When Cinematic Storytelling Meets Visual Journalism
What can photojournalists learn from the movies to make their images unforgettable?
Picture a bustling street market—a river of people flowing through narrow aisles, while vendors haggle over merchandise. Your task is to capture the essence of this market in a picture. Where would you start?
The camera serves as a window into a world, and its placement is one of the most fundamental choices in visual storytelling. In movies, narrative perspective dictates where the camera is positioned.
This was the challenge given to me by the visual editor of a major newspaper in my hometown. I had brazenly walked into his office, determined to become a photojournalist, and offered myself for the job. He didn’t flinch, and sent me out to capture the market in pictures. As I squeezed through the crowd, dodging elbows, it only took a few shutter clicks to realize I was failing.
The editor later confirmed my suspicion—while I had captured vendors, customers, and merchandise, missing was the energy, smells, and sounds. It took me years to realize that images do more than just document what’s in the frame. Now, as a cinematographer, I create images to convey perspective, emotion and experience to the audience. The same holds true for visual journalism, which aims to crystallize a truthful moment, revealing something greater than the sum of its parts. Movies and journalistic photography have more in common than people might think—both use images as a language to communicate a message. I wish I had understood this simple truth while photographing the market: like any language, creating an image begins with knowing what you want to say.
Irving Penn once said that an effective photograph should communicate a fact, touch the viewer's heart, and leave them changed. With a single word, Penn set a standard for visual storytellers—when looking at any image, ask yourself: is it effective? To begin answering this question, you’ll first need to determine its purpose. In both movies and photojournalism, an image’s purpose is to tell a story. But while filmmakers can read the ending of their story in a screenplay, photojournalists often discover their story as they work, requiring them to stay present, look beyond the surface, and adapt quickly. Any seasoned filmmaker will also cite these skills as essential for success, since capturing what’s in front of the camera—the actors, the lighting, and the unpredictable reality—is always different from the original vision in a filmmaker’s mind.
One of the biggest challenges for beginner photographers is closing the gap between how they imagine reality and what’s actually in front of the camera. That gap is precisely what prevented me from truly capturing the market years ago. The ability to adapt to a story as it unfolds is exemplified in the work of photojournalists like Anastasia Taylor-Lind. While documenting the Armenia-Azerbaijan conflict, her story evolved—from capturing Armenian resistance to witnessing their inevitable defeat. Can you sum up the story in Taylor-Lind’s photograph? Capturing the essence of an image is easier when expressed in as few words as possible. In this case, a single word can encapsulate its story. Try to find the word that best represents the essence of this image, and if your chosen word aligns with Taylor-Lind’s intention, the image has achieved its purpose—it is effective.
Skills required behind the camera aren’t the only thing filmmakers and visual journalists have in common—after all, both rely on the same tool. The camera serves as a window into a world, and its placement is one of the most fundamental choices in visual storytelling. In movies, narrative perspective dictates where the camera is positioned. It can be subjective (reflecting a character’s thoughts and emotions) or objective (expressing the narrator’s separate viewpoint or simply delivering information). Consider the opening shot of Spike Jonze’s Her, a close-up of Joaquin Phoenix as a lonely, introverted man. For the first few seconds, the audience knows nothing about where he is or what he’s doing, but they quickly get a sense of his character. This is a subjective perspective. By contrast, Alfonso Cuarón’s Gravity opens with a wide shot of a space shuttle against Earth. The audience knows the location and might wonder why the shuttle is upside down. This is an objective perspective, framing the story from a viewpoint separate from the characters themselves.
The concept of narrative perspective applies equally to visual journalism. In Taylor-Lind’s photograph of the Armenian combatant, the direct eye contact with the wounded man gives the audience access to his emotional state—an intimate moment amid the surrounding chaos. At the same time, the image provides context: other people are visible, and a sense of urgency contrasts with the man’s demeanor. It’s the precise balance of these two perspectives that makes the image so powerful. Moving closer to the man would heighten subjectivity, intensifying the viewer’s emotional connection but sacrificing context and the contrast between his dazed presence and the activity around him. Stepping further back would probably offer more factual information, but at the cost of losing access to the man’s face—and with it, the emotional impact. Taylor-Lind’s framing decision balances subjectivity and objectivity—a choice which can only be made when the photographer understands the story they wish to tell.
Another tool that all photographers carefully consider, whether working in fiction or nonfiction, is the choice of lens. Many assume that a lens is selected by its field of view—wide lenses for wide shots, and long lenses for close-ups. However, the storytelling potential of lenses extends far beyond how much they can capture. Take a moment to observe the two images below—one from Kathryn Bigelow’s The Hurt Locker and the other from Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life. Can you estimate the actual distance between the camera and the subject in each shot?
If you sensed that the camera feels distant in The Hurt Locker and up close in The Tree of Life, then you’ve uncovered one of the hidden powers of lenses: their ability to make the audience feel physically far or intimately close. When observing from afar, the audience remains detached, keeping a safe distance from the unfolding scene. But when immersed in an event, they become part of the moment, sharing in its emotions. Contrary to common assumptions about lens use, the image from The Hurt Locker is a wide shot created with a long lens, while the image from The Tree of Life is a close-up achieved with a wide-angle lens. The lenses used in these scenes were chosen for the narrative perspective they convey, not just for how much they can capture.
Few photojournalists exemplify storytelling-driven lens selection better than James Nachtwey, featured in the Fall 2000 edition of Nieman Reports. Nachtwey frequently uses wide-angle lenses to immerse himself, and the audience, in the events he captures, no matter how uncomfortable or challenging. In Christian Frei’s documentary War Photographer, Nachtwey is shown photographing a burning house. He keeps pushing forward to get closer, only to be forced back by the heat. This momentary struggle between physical pain and his unwavering commitment to presence is a recurring theme in his work. His photographs deliver an uncompromising honesty, pulling the viewer into the scene and making it impossible to look away.
When we observe images, the decisions made by image-makers—such as camera placement and lens selection—naturally translate into stories. We have become fluent in the language of images simply by observing them our entire lives. However, creating images requires a different set of skills. When an image moves you, take a moment to consider why it’s effective—identify its story and the visual choices that support it. Over time, this practice will do more than help you "read" visual language—it will teach you to "speak" it.