In the warm heart of a packed theater, under lights that caress faces and souls, Giacomo Giorgio brought to life not just any Othello, but one that burns. An Othello who is young, fragile, different, modern. An Othello who trembles, loves, makes mistakes, erupts. An Othello who, perhaps for the first time, truly feels close to us.

When Giorgio Pasotti offered him the role, Giacomo didn’t just accept a part — he embarked on a journey through madness, otherness, rage, and guilt. And he did it with that unknowing grace that only those who still believe in dreams — and in the responsibility of telling them — can bring to the stage.

“I’m not the Othello of the great masters. I’m my own Othello,” he says simply, yet firmly. And indeed, his Othello is a raw, youthful earthquake. He doesn’t kill out of jealousy, or even love, but because he’s lost. An Othello who hears voices and beats his own head and chest, who gradually descends into delirium. An Othello who doesn’t know how to exist in the world — and who isn’t speaking about toxic love.

That’s the poetic strength of this staging: there is no single culprit, but rather an entire world that stopped listening.

“You don’t kill for love; you kill because life didn’t teach you how to handle it. You’re someone who can’t emotionally cope with confrontation, especially with the opposite sex, and so you spiral into madness. That felt like the truest key,” Giacomo explains. “There was a line in the script I asked to remove, and thankfully Pasotti agreed. In the final monologue, before ‘I am the most abominable creature in the universe,’ Othello originally says: ‘Remember that I didn’t kill out of jealousy or on a whim, but for love.’ We cut that line. Because killing for love doesn’t exist. People kill for vanity, for pride, for selfishness — not for love.”

“Iago lights a fuse that would have gone off eventually, one way or another,” he continues. “In our version, Iago and Othello are two sides of the same coin. That’s why they both end up killing a woman. There’s this powerful scene where both women lie lifeless on the ground, and the two men stare at each other — facing off. In that moment, you realize they’re the same person, mirrors of one another.”

Yes, because this Othello — lean, direct, distilled into a single act — isn’t just theater. It’s a mirror. One that shows no mercy. And when the Doge (irreverent, modern, riding a scooter) turns to the audience and says, “Now go home and look in the mirror,” a chill runs down your spine. Because we are all guilty. We have all, at some point, been Othello. Or Iago. Or complicit in silence.

Every night, Giacomo throws himself into the performance with the courage of someone who isn’t acting. He truly suffers. He truly cries. He dives into the abyss each time as if it were the first. “The first take is always the one,” he says. Because pain cannot be faked — only lived. And so, with minimal sets, stripped-down costumes, and an empty space filled with truth, the tragedy becomes flesh. Present. Urgent.

One of the most striking lines Giacomo whispers on stage is: “It’s the things we think we know — but don’t — that ruin our lives.” A line sharper than any blade. Because it speaks of us — of our fears, our assumptions.

And yet, despite his youth, Giacomo Giorgio understands that theater today can’t just entertain. It must provoke, connect, unite. “Theater will never die,” he says with quiet certainty. “Because that’s where the audience breathes with the actor. And only there can you discover who you are — and who you might become.”

“My greatest joy,” he adds, “was seeing the theater packed these last two days, especially with young people. You can’t expect anyone today to sit for two or three hours through a five-act tragedy. I believe theater has a moral obligation to unite different worlds, to bring all kinds of audiences together. Done this way, it might just be the key to drawing more young people to theater — helping them realize they might even enjoy it.”

“That’s why I love Othello,” he concludes. “Because to me, Othello is the perfect image of what theater is: a confrontation with your own reflection. Can he be justified? Absolutely not. Should he pay for what he’s done, and then be rehabilitated? Absolutely. But before blaming him entirely, ask yourself: this boy — didn’t he have a family, a background, a life that failed to teach him how to live? Otherwise, he wouldn’t have gotten here.”

For those who only know Giacomo from TV — from The Sea Beyond or other polished roles — this Othello will be a shock. But also, a gift. Because Giacomo Giorgio is much more than a handsome face: he’s an artist who has chosen to become a mirror, to get his hands dirty, to shoulder the responsibility of portraying violence, fragility, and madness — without ever trivializing them.

This Othello asks the audience to look beyond the charm. To see the pain. To recognize the truth, even when it hurts.

So yes — applaud him. But then go home. Look in the mirror.
And ask yourself: “Who am I becoming?”