Federico Zampaglione
In your horror film Tulpa, you fully embraced the aesthetic of 1970s Italian giallo, with its hallucinatory atmospheres, erotic tension, and stylized violence. How much did your musical background with Tiromancino influence the visual and sonic construction of that film? Do you think your ear as a musician makes you a more sensory-oriented director?
For others, there’s no direct connection between Tiromancino’s music and the films I make. With music and cinema, I express two different sides of my inner world, that’s true—but my creative approach remains the same: describing emotions. Whether it’s a romantic, intimate, or frightening emotion doesn’t really matter. It’s still an emotion… and fear is exactly like love in that sense.
Throughout your career, you’ve explored different genres—from music to writing, from comedy to horror—but it seems that horror is where you dig deepest into the psyche and collective fears. Was there a specific moment when you realized horror was the most honest medium to express some of your inner obsessions?
As a child, I became fascinated with the genre and its boundless imagery. I must have been around six years old. Since then, horror has always been a great passion and an important source of inspiration for me. As a teenager, I didn’t have posters of musicians in my room—I had posters of horror films.
In your recent film The Well, the protagonist undergoes both a literal and symbolic descent into terror, and there’s a deep reflection on the female figure, balancing vulnerability and dark power. Is there a political or autobiographical intention in the way you construct your female characters in horror?
In general, horror allows for very fierce social critiques. It’s a genre well suited to metaphorical representations of reality. In my first horror film Shadow, I tackled war; in Tulpa, the focus was more on critiquing superficial moralism. In The Well, the target is ruthless ambition and the unscrupulous pursuit of profit, which can turn even the best people into monsters. Female characters—with their sensitivity and apparent vulnerability—fit perfectly into these kinds of extreme, unsettling stories.
Contemporary Italian horror often struggles to find production and distribution opportunities. Yet you’ve managed to maintain a recognizable and unique style. What compromises are you willing to make, and which do you absolutely refuse, in order to defend your authorial vision within a genre that remains marginalized in Italy?
Italian horror is, unfortunately, in rough shape. It’s a sector plagued by production and distribution issues. There’s a lot of passion from some people—but also enormous envy and an almost obsessive need to constantly reference the glorious past of the Italian masters. Luckily, I’ve got broad shoulders. When I set my mind to something, I go straight ahead and listen very little to what others say—because I focus on doing, not just talking. My latest film was sold in 104 countries, and results like that don’t come from chatter.
You’ve worked with your daughter Linda and with Claudia Gerini in very different but always intense contexts. How do you build a professional relationship with people to whom you’re so emotionally connected in private life? Are you able to separate the set from your personal sphere, or do you think that emotional closeness adds truth and depth to the performances?
On set, actors are actors, regardless of any other bonds we may share. The story we’re telling always takes precedence over everything else.
In recent years, you’ve built a horror filmography that’s increasingly solid, recognizable, and appreciated even abroad. Can you share anything about your upcoming projects in the genre? Are you exploring new subgenres, or deepening your personal cinematic language?
I’m working on a new film—very disturbing and frightening… but for now, I can’t say anything more.
Links:
The well
