Placing the Camera

What makes you step closer to something? And what makes you pull away?

We move around all day, getting from place to place, checking off tasks, but not every step we take is about doing stuff. Sometimes it's curiosity that draws us in. Other times, it might be the way a space makes us feel—safe, warm, or welcome. And just as often, it's an uncomfortable feeling that pushes us back. Pain, embarrassment, or even just a gut feeling can make us turn away or take a step back. Our bodies react, even before we fully understand why.

Don’t just say “we’ll start wide, then go in.” Instead, try something like: “We’ll emphasize the character’s realization subjectively with a close-up, so we’ll hold off on close-ups at first and start with a wide, more objective angle.” Those are two very different ways to approach a scene.

Now think about watching a movie in a theater. In every shot, the camera points at something—or someone. Sometimes it’s up close, other times it pulls back. And with each shift, you go along for the ride, moving through the space with the lens. But here’s the thing: you’re not the one deciding where to look, or how close to be. You’ve handed that power over to the filmmaker, at least for a little while.
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Have you ever been so drawn into a film that you couldn’t tear your eyes away? Or maybe you’ve had the opposite reaction, where a moment hit so hard you had to look down or turn away.
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That push and pull—the way the camera moves, where it's placed—it connects to how we look at the world in real life. And today, we’re diving into how filmmakers make those choices, and why they matter more than we might think.

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.

Before we get started, I just want to say thank you to everyone who reached out with such kind messages. It’s been really exciting to hear that this series is connecting with filmmakers, and that so many of you are finding it useful.

Now, there’s a question that came up more than once, and I want to take a moment to answer it. Back in episode 3, From Words to Images, we talked about breaking down a script and how important it is for a director to find the story within it. Remember the story of the Scorpion and the Frog? Some parts of it weren’t spelled out—they were implied. Like the idea that it’s really the Frog’s story, or that he paused before agreeing to carry the Scorpion across the river.

None of these script decisions is set in stone, even if some things are strongly suggested in the screenplay. A director could choose to make the story about the Scorpion. Or they could show the Frog as reckless, even overconfident. A director has the right—maybe even the responsibility—to apply an interpretation to the screenplay.

The question that came up is this—what happens when the director and the screenwriter are the same person? It’s a great point. A lot of directors write their own scripts, so how does the idea of breaking down the story and “finding it” still apply?
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I think it’s a really important question, because you’re absolutely right—it’s a lot harder to break down a story you wrote yourself.
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But here’s the key: you have to ask yourself—am I writing this as a director, or am I preparing to shoot it like a screenwriter? Directing and screenwriting are different hats to wear.
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Let’s look at it from a different angle—imagine we’re in the business of designing cars. A car isn’t just a single object; it’s a complex system where changing one part often affects everything else. Move the gear shift, add a new row of seats—suddenly, you have to rethink a big chunk of the design. And you can’t just hop in the car and decide to change major things on the road. To make those updates, you have to go back to the shop—or even the factory—and rework it before the car’s ready to hit the street again.

In that way, the car designer and the driver clearly have different jobs. And even if they understand each other’s world—or are the same person—they can’t really do both at the same time.

It might sound like a stretch, but the screenwriter and the director are a bit like that too. They might share the same goals, and sometimes one person plays both roles—but those roles don’t happen at the same moment. Writing the script is like designing the car. Directing is like driving it, including the decision where you want it to go. But trying to do both at once just doesn’t work.
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If you write your screenplay like a director, it’s easy to start thinking about shots, blocking, lighting—how the scene will actually look. And that might seem efficient at first. But all those visual choices are just tools. They need to serve something. So before you lock in how a scene will look, you have to ask yourself—what’s the purpose of that image? What story are you telling with it?
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If you skip that part, you might run into real problems. Maybe the location you carefully imagined isn’t available. Or the lighting setup you planned doesn’t work on set. Or an actor brings in an idea that actually feels more right for the moment than what you originally wrote. If you’ve already tied yourself to a specific way of shooting, it’s much harder to adapt.

It’s not that screenwriters can’t think visually, some of the best do. But the standard screenwriting practice—not including directing or camera instructions in a script—actually helps writers stay focused on story.

On the flip side, if you’re prepping for a shoot but still thinking like a screenwriter—tweaking scenes constantly, changing structure as you go—that just creates chaos. The assistant director can’t build a schedule. The producer can’t lock a budget. And the actors? Well, good luck asking them to memorize lines if those lines keep changing. When the script’s not locked, it throws off everything else. It’s tough to make solid visual choices that stay consistent throughout the movie, when the foundation keeps moving.

So the real trick is learning when to take off one hat and put on the other. And yes, I know—some of you are thinking about the big names who do everything. Quentin Tarantino writes his own scripts. Clint Eastwood acted in some movies he directed. Steven Soderbergh even shoots his own films.
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But those folks have something in common: Years and years of experience. They’ve built a system that works for them. So while wearing more than one hat is possible, it takes a lot of time and skill to do it well—and even then, they’re probably not wearing them all at once. They actually have to rely on their collaborators even more than usual. Because no matter how many roles you take on, you can’t be in two places at the same time.
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If you're early in your career, I'd say this: get really good at each job on its own before trying to take on multiple roles. If you jump into doing both directing and screenwriting without that foundation, you won’t really understand what each job needs—or notice what starts to slip when you cut corners.

Hope that answers the question. Feel free to send me any other questions you may have to [email protected].

In the last episode, we looked closely at narrative perspective. We talked about how the objective perspective in Y Tu Mamá También puts us at a distance from the characters, while the subjective perspective in Vertigo pulls us inside a character’s mind.

You might remember I mentioned that every shot and moment in a film has a perspective—there’s no way around it. It might’ve sounded like we have to pick either subjectivity or objectivity, but the truth is… they can both be there at the same time.

At the beginning of Alfonso Cuarón’s Roma, we meet Cleo, a maid washing clothes on the rooftop of a family’s home in Mexico City. The scene feels mostly objective—we’re watching her as the children play around her, but we don’t really know how she feels in that moment.

One of the kids lies down in the sun, and closes his eyes, and Cleo joins him, taking a quiet moment to rest. They lie there in silence. The camera slowly drifts upward, almost like it’s floating with their thoughts—or like they’re beginning to drift off to sleep. That feels pretty subjective, right?

But as the camera rises, we start to see other rooftops nearby. On them are other maids, just like Cleo, washing clothes. Suddenly, there’s a bigger picture. We’re reminded that Cleo is part of a larger group, and the film seems to be saying something about class and her place in society. Here’s the thing: Cleo can’t see any of this. Her eyes are closed, and there’s no evidence that she’s thinking about those other women. So now, it feels objective again.

So, which is it? Actually, it’s both. Narrative perspective isn’t one thing or the other—it can mix and shift, sometimes in the same moment. The best way to understand it? Watch great films. Notice how they make you feel. Think about the thoughts they evoke. Then ask yourself: who’s feeling this? Who’s thinking this? That’s where the real learning starts.
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Last episode, I mentioned that narrative perspective isn’t tied to one specific camera technique. Just putting the camera where a character’s eyes would be doesn’t automatically make the scene subjective—or objective. It really depends on the context.

That said, there are still clear ways to decide where to place the camera. The key is to stay strategic. We're not just thinking about one moment in a film—we’re shaping a full journey for the audience, something that builds and lands over time. So, when choosing where to put the camera, we need to start by answering a few important questions:

1. Whose moment is it?
   Not every moment in a film belongs to the main character. I call it a “moment” because there can be several within a single scene. Perspective can shift, even mid-scene. For example, if something terrible happens to your main character in the street, you might cut to a bystander reacting in shock—even if we never see that person again. That quick shift in perspective lets the audience feel the emotion through someone else's eyes. It’s a way to guide how the audience responds. So, for each moment, it’s important to ask: who’s driving it?
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2. What is the story?
   There can be more than one story happening at once. Each important character has their own story, and it’s crucial to understand that story—not just the plot. Don’t lump two characters into one story just because they’re in the same scene or situation. When you generalize like that, it becomes harder for the audience to connect with any one character. Take the time to know each character’s story on its own terms.
   
   My former teacher, the late screenwriter Gill Dennis, had a great piece of advice: write each scene from the perspective of every character in it. That way, you create separate versions of the same moment, fully understanding what each character is experiencing. It’s a smart way to push yourself to figure out what’s going on inside them—even when they’re not on screen. And often, those discoveries lead to major changes in the script.
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3. What is the narrative perspective?
   This is a choice the director makes. The screenplay might hint at it, but the director can choose to go a different way. So you need to ask: is the moment objective? Or is it subjective—and if it is, what character’s perspective are we seeing?
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4. What information must be delivered?
   Not every moment in a film is about emotion—sometimes, it’s about making sure the audience knows something important. Think of Chekhov’s famous gun: it’s shown early so we remember it when it finally goes off later. That kind of setup relies on the audience getting the right information at the right time. Directors reveal—or hide—details on purpose, and those choices affect where the camera goes.
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5. Are spatial relationships important?
   In editing class, you might’ve been told to always start with an establishing shot—but the truth is, that’s not a rule you always have to follow. The real question is: does the space matter in this moment? Do we need to understand where the characters are and how they relate to each other physically? Or would it actually serve the story better to avoid revealing that?
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6. Finally, what stylistic elements must be introduced?
   I wouldn’t stress too much about style—most of the time, it naturally comes out of all the choices we’ve talked about so far. That said, sometimes a film needs to teach the audience its visual language early on. Take The Truman Show, for example. Right from the start, the filmmakers break the fourth wall. Even though it’s not always justified within those early scenes, it helps the audience understand the unusual filming style. Once that language is set, viewers know how to watch the rest of the film.

We can only start thinking about camera placement once we’ve answered these questions. Begin by mapping out your scene’s emotional arc—figure out the key moments for each character, just like we talked about back in episode 3. Then, choose a narrative perspective, as we explored in episode 5.

From there, approach camera placement strategically. Don’t just say “we’ll start wide, then go in.” Instead, try something like: “We’ll emphasize the character’s realization subjectively with a close-up, so we’ll hold off on close-ups at first and start with a wide, more objective angle.” Those are two very different ways to approach a scene.

With that in mind, there’s more to camera placement than just deciding between wide shots and close-ups. Let’s go over some basic camera techniques. These are the tools we use to express narrative perspective and tell the story.

The first one is camera angle—specifically, what I call lateral angle. That’s the side-to-side positioning of the camera in relation to the subject, usually a person. The key question is: how far is the camera from the actor’s sightline?

The more the camera is off to the side, the more we create what’s called a “dismissive eyeline.” That means we don’t get a clear view of the actor’s face. And since understanding how a character feels often comes from seeing their expression, this kind of angle directly affects the level of subjectivity. A straight-on angle tends to feel more connected and emotional, while the more we move to the side, the more distant or objective it feels. Still, sometimes the camera isn’t motivated by what a character is doing in the moment, but by what they’re about to do. For example, you might place the camera behind a character—not because it helps us understand their current emotion, but because it’s the best spot to catch them turning around and reacting to something unexpected.

The other type of angle is vertical—that’s all about camera height. The camera can be placed above or below a character. You’ve probably heard that low angles can make a character feel powerful, while high angles make them seem weak. There’s some truth to that, and it connects to how we saw the world as kids, with adults towering over us.

But what's more important is access to the face. Let’s say the camera is in front of the character, and then they look up. We miss their face at the exact moment they react—so we lose a bit of emotional connection. That’s why, just like with lateral angles, vertical angles come down to sightlines.

If the camera is low or high, and the character looks straight ahead—so they're not looking at us—there’s a sense that we’re observing them from a distance. That adds a layer of separation and reduces subjectivity. We feel like we’re watching from below or above, instead of being right there with them.

So, once again, a single technique like camera height can lead to very different results. It all depends on what the character is doing in the moment. That’s why great cinematography has to come from close collaboration with the director—so every shot matches what the scene needs emotionally.

Next up is distance. When the camera is physically close to a character, we feel close too. That can affect us in a real, physical way. Sometimes it’s intimate, other times it can feel a bit too close—like in The Tree of Life, where Terrence Malick put the camera just inches from the actors’ faces. It’s intense and personal, sometimes even uncomfortable. Other times, the camera is just close enough to make the face the only thing that matters, focusing all our attention on what the character is feeling.

When the camera is farther away, that emotional connection starts to drop off. We see the full picture, but we begin to feel more like observers.

There’s also the question of what’s between the camera and the character. That’s called a foreground element. It could be anything—furniture, plants, people. When there’s something in the foreground, it pushes the character into the background of the frame and creates a sense of separation. It makes the audience feel like they’re watching from a distance, not sharing the same space. It can work well for a point of view shot, but if no one is watching it becomes objective, like that scene in the doctor’s office from Y Tu Mama Tambien.

And finally, there’s lens choice—a key piece of the puzzle when it comes to narrative perspective. That’s where we’re headed in our next episode.

If that sounds interesting, consider subscribing, leaving a review, and joining me as we keep exploring storytelling—and all the ways visual artists bring stories 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!