The Times Magazine 45sometimes not easy to have to flood myself
with this type of quality, because this type of
quality of energy certainly is a kind of burden.
But I have to tell you that I loved Bruno
Testori. He’s not a bad person, but he has to
do a dirty job. Somebody must do it.”
He tells me he does not believe in the actor
philosophy of going method, losing yourself
completely in a role. “It’s always very
important to keep a distance from your
character for two reasons,” he says. “First of
all, for your mental health. And the second
reason is that, otherwise, you would not be
an actor. But – because there is always a ‘but’
- when you are faced with the energy of the
character, you get polluted by this. That’s why
there have been cases in my life when I
rejected. I said no to roles.”
For example?
“There was a very important role that
I was offered by a very famous Italian
film-maker, which was based on a book,
which I had liked. But my role was that of a
paedophile, so there was a scene where the
girl – this little girl – was getting in the car,
and I said, ‘I cannot stand it. I cannot do this.
I cannot play this character.’ ”
To perk things up, I ask him about his
career manqué as a footballer. When
Zingaretti was 17, he was offered a contract
with Rimini FC, which he accepted, then
abandoned after a few months because he’d
also won a place at the prestigious Silvio
D’Amico National Academy of Dramatic Art.
There are moments in our conversation where
one of my English words acts as a trigger and
Zingaretti is so excited by it he bypasses the
interpreter and ploughs in with an English
answer. This is one of them. Why choose
acting over football, I ask. Zingaretti’s face
lights up like the moon.
“I don’t know. The football was my first
love. I was a very good player.” He’d
auditioned for the acting academy at about
the same time that Rimini made its offer and,
“After three months at Rimini, I received the
letter that I won the exam.”
“He had passed the entry tests,” the
interpreter offers.
“It was very, very difficult that I accepted in
the academy,” Zingaretti continues in English.
“But above all, I had gone there to take the
tests with a friend who had pushed me to go
there. He was not accepted. I was accepted.
I felt a responsibility. How could I tell him
that I would not go since I had been accepted?
I was also helped in my choice by the fact that
the football club which had booked me was
Rimini and, at that time, Rimini was in winter
completely empty, deserted. It was like a
theme park, a luna park, which is closed
during a rainy day in winter.”So the choice was easy, in fact?
“Not at all. No, no, because it has always
been my passion, my love. I still play with the
national actors’ football team. If I see four kids
playing outside here, I would join in. I show
you something.” He produces his iPhone and
starts scrolling through photos. “Yesterday, La
Gazzetta dello Sport – is a sports newspaper.
This is my interview yesterday.” He shows me
a snap of a newspaper clipping, which includes
an image of Zingaretti in a football strip, mid-
match, deftly performing some pass. He looks
wonderful – masculine, elegant, effective. He
is clearly (I’d also say, reasonably) delighted
by the image.
“It’s love,” he says, gazing at the shot.
What about acting?
“Is a little bit more [love].”
I wonder if Zingaretti was just destined to
be famous, either as a footballer or as an actor.
His brother, Nicola Zingaretti, is a centre-left
politician. It seems that between the two of
them, they have all the performance arts
covered.
“It might seem a stupid thing to say, but
I always thought I would do well and I would
be... I wouldn’t say famous, because fame or
maybe success... Fame is not actually the right
word, the thing. But that I would do well.”
Does he enjoy fame?
“I was 36 [when Inspector Montalbano first
transported him to the realm of celebrity].
Before that, I really paid my dues as a stage
actor. It’s very, very tough, it’s very tiring,
fatiguing. And then I did two or three things
that were kind of successful and then, all
of a sudden, this made me famous. So now
I experience this and live it as something
pleasant. When you see people who recognise
you in the street and they stop you, I see that
as an act of love for my work.”
He produces his iPhone again and shows
me video footage of a crowd of fans who’d
waited for him to emerge from an on-set
trailer. “It’s really very beautiful,” he says.
“One thousand people, waiting!” On the video,
Zingaretti tours the crowd, kissing cheeks,
shaking hands, raising his arms and punching
the air like a rock star – or a footballer.
“They give me the children in my hand,
like the Pope. I really want to show you this,
not because I want to show off, but because
this is the type of affection that really fills
your heart.”
Which is not to say that Inspector
Montalbano and, by extension, Zingaretti are
universally admired. The show has its critics,
those who do not enjoy the – at moments- reductive ideas it propagates. It’s caused
dismay with its portrayal of women, in
particular, as either lingerie-clad arch
seductresses or lingerie-clad victims or
moustachioed ancient crones.
Is it sexist, I ask Zingaretti.
As Bruno Testori in The King