Andrea Damante is widely known to the general public, but his path began first and foremost with music. Born in Sicily and raised in Verona, he got into DJing at a very young age, taking his first steps at local parties and gradually building his career through clubs and events across Italy. Over time, he expanded his work to international settings as well. Among them, Marquee in New York represents one of the most significant stops in his career abroad.

Looking at your career so far, how would you define your professional identity?

First and foremost, I define myself as a DJ. It is what I have always wanted to do, even before television came along. I started as a kid, almost by chance: I was 12 or 13 when my father organized a party at our beach house in Sicily and bought a DJ console. The next day it was still set up, and I started trying it out. From that moment on, I never stopped. Today I still feel like that kid who wanted to be behind a console and share music with people. More than the idea of playing prestigious venues, what matters to me is creating energy and helping as many people as possible have fun.

From television to music, through social media: how important are they in your career today?

Social media has become essential from a communication standpoint, that is clear. But on its own, it is not enough. It can help people get to know you, but there has to be something real underneath: skills, musical culture, the ability to handle a DJ booth. Today everyone communicates through social media, so in the long run the people who really have something to say or do are the ones who emerge.

Music is central to your life. What does working as a DJ give you that other professions would not?

Being behind the console is my happy place. I would not do anything else. It gives me a feeling I do not find in any other activity: energy, focus, freedom. It is also a form of personal balance. I am a fairly anxious person, I tend to worry easily, but when I play, everything switches off. I stay focused only on what I am doing. Finding something you are truly passionate about helps a lot. When you do something you love, something that involves you and gives you satisfaction, you manage to clear your mind and detach from negative thoughts. For me, music is that.

How do you prepare a set, and how much room do you leave for improvisation?

It always depends on the context: festival, club, season, audience. First I select a series of tracks, but then during the night you have to read the moment and adapt. I would say it is quite a clear balance: half preparation and half improvisation. It is important to follow the energy of the crowd.

How important is experience behind the console?

Very important. Technique can be learned through study and practice: mixing well, staying on beat, knowing the equipment. But after years you develop something else: sensitivity, flow, the ability to guide the audience and build a musical journey. That is where professionalism really shows.

Is there an artist or producer who has particularly influenced your style?

Many. When I started, I was very influenced by the EDM scene: Martin Garrix and Alesso were important references. Today my tastes have evolved toward more house and electro sounds, with more groove. I am inspired by different producers, and I take different elements from them to build something personal.

You became known to the general public at a very young age. How has your relationship with fame changed?

At the beginning it was quite invasive, especially in the first period after television. But I have always experienced it well, without any particular discomfort. I have always received a lot of affection, and that made everything easier. Of course, sometimes you miss a bit of anonymity, but overall it is something I have learned to manage calmly.

Do you still feel connected to your television beginnings, or do you think you have moved past that phase?

I think I have moved past it. Almost ten years have gone by, and from the beginning I tried to be consistent: when they offered me guest appearances, I always said I would go if I could play. I always wanted to communicate that this was my work. In recent years I have also turned down some social media collaborations in order to stay focused on music. It has been a long path, but today I think the message is clear.

Looking back, what would you say to Andrea ten years ago?

To be less in a hurry. At the beginning I should have spent more time in the studio and followed my musical identity more, instead of chasing the trends of the moment. But mistakes are also part of the journey. In music, everything takes time: building a project, finding the right team. Being in a rush is often counterproductive.

Where do you see yourself in five years?

I hope to bring my music to as many people as possible, play more abroad, and do more festivals. I really like America and working here, but I do not think I would move permanently: Italy remains home.

Do you have any new projects coming up?

Starting in September, a project I have been working on for a long time will begin. In recent years I tried to get into a label I cared about a lot: I sent many demos, received several rejections, but kept going. In the end, they signed several of my tracks and we closed a deal for three singles. It was an important goal for me.

As for live shows, I will return to Las Vegas in June, I will have many dates in Italy, and I will also continue my summer format in Mykonos, which I have now been doing for three years.

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Armand Assante is an actor whose five-decade career has been defined by independence and range, often choosing roles outside a conventional Hollywood path—from early American films to European and international productions. He earned an Emmy Award for his portrayal of John Gotti and received four Golden Globe nominations for Gotti, The Odyssey, Q&A, and Jack the Ripper. His work spans projects such as 1492: Conquest of Paradise, American Gangster, Judge Dredd, and The Mambo Kings, consistently marked by a strong physical presence and a deeply internal approach to performance.

Over the years, how has your approach to building a character evolved?

What’s evolved most is that I’ve become a far more critical thinker than I was even twenty years ago. My process is deeply rooted in research—not just of the character or the script, but of the writer. I try to understand where the writer is coming from: their experiences, their motivations. If I can connect with that, I learn much more about the characters they’ve created.

Ultimately, my job is to take that understanding and put the character into my DNA. If you’re going to live on stage or in front of a camera, it has to become part of you. That’s the foundation of how I work.

When you’re on set, how much do you rely on improvisation?

I don’t improvise in an indulgent way. I’m very disciplined about respecting the text—the words are there for a reason. That said, behavior can be improvised. You can explore how a character moves, reacts, exists within a moment.

When I was a younger actor, I was trained to be very obedient to the author and the director, so I never indulged improvisation. I regret not studying it separately, because it’s a powerful tool. I’m a very intuitive, instinctive actor, and it could have served me further.

Improvisation can help uncover subtext and behavior, and with the right actors and director, you can arrive at something magical. But as someone who writes, I respect the writer’s intention. So for me, improvisation is a tool, not a replacement. I always come back to the text.

Is there a performance that defines you as an actor?

I’m told repeatedly that a few performances left the deepest impression. Certainly Gotti is at the top. It became a global film—popular across Europe, Russia, even Asia. That kind of reach was unexpected.It also typecast me in certain ways, because people began to associate me with that authoritarian presence. Then there’s The Mambo Kings, which had a remarkable global life despite a very limited initial release. You never really know how a film will resonate.

When you prepare for a role, do you start from instinct or research?

It becomes a combination, but I’m very rigorous about research. If I don’t understand why a story is being told—its relevance, its origin—I don’t feel I’m doing my job.

The process should never be rushed. Real creative work requires time. If you don’t put in the groundwork, you risk superficiality.

And there’s another aspect people underestimate: the work of the writer. A script might take years to distill. Acting is not just about the actor—it’s about honoring a collective process.

Was there a role that pushed you somewhere personally uncomfortable?

Yes. Recently, in a film I just did called Revival, directed by Armenian filmmaker Jivan Avetisyan, and earlier in On the Beach, directed by Russell Mulcahy, who also created Highlander. Both roles were very close to who I am, which made them more difficult.

When a role touches something deeply personal, you’re exposing parts of yourself you don’t usually access.

Both characters dealt with catastrophic circumstances, and I had to ask myself how I would respond to that. That requires digging into emotional reservoirs that are not easy to reach. Those roles left a strong impression on me.

You’ve portrayed real figures like John Gotti. How do you make a real person feel authentic without imitation?

With Gotti, I relied heavily on transcripts. He was one of the most recorded figures of his time, so I studied everything—what he said, how he said it, who he was speaking to. The transcripts revealed behavior.

I also understood the environment he came from. I’m a New Yorker—I knew those neighborhoods. I met with his original lawyers, Albert Krieger and Bruce Cutler, and spoke to people who knew him.

The key insight for me was that he sought no redemption. Once you understand that, it informs everything.

The goal is not imitation. It’s understanding the internal logic of the person—their worldview, their impulses.

What still excites you about acting after so many years?

Storytelling. That’s the core of it. But beyond that, I’m fascinated by behavior—why people do what they do.

What I look for is the subtext beneath a scene. What makes it alive? What gives it electricity? That’s what I’m always chasing.

I’ve always been instinctive, even when I was younger playing music. If you can tap into the impulses that make something feel alive, that’s when performance becomes electrifying.

What advice would you give your younger self?

Don’t compromise—and go through the fear. It’s the same thing I’ve said to myself since I was very young.

Fear is always there, but it’s often an illusion. You have to go right through it.

The other thing is will. Your will is part of your talent. There are talented people everywhere, but not everyone has the will to take the work to its conclusion.

That’s what the greats do—they pursue something until it’s fully realized. If I could go back, I’d tell myself: take everything to its conclusion.

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Kathrine Narducci is an Italian-American actress often regarded as one of the defining faces of mob cinema—a  modern-day queen of the genre, bringing grit, elegance, and unmistakable New York attitude to the screen. She first gained attention with A Bronx Tale and became a standout presence on The Sopranos.

Over the years, she has built a body of work that moves seamlessly between crime epics and television, with roles in The Irishman, Godfather of Harlem, and Alto Knights. More recently, she has connected with a new generation through Euphoria, reaffirming her lasting presence across eras of storytelling.

You often play strong, unpredictable women. How much of that comes from observation and how much from you?

I’d say it’s fifty-fifty. I come from a family of very strong women, so I have that to draw from. But I’m also a survivor of my own life and childhood. Growing up in East Harlem, you learn very early how to survive—on the street, in the city, in everything. That shapes you. It makes you stronger. And then there’s this business—you have to survive that too. You hear “no” a thousand times before you get one “yes.” You need backbone. You need thick skin. That strength you see in the characters—it comes from both observation and lived experience.

Working with directors like Martin Scorsese, how does the environment on set influence your performance?

Marty understands the culture—he is the culture. He’s a phenomenon to me, someone we all look up to. Everything on his set is precise, authentic, at a ten. Whether it’s the time period, the location, or something as simple as a dinner table, it’s all real. If we’re sitting there eating Italian food, having a conversation, it feels like life because he knows exactly how that world should look and move. That level of detail gives you everything as an actor—you just step into it and live in it.

In male-dominated stories, do you see your characters as outsiders—or as those who understand power best?

I don’t play the wilting daisy—I’m more like the rose with the thorns. Those women understand power. Take The Sopranos—I was the voice of reason. I stood up to Tony. I put him in his place. I let Artie feel like he was the leader, but really I was running things. That’s the energy I bring to those roles. Even in other films, I go toe-to-toe with powerful men. These women aren’t on the outside—they know exactly how the game works.

Your performances feel raw, almost documentary-like. How do you reach that truth without overworking it?

First of all, thank you—that’s a big compliment. I had an acting teacher, Charlie Kazakakis, who used to shout, “Like in life, like in life—be true to life.” And working with Robert De Niro on A Bronx Tale, it was the same thing: “Be you. Be truthful.” That stayed with me. I don’t want to push or reach. The second I feel that happening, I stop. I breathe. I reset. It has to come from something real, otherwise it’s not worth it.

Looking back at A Bronx Tale, was it a defining moment or just a step in your journey?

It was defining because it confirmed what I already felt. I always had that question—am I an actor? And then being called back by De Niro, coming off an open call, it told me I was exactly where I was supposed to be. That moment put everything into place for me.

Have you ever had to push against being typecast, or did you learn to use it to your advantage?

Both. I push against it, for sure. I’m a member of the Actors Studio, and I work on things I would never be cast in—like Medea. No New York accent, nothing people expect from me. I do that because I’m not going to put myself in a box on top of being put in one. When actors get stereotyped, it’s like telling Andy Warhol to only paint Campbell’s soup cans forever. Sure, you’ll have a career—but is that fulfilling? No. So yeah, I can do the mob wife, but I don’t want that to be the only thing. I need to prove to myself I can do more—and the only way to do that is to actually do the work.

You worked on The Sopranos and now on Euphoria—both HBO shows that created a generation of icons. What’s different?

It’s different—but it’s also the same in a strange way. Both shows caught lightning in a bottle. The talent is undeniable. With The Sopranos, even though it was about the mafia, the core was universal—family, dysfunction, therapy, identity. People connected to that. Euphoria does the same thing, just in a different world. It’s about young people, addiction, sexuality—things everyone is dealing with now. Both shows have heart, empathy, and something real at the center. That’s why they work. People see themselves in it, even if the context is different.

In terms of momentum, does Euphoria feel different from The Sopranos?

 The difference is—we put HBO on the map. That’s just the truth. The Sopranos changed everything. We raised the bar, we made people think differently about television. After that, everyone started pushing further. So shows like Euphoria—they’re building on something we helped create. We laid that foundation.

What kind of roles are you still searching for today?

I’d love to explore more empathy, more humor, more of my softer side—without losing the edge. I like that balance, the yin and the yang. That’s why I loved my role on Euphoria—she was tough, but she also had heart. She took care of those kids, she had layers. I’m drawn to that—characters who are both hard and soft at the same time. Less predictable, less one-note. Unless it’s something really special… maybe opposite De Niro again.

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Robert Davi is an Italian actor with over forty years of career in cinema, television and stage. With more than 170 titles, he took part in films that marked the collective imagination, including 007 – License to Kill, The Goonies and Die Hard. Known for its intense scenic presence and its charisma as “tough guy” that made it unmistakable, Davi embodies one of the most iconic figures of American cinema.

You have often interpreted “bad” and power figures, characters that dominate the scene. What makes that power really credible on the screen?

As an actor, you do not judge the character. That’s up to the public. Your job is to understand his choices and justify them. Even when they are extreme, they must have internal logic. If you really believe it, the public perceives that truth – and that’s where power is born. I have always tried to give humanity to my characters. Nobody wakes up in the morning thinking they’re bad. Everyone acts according to their own logic, their wounds, their purpose. When that truth is authentic, power is not something that you impose: it becomes something natural. Power is not necessarily screaming or forceless. Sometimes the most powerful people speak slowly. It’s presence. It’s internal energy. It’s a security that’s coming before you say a word. It comes from who you are and how you channel that force. The technique helps, of course – but the true power comes from a deep conviction. I also played many good men. And let’s remember that I have a vocalist training. That romantic part is there. But also romanticism must have a margin of hardness. Each character needs balance: the good with a shadow, the bad with a conscience. That’s what makes everything interesting. When the audience thinks they understand you, and then he hesitates. The flat characters have no power. The real power comes from complexity.

Your screen debut was in Contract on Cherry Street, alongside Frank Sinatra. Was it some kind of mentor for you? And how did that meeting affect your path to Hollywood?

Frank Sinatra was an extraordinary artist – but before that he was an extraordinary man. For us Italian Americans, growing up, there were two figures: the Pope and Sinatra. And not necessarily in this order. He gave dignity to a community of immigrants who was not always respected. He showed us. He voiced us. At the time, I studied with Stella Adler and worked hard to pay for acting and singing lessons. I also worked as a waiter in a restaurant in New York, but I was fired under circumstances… let’s say questionable. I was young, naive, just trying to survive. Then came the opportunity of Contract on Cherry Street. It was his first movie after years. It was something huge for me. Sinatra saw the shots and came to me on the set. He said: “Your is the truest performance of the film. You’re extraordinary.” It meant everything to me. Then he noticed my scars on my neck and face and told me: “Don’t let them intimidate you. They’re part of your story. Bring them proudly.” This was mentorship, but not only. It was something deeper. He gave you security. It made you feel comfortable in your skin. One night he invited me to dinner. We stopped right in front of the restaurant where they fired me. We went in together. The director paleed. After ten minutes they put me in front of an envelope: my liquidation. Sinatra smiled. He didn’t say a word. There was no need. He took me to L.A. He let me stay at the Beverly Hills Hotel. He introduced me to everyone. I never took a plane before. He made me feel part of that world. We used to talk about opera and classical music. It was a passion we had in common. And I will never forget: the two of the morning in Little Italy. He looks at me and says

“Robert, drink something” “I don’t drink, Mr. Sinatra.” You’re fired.”

So drink my first Jack Daniel’s with Sinatra in 1977. Two fingers of whiskey, four ice cubes, water. He said: “This brings you wherever you want without hurting you.” That was Frank. An immense but deeply human figure.

During your career, have your Italian origins been more an advantage or a limit?

The only limit I have encountered had nothing to do with being Italian, but with my appearance. Stella Adler told me from the beginning: “They will always give you the role of the hard. Don’t let me condition you. You will come out – you are a great actor”. I had a classic training. I graduated in acting, studied Shakespeare, poetry, always ready for very different roles. I never wanted to get labeled in one way. Yes, I interpreted men of power, authoritarian figures – but also complex, stratified roles, in different genres. Being Italian-American has never been a disadvantage. If ever, he gave me an identity. There was only one episode I remember about this. They offered me an important role in Blood In, Blood Out, but there were resistance because I was not Hispanic. It was disappointing. We actors do this: we turn. Andy Garcia is not Italian, yet he played Italian. I have interpreted characters of all kinds, including an Orthodox Jew, a Palestinian, the Merlin wizard, a Colombian drug dealer. It’s the job. Industry changes with time. Today there is a different sensitivity to identity and casting. The question is one: can the actor give authenticity to the character? If the answer is yes, that’s what really matters.

When choosing a project, what matters most: role, script or director?

Depends. It’s a set of things. Sometimes it’s the role. Sometimes the script. Sometimes even the location. If I feel there is a connection with a character – if there is something new to explore – for me it is already a sufficient reason. I’ve never been afraid to work with directors at first experience. Everyone starts somewhere. You never know who’s gonna get something important. If the material interests me and I feel like I can give something, I’m going to jump. After Bond’s film I was offered Hunt in Red October. But eventually I decided to make a small independent film, filmed for ten weeks in the Amazon forest, where I played a pilot involved in the world of gold seekers. I didn’t know the director. But experience intrigued me. The character, the adventure… I have always tried to alternate great productions and independent. Then the Profiler series came. There the pace of things has changed. It’s been four years, and I’m grateful. But television is tied to you. There were films that, unfortunately, I had to refuse because I couldn’t get rid of the shooting. It’s part of the business. Even there, however, I imposed myself. The character was called Bailey Malone, Irish. After choosing me they wanted to give him an Italian name. I said: “No, leave it like this. » I never wanted to move in one lane. In the end I choose instinct. When I feel there is something alive to discover, then it is worth doing it.

You worked in great Hollywood productions, independent films and television. What really changes when the size of a project changes? What not?

The biggest difference is in production times. On television you often have to turn a number of pages a day. It’s all very organized, sometimes very fast. But it depends on the project. I’m working on Tulsa King with Sylvester Stallone. It’s a series, but it’s filmed like a movie for the cinema. They take the necessary time. They take pictures, cover the scene well, make sure it works really before moving on. It’s a luxury. In independent films, you often have to run. Less resources, tighter times. But that doesn’t mean less value. Indeed, sometimes there is a cruelty, an urgency, even a social dimension that in the great productions does not find. There is something alive in that pressure. Large productions can take months. Four, six, sometimes more. I’ve had 15 ciaks for a scene with a director like Paul Verhoeven. Then you work with someone like Clint Eastwood and maybe you do one or two ciaks and go. Different styles. Different rhythms. Neither of them, however, guarantees the result. In the end, whether it’s a blockbuster or a small independent film, it counts what’s in front of the camera. The story. The performance. The effect it leaves on the public. The size changes organization, means, times. But the heart of work remains the same.

Current and future projects?

As I said, I’m working on Tulsa King. It’s a fantastic experience. I interpret a very interesting character – and yes, even rather intimidating. In addition to that, I have several developing films. I’m about to go to Oklahoma for a project called Honor, and there’s another working film, The Jungle Rules. I just finished Bad News on the Doorstep, shot in Rhode Island. It was a special project because my son Nick is one of the protagonists along with Dante Palminteri, the son of Chazz Palminteri. Chazz and I are in the movie, too. It was special for us to share that project with our children. Music continues to be an important part of my life. I have concerts scheduled in different countries and a new album released next year, which I will probably coordinate with the release of Tulsa King. And then there is the family. I have eight children – including a six-year-old – so, as you can imagine, I’m not bored.

One last question… is a question that divides fans for over thirty years: Is Die Hard or not a Christmas movie?

A couple of years ago – maybe last year – I published a photo on what was once Twitter, today X. I wore a Santa Claus hat and held a white cardboard in my hand with writing: Die Hard is a Christmas movie. He did more than two million views. That made me think. When we turned it around, I didn’t think so. It was an action film for me. But over time I started looking at him differently. It’s set at Christmas. Bruce Willis runs barefoot, with his feet bleeding… there is an almost sacrificial element in all this. Christmas is not only a background: it is an integral part of history, emotion. I was in London, at the Action Film Festival, for a Q&A with John McTiernan. I even sang “Let It Snow” in front of about 1,200 people. I finally said: “Die Hard is a Christmas movie. » The theater exploded. So, yeah, I changed my mind. I think it is today. And every October, when they start broadcasting it again and the debate starts again, my position on IMDb stands. And not just my royalties.

L’articolo Beyond archetype: Robert Davi and the complexity of power comes from IlNewyorkese.

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