Interview with Emanuele Scaringi – Horror Cinema Between Vision, Technique, and the Future

Horror is often used to exorcise collective fears or reflect social anxieties. In your films, what recurring themes do you choose to explore through horror, and why?

In a review for Taxidrivers, Carlo Cerofolini described my work as “the intimate tale of rebellious lives, and for that, forced to the margins.” I like that definition. I’m not sure whether I exorcise fears or try to face them. I really don’t know. We’re afraid of the Other, of what comes from outside, only to discover that the monster is within us—like in Pantafa, which is a “monster in the house” story. A female monster, by the way. Rare, like the brujas. In this case, we started, together with Tiziana Triana who co-wrote the story and screenplay with me, from a scientific starting point: a study on sleep paralysis and how it’s linked to a folk legend. I love folklore. I wanted to take an ancient fairytale and make it contemporary—the evil that reincarnates and is destined to repeat itself across time—so that I could talk about the ghosts of our fears. Tackling a theme that would be hard to explore in any other genre: the hatred of one’s own children.

In the Italian cinematic landscape, horror has seen mixed fortunes. What do you think are the main obstacles to the spread of a truly “Italian” horror that can compete internationally, and how can they be overcome?

Making horror in Italy is madness. You risk paying the price and being out of work for years. The genre’s heyday was in the '70s, with Fulci and Argento. Even an incredible film like Bones and All didn’t do well (even though it wasn’t very Italian, really). Horror is simply considered a second-rate genre. Producers don’t see it, broadcasters are still stuck on Raimi’s The Evil Dead, the first one from 1981. If you’re lucky, they’ll let you talk about The Exorcist or Rosemary’s Baby. There’s no attention. Audiences don’t believe in it on principle: “Italian director.” Genre fans, if it’s not an indie film but mainstream, shoot it down thinking it’s a sellout. Distributors dump you into multiplexes at the last slot, outside major cities—when the target audience you need to rebuild is the younger one. It's unthinkable to even imagine creating a kind of factory—an industry—like Blumhouse. With Pantafa, I had the honor of being invited to Raindance on Halloween night and being awarded at the Torino Film Festival in the “Crazies” section, created by the late Luciano Sovena, one of the few horror enthusiasts who once asked me how I even managed to get a horror film produced. Despite all that, the film struggled and still hasn’t made it onto any platforms—because, at the moment, “the algorithm” says it doesn’t work. Last year at Nuova Ola, the Spanish film festival organized by Exit Media, I saw The Coffee Table by Caye Casas. It was a brilliant, darkly humorous film from a few years prior, shot in just a couple of weeks, and nobody had seen it. Then, one night—somewhere in some obscure catalog—Stephen King, who struggles with insomnia, saw it and tweeted about it. The film exploded and started winning award after award at festivals all over. We need Stephen King to tweet more—if you have a contact, send him Pantafa.

You've also worked as a screenwriter. How does your writing approach change when you're developing a horror film compared to other genres? Are there structural or narrative rules you consider essential?

It’s been a very interesting experience—working on horror in general, but especially on the writing side. Maybe because it’s the part I reflect on the most, and it lasts for years until there’s a green light. In a way, the writing never ends. During prep, during shooting, during editing. If I could, I’d go back and rewrite some of my past work—though with the fear that I might not be able to recreate them. In some ways, working on a story is a story in itself—a research process. Characters often surprise you, and the film takes an unexpected, independent direction. In my stories, I try to leave space for the audience—to make sure they’re free to have their own experience. That, too, is a form of rewriting. Everyone sees their own personal version of the film. I don’t know if there are any rules, and with humility, I don’t feel I can teach anyone anything—I think everyone has to find their own way. But yes, compared to a drama where you need to clearly present the protagonist and their goals, a horror film works in reverse. Things are revealed slowly—you need to build mystery and tension until the final rupture. Every scene is thematic and always hides something. I had to relearn how to write a screenplay.

The construction of tension is a key element in horror cinema. Do you prefer working with slow-burning suspense or a fast-paced, adrenaline-driven rhythm? Can you talk about a specific example from your work?

I like when tension creeps under your skin gradually, subtly—you shouldn’t even notice it. And at a certain point, you find yourself in an anxious state where everything scares you. It’s the everyday you should fear, because you don’t know where danger will come from—it could come from anywhere. People often make the mistake of thinking suspense is about fast or slow editing. For me, what keeps you glued to the screen is knowing what the character is feeling—so that you can stay with them. If you push too hard or too mechanically on the gas pedal, it becomes numbing after a while. You need a bit of both—it's the rhythm shifts that keep a story’s tension alive, not the speed itself. To give an example: sound. At first, we got carried away. We studied the masters—deconstructed James Wan’s sound design, Fatih Akın, Jean-Marc Vallée. And we got greedy: drones, Wilhelm Scream, jump scares, heavy music. It was a muscular approach. But after the second or third edit, with editor Gianluca Scarpa and that sound genius Gianni Pallotto—we stripped it all out. Gone. It was scarier without. Suggesting, evoking—instead of shouting. For this specific story, a The Others-style approach made more sense. Not that there’s nothing, to be clear—there is, but you don’t notice it. It’s subliminal. Not showy. And that’s something I’m most proud of. And it was a full team effort—from the lighting crafted by Simone D'Onofrio, with the choice of Hawk anamorphic lenses, to Kasia Smutniak, who trusted me and surrendered to dark territory with a generosity few actors have. She even managed to involve Oscar-winning costume designer Gabriella Pescucci, and then Alessandro Vannucci’s production design, who recreated the house on multiple levels inside an old granary.

Many horror directors cite influences like Dario Argento, John Carpenter, Ari Aster, or Jordan Peele. Which horror filmmakers or works have most inspired you, and how do these influences show in your visual or narrative style?

Ari Aster annoys the hell out of me—just kidding, can I say that? This is a weird job. The same film can become a sensation and launch you—or go completely unnoticed. I remember seeing Ryan Coogler’s first film Fruitvale Station, which despite playing at Cannes, wasn’t even released in Italy, when I was thinking about making a film on Stefano Cucchi. Look at who he is today, and what a wonder The Sinners is. Jordan Peele and Blumhouse films like The Visit were definitely important for me. Especially Get Out and Us, because Peele mixed horror with comedy—something usually forbidden because it risks breaking the tension. And yet Get Out is a small film that could have been made here, if someone knew how to write it. It hits the theme of racism and flips it. Brilliant. It won the Oscar for Best Screenplay—with a finale where the protagonist is tied to a chair for half an hour and even travels to a parallel world. Try pitching an ending like that—see what people say. But my greatest inspirations come from American cinema of the '70s: Deliverance, Don’t Look Now, Peckinpah. And Freaks—that film marked me. That unbeatable 1932 masterpiece… what a love story. The Night of the Hunter. Random titles: Near Dark by the greatest living director Kathryn Bigelow, Jennifer’s Body by Diablo Cody, and the Spanish masterpiece Who Can Kill a Child? by Narciso Ibáñez Serrador. I’m sure I’m forgetting someone. Let the Right One In!

At a time when AI and virtual reality are changing the cinematic language, how do you envision the future of horror cinema? Do you think these technologies can enhance or distort the genre?

Like with any new technology—there’s no point in resisting it. It depends how it’s used. It could be a helpful tool, making access easier, lowering costs, and democratizing the work. But I doubt it will be used that way. In a sense, the infamous Algorithm already acts as a kind of artificial intelligence. It processes successful films and tries to replicate them: that’s the market. But here’s the thing—most of the time, the replicas are pale imitations. We’re not making rebar. Ours is not a factory where every piece is the same. Perception changes over time. We are storytelling society itself—you can’t know in advance what will resonate. We make prototypes. Every film, series, documentary is unique. What AI and algorithms can’t do is create new stories. They can remix, based on what already exists. They repeat what’s already been seen. We mustn’t chase the market—we should try to create alternatives. Not be dominated by the medium, but use it to enhance our stories.

Can you give us a sneak peek into your upcoming horror-related projects? Are there any themes, atmospheres, or experiments you're currently working on that we might soon see on screen?

Haberlas, haylas. That’s a Galician saying—it doesn’t mean “they exist,” but rather “they might.” I’m working on a docuseries about a self-proclaimed saint—a healer, a fraud. It should come out next year. What interests me is why people believe. Why we entrust ourselves. The need to believe tied to magical thinking. That’s a theme I’m exploring in other projects too. I remain fascinated by folk beliefs, urban legends, and cognitive biases. And sooner or later, I’ll return to Malanotte (which in Spain has become a successful comic book)—the town where Pantafa is set. This time with the origin story of the myth, set in the past. I’d like to flip the dynamic compared to Pantafa: tackle a contemporary theme like abortion, but set it in the past. With midwives called in for unwanted pregnancies and the world of the mazzamurelli that visit you and pull your feet at night. Not just yet, though…Haberlas, haylas.

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