Narrative Perspective

It’s nighttime, and you’re sitting in a dark backyard, gathered around a bonfire. A friend starts telling a scary story—about a time they walked into an abandoned building. They crept down a shadowy hallway and found one room, completely empty except for a single object placed right in the middle.

Most of us have been in that kind of moment as kids—a fire, a chilly night, and a scary story. But what really gets you scared? Is it the story or the way it is told?

When you watch a scene, ask yourself: what am I feeling right now? What do I know in this moment? Then ask—who is feeling this in the scene? Who is thinking this?

Even a strong story can fall flat if the delivery isn't right. The same is true for movies. But who is actually telling the story in a film? Is it the director? Or is it the whole group of artists—actors, the cinematographer, production designer, editor—all working together, guided by the director’s vision?
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Maybe all these artists are just channeling something else, like a news anchor—someone delivering the story but not actually creating it, just passing it along, like many anchors who report on stories other reporters investigate?
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In the end, figuring out who’s telling the story might be one of the most important things a filmmaker has to decide once they know what the story is. Let’s figure out why.

My name is Tal Lazar, and this is “Visium”, where we explore images, and figure out what makes them work. In this first series, we focus on images in movies.

Our journey to find Visium began when we started looking at images differently—not just as pretty pictures, but as ways to create a response in the audience, illicit an effect. In movies, images aren’t random. They serve a clear purpose: to tell a story. So, we dug into how stories are told through film, especially by breaking down a script. That’s the kind of work directors and cinematographers do to figure out how each scene should be interpreted and executed.

When we moved from theory into actually planning a film, we looked at visual strategy—spotting the key moments in a script and deciding how to emphasize them visually.

In this episode, we’re focusing on what might be the most important strategic choice of all—the one cinematographers can’t work without: narrative perspective. In other words, who’s telling the story?

To really understand narrative perspective, let’s borrow an idea from another art form—literature. You might remember learning about different narrative modes in school: first person, second person, and third person. Don’t worry, we’re not heading deep into an English class here, but it turns out these same ideas show up in movies too.
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So here’s a quick refresher:
First person is when the storyteller is part of the story. Like if I told you, “I went to a restaurant with a friend and we talked about a movie we both saw.” That’s me telling you what happened to me—and that’s first person.
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Second person is a bit more unusual, especially in movies. That’s when the storyteller puts you, the listener, or the reader, in the story: “You went to a restaurant with a friend and talked about a movie you both saw.” It’s written as if you’re the one experiencing the events.
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Third person is when the storyteller isn’t part of the story—they’re just watching from the outside. And there are two versions of this. One is restricted, where the storyteller is like a spy looking at the characters from afar. For example, “Two friends went to a restaurant and talked about the movie they just saw.” We are so removed that we are not even identifying with any character in particular.

Then there’s omniscient, or all-knowing third person. In that version, the storyteller knows everything about all the characters—even their thoughts and feelings. So it could be, “He went to a restaurant with a friend he secretly hated, and was surprised to learn they both liked the movie.”

These modes aren’t just for books—they’re ingrained into how stories are told in film too. And figuring out which one a movie is using can completely change how we see the story.
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Let’s set second person aside for now. Second person, where the storyteller puts the audience into the story, does exist in movies but its more rare. For now, let’s focus on first person and third person. In books, the difference is pretty straightforward. If the story says “I," it’s first person. If it says “he” or “she,” then it’s third. But in movies, how do you show that? How do you turn “I went to a restaurant” into something visual?
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A lot of people would say, “Just use a point-of-view shot. Show what the character sees.” And that does happen—there are quite a few films that try this. The Diving Bell and the Butterfly and Enter the Void are two examples, and even way back in 1931, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde opened with this idea.

That film starts with Dr. Jekyll playing an organ. We see the keys and his hands from his point of view, like we’re looking through his eyes. When his butler walks in, the camera turns to face him. We see the house, the flowers by the window—everything except Dr. Jekyll himself.

And pretty quickly, you notice something odd. Even though we’re seeing the world through his eyes, we don’t actually know much about him. Sure, he’s wealthy and plays the organ, but we can’t connect with him in a deeper way. The filmmakers must’ve realized that too, because not long after, we see Jekyll’s reflection in a mirror. It’s a small moment, but it gives us someone to relate to—an actual face, a person.

The same thing happens in other first-person-styled movies. Enter the Void uses a mirror early on, and in The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, we hear the character’s inner monologue through voice-over. That’s the key. Just moving the camera to match what a character sees isn’t enough.
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When we look for the first person perspective, we are actually looking for subjectivity. That’s when we truly get into a character’s mind—not just their eyes. The literal first person—putting the camera in the eyes of the character, doesn’t get us there.
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Ok, so first person is a bit tricky, what about third person? How do you show “he went to a restaurant” with a camera? Most people would say: film the character from the outside—maybe from the side or behind, like we’re watching someone else, not being them.

One director who really mastered third person is Alfonso Cuarón—you might know his work from Gravity, Children of Men, or Roma. But let’s look at an earlier film of his, Y Tu Mamá También. There’s a great moment in that film where a young woman waits at a clinic. She’s sitting quietly, and the camera is above her, looking down. Then the camera starts moving back slowly, handheld, revealing the empty waiting room. When the nurse calls her name, she stands and walks right toward the camera. We lead her a bit walking, but once she enters the doctor’s office, the camera stops. We don’t go in. For a moment, we see her through the doorway, and then the doctor closes the door—right in our face.

It’s such a strange way to shoot a scene. The camera feels like it’s an observer, like another person wandering around—but we know there isn’t one. That’s what makes it so interesting. It shows how narrative perspective in film doesn’t rely on just one camera technique.

Remember Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde? There, the camera also moves around, but it’s clearly from Dr. Jekyll’s eyes—first person. In Y Tu Mamá También, you’ve got similar camera movement, but it feels different. It’s like the story is being told by someone on the outside—someone watching, but not involved.

That’s a big difference. In Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, it’s Dr. Jekyll telling us the story. In Y Tu Mamá También, it feels like someone else is telling it—an unseen storyteller who isn’t allowed to invade the character’s space, like the doctor’s appointment. In both films, the camera technique is similar, but the perspective completely changes the meaning.

Now, what about the all-knowing storyteller—the one who sees more than any character ever could? A great example of this is in Hitchcock’s Vertigo. In one scene, the main character, detective John Ferguson, is spying on a woman he’s become obsessed with. He’s sitting at a restaurant bar, watching as she finishes dinner with another man. When they get up to leave, John tries to blend in and stay unnoticed. But then, she stops right behind him.

At that moment, we see her in this stunning shot. The lighting shifts slightly. It’s beautiful—like we’re seeing her through John’s eyes. But here’s the catch: she’s behind him. He can’t actually see her. So what’s going on?

This is the filmmaker giving us access not just to what John sees, but to what he feels. That’s the all-knowing perspective at work—letting us into a character’s mind even when the images don’t strictly line up with reality. It’s not about what a character can logically see—it’s about how they experience the moment. That is true subjectivity.
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For us as filmmakers, it helps to move beyond the literary narrative modes. Instead of calling them first or third person, we find it more useful to think in terms of narrative perspective. And in movies, that usually falls into two big categories:

Objective perspective is when we, the audience, are observing. We don’t have direct access to a character’s inner thoughts or feelings. Everything is on the outside.

Subjective perspective is when we’re aligned with a character’s inner world. We might see what they see, but more importantly, we feel what they feel—even if the camera pulls off something that logic can’t explain.

So while narrative perspective has its roots in writing, in film it becomes something visual and emotional. It’s not just about where the camera is—it’s about who we’re experiencing the story through.

Now, there’s something important we should clear up. When I say “objective,” it might sound like it means impartial or distant, like the audience won’t feel anything. But that’s not what it means at all. This isn’t about how much emotion a scene has—it’s about where that emotion is coming from. For example, in Y Tu Mamá También you might feel sad or anxious for the character, who is going to get some bad news from the doctor. But there is no indication that she feels that too.

The real question is: who’s telling the story? Is it the character, or is it someone else, not a character, who is outside of their experience?

Both objective and subjective perspectives can be powerful and emotional. The difference isn’t about style or camera movement—it’s about perspective. In Y Tu Mamá También and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde we didn’t connect subjectively to the character. And in Vertigo, we somehow got to see into the character’s mind.

So how do you tell the difference?

The answer is not in what the camera is doing. You have to look inward—just like we did when we talked about Irving Penn’s photography and how images can create an effect.

When you watch a scene, ask yourself: what am I feeling right now? What do I know in this moment? Then ask—who is feeling this? Who is thinking this?

If the answer is the character, then the perspective is subjective. But if the feelings or knowledge are coming from outside the character—if you, the viewer, are the only one aware of them—then it’s objective.

Try this the next time you watch a movie. You might start to notice the invisible path the director has laid out for you. That path—the emotional perspective—isn’t just created with camera placement. It’s built through dialogue, music, editing, and lots of other choices that all add up to a single, carefully created narrative perspective. And that’s something only a director can really create.

Every shot in a movie has a perspective. The moment you turn on a camera, you've already chosen one, you can’t get around it. So naturally, that raises some big questions. Like, how do we intentionally express objectivity or subjectivity? And maybe even more important—when should we use one or the other?

These are good questions, and there's no single answer. That’s the thing about filmmaking: it’s full of choices, and every director brings their own approach. Some directors love to get deep inside a character’s mind. Think of Christopher Nolan’s Joker or Michel Gondry’s Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. We’re not just watching those characters—we’re feeling what it’s like to be them.

Other directors take the opposite approach. They want distance. They give you space to observe and form your own thoughts, maybe even judgments. That’s what happens in films like Taxi Driver, A Clockwork Orange, or Triangle of Sadness. Instead of being inside the character, you stay outside and ask questions about their actions.

Neither way is right or wrong. They’re just different storytelling tools.

But here’s a word of caution about objectivity: when you take the audience too far from the character, there’s a risk. If you don’t give them something else to connect with—some question to think about, or an emotion to hold on to—they might just disconnect entirely. Think of the difference between a murder mystery that keeps you guessing and asking - “who did it?” and a film that just feels confusing.

Most filmmakers don’t want the viewer to remember they’re watching a movie. They want the audience to be immersed. And objectivity creates a bit of distance—so if you take that route, make sure there’s still something to engage the audience.

When it comes to technique, there’s a long list of tools you can use to shift between subjective and objective. Here, we’re mostly talking about the camera, but it goes way beyond that. Voice-over, emotional music, less cuts in long takes that stay with a character in real time—all these build perspective too.

Narrative perspective drives one of the most important decisions in filmmaking—where to place the camera. But this isn’t just about equipment or techniques. Even in moments where there’s no actual camera—like in animation, storyboarding or even images created with AI—it still comes down to one key question: where are we seeing the events from?

That’s why understanding narrative perspective is so critical for cinematographers and directors. It’s not enough to know what’s happening in the scene—they also need to know how the story is being told, and through whose eyes. If they miss that, they might put the camera in the wrong place during a key moment, and that can shift the tone—or even confuse the audience.

And that’s exactly what we’ll be talking about in our next episode: how cinematographers make those choices, and what happens when narrative perspective guides the visual decisions behind the lens.

If that sounds interesting, consider subscribing, leaving a review, and joining me as we continue exploring storytelling and the many ways visual artists bring it to life through images.

If you have any thought, an example that wasn’t mentioned or a question, feel free to reach out—just email [email protected] . You can also check out my book at TheLanguageofCinematography.com.

Thanks for spending time with me today. Goodbye!