There are films that build worlds, and films that reveal the world that already exists beneath the surface. Fuori, by Mario Martone, belongs to the second category: a story carried by women, shaped by their voices, their wounds, and the way they hold one another up. At its core, it’s a tale of female friendship, of alliances born in unlikely places, of a solidarity that doesn’t erase pain but transforms it.
Set in Rome, the film revisits the years Goliarda Sapienza spent in Rebibbia prison in the 1980s, a time that would become one of the most fertile chapters of her career. In real life, Sapienza was an extraordinary, unconventional figure born into a working-class, antifascist family in Catania. She was raised in a home where activism, theatre, and intellectual freedom were everyday realities. Her life moved through dramatic peaks: cinema, political commitment, emotional turmoil, and eventually, incarceration. Yet prison became, paradoxically, the space where she rediscovered a sense of humanity, sisterhood, and inner clarity.
Fuori, premiering in Spanish cinemas on December 12th, is an adaptation of Goliarda’s L’Università di Rebibbia, and the title is no accident. Forget the image you might have of female prison from series like Orange Is the New Black; Rebibbia is not a prison in the usual sense. It is a place of learning, not from books, but from life, and in this way, it becomes a university. In jail, Goliarda meets women of every kind: young addicts, mothers, thieves, survivors of abuse, and from these encounters arises a sort of alternative community, where culture and empathy become tools for survival and growth.
There is a thread running through Fuori: a thread made of voices that recognise one another, of glances that hold each other up, of a feminine energy capable of transforming not only the confined spaces of Rebibbia but also the far more invisible territories of everyday relationships. Far from the darker, more stereotypical prison narratives, the film moves like a light but persistent breeze, carrying with it the rebellious legacy of Goliarda Sapienza and that quiet complicity and solidarity between women.
It doesn’t attempt to ‘explain’ Goliarda, nor to heroise her. Instead, it follows her gaze. It rebuilds the emotional and relational landscape of Rebibbia: the friendships forged during incarceration, the moments of playfulness, the shared resilience of women who had been broken long before entering prison. The film vibrates with the idea that freedom can exist even in confinement, that companionship can reshape the harshness of a system, and that women create languages that the world often overlooks.
In this interview, Mario Martone speaks about all this with an unmistakable warmth. His relationship to Goliarda Sapienza’s work is one of gratitude and discovery. And on set, surrounded by actresses like Valeria Golino, Matilda De Angelis, and Elodie, and by the women of Rebibbia themselves, he found the same sense of community, game, and openness that Goliarda had once described with such clarity.
What led you to return to the figure of Goliarda Sapienza, bringing her to the screen after already portraying her on stage with Il Filo di Mezzogiorno?
The idea of making a film was there even before Il Filo di Mezzogiorno, and the theatre work eventually flowed into this larger project. I like to dig deeply into a subject, and moving between film and theatre helps me do that. When I worked on Leopardi, for instance, I first staged the Operette Morali and only later made Il Giovane Favoloso. It’s my way of exploring my relationship with a theme or, in this case, an artist. With both Leopardi and Goliarda, you’re dealing with an artist who is also a person. You feel this very clearly in Fuori: it isn’t about crafting a traditional biography, but about portraying a human being, in this case, Goliarda, and her way of inhabiting the world.
Having done something similar with Leopardi, what does it mean for you to turn an author’s literature into cinematic images?
For me, it’s crucial to try to listen to and convey the writer’s voice. An artist creates a world, and you try to enter into a dialogue with that world. It’s not just made of stories or characters, it’s a way of seeing. With Goliarda Sapienza, this is especially palpable: she digresses, she’s not a writer who develops a thought in a clear, linear way. She’s fluid, volcanic. In the film, I tried to stay faithful to that movement, that shifting flow that defines her writing.
Like Goliarda’s own gaze, the film avoids moralism in its portrayal of the prison environment. How do you build such a perspective when dealing with such a sensitive topic?
For me, meeting incarcerated women and former inmates, and especially being able to film inside Rebibbia, was essential. If we hadn’t been granted access, I probably wouldn’t have made the film; the subject is too delicate to approach without a real, direct encounter. For the actresses, too, being able to meet the women, to talk with them, and to spend time together gave the film a truth and grounding it couldn’t have otherwise. The women aren’t treated as outsiders but as individuals fully part of society seen through Goliarda’s own perspective, and I think this kind of approach is what allowed us to work with a deep sense of respect.
“I don’t think in terms of responsibility; I think in terms of desire and pleasure. I’ve always loved what’s irregular, what breaks the rules, what doesn’t fit the bourgeois order of things.”
Goliarda was a rebel: she rejected conventions, and her voice was often overlooked. What kind of responsibility do you feel in portraying such free, marginal or rarely heard figures? And how did this shape your direction in Fuori?
I don’t think in terms of responsibility; I think in terms of desire and pleasure. I’ve always loved what’s irregular, what breaks the rules, what doesn’t fit the bourgeois order of things. In that sense, working on someone like Goliarda feels more like meeting a ‘friend’ and enjoying her company. It’s a form of homage. As you work, these figures come alive: you read about them, you hear their stories, you build an idea of who they were, and eventually they take shape in an actor or an actress. They become living presences. So no, for me it’s not about responsibility, it’s about the pleasure of telling their stories.
The atmosphere of solidarity, complicity, and inner freedom that defines Goliarda Sapienza’s Rebibbia also seems to have shaped the dynamics on set among the actresses. How did this feminine energy transform the daily work?
Completely. From the beginning, the entire project was surrounded by women: Goliarda, Ippolita guiding me through her story, Valeria Golino, Matilda De Angelis, Elodie, and all the women we met in prison. The film carries a kind of wind that starts with Goliarda Sapienza herself and envelops everything. In this way, a current is created, a flow of energy shaped by a specific language, with its own codes typical of the feminine world. For me, it was incredibly enriching. I had to step outside of myself a little to listen, to play, to let myself be carried by this energy. It was a beautiful experience.
Do you think this supportive, non-judgmental community that emerges inside the women’s prison could exist in the same way in a men’s prison?
I don’t think so, not in the same way. And I say that without wanting to generalise: there are all kinds of women, all kinds of men, and broad categories. But men often carry a very old cultural baggage, something that holds them back emotionally in certain environments.
The biggest difference probably lies in the stories of these women. Many of the women we met—just like those in Goliarda Sapienza’s time—came from domestic situations that were worse than prison: fathers, brothers, partners more oppressive than incarceration. That’s not something men typically experience when they enter prison. It changes everything. It shapes the bonds they form. It speaks to the position of women in a patriarchal society, and to how they create community when they finally find a space that isn’t hostile.
The biggest difference probably lies in the stories of these women. Many of the women we met—just like those in Goliarda Sapienza’s time—came from domestic situations that were worse than prison: fathers, brothers, partners more oppressive than incarceration. That’s not something men typically experience when they enter prison. It changes everything. It shapes the bonds they form. It speaks to the position of women in a patriarchal society, and to how they create community when they finally find a space that isn’t hostile.
Do you believe there is something specific to the female world in the way relationships are built, even on the margins of society?
Yes, absolutely. There is a specific language among women, and it has a real autonomy. I could see it clearly in the relationships between Valeria and Matilda, or between Matilda and Elodie, who were already close friends. There’s a strength there and I find it precious, especially in the moment we’re living in: a strange, difficult time, full of deeply troubling events. This feminine way of connecting, supporting, building community—this force women generate together—is, I believe, one of the positive energies of our era. It brings something new, something vital. It helps all of us. I feel helped by it myself; it shifts my perspective. And shifting perspective is healthy. Necessary.
This energy exists. This language among women exists. And it’s powerful and beautiful. Goliarda Sapienza understood this long before others, which is probably why she wasn’t heard in her time, she wasn’t speaking to her era, she was speaking to ours.
This energy exists. This language among women exists. And it’s powerful and beautiful. Goliarda Sapienza understood this long before others, which is probably why she wasn’t heard in her time, she wasn’t speaking to her era, she was speaking to ours.
