Michele Riondino: An Interview with the Actor and Director on Film, Theater, and Il giovane Montalbano

From cutting his teeth in independent theaters to success in film and television

Michele Riondino has never really changed his ways. Even today, when film and television have made him one of the most recognizable and beloved faces of his generation, he retains that air of a chance encounter: you run into him, he stops, listens, and tells a story. Just like in the days of shows in Rome’s independent venues or neighborhood chats. We meet him again at the Lucca Film Festival with Paolo Strippoli’s La valle dei sorrisi, but the conversation soon drifts elsewhere: cinema, choices, detours. In between there are Il giovane Montalbano, I Leoni di Sicilia, the 2024 David di Donatello for Palazzina Laf, his first film as a director; a work so successful that it makes you want to see him behind the camera again soon. And the theater, of course: the love that has never faded.

Michele Riondino, ospite d'onore al Lucca Film Festival 2025 (20-28 settembre), dove ha ricevuto il Premio Pantera d'Oro

Let’s go back to the beginning. Did you ever have a clear idea of the kind of actor you wanted to be?

Actually, no. I attended the Academy in Rome, so at first my references were mainly theatrical. I asked myself that question later. My years at the Academy, between 1997 and 2001, were also complicated: I struggled to fit into an environment so focused on technique and a specific idea of what an actor should be. Over time, I realized that it was a stroke of luck not to feel entirely at ease. If I could go back, I’d follow the same path. During the day I studied, and in the evening I went to the theater: watching those shows, I began to understand what truly interested me and, above all, what I didn’t want to become.

Was there a moment when you felt you’d taken the right path?

More than a moment, it was a series of choices. After the Academy, I found myself at a crossroads: go abroad, study a language, do workshops, or stay and work. I chose to work. I did everything: TV dramas, children’s TV, theater with a company we’d started with friends. The classic grind: shows in community centers, in basements, but also in large squares. I didn’t leave, but I kept acting. That was the real starting point.

You managed to build a career in TV series without it closing the doors to cinema for you. That’s not a given in Italy.

That’s true. When they offered me Il giovane Montalbano, I was hesitant precisely because of that. And in fact, it wasn’t exactly easy to return to cinema afterward: for a director, choosing a face closely associated with TV can be complicated. But I’d repeat that experience a thousand times over. It was a wonderful period, also because of my encounter with Andrea Camilleri. A true friendship was born, and I continued to exchange ideas with him even after the series ended.

Today there’s a lot of talk about the relationship between auteur cinema and popular cinema. Is that distinction still useful?

In my opinion, we should stop separating the two. The Italian tradition is full of directors capable of telling popular stories with an auteur’s perspective. An auteur is someone who observes the world and translates it into an artistic form. If what they tell concerns people’s lives, it automatically becomes something popular. In the 1970s, our masters did this very well. Today we should return to trusting the audience: making films for others, not just for ourselves.

In a scene from The Fabulous Young Man (2014) with Elio Germano and Anna Mouglalis directed by Mario Martone

Are there any films that have particularly influenced you?

One above all: Monicelli’s I compagni. But also Fantozzi, which remains very important to me: it allows us to laugh at humiliations and at the same time recognize ourselves in those situations. That ability to blend popular storytelling with a critical perspective still interests me greatly.

You’ve also stepped behind the camera. Did your first film begin with this idea of a dialogue with the audience?

Yes. I also wanted to throw them off a bit. Those familiar with the history of my city, Taranto, expected a very direct film on environmental or health issues. Instead, I wanted to explore its complexity. Pollution and disease are central aspects, but the real crux is the employment blackmail: the mechanism whereby the workers’ children were destined to take their fathers’ places. I myself, in reality, could have ended up working in the same plant where my father had worked. That’s where the blackmail came from: do what I tell you because I’ll give you the job. Telling this story without falling into pure tragedy seemed to me the best way to allow the viewer to truly understand that story.

Riondino, what does talent mean to you?

It’s the ability to make the most of the opportunities that come your way. I’ve tried to do this with patience, waiting for the right projects and with the hel