Golden Lion for Lifetime Achievement, a world premiere with I fantasmi di Basile, and an open meeting at Ca’ Giustinian: Emma Dante is one of the defining voices of Biennale Teatro 2026. We sat down with her to talk Palermo, Basile, and what she calls her “animal” theatre.
A groundbreaking and boundary pushing director, Emma Dante stands among the most influential figures in contemporary international theatre. La Biennale Teatro has awarded her the prestigious Golden Lion for Lifetime Achievement, a recognition strongly championed by artistic director Willem Dafoe. The motivation highlights her ability to bring Sicily to the forefront, drawing on the legacy of Pirandello, Sciascia, Camilleri, Ciprì and Maresco, and Franco Scaldati, while fearlessly pursuing unique linguistic research and giving powerful theatrical form to painful, uncomfortable themes. Deeply and viscerally tied to Palermo, Dante has shaped a theatre that is at once rooted in the present and timeless, steeped in life, tragedy, and a surreal imagination that often echoes ancient Greek dramaturgy. At the Biennale she presents the world premiere of I fantasmi di Basile, her fourth work inspired by the baroque, visionary universe of Giambattista Basile. She will also appear on June 14 for the open meeting Rito nostalgia commozione.
Receiving the Golden Lion
Receiving such an important and prestigious recognition from an extraordinary artist like Willem Dafoe moved me deeply. I truly didn’t expect it, though his curiosity doesn’t surprise me. Like all giants of the stage, Willem has always been curious. I remember him coming to see one of my very first shows, Il festino, where a disabled young man spoke about his twin brother. I was still unknown. Gaetano Bruno and I were stunned to see one of Hollywood’s greatest actors in the audience. This award is an honour for many reasons.
Palermo and Sicily as source
Everything I put on stage comes from the streets of Palermo, which for me have always been the greatest theatre in the world. I’ve witnessed scenes both absurd and extraordinary, tender and terrible: a coffin abandoned beside a dumpster, chairs drying in the sun, people conversing only through gestures, a seagull on a leash, furious fights, entire families riding a single scooter, children playing football on rooftops, the cries of street vendors. And then the light, the sea, beauty placed like a crown atop ruin. After all these years, I can say that Palermo has written my theatre.
The people of your theatre
I’m drawn to the unfortunate, the ones who don’t make it, the losers, the abandoned. My plays often revolve around a bleak reality marked by poverty, illiteracy and provincialism, exploring the hell of a degradation society increasingly refuses to see. To enter tragedy more deeply, I need the lightness of fable and poetry. My creative method, grounded in the body, is never detached from real life. Actors observe, absorb, and store everything around them, so they can later highlight details that a distracted gaze would miss. I aim to awaken this sensitivity, this listening, so each performer can craft an authentic interpretation of truth through allusive codes. What interests me most is the actor’s authorship – the search for an inner, unique voice expressed through gesture and movement. Body and word are inseparable. Even in L’angelo del focolare we explored violent gestures within a domestic setting, where an ordinary day becomes the ritual of a woman’s death at the hands of a man master.
On Gianbattista Basile
This show was conceived specifically for Venice. I wanted to bring some of my ‘relatives’ to the great celebration of the Biennale – the ghosts I’ve met over the years, who have become family. Basile’s visionary storytelling has fascinated me for a long time: he invents tales that are realistic yet ferocious, magical yet earthy. In his stories I always find something contemporary, something that belongs to us. I love the truth in Basile. Despite the extraordinary linguistic architecture he builds, he always preserves a strong realism. His grotesque figures and exaggerated characters recur in my theatre as well. It’s a language of masks – because certain things can only be said through a mask, real or imagined. You laugh, but with a bitter aftertaste typical of the South. I’m happy to come to Venice accompanied by these ghost relatives: they’re not easy, not polite, not gentle. Most are lonely and desperate, and for that I love them deeply.
The authors that inspired you
My greatest spiritual master was Tadeusz Kantor. His theatre was a revelation. I managed to see him work before he died: Kantor with his back to the audience remains, for me, the highest example of theatrical innovation. I also owe much to Gabriele Vacis and Andrea Camilleri, to fellow writers like Elena Stancanelli, Mariangela Gualtieri, Giorgio Vasta, to my artistic brother Davide Iodice, and to the works of Dostoevsky, Shakespeare, Camus, Morante, Ortese, Pirandello and countless others who kept me company for years.
Your way of making theatre
I would call my theatre ‘animalistic’, a dignified return to nature. The meeting of dance, music and song is instinctive and archaic. I always begin with rhythm and movement. When these forms merge, I feel a strong connection to nature, as if actors could shed human knowledge and rediscover an ancestral animal wisdom. Everything begins with the animal each performer carries inside.
