Vittorio Storaro and Bernardo Bertolucci created one of the most important artistic collaborations in cinema history. Their encounter was predestined in time. Together, they collaborated on nine films: Before the Revolution (1963), The Spider’s Stratagem (1970), The Conformist (1970), Last Tango in Paris (1972), 1900 (1976), La Luna (1979), The Last Emperor (1987), The Sheltering Sky (1990), and Little Buddha (1993).  With The Last Emperor, they both won the Academy Award®—for Best Director and Adapted Screenplay (Bertolucci) and Best Cinematography (Storaro)—a unique moment in Italian cinema. 

“Storaro in the Films of Bernardo Bertolucci” is a far-reaching project that encompasses a book, a traveling photo-cinematographic exhibition, masterclasses, and a restoration initiative of the films they created together.  You and Bertolucci wrote some of the most evocative and iconic pages of cinema’s imagery. What drove you to collect your collaboration and friendship in a book—the most personal and intimate of those you’ve written so far? 

I’d like to begin with a brief premise. At a certain point in one’s career—whatever the field—after a certain number of projects and years, one feels the need to take stock. Otherwise, there’s a risk of moving forward without renewal, merely repeating oneself and one’s work.  This happened to me more than once. The first time was after my first black-and-white feature “Giovinezza, giovinezza” directed by Franco Rossi. It was then that I encountered Caravaggio’s painting “The Calling of Saint Matthew”, and I realized that while I had solid technical knowledge, I was sorely lacking in the other arts. So, I began—self-taught—to study the meaning of LIGHT.  The second time was after “Apocalypse Now”. I paused for about a year to study the meanings of COLORS. In my nine years of formal education, including at the Centro Sperimentale di Cinematografia, no one had ever taught me about color and its significance. That pause was crucial—it helped me understand symbolism, dramaturgy, and the physiology of color. Yes, I had used color in my earlier films with Bertolucci, Montaldo, and Patroni Griffi, but I didn’t fully understand its meaning.  Only after learning about color did I dive back into work—starting with “La Luna”, which is deeply tied to the unconscious. There, I was able to consciously apply the theory of symbolic color.  From then on, I enriched my visual vocabulary—color finally became part of my total vision. Before that, my career had moved between black, gray, and white, without awareness of the symbolic weight of color.  That path led me to “The Last Emperor”, where I used the seven-color structure devised by Isaac Newton, linking each color to a different stage of human life. And after that film, I paused once again.  I asked myself: “Why do I feel the need to separate things—from darkness to light, and within light, to divide colors and associate them with events, people, or historical periods?”  That question prompted me to study the balance of the natural elements, referencing Plato, Thales, Anaximander, and others. Life and Nature are based on matter, which is composed of four elements: Earth, Fire, Water, and Air. Only when these elements are in harmony can one achieve Energy. After studying Light and Color, the Elements further expanded my creative perspective and gave me a new vision of reality.  This creative journey is essential to understanding what drove me to dedicate myself to this project about my work with Bernardo.  During the initial months of the pandemic, during the hardest lockdown, I was physically forced to stop—like the rest of the world. It was the fourth time in my life I had paused—not by choice this time.  One can be physically still, but not mentally. And by better understanding our past, we can better understand our present and better intuit our future.  So, I tried to make the most of that time. After reorganizing my library, my video archive, and all the objects accumulated from filming around the world, I turned my gaze to the past to reflect on the present.  That’s when I decided to capture in the pages of a book the extraordinary adventure of my relationship with Bernardo Bertolucci.  In my previous publications—like the “Writing with Light” series—I always wrote not about myself, but about my research and its application in cinema.  This time, it’s completely different. It’s the first time I speak about myself—about a period of life that decisively shaped my career and gave me the means to truly know and express myself.  It’s the first time I’ve put myself on the line, recounting not just the productions we shared but also our conversations, arguments, emotions, and even the twenty-five years that followed when we no longer made films together—but during which I continued to work on our films through restoration and preservation.  In this latest volume, I’ve also reintroduced concepts from previous books. I don’t see myself as a writer of words—I’m a writer of images. For writing, I rely on a publicist to structure my drafts and on a translator for the English edition. Fortunately, my work has given me an international voice, and so every book I publish also needs an English translation. 

The book is produced by Storaro Art, a multidisciplinary project directed by your son Giovanni. Can you tell us more about its outreach and related initiatives?

Storaro Art is my son Giovanni’s company. He handles book production and distribution, as well as curating my photo-cinematographic exhibitions.   The last exhibition presented in Rome, at Palazzo Merulana, concluded with “Little Buddha”, our final film together. The updated version extends through my more recent collaborations, including those with Woody Allen.  We’ve organized various exhibitions: one dedicated to Storaro in the Films of Bertolucci and another spanning my fifty-year career, from 1970 to 2020.  In 2022, I was hosted by the Cineteca di Milano thanks to Luca Rossi. They not only acquired a large number of my latest book but also organized related masterclasses, divided into three modules: from the first film to “1900” (on the language of light), from “La Luna” to “The Last Emperor” (on the language of color), and finally the interplay of elements in “The Sheltering Sky” and “Little Buddha”.  The ASC—American Society of Cinematographers—has always shown great interest in my writing. They recently purchased two hundred signed copies. 

Your daughter Francesca, an internationally renowned architect and lighting designer, curated the book’s layout and design. 

Yes, but only for this occasion. Francesca is a lighting designer, and we’ve collaborated on various projects—like the lighting design for the Imperial Forums in Rome.  Most recently, I’d like to highlight another common project: “The Muses of Light”— a series of LED lights based on Leonardo da Vinci’s geometric forms, inspired by the Arts: Calliope, Melpomene, Terpsichore, Clio, Polymnia, Erato, Euterpe, Thalia, Urania, and Aurea.  The idea emerged during my collaboration with Carlos Saura. Alongside the arts I was already familiar with—painting, photography, cinematography, and literature—Carlos opened my eyes to the importance of music, singing, and dance. That experience inspired works like “Tango” and “Flamenco”.  From Hesiod, I drew the names of the Muses. I should add that the LED lights developed in collaboration with De Sisti Lighting are revolutionary: ultra-low consumption, variable color temperature, flicker-free, and UV-free.  On “Rifkin’s Festival”, one of the five films I shot with Woody Allen, I was even able to power the lights directly from the hotel’s outlets—no generator needed – thanks to these innovative LED fixtures.

In the book, and especially within the exhibitions, you showcase your so-called photo-cinematographic works created through double exposure. Could you explain this technique?

The technique of double exposure—superimposing more than one image onto the same frame—represents an attempt to tell a moving, cinematic story through still photography, thereby transforming a narrative concept into a visual one. But to be honest, it all began by accident, by pure chance. Many years ago, while I was taking photos on Kodak film and pushing the exposure, I accidentally tore a perforation. The camera allowed me to take another shot, but on the same frame. When I developed the roll, I discovered two overlapping images—and it was truly fascinating. I had studied pure photography for five years, cinematography for another two years at a small school, and later attended classes at the Centro Sperimentale. That incident brought me back to being a still photographer—but now with all the experience I had acquired through cinema.  That’s when I deliberately began using two cameras to create these layered, double-exposed images—and that’s how the photo-cinematographic works that now characterize my exhibitions were born. 

Your first film as Cinematographer with Bernardo Bertolucci was “The Spider’s Stratagem”, but your professional relationship began on the set of “Before the Revolution”, where you worked as a camera assistant (with cinematography by Aldo Scavarda).

Exactly. My first experience with Bernardo was on “Before the Revolution”, which I consider to be his first real film. In “La commare secca”, his formal debut, Bernardo was staging a script written by Pasolini. But in “Before the Revolution”, his own writing and vision of cinema emerged for the first time—a film rooted in his origins, in his jometown of Parma.  We were both very young. I was twenty-three, and he was twenty-two. I was immediately struck by the way he prepared each shot—it felt like he was writing with the camera. For him, it was essential to test the movement and rhythm of the camera, while I had the movement and rhythm of light in mind. That became the strength of our creative bond throughout the years we worked together.  At first, I relied on my technical knowledge, but following Bernardo’s lead, I began discovering painting, exploring new reading material—and all of that found its way into the films we made. So, after my experience as an assistant on “Before the Revolution”, and after my debut as a cinematographer with “Giovinezza, Giovinezza” by Franco Rossi, Bernardo called me back to work on “The Spider’s Stratagem”. From that point on, for a quarter of a century, our careers ran parallel—neither of us could imagine working without the other. Our bond was so strong that I wouldn’t commit to another director unless I had spoken with Bernardo first. 

You worked together on nine films, the vast majority of which are now considered landmarks in cinema history: from the blue twilight of “The Spider’s Stratagem” to the myth of the cave in “The Conformist”, the orange tones of “Last Tango in Paris”, the imagery marked by the rotation of seasons in “1900”, and the symbolic use of colors of “The Last Emperor” reflecting the stages of life. Is there one film that you feel represents your creative zenith together—or a moment of personal epiphany in your journey with Bertolucci?

This is always a difficult question to answer, and I’m asked it often—because what we had was a true path of growth and study.  At the time, early in our careers, there was a general belief that shadows had no place in color cinematography—that everything had to be perfectly lit, removing any dialogue between light and shadow. I believe we challenged and changed that perception with “The Conformist”.  That film marked a turning point. It demonstrated that you could create dramatic films in color, because color itself has its own dramaturgy. From that moment on, every film we made represented another step forward. 

Your work with Bertolucci opened the doors to international cinema, propelling you to the Olympus of cinematographers and eventually earning you three Academy Awards®. Thanks to early works like “The Conformist” and “Last Tango in Paris”, your cinematography quickly drew the attention and admiration of the most renowned directors of the time. Was meeting Bertolucci truly decisive for your career?

There’s no doubt that my collaboration with Bernardo was decisive in gaining recognition beyond Italy.  At the time of its release, “The Conformist” influenced many filmmakers. For example, Francis Ford Coppola saw it at the New York Film Festival and immediately had a 16mm print made by Technicolor so he could show it to Gordon Willis in preparation for “The Godfather”.  It was thanks to “The Conformist” that Coppola asked me to shoot “Apocalypse Now”. The same thing happened with Warren Beatty: after seeing my work with Bernardo and Francis, he asked me to work on “Reds”—and so on with many others. 

When was the last time you saw Bertolucci? 

One of our final meetings was in 2018 at the Bari Bifest, for the international premiere of the restored version of “Last Tango in Paris”. On that occasion, we spoke about my new film preservation project.  Shortly after, I visited him at his home to deliver the Leonardo da Vinci Horse statuette, an award I had accepted on his behalf in Milan (at the MIFF Awards). Not long after that, I received the devastating and unexpected news of his passing. It was a real trauma.  His absence has left a profound and irreplaceable void in my life ever since. 

In a way, your collaboration didn’t truly end with “Little Buddha”. It continues today through your work in visually restoring and preserving the films you made together. What can you tell us about that effort?

In one of our final conversations, as I mentioned, I promised Bernardo that I would restore all of our films—not just restore them, as I had already done in 1995 with Cinecittà International and again in 2010 with Cinecittà Luce for the MoMA retrospective in New York—but also preserve them.  Today, what I’m doing is not just conservative restoration; it’s also innovative.  Back in the photochemical era, we could create Technicolor separation masters to protect the original negative. That process used three filters to split red, green, and blue onto three black-and-white reels. Being black-and-white, the color wouldn’t fade.  Later, the three primary colors could be recombined to reproduce the film exactly as it was originally shot. That’s how we can still see “Gone with the Wind”—a 1939 film—looking brand new.  Meanwhile, films we shot on Fuji, Kodak, and other stocks have all faded. When I now revisit “The Conformist” or “1900”, I realize that 40% of the original image quality has been lost.  Unfortunately, I was never able to use the separation master system, because Italy—like many other countries—never implemented it due to the high cost.  But at the Cannes Film Festival in 1995, where I was serving on the jury, I explained the importance of this process to Henri Petit, the president of Kodak Europe at the time. I told him how the method took up three times the storage space and was prohibitively expensive. He understood, and thanks to him, I was finally able to create separation masters for Cinecittà International in 1995, effectively halting the fading process.  So today, when I work on “The Conformist”, I start from those separation masters, which makes the film not 50 years old, but 25.  From there, we create a digital master, then an High Definition master, followed by an HDR (High Dynamic Range) master. Finally, I’ll be able to use a new low-cost digital preservation process—capable of retaining integrity for centuries.   This system, DOTS (Digital Optical Tape System), which I first encountered in 2001 during a visit to Kodak in Rochester, engraves digital data onto film using a laser.  Kodak had always been a pioneer in research, but the company’s leadership at the time failed to see the value of DOTS and shelved it. Years later, Kodak went bankrupt.  Later, I discussed it with Rom Hummel, who acquired the patent and developed it further.  Many directors today think shooting digitally guarantees preservation. It does not. Digital files, being numerical, can easily be corrupted—as we all know from our computers. That’s why digital images also need to be optical.  Once I had outlined the entire project, I presented it to Minister Dario Franceschini, to whom I’m deeply grateful. Through the Ministry, he granted official patronage.  The project “Storaro in the Films of Bertolucci” became a nationally recognized Italian project—one that deserves preservation.  Thanks to that support, I had access to Cinecittà’s facilities for about three years, including a colorist, lab supervisor, technical resources, and a screening room where I was able to produce the High Definition and HDR masters of our films.  I gave everything of myself to this initiative—without compensation—not just to honor the work that Bernardo and I did, but also to lead by example, to be a trailblazer in Italy and Europe for the long-term preservation system known as DOTS. 

You and Bertolucci created your masterpieces on film. How has the role of the cinematographer changed today with the advent of digital?

Certainly, every innovation brings change. But in the transition we experienced from the photochemical era to the digital one, I must honestly say I never felt the absence of film stock.  Recently, Sony presented a model of the Venice camera at the Centro Sperimentale di Cinematografia in Rome—and it was extraordinary. It records in 4K at 16-bit color depth—that’s 200 billion pieces of information. Yet on screen, we can only see 4K at 12-bit color, because current projectors aren’t capable of handling more; they show us merely 77 million bits of information. I’m trying to push the film industry to ensure that what we record with these marvelous cameras can also be projected properly. That’s the only real limitation we face today: aligning projection quality with recording capability.  Thanks to modern technology, HDR (High Dynamic Range) now allows us to display luminous and chromatic nuances that old projectors could never render.  Today, many young people have this idea that shooting on film is inherently better—but that’s no longer true. Today we can achieve results that would have been unimaginable in the photochemical era. But the fundamental truth is this: to make a great film, you need strong visual ideas—regardless of the medium.