Lights, Camera, Influences: The Films That Shaped My Eye for Light, Camera, and Pure Craft

I haven’t sat down to write something quite like this in a while, and if I’m honest, it feels a bit like opening an old diary rather than drafting a blog post. But sometimes the things that pull you forward aren’t tidy lists or technical breakdowns, they’re honest reflections on the moments that first made your heart race behind the viewfinder. For me, those moments came through films that didn’t just tell stories; they taught me how light and camera could become characters in their own right. Some were wildly stylised, others quietly masterful, but every one left me thinking less about “how did they do that?” and more about “how can I feel that on my own sets?”

Looking back, it started with the giants. Stanley Kubrick was an early revelation. The Shining (1980), directed by Kubrick with cinematography by John Alcott, and 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), also directed by Kubrick with Geoffrey Unsworth behind the lens, hit me like a quiet thunderbolt. The precision of those compositions, the way light carved through corridors or hung in the vastness of space—it wasn’t showy; it was deliberate, almost meditative. I remember watching and thinking how incredible it was that, long before computers or CGI, these shots were achieved through pure craft, patience, and an eye that trusted the frame completely. Kubrick showed me that lighting and camera work could be philosophical.

Alfred Hitchcock, the undisputed master of suspense, came next. In films like Psycho (1960), directed by Hitchcock with John L. Russell as Director of Photography, or his broader body of work, I’d pause and wonder how those tension-filled shots were pulled off in an era without digital safety nets. The way shadows and angles built dread—pure genius. It made me appreciate the fundamentals: how a single well-placed light or a careful camera move could hold an audience breathless.

Then came the modern masters who blended bold vision with technical bravery. Christopher Nolan’s entire filmography has been a masterclass for me—Memento (2000, directed by Nolan, DOP Wally Pfister), Inception (2010, Nolan/Pfister), Interstellar (2014, Nolan with Hoyte van Hoytema), and Oppenheimer (2023, Nolan/van Hoytema). There’s something about the way Nolan and his DPs layer practical effects, shifting perspectives, and immersive scales that makes you forget you’re watching a film and simply live inside it. I’d walk away from each one inspired to push my own work toward that same sense of wonder, where the camera doesn’t just record… it transports.

Quentin Tarantino sits right alongside Nolan as one of my generation’s greats. The Hateful Eight (2015, directed by Tarantino, DOP Robert Richardson) floored me with its use of the 70mm format and the way it turned a single cabin into a vast, breathing space, every corner lit with intention, every frame alive with texture. Once Upon a Time in Hollywood (2019, Tarantino/Richardson) did the same but with a sun-drenched, nostalgic warmth that felt like stepping into a living painting. Tarantino’s worlds celebrate craft without apology, and that energy has always stayed with me.

A few more recent discoveries captured me just as instantly. The Last Black Man in San Francisco (2019, directed by Joe Talbot, DOP Adam Newport-Berra) hooked me from the opening sequence, the theatrical perspective, those deliberate zooms, the way the camera moved like it was gently guiding you into someone’s world. It wasn’t flashy; it was intimate and alive. Waves (2019, directed by Trey Edward Shults, DOP Drew Daniels) took things further with its abstract imagery, shifting aspect ratios, and that haunting colour palette. It reminded me that rules are there to be bent beautifully when the story calls for it.

I’ve always been in awe of filmmakers who trust long, unbroken takes to carry emotion. Russian Ark (2002, directed by Alexander Sokurov, DOP Tilman Büttner) left me speechless, one continuous shot gliding through a museum, history unfolding in real time. Children of Men (2006, directed by Alfonso Cuarón, DOP Emmanuel Lubezki) delivered that same intensity in the chaotic street combat and the legendary car sequence, achieved with an ingenious rig that felt raw and immediate. And 1917 (2019, directed by Sam Mendes, DOP Roger Deakins)—what an achievement. The “one-shot” illusion is breathtaking, even if I’ll controversially admit I spot what feels like a gentle cut to black during the day-to-night transition. Still, the gentle genius of Roger Deakins can’t be overlooked. I love his work deeply, and I highly recommend checking out not just his films but the resources and discussions from the Team Deakins podcasts. The insights are gold for anyone curious, well worth exploring if you haven’t already.

On the television side, Stranger Things (created by Matt and Ross Duffer, with standout cinematography from Tim Ives and others across the seasons) sits high for me. The nostalgic 80s glow, the practical lighting that felt warm and lived-in, the way it wrapped genre thrills in heartfelt craft, it was pure comfort for my generation and a reminder that great camera work can make even the supernatural feel like home.

All of these films didn’t just entertain me; they quietly rewired how I see light and camera on every set I step onto. I’ve always tried, in my own modest way, to emulate aspects of what moved me, incorporating a zoom here, a colour shift there, or a long take when the moment deserves it. Challenges like that keep the work exciting. A few years ago I even took it upon myself to replicate scenes inspired by The Joker (2019, directed by Todd Phillips, DOP Lawrence Sher) in a music video. It wasn’t about copying frame-for-frame; it was about chasing that same raw, unsettling energy while keeping a clear sense of ownership. I still look back on it fondly, proof that having a definite visual target doesn’t dilute your voice; it sharpens it.

At the end of the day, I’m just grateful. Grateful to the directors and DPs who poured their souls into these frames, grateful for the quiet awe they sparked in a kid who never expected to still be doing this years later, and grateful for every opportunity to carry even a sliver of that inspiration into my own work. A single frame really can hold a lifetime of lessons, if you let it.