at the end of May, the beginning of June 2020, and that’s when I started writing it,” he explained. “I would say the initial inspiration was just kind of what was in the air; it felt like things were more fraught than I had ever experienced in the country.”

The director continued:

“Since writing it, things have only become more fraught and more uncertain and more worrying. And so I guess the film kind of just came out of my alarm over where we were, where we seemed to be headed, and just trying to get my hands around it and trying to wrestle with a lot of what I was feeling.”

While Eddington explores contemporary issues, Ari Aster grounded it in one of the oldest American genres: the Western. But, as he points out, it’s a Western reimagined for our age.

“Part of the project became, okay, how do I pull back as far as I can and include as much of the culture as possible while still telling a…” he said, reflecting on his creative process. “And in the end, the film is, it’s a satire, it’s many things, but it’s a Western. And it’s a movie about small-town rivalries that intensify and lead to violence.”

In “Eddington”, those rivalries are no longer fought with guns — but with digital weapons. The feud between the sheriff and the mayor becomes a metaphor for how technology and online tensions bleed into real life, blurring the lines between communication and confrontation.

One of the most striking elements of “Eddington” is its depiction of smartphones as instruments of both connection and destruction. Aster acknowledged that this was central to the film’s design.

“I think that there’s a tendency, especially in contemporary films, to sort of retreat from the moment, from the present, because there’s something kind of unpleasant about the moment, and there’s something not very interesting about people on their phones.”

He challenges that assumption directly:
“But I do find that there’s something very insidious about how much we live on our phones and how glued we are to our phones and how dependent we are on them. And I wanted to make a film that didn’t exaggerate, it doesn’t exaggerate, you know, how much we want our phones, but it also, it strives to acknowledge how often we are on our phones.”

Aster underlines that the story isn’t about excess or exaggeration, but about reflecting reality as it is.
“It’s a movie that I think maybe underscores phone usage more than most would. But at the same time, I don’t think anybody’s on their phone in this film more than you or I might be.”

“Eddington” emerges as both a satire and a social mirror, capturing the anxieties of 2020 and the constant hum of digital life. Through his distinctive tone and perspective, Ari Aster transforms a local story of rivalry into a universal parable of disconnection and dependence.

The film, set in a small town but resonating far beyond, marks a shift in Aster’s career — from the psychological horror of “Hereditary“ and “Midsommar“ to a new kind of horror: one rooted in everyday behavior, in what we see and share.

His words remind us of the urgency that inspired the film:
“It felt like things were more fraught than I had ever experienced in the country… I guess the film came out of my alarm over where we were.”

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