Cinematography

If you’re into format quirks, lens character, and on-set problem-solving, this behind-the-scenes look at Bugonia’s cinematography is a must-watch.

See the video here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t8-Jz3MyBXw

Cinematographer Robbie Ryan walks through his long collaboration with Yorgos Lanthimos and the unique challenges of shooting the film on VistaVision. Using a Wilcam W1 and a Bowcam — cameras that run film horizontally through the gate — the team dealt with everything from jittery transport to mid-take jams, all while chasing the large-format look they wanted.

Ryan also breaks down:

• The prototype large-format lenses developed by Dan Sasaki, designed to echo vintage character while holding resolution wide open.

• Lanthimos’s signature visual language, especially his love of extremely low angles and precise camera-to-actor timing.

• The natural-light approach to the kidnapping sequence and the difficulty of shooting inside a G-Wagon full of reflections.

• How wider, observational framing amplified the comedy and chaos of the scene.

• The physical demands on Emma Stone and Jesse Plemons, whose exhaustion became part of the final performance.

It’s a great watch for anyone thinking about how format, optics, and movement shape tone.

Have you worked with VistaVision or other large-format film systems? What challenges, or advantages, did you run into?

Cinematographer Autumn Durald Arkapaw talks Sinners, Cinematography, IMAX, Ultra Panavision, Aspect Ratios, Visual Effects, Michael B. Jordan, Ryan Coogler, Favorite Films, and Making History as the the first female director of photography to shoot any movie on large format IMAX film.

(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XFj1DZDdvAw)

Acclaimed cinematographer Seamus McGarvey ASC BSC takes us behind the lensing of Lynne Ramsay’s film Die My Love — a haunting, poetic exploration of love, isolation, and the mind’s unraveling. McGarvey discusses collaborating with Ramsay, shooting on Ektachrome, choosing PVintage lenses and Panaflex Millenium XLs, and crafting a visual language that reflects the film’s emotional turbulence.

From intimate handheld work to day-for-night experimentation, McGarvey shares how cinematography becomes a vessel for inner experience — reminding us that cinema, at its best, is pure visual poetry.

(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QeT9z2ZqyBg)

There’s a huge price gap between cinema and photography lenses, but what exactly justifies that difference? And when is one the smarter choice over the other?

In this breakdown from In Depth Cine, the team dives into the practical and aesthetic distinctions that shape how cinematographers choose their glass. From ergonomics and manual focus control to T-stops, de-clicked apertures, and the coveted “cinematic look,” this video explores how each lens type fits different workflows, whether you’re working with a full camera crew or flying solo on a gimbal.

Watch here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=npZtToJnxaU

It’s a fantastic reminder that the “right” lens often depends on more than just image quality, it’s about the kind of story you’re telling, your shooting environment, and your production scale.

What do you think, do you find yourself gravitating more toward cinema lenses for their control and consistency, or photography lenses for their versatility and accessibility? When have you found one outperformed the other on set?

https://www.forbes.com/sites/joshweiss/2025/08/10/cinematographer-larkin-seiple-was-ready-for-a-break---then-weapons-came-along/

The vid says it all. Falling light. In a rush. Wanted to get that perfect feet-as-a-dolly shot into a crypt. Was so impressed by my brilliance (and dazzled by the lights on the cam) I was watchin the monitor instead where I was putting my feet. So, I fell hard for a good shot - or one I thought would be. I planned to stabilize it in post. Well, let's just say, there's no post-prod software that'll stabilize this embarrassing fail.

Atlas Falling wasn’t the first project I led — but it was the first time I couldn’t do it alone.

I was still the writer, producer, editor, DP, and even acted in it. Old habits die hard. But unlike my earlier work, I wasn’t the only one in the trenches. This time, I had people depending on me — and I had to depend on them too.

That was new.

I was used to control equaling safety. If I did everything, I couldn’t be disappointed. But Atlas Falling forced me to let go in small ways — trusting others to light a scene, run sound, organize a call sheet, or set a prop without me hovering.

And to be honest, it was uncomfortable. I struggled when something wasn’t done “my way.” I caught myself stepping in, fixing, and micromanaging. But every time I let someone own their job, the film got better — not worse.

That film became award-winning not because I did everything, but because I finally didn’t.

It taught me something I wish I had learned sooner — leadership in filmmaking isn't about doing every job. It's about creating a space where other people can do theirs.

Next week, we move into The Shape of Kindness, where I took the next step — handing off producing and directing entirely and stepping into a single role: DP.

Question for the lounge:

If you started out doing everything yourself, what was the first thing you learned to let go of?

As an indie DP, I'm sure you have found yourself up against it when working to deliver on director and audience expectations who see expensive effects and massive set pieces as the benchmark for a successful film. But, what do you do when vision and budget don't jive?

I am always looking for ways to get big results with minimum expense. I love going back to the basics for inspiration, and one of my biggest influences for doing more with less is John Carpenter.

I love rewatching his work and figuring out not just how he scripted a film, but how he arranges specific scenes to get maximum impact without the benefit of big dollars.

Check out the Studio binder video link below for one of my favorites, and let's hear about some of the ways you have helped your director make the most out of their budget by delivering more for less.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-ED42UnF8iI

Before I ever worked with a crew, I worked alone. I wore every hat — writer, producer, director, DP, editor, sound, color. It started when I was a kid watching Movie Magic, dreaming of being a special effects artist. By twelve, I was shooting short films with neighborhood kids. By my twenties, I was still chasing the same dream — just with more gear and higher stakes.

When you work alone, you learn a lot. You learn to think on your feet, to solve problems fast, to stay calm when everything breaks. But you also learn exhaustion. You start to believe control equals safety. Every small mistake feels like failure because you were the only one steering the ship.

Fly High: Story of the Disc Dog was my first feature. Seven years of shooting, editing, and producing nearly broke me. When it wrapped, I walked away. For three years, I didn’t touch a camera. I told myself I was done.

But filmmaking has a way of calling you back.

When I finally returned, I realized the cost of doing it all myself wasn’t just burnout — it was isolation. The work might have been solid, but it wasn’t sustainable. And if I ever wanted to grow beyond what one person could do, I’d have to learn something harder than lighting or lenses.

I’d have to learn to trust.

That’s where we’ll pick up next week — the moment I stopped being a one-person army and started learning to collaborate.

Question for the lounge:

When did you realize you couldn’t (or shouldn’t) do it all yourself anymore?

Lately, I've learned an astonishing amount about cinematography by watching Cunk on Earth – a comedy documentary with cinematography like Attenborough's Planet Earth and narration that feels like it just staggered in from a pub crawl.

In case you're not savvy to Cunk on Earth, it's a beautifully shot, mind-blowing comedy/documentary that mercilessly pokes holes in a lot of sacred cows. Apart from that, every frame looks like it cost a fortune — sweeping drone shots, lens flares worthy Hollywood blockbusters — and then Philomena Cunk opens her mouth and lays waste to the majesty. The incongruity of stunning cinematography and absurd, yet devastatingly rational, commentary leaves me spewing beer through my nose. And learning a lot about the emotional payload of cinematography.

The camera work is exquisite — golden-hour drone shots, elegant push-ins, perfectly composed interviews — all the hallmarks of flawless, factual filmmaking. It's beer spewing funny because the cinematography doesn’t wink at us; it draws us in, utterly; opens one up emotionally for a mind altering revelation, and then sucker punches you with a comment so absurd, yet honest, it might as well have been taken from the scripts of Monty Python.

What it does for me is see the cinematic cliches and tricks of this kind of filmmaking (you know, the kind of shooting and shots we all dream of getting) by juxtaposing it with an uproarious script. To make the joke work, you have to know the grammar of “serious” documentaries — the reverent lighting, the symmetrical framing, the sense of visual gravitas — without making it l ook obviously stolen from those heart wrenching documentaries we all know and love -- Attenborough, Brian Cox and friends -- and then let the script tear it all down, leaving one realising they'd just been emotionally played by the cinematography.

I’ve actually learned a lot from watching Cunk on Earth and similar faux-documentaries — especially how lighting and lens choice shape emotion, not just image. The camera believes every word, even when the script doesn’t. Mimicking sincerity convincingly turns out to be a masterclass in control. I've caught myself clambering through an archaeological site in the last couple of days trying to pull some of those Cunk on Earth tricks. Is that a good thing?

What fascinates me is how hard it is to fake sincerity that well. To parody a visual language, you have to understand it inside out — the lighting, the lensing, the emotional geometry of the frame, how far do you push it before it becomes caricature?

And the big Q: is learning a serious form of art from a parody of it, a good thing. What I'm saying is, I watched a lot of emotional, heart-ripping-out documentaries without even noticing the cinematography. But then, along comes Cunk on Earth and it starts to make sense.

What have you seen that switched on your cinematographer's senses?

Hope everyone’s doing great! What’s something you think screenwriters could do that would make our scripts better or your job easier?