Debauchery and Dogma

Feb 13, 2025

As artists working in a medium that requires an incredible amount of resources for the creation of even the most basic artefact, we may often find ourselves deploring the limitations we feel have been imposed on us by the various entities funding and managing our projects.

One only needs to engage in conversation with a director or any other head of department on a bad day and there is a high probability that you will hear a lament to the effect of: “If only production had given me more time, more equipment, more creative freedom, my work would have presented as the masterpiece that I knew it to be”. This tends to be the case no matter how successful they might be, or how far down their journey in the medium.

It is true that in the history of Cinema there are copious examples of studio interference compromising works of great artistic value due to misunderstanding their fundamental thesis, aesthetics, or intended place in the zeitgeist. Looking back at some of these examples quickly reveals there can be much truth to the aforementioned laments: the various versions¹ of Ridley Scott's Blade Runner (1982); the decreased lack of coherence² in the theatrical cut of Terry Gilliam's Brazil (1985), compared to the Director’s Cut; Robert Richardson’s daring removal of his name³ from World War Z. (2013), due to a perceived gross misrepresentation of his vision; or the plethora of films disowned by their directors and credited with the now-retired DGA pseudonym Alan Smithee.

It’s perfectly natural, and given the exaggerated egos of some filmmakers, almost expected, to hold the belief that our vision for the projects we give our every breath to is the only one that is valid. However, what I have observed in the many years of my affair with Cinema, is that the works that both I and many other film lovers return to with praise and admiration are those that emerge from a synergetic set of contributions, artistic gestures, and diverse points of view, all brought to these projects by the artists, technicians and supporting crew that work on any given film.

Given this multitude of contributions and the variance in taste, ability, knowledge, and world view present in any given team, disagreement can and will arise among the artists and the financial stakeholders of a project, even when they all have the best interests of the project in mind. This is inherent in the subjective nature of what we do.

While differing outlooks can, in the best-case scenario, elevate the film above any-one-person’s vision, the sober reality of filmmaking is that, most often, the views of those with more power, be it financial, social or reputational, will limit the creative freedom of their collaborators.

Case in point, a few months ago I had the privilege of watching on in a great theatre Francis Ford Coppola's most recent and, based on its abysmal box-office performance, very likely his last film. Megalopolis (2024) was made by a generation-defining auteur, without the interference of any studio executives, with a superlative cast and crew of his choosing, and without many of the technical and financial limitations that most of us have to work around.

As such, this film should be, by the metrics of the lament presented above, an unadulterated masterpiece. While the experience was like nothing that I've witnessed before, a masterpiece of the medium it is not. The film took me through laughter, tears, intellectual stimulation, mild boredom and some more tears at its conclusion, but this was more due to my personal fondness of what it sets out to accomplish, my deep knowledge of Coppola’s filmography, and the context in which the film was made. Even with all the love I have for the man that taught me how to look into the heart of darkness, and even at a first viewing, I could not avoid noticing many of the film’s failings — failings both the critical and audience consensus have subsequently confirmed.

While leaving the cinema, I was filled with more questions than answers; not in the way I had grown to expect from Coppola’s films, but more in a genuinely baffling confusion. How can the maker of such undeniable masterpieces as The Godfather (1972), The Conversation (1974) and Apocalypse Now (1979) produce such a delightfully incoherent, poorly paced mess?

These questions, and the subsequent observations, crystallised over time into an introspection on my own artistic practice and the primary focus of this text: What should be the nature of challenges and limitations in the artistic process? How do they shape what we do?

When reflecting deeply on Coppola’s filmography, one realises that his best regarded works are part of a dialogue: a feedback loop of collaboration and inspiration with the otherworldly yet so human works of writers such as Mario Puzo and Joseph Conrad; the personal interpretations of actors such as Marlon Brando, Al Pacino or Martin Sheen; the uncompromising photography of Vittorio Storaro or Gordon Willis; and the holistic approach to editing and sound of Walter Murch.

Not only Coppola’s drive and creativity alone, but also the vision, talent, restraint (or lack thereof⁴) brought by his collaborators, is what created the complex, synergetic mélange that made his best films so memorable. The creative drive is still present in “Megalopolis”: in the boldness of trying to create a contemporary, high-concept fable which parallels the fall of the Roman Republic to the deterioration of The United States; in following through on an idea that has been haunting him for nearly 50 years⁵ ; and last, but not least, in investing a reported $120 million⁶ of his own money in a project he truly believed in.

While the film could be seen as a personal triumph for Coppola, its box-office⁷ and critical⁸ failure could be attributed to something as simple and as natural as the once great auteur becoming completely out of touch in his old age. To avoid the implicit ageism of this explanation, I propose that the outward failure stems from the decisions to take it upon himself to write, direct, produce and finance such a gargantuan undertaking, and by doing so, removing many of the points of potential friction with other creators which have, many times in the past, lead to filtration, reduction, and healthy ideation.

While we cannot be privy to how the filmmaking process actually transpired, (though some articles in the trades have given us a rather scathing image), we cannot ignore the inherent imbalance in power dynamics between Coppola and everyone else involved in the project, and how this imbalance could have affected his collaborators’ ability to stand up to what they might have regarded as suboptimal ideas, or to make meaningful constructive contributions to the film.

Whatever the reasons behind the failure of “Megalopolis”, the film stands as a sobering reminder that, as artists, we have a duty to periodically challenge ourselves and our base assumptions, and to interrogate our methods and artistic goals. Our industry has a tendency to reward overt confidence and bravado, but I wonder: doesn’t a healthy dose of doubt often lead to the kind of reflection necessary for greatness?

Then the question becomes: How do we challenge ourselves? How do we choose which rules to follow and which rules to ignore?

From the formatting of a screenplay to the composition of our shots, Cinema has been borrowing structure, language, and norms from all the art forms that preceded it. These frameworks have slowly crystallized into industry-wide practices that often remain unchallenged, creating a feeling of artistic submission to an endless assembly line, manufacturing content for the docile consumption of the increasingly poorly-educated masses.

The industrial assembly of mass culture might seem like a perpetual struggle between conformity and dissent, where neither the subversive nor the submissive approaches to creation yield long-lasting, quality results. But, I would argue that, looking back, the most impactful filmmakers are the ones that manage to create a balance between informed rules and their own personal dogma or “way of seeing”, and that this balance is what provides the audience with a distinct, personal, authentic, yet naturally flawed mirror reflecting upon the human condition.

“Authenticity” is, without a doubt, subjective. And like everything that we find interesting, both as individuals and as a collective, its meaning can change with the passage of time and the refinement of and reflection upon our values. While some might find nothing intrinsically natural or captivating in Wes Anderson’s jovially unhealthy obsession with symmetry and pastel colours, or Quentin Tarantino’s propensity for snappy editing and copious amounts of graphical violence, or any other of the million quirks that some filmmakers exhibit, as a viewing public we cannot deny these choices make their films distinct and memorable. When these stylistic manifestations work, they tend to be informed by a given set of beliefs (both about the nature of the world, as well as the nature of the film medium) that make storytellers present their narratives and thoughts in a particular way.

This brings to mind one of Cristi Puiu’s many thought-provoking lectures during my film school days. In this lecture, while acknowledging that we should all try and find our “own voice”, he admitted that he, for one, can’t place the camera anywhere that he would not be able to normally observe the world from. This means that, in his vision and in his understanding of film language at the time, the camera should, for example, never be mounted onto the exterior of a moving vehicle, or roam in the sky freely like a bird, or present any bombastic framing or movement. While this approach would be unacceptable to many other filmmakers, limiting them to arguably dull, pedestrian perspectives, it has served Mr. Puiu well and it has kept his perspective consistent throughout his career.

While most of us only have snippets of these kind of “rules” that might give our work some intrinsic consistency, other filmmakers have gone to great effort to fully codify their approach so that the final film resonates with their sensibilities.

The best example that comes to mind is Lars von Trier and Thomas Vinterberg’s “Dogma 95”⁹: part avant-garde film movement, part reaction to commercial filmmaking’s overreliance on artifice. In order to codify their vision, Vinteberg and Von Trier authored a “Vow of Chastity” that was to govern all of their projects moving forward:

Shooting must be done on location. Props and sets must not be brought in. (If a particular prop is necessary for the story, a location must be chosen where this prop is to be found.)
The sound must never be produced apart from the images or vice versa. (Music must not be used unless it occurs where the scene is being shot.)
The camera must be hand-held. Any movement or immobility attainable in the hand is permitted.
The film must be in colour. Special lighting is not acceptable. (If there is too little light for exposure, the scene must be cut or a single lamp be attached to the camera.)
Optical work and creative filtration are forbidden.
The film must not contain superficial action. (Murders, weapons, etc. must not occur.)
Temporal and geographical alienation are forbidden. (That is to say, that the film takes place here and now.)
Genre movies are not acceptable.
The film format must be Academy 35 mm. (1.37:1 Aspect Ratio)
The director must not be credited.

“Furthermore, I swear as a director to refrain from personal taste! I am no longer an artist. I swear to refrain from creating a “work”, as I regard the instant as more important than the whole. My supreme goal is to force the truth out of my characters and settings. I swear to do so by all the means available and at the cost of any good taste and any aesthetic considerations. Thus, I make my VOW OF CHASTITY.”

Their seemingly genuine desire for authenticity and the pursuit for truth is laudable, but also an incredibly prohibiting standard to hold one’s self accountable to in the making of a long-form dramatic film. While this approach surely yields a self-consistent, cohesive vision and presentation, it unavoidably stifles one’s opportunity exploration, and creates a sense of rigidity of form that can very easily be destructive to the synergy that could arise in the whole.

This was proven rather quickly to be the case, as the two directors only made three films adhering to the framework: Thomas Vinterberg’s The Celebration (1998), and Lars von Trier’s The Idiots (1998) and The Boss of It All (2006).

Another example of a basic formalisation of one’s aesthetic approach is the seemingly simple choice of angle of view that we tell our stories with. While most films are shot with a great variety of focal lengths and thus angles of view, throughout cinema’s history there have been a plethora of films shot with only one lens¹⁰. Whether it is Orson Welles exploring the consequences of pride and entitlement with a 30mm Baltar in The Magnificent Ambersons (1942); Henry Koster’s The Robe (1953), transporting us to ancient Rome using the revolutionary (at the time) 50mm CinemaScope; Wes Anderson’s playful intimacy in Bottle Rocket (1996), enhanced by a 27mm Panavision Primo; or László Nemes’ harrowing portrayal of a singular story during the Holocaust, narrated with the claustrophobic accuracy of a 40mm Zeiss Master Prime in Son of Saul (2015); committing to a single lens can ground one’s narrative and bring into focus the importance of the physical placement of the camera and how it relates to its subject.

My favourite approach to the codification of one’s understanding of their creative process is the stylistic outline¹¹ that Terrence Malick and Emmanuel Lubezki created in the preparatory phase¹² for The Tree of Life (2011):

Shoot in available natural light
Do not underexpose the negative, keep true blacks
Preserve the latitude in the image
Seek maximum resolution and fine grain
Seek depth with deep focus and stop: “Compose in depth”
Shoot in backlight for continuity and depth
Use negative fill to avoid “light sandwiches” (even sources on both sides)
Shoot in crosslight only after dawn or before dusk; never front light
Avoid lens flares
Avoid white and primary colours in frame
Shoot with short-focal-length, sharp lenses
No filters except Polarizer
Shoot with steady handheld or Steadicam “in the eye of the hurricane”
Z-axis (depth) moves instead of pans or tilts
No zooming
Do some static tripod shots “in midst of our haste”
Accept the exception to the dogma (“Article E”)

While echoing many of the sentiments present in Dogma 95, and placing emphasis on capturing the story through a naturalistic lens¹³, the two filmmakers manage to strike a balance between their intent and how limiting it is to their artistic goals. With the inclusion of “Article E” they allow themselves the flexibility to adapt the style they outlined to the realities of what unfolds, while trying to stay true to their creative ethos. This, in turn, presents the opportunity of synergy and of “happy accidents” to arise and expand the meaning and complexity of the final film.

Each filmmaker has their own way to reach the “language” that they use for a project. While some go through their entire career iterating on the same set of guiding principles, in my own practice, I attempt to approach each project as a new opportunity to learn something about how I can look at a world. My belief is that if I, as an artist, go through a journey of discovery, that curiosity and sense of awe will be imparted to the audience.

After reading the script for any given project, I try to not let myself fall into the patterns that my gut feelings and routine dictates. I write notes of my ideas as they come, but then lock them away from my mind until I get to discuss the project with the director and see what their vision for it is.

Before we can discuss lenses and cameras, lighting ratios and specific references, I find it paramount to have a shared understanding of what we are attempting to make. In order to be able to slowly put into words, then thoughts, then frames and feelings what has yet to be photographed, at the beginning of any collaboration, I try to profoundly engage directors with a flurry of questions such as:

How would they describe the story? I'm not looking for the synopsis or the tagline they would give investors, but their personal interpretation of what the film is. Is it, for example, about the fluidity of family in the post-modern era or the confusing joy of a pleasant formative experience?
Who is the protagonist? How much are we, the filmmakers, and the audience that we serve, allowed to know about them?
How close or far is the world of the film from our own world, our own plane of existence? Does Starbucks exist in this world, do they still sell coffee?
Who is telling this story? How omniscient is the narrative perspective? How attached or detached it is to the story that unfolds?
Is there a God in this world? What about fairness? Do reason and the scientific method apply? Is this the world of our dreams or of our worst nightmare?

What are we making?

Are we making art for art's sake, exploring the human condition so that we may all better understand ourselves and each other?
Are we making light entertainment to offer our audience a reprise from the perpetual grind of the political and economic systems we find ourselves part of?
Are we making a political manifesto to guide our audience to our own definition of utopia, or signal an alarm towards political and cultural trends that we find troubling?

Some filmmakers might scoff at how esoteric the questions are, especially coming from a Cinematographer, but through exploring them as creative partners, they guide us towards creating a framework, a dogma if you’d like, for self-consistent, authentic films. These questions are, to me, the beginning of every good filmmaking journey, and along with the answers that we find along the way, they form the foundation on which I judge what we’ve made at the end.

The personal examination of the pitfalls of unlimited creativity, pinned against the claustrophobia of a perceived “rigid corset” that studio-led filmmaking entails, has led me to the humbling acceptance that any dogma, whether theirs or ours can fail when faced with the immensity of the human condition.

Considering all of the above, my resolute yet personal conclusion is that in order to understand the essence of what we are working with, we need to find our own ways to challenge it, as well as ourselves, especially in the absence of external pressures.

Thus, the goal should be to give ourselves a brief of our own making and to work within the limitations that our current world view imposes, while accepting and embracing the spectacle that unfolds in front of us. We should aim to construct a framework for our creative process that can help others understand and remind ourselves why and how “we see”, so that we don’t lose ourselves in our endless pursuit of sculpting in time.