The Visual Story
This is a transcript from Visium: The Secret Language of Images. Listen to the episode below:
Picture this—you’re about to give a speech to 500 people. Would you walk on stage without knowing exactly what you want to say?
Probably not. And yet, plenty of filmmakers do exactly that. The movie set is their stage, and the camera is their microphone. Sure, they might have a script, a shot list, and a lighting plan, but those are just blueprints for something bigger. Can you describe your story, and not your plot? Because that’s what images are there to serve.
A lot of people assume that cinematography is a technical skill. But being a great technician doesn’t mean you’ll create effective images.
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.
In our first episode, we looked to Irving Penn as our guide, using his approach as a way to understand how images work. Before we even think about lenses or cameras, we need to ask: What was this image meant to do? Every image has a purpose, and once we understand that, the choices behind it (like framing, lighting, or composition) start to make sense.
But Penn’s way of thinking isn’t just useful for analyzing images; it’s just as important when creating them. Making images doesn’t start with picking a lens or positioning a camera. It starts with knowing the purpose of the image.
A lot of people assume that cinematography is a technical skill. But being a great technician doesn’t mean you’ll create effective images. If you know what you want to say but aren’t sure how to say it visually, learning the technical side (or finding someone to help) is much easier. On the other hand, the most beautiful image in the world can’t save a filmmaker who doesn’t know their story. In movies, every image exists to support that story, and the director’s job is to know it inside and out.
“Wait”, I can hear Some filmmakers say, “What about leaving interpretation up to the audience? What if I want them to make up their own mind?”
I call this the museum approach. When we walk through a museum, we don’t question the artist, even if we don’t really understand their work. No one looks at a Picasso or a Monet and says they got it wrong. In a museum, viewers are expected to bring some knowledge with them, and if they don’t, a label by the painting can offer context.
But filmmakers can’t expect their audience to arrive prepared. Movie viewers come in with different expectations, and unlike museum visitors, they have no problem blaming even the most famous directors if they don’t like what they see.
Now, we’re focusing on narrative films. These movies can have open endings and moments that leave room for interpretation, but that’s not the same as leaving the audience completely lost. Asking “Who did it?” in a murder mystery is different from asking, “What’s even happening here?”
Remember Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey? We never get a clear answer about the meaning of the black monolith that appears throughout the film, but that's not the central question, and it doesn’t prevent us from engaging with the movie. The questions we ask during a film don’t appear by accident—they’re all designed. A director’s job is to create a path, guiding an audience of hundreds, even thousands, toward the same essential question.
Some confusion can be effective, even compelling. But let it go on for too long, and don’t be surprised if your audience checks out completely.
Movie viewers arrive with expectations, and they want those expectations met. For instance, watching a movie in a theater is different from watching it at home or on a phone. In a theater, someone might give a movie a few more minutes before deciding to leave. At home, they might make that decision in seconds. Posters, trailers, even a film’s title—all of these shape what an audience expects from a movie. Directors, especially those who need to raise money for their film, are usually well aware of this.
That doesn’t mean a director’s job is to please everyone. Great movies sometimes walk a fine line—giving audiences something they didn’t expect but in a way that still feels right.
At the heart of this discussion is a bigger question: What is the purpose of moving images in film?
One way to see it is as communication: The filmmaker is like a speaker, and the audience is like a listener. The responsibility for clarity falls on the filmmaker. Another way to see it is as pure expression. The filmmaker puts something out into the world, and whether or not it’s clear doesn’t really matter. It’s about capturing a feeling, a moment, or an idea—no explanation needed.
In reality, movie images are both communication and expression. Even big-budget films like Christopher Nolan’s Inception or Alfonso Cuarón’s Gravity have the distinct fingerprint of the directors who created them. The audience doesn’t mind artistic expression—they just expect a payoff for their attention, time, and expectations.
When people watch a movie, they assume every detail is intentional, that someone carefully placed each element with a bigger plan in mind. And they’re usually willing to wait for that plan to reveal itself.
Let’s say that I told you this story: "Today, I got on the train..."
Now you wonder, And then what?! That expectation is powerful. You wouldn’t assume I was just talking to waste your time. But now imagine that same non-story stretched out for two hours. Would you stick around to hear the end?
Movies that feel like nothing is happening, where we sit there, waiting for something, anything, are actually pretty rare. In my time as a cinematography educator, I’ve seen plenty of movies with a different problem. There was a story, but the director and cinematographer weren’t telling the same one.
This usually isn’t intentional. It’s just a simple issue of communication. It happens when everyone assumes the others already know the story—or even what a story is. So let’s get on the same page. What is a story, anyway?
Let’s say I told you this: "This morning, Carol got in her car and drove to work."
Is that a story? Some of you might say yes—it has a character, it has action. Others might say no, that it’s too thin to count.
Now, here’s a question: Could a talented director turn this into something that undeniably feels like a story—without changing a single word of the script?
I think so. What if this is Carol’s first day at work—ever? She’s never had a job before. The script stays the same, but the way she behaves changes. And with that, the way we show her on camera has to change too. Maybe she’s nervous, maybe she’s excited, maybe both.
Filming Carol getting into her car and driving off is simple—a wide shot could cover it. But if we want to show her hesitation, her excitement, her fear—that wide shot wouldn’t be enough. That’s where cinematographers and directors need to be on the same page.
So, what is a story exactly?
I’ll offer one definition, not because it’s the only one or the best one, but because it’s useful when thinking about images. I’ll call it the visual story. This doesn’t replace other definitions. Keep those too—you’ll need them. But this one will help us understand how images carry meaning and emotion.
I define a visual story as a journey that expresses a character’s internal transformation and reflects an idea. Let’s break that down.
First, a journey. There’s no such thing as a small story, even if it happens in a small space. Take Lenny Abrahamson’s film Room. Most of the film takes place inside a single room, but the story itself is far from simple: a boy and his mother are held in that room for years.
A story is a journey in the sense that takes us somewhere new, and we never really return to where we started—at least not in the same way. Some journeys take us across worlds, like The Lord of the Rings, and others happen entirely inside a character’s mind. In the hands of a director, even a character taking a single step out of a house can become a monumental story—maybe they’ve never left home before?
The second element to story is expression. Every part of a story—characters, locations, actions—represents something bigger. In everyday life, we go through journeys all the time, but we don’t think that there is some hidden meaning in the events unfolding around us. Let’s say that you walk in the street and something crashes on the sidewalk next to you. You wouldn’t immediately think that someone is out to get you. But if something crashes next to a character, it’s different. The audience knows that every choice on screen is intentional—that someone decided to create these characters, put them in these locations, and orchestrate the events around them.
That’s why every detail in a movie matters. In some cases, an audience will assume meaning even where there isn’t any. A famous example is Quentin Tarantino, who didn’t put much thought into the glowing suitcase in Pulp Fiction, but that didn’t stop audiences from obsessing over it.
Our definition of story is: a journey that expresses a character’s internal transformation and reflects an idea. So far, we’ve covered the journey and the fact it expresses something, but there’s more to it.
First, character. No story exists without a character. Characters don’t have to be human, but audiences will always humanize them. That’s just how we process stories: we look for ways to relate, to understand decisions, to connect with goals. Think of the most iconic movie characters: Harry Potter, Indiana Jones, even Mulan. What makes them so memorable? Why do their stories move us? If you dig deep enough, you’ll probably find something in them that reflects a part of yourself.
Next, internal transformation. In a story, something has to change. Movies are full of action. Empires fall, superheroes fight villains, but most of that is just surface-level. Have you ever watched a big-budget movie with lots of explosions and felt… bored? And have you ever seen a smaller, quieter film that completely held your attention? The difference is in the characters.
Transformation in stories doesn’t always mean a huge revelation or a dramatic moment. It can be subtle—things can improve or fall apart, a character might abandon a belief or remember something they’d forgotten. The key is that there’s some change, and that it happens internally.
And finally, the story reflects an idea. Everything—the character, the journey, the transformation—exists to reflect a larger theme. Movies, at their core, express an opinion about the world.
Take epic war films like 1917 or All Quiet on the Western Front. These movies usually reflect an anti-war theme. But you can’t really make a movie about a statement like “war is bad”. Instead, these films tell stories of characters caught in war, letting their experiences embody that central idea. The audience instinctively understand that movies work this way—even if they never stop to think about it, the meaning is still there, part of every scene.
Now that we have a good idea of what a visual story is, finding it becomes a little easier. But why do stories need to be found at all? Isn’t that what a screenplay is for?
The answer to that question is where the real magic happens—where words transform into images. And that’s exactly what we’ll explore in our next episode.
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!