Stefano Accorsi
What’s essential is to never feel ‘arrived.’ That sense of having reached a finish line is dangerous
«Curiosity is the antidote. It pushes you to question yourself, to research authentically, to venture into places you don’t yet know»
“Curiosity is the one thing that must never die. It saves you from thinking you’ve arrived.”
Stefano Accorsi says this almost offhandedly during our conversation, yet it captures thirty years of craft and life in a single stroke. A simple idea, but an incisive one: the actor as an explorer, always suspended between discovery and uncertainty. And, in truth, his entire path seems built around this very tension — the impulse to venture elsewhere, to avoid standing still for too long.
Born in Bologna in 1971, Accorsi entered the world of cinema almost by accident: an announcement by Pupi Avati in the Resto del Carlino, his debut in Fratelli e sorelle, then the Alessandra Galante Garrone Theatre School, where he understood that this would be his road. In 1996 Jack Frusciante Has Left the Band introduced him to a wide audience; two years later Radiofreccia, directed by Ligabue, earned him his first David di Donatello and the feeling that he had found his voice. From there, Accorsi became a cross-genre presence: from the restless romanticism of The Last Kiss to the emotional nuances of His Secret Life, from the rawness of Romanzo Criminale to the tormented physicality of Italian Race, which earned him a second David. He worked with Gabriele Muccino, Ferzan Özpetek, Paolo Genovese, Philippe Claudel, Nanni Moretti, Paolo Sorrentino — yet he has never stopped returning to the stage, his true home. Orlando Furioso, Decameron, and now a new Ulysses that promises to bring him back to the very essence of storytelling. In recent years he has added another chapter: Planetaria, the project that fuses science and art to talk about the environment in a way that isn’t catastrophic, but possible. A format that reflects his perspective: curious, grounded, never moralizing. Today, after three decades of cinema and public life, Stefano Accorsi continues to question himself, to take risks, to let himself be surprised. And maybe that — more than any role — is his true legacy: not being an actor who has “arrived,” but one who has never stopped setting off.
After more than thirty years in film, theater, and television, what do you feel you’ve truly learned about the craft of acting?
It’s a beautiful question — actually, a fundamental one. I’d say one of the most important things is keeping curiosity alive. Continuing to explore, never feeling you’ve “arrived,” because that sense of having reached a destination is dangerous: it disconnects you from the most intimate and authentic part of your work. Curiosity is the antidote. It pushes you to question yourself, to do real research, to venture into unfamiliar territory. It’s essential even in preparing a role: if you know how to really listen, anything someone tells you can become material for your character. And then there’s technique, which grows with experience and becomes almost automatic. But you have to be careful — technique can turn into a trap. Sometimes you need to push yourself out of your comfort zone, to make sure every role remains a discovery.
Is there a role you consider foundational, one that changed the way you act or see yourself?
Radiofreccia, for sure. It was the first role that allowed me to explore a world I partly knew and partly didn’t, and to live it deeply, intimately. Luciano Ligabue, in his directorial debut, already had incredible maturity in how he worked with actors: he gave us space, let us work on subtle, interior things, without ever forcing. That role stayed with me — I was 27, it was far from who I was yet incredibly fascinating, and it marked a turning point. Then there were others: His Secret Life, The Last Kiss, Italian Race. But Radiofreccia was the first spark.
You’ve always alternated between popular projects and auteur cinema. How hard is it to maintain that double allegiance today?
Honestly, there’s just one key: the desire to make that project. You never know whether a film will be popular or not. L’Ultimo bacio, La Dea fortuna… no one could have predicted their success. What matters is that initial pull. I think it’s important to keep moving between both worlds. Today, cinema is still a space of freedom, while TV series follow a different logic — more collective, more horizontal. In cinema, there’s always an author expressing their own view of the world, and that’s precious. For me, there are no boxes to fill — only stories that call you.
You’ve worked with very different directors: Muccino, Özpetek, Claudel, Moretti… Is there an encounter that left a human mark, even more than an artistic one?
Yes — Carlo Mazzacurati. I had a small role in Vesna va veloce and then L’Amore ritrovato with Maya Sansa. Carlo struck me with his narrative sensitivity, with his cinema that seemed minimal on the surface but was full of meaning and humanity. He was an ironic, generous man with a disarming sense of humor. One night at dinner I laughed so much my facial muscles hurt. He had a unique kind of wit, and a storytelling talent I’ve found in very few others.
Looking back, is there an opportunity you wish you had taken?
Yes — I could have worked with Marco Bellocchio. It was a moment when I needed to slow down a bit, after The Last Kiss and His Secret Life. We talked, I read the script and found it beautiful, but I took too long, and it didn’t happen. I regret that.
Well, there’s still time to make it happen…
I hope so. Bellocchio is one of the most vital filmmakers we have in Italy. And I’d also love to return to comedy — it’s a language I adore, especially in its more surreal forms.
Can you share anything about upcoming projects?
At the end of January Le cose non dette by Gabriele Muccino will be released; then in March La lezione by Stefano Mordini, where I reunited with Matilda De Angelis — and it was wonderful. I’m now filming Paolo Genovese’s Il rumore delle cose nuove, and soon I’ll begin rehearsals for a stage production inspired by the Odyssey, centered on the figure of Ulysses.
What place does theater hold for you today?
A crucial one. I come from the stage, and after a long break, I returned with Orlando Furioso and then the Decameron. From that moment on, I told myself: never again without it. Theater shapes you — even after years of career. It teaches you listening, rhythm, and the direct connection with the audience. It’s never a monologue, but a continuous dialogue. Every performance is different; every reaction shifts the flow. It’s the oldest and most alive form of storytelling: it doesn’t show, it evokes.
In recent years you’ve become involved in environmental issues. How much does this sensitivity enter your work and your daily life?
A lot. With Planetaria, the festival on the environment and climate change that we ran for two years in Florence, we try to speak about the environment in a “possible,” non-catastrophic way. We collaborate with scientists to describe scenarios of coexistence with climate change and concrete solutions. We also create events for children and families — I believe strongly in their role. In everyday life I avoid waste and pay attention to recycling, but without fanaticism. I don’t want to live in anxiety. The point isn’t “saving the planet”: the planet would recover in months. We have to do it for ourselves, for our children — and with our children.
After so many roles and journeys, what do you still wish for from this craft? Is the impulse still to tell others’ stories, or more your own?
No, not my own. I once dreamed I went to see a film about myself — it was deadly boring. It never ended! I enjoy my life, I’m happy, but I have no desire to narrate it. I want to keep telling stories — and maybe do it more through comedy. That, I never get tired of..
Interview: Germano D’Acquisto
Portraits: Niccolò Campita
