Hiro Narita is a cinematographer, member of the American Society of Cinematographers (ASC) and Academy of Motion Pictures and Sciences. He was born on June 26 1941, in Seoul (South Korea) to Japanese parents. In 1945, he and his family moved to Nara, Japan, and later to Tokyo. Following his father's early death and his mother's remarriage to a Japanese American, the family emigrated in 1957 to Honolulu, Hawaii, where he graduated from Kaimuki High School. He went on to the San Francisco Art Institute where he received a BFA in Graphic Design in 1964. He soon landed a good position at a prominent local design firm, but the job lasted barely six months before he was drafted into the U.S. Army. For two years, he served as a designer and photographer at the Pentagon. When he was discharged from the U.S. Army, John Korty, director of The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman and the documentary Who Are the De Bolts? And Where Did They Get Nineteen Kids? (Academy Award for Best Documentary Feature) took him under his wing. With Korty, for more than three years, he collaborated as an assistant cameraman, gaffer, projectionist, film-poster designer, etc. After his experience as additional camera operator on Antonioni's Zabriskie Point (1970), John Korty gave him his first substantial film, a TV movie called Farewell to Manzanar (1976) for which he received an Emmy Award nomination. Then Narita worked in movies: The Last Waltz, More American Graffiti, Never Cry Wolf (for this movie he won the Boston Society of Film Critics Award and the National Society of Film Critics Award), Return of the Jedi, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, Always, Honey, I Shrunk the Kids, Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country, Dirty Pictures, The Rocketeer, Hocus Pocus, The Time Machine, The Arrival.
Hiro Narita
What sparked your interest in cinematography?
I graduated from San Francisco Art Institute in 1964, and in less than six months, while working at a design studio, I was drafted by the US Army. Two years of interruption in my career ensued. During my service, I saw many movies at weekends and I began to gravitate toward movies for their entertainment, and for inspiration. Sequences of moving images had so much potential to explore and discover human emotions and tell complex stories. Around that time a wave of works by great European and Japanese directors filled art houses and I was swept away. That two-dimensional images on a screen can create many dimensions in our psychic space was a mystery that reinforced my fascination with movies. After returning from military service, it took me about ten years of meandering to make a transition from graphic designer to cinematography. In retrospect, it was the military service that changed the course of my professional life.
What can you tell us about your experience in Michelangelo Antonioni's Zabriskie Point (1970)?
I was an admirer of Antonioni’s films, including his earlier documentary films; his extraordinary sense of space, graphic compositions, and stirring images were always inspirations to me. After seeing the footage of the screentest I did for Antonioni, I was called upon to shoot civil riots and student demonstrations that were gathering force in several major cities. I was honoured but self-conscious, even petrified, to meet his expectation. Antonioni wanted these ensuing outbreaks on film as a reference, and possible use in Zabriskie Point, in which the storyline reflected the polarizing atmosphere of the time. The two major events, San Francisco State College’s The Third World Liberation Front demonstration and The Chicago Democratic Convention, became the focal point of my effort. Often, I was thrown into chaotic situations, waves of untethered people out of control. During these shoots, it might have occurred to me to echo Antonioni’s perspective, but it was futile and a pretentious attempt on my part. Confronted with real events beyond my control, I tried to remain an impartial observer as a cinematographer, yet my subjective mind persisted. In retrospect, I have to admit that fact and fiction might have crisscrossed in my venture.
I hoped at least that the images I took provided a texture, a part of a mosaic of American culture at those moments. In the end, several of my shots ended up in Zabriskie Point, blending into the scene of the student outbreak.
During the last month of the production, I was asked to fill in for the production still photographer, who was leaving for another assignment. It was an opportunity to watch Antonioni work. One of the scenes was where the protagonist (Mark) lands his aeroplane and is shot by the police. Antonioni (I was told by his assistant that it is his daily routine) asked the crew to step aside and give him a moment to prepare the scene alone, no interference, no questions. I read later in an interview Antonioni gave that he never prepared himself the night before. He knows the script inside and out. But he needs to see each location or set with a fresh eye to form a visual construct of the scene, only then does the staging proceed. Actors and the camera are choreographed after seeing the surroundings, the environment in which the drama unfolds, in which action takes place. I realized then Antonioni’s perceptual stance: one eye looking out and one eye looking in.
Rather than emulating Antonioni’s work, an impossible and futile attempt, I strived my best to echo his thoughts, “…one eye open to the outside, one eye turned toward the inside”.
Riots from Zabriskie Point (1970)
Zabriskie Point
Your first substantial film, a 1976 tv movie called Farewell to Manzanar, directed by John Korty. What can you tell us?
When I returned from the Army, I apprenticed with a local filmmaker, John Korty, for over three years training in many aspects of filmmaking, including animation. When John received the Farewell to Manzanar project to direct, he took a big chance and hired me as director of photography; my first major project. The story, based on a real story, was a controversial subject on Japanese-American internment during World War II. I admit I knew little about the subject as an immigrant from Japan in 1957. I had to educate myself quickly. When the production began, word spread and many former internees and their family members and friends volunteered in the production, as set builders, prop makers, and others as extras in the film. It was an important experience professionally (nominated for an Emmy) and personally (understanding Japanese-American history).
Here is a side story: karma, or strange coincidence. During Zabriskie Point, Antonioni sent me to Tule Lake, California, to film the remains of the wartime internment barracks, some completely collapsed and in decay, others converted to duck-hunting lodges. I did not know the significance of such a place, nor the buildings, as I knew so little about relocation incidents at the time. And why was Antonioni interested in such a place and what was the connection to Zabriskie Point? As I was discreetly setting up my camera, a young boy, about 10 years old, who was playing alone with broken pieces of board, approached me and quite innocently said, “You know, Japs used to live here”. Six years later, it was at the very same location, almost at the same spot, that we built sets for Farewell to Manzanar! Antonioni’s curiosity still remains a mystery.
Farewell to Manzanar, directed by John Korty (1976). Photo Barbara Narita
The Last Waltz was a concert by the Canadian-American rock group The Band. The event was filmed by director Martin Scorsese and made into a documentary of the same title in 1978. What do you remember about that experience?
The Last Waltz took place at the Filmore in San Francisco, and it was an unusual and extraordinary experience for me. David Meyer, an accomplished documentary and narrative cameraman, and already a hired member of the project, convinced Martin Scorsese to add me to the roster of additional directors of photography. Upon Scorsese’s briefing, every cameraman was given a massive script by him with detailed instructions for practically every line of the lyrics in every song: which camera to focus on who, and wide or close-up, etc. I was awestruck by his extensive preparation and previsualization. We were also given a headset so we could hear his direction during the shooting. David Meyer told me before the concert began, with a subtle rolling of his eyes, “Go with your instincts”. Sure enough, once the stage exploded with music and lighting changes, we were in a sort of pandemonium. I could barely understand what Scorsese was screaming into his mike. I had an assistant, who followed the script, shouting out to me which singer or instrumentalist I should catch at a given moment, and as my camera was positioned in the back stage pointing toward the audience and not having the best angles, I followed, as David said, whatever seemed right under the hopeless circumstances.
In Apocalypse Now (1979), directed by Francis Ford Coppola, you collaborated as an additional operator: what do you remember about that experience?
My experience on Apocalypse Now was sporadic and minor, mainly close-ups and pick-ups nearly at the end of post-production. When we filmed Martin Sheen’s head coming out of a river, only then was Francis Coppola present. We filmed them at Francis’ vineyard and a nearby river.
With the movie Never Cry Wolf (1983) directed by Carroll Ballard you won the Boston Society of Film Critics Award and the National Society of Film Critics Award. One of his best works…
Director Carroll Ballard showed me Maxfield Parrish’s work before we left California and he said he wanted to capture the magical quality of Arctic summer light. That was the starting point. The story involves vast landscapes, several kinds of animal, changeable weather, and different cultures. When I read the script, I imagined what it might look like. But these, like most preconceptions - even well-researched ones - came from my own memories and experiences. I was ready and open to whatever was there, seeing and appreciating it in the unfamiliar light. And many surprises awaited us. Carroll, a great cinematographer himself and consummate filmmaker, wanted to explore relentlessly and surprise himself. He often said, “What else can we do?” He described the meaning of a scene first, then searched for images that both explicitly and implicitly supported his vision. Crucially, he said that atmosphere and landscape are important elements in the story, relevant characters without dialogue. In the end, the so-called visual style grew out of what we saw and how we captured it. I think the film was the most inspiring as well as grilling film I have worked on. Dealing with unpredictable weather and situations beyond our control became the norm. After five months’ roaming in Alaska, British Columbia, and Yukon Territory, Carroll said he did not have a movie! So, the following year, we spent another five months crisscrossing the vast north. In one scene toward the end, we ended up with a fog version, a snow version, and a rain version as the chameleon-like weather did not give us enough time to finish it under any one condition. Disney felt my photography was slipping out of its benchmark and wanted me to change or be replaced. Carroll, thanks to his conviction, protected me and kept me on the project till the end. Never Cry Wolf was a test of our perseverance and, to a large extent, sanity!
Hiro Narita on the set of Never Cry Wolf, directed by Carroll Ballard (1983). Photo Barbara Narita
In Return of the Jedi (1983) ‒ also known as Star Wars: Episode VI - Return of the Jedi ‒ directed by Richard Marquand, you worked as additional cinematographer: What do you remember?
By the time I was involved in Return of the Jedi, the film was near completion and Marquand needed some additional shots to thread the story. We went to Death Valley, not far from the Zabriskie Point location, to film a glass plate and other cutaways in which R2-D2 and C-3PO travel to Jabba Palace. Later a matte painting of the palace was composited with the VistaVision shot we took. C-3PO’s metal outfit was worn by Anthony Daniels, the only actor contracted to wear it, but R2-D2 was a remote-controlled robot for this shoot. And the robot was prone to go haywire when it picked up radio waves from aeroplanes flying by, especially military planes. Marquand, who was then well-accustomed to the tedious and idiosyncratic process, was very patient, and so was George Lucas who had seen everything. I remember how time-consuming the undertaking was, but it was magic when seen on the screen.
Return of the Jedi, directed by Richard Marquand (1983)
In Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom (1984) directed by Steven Spielberg, you collaborated as a second unit…
This project required bits and pieces of images and large blue-screen shots. But one scene Spielberg came to ILM to direct was Harrison Ford in a cave awaking from a dream. Spielberg must have set up a dozen camera angles despite the short scene. George Lucas peeked in at the set, and said to Spielberg jokingly, “I’d do in one shot.” Spielberg responded, “But, I am not you”. A great friendship and rivalry were evident, in a very amicable way.
In 1989, you photographed the visual effects in the Steven Spielberg movie Always. What can you tell us?
My main objective was to achieve a seamless match with the first unit shots in spite of differences of scale, and often limited availability of the first unit footage to compare. While testing exposure and colour, I noticed that the fire, paradoxically, lacked realism to my eyes, and to the film. It needed help from artificial lights. The gaffer from ILM (Industrial Light & Magic) proposed hanging Maxi Brutes from the ceiling and laying dozens of par lights on the floor, all connected to flicker boxes. This certainly helped to create a blazing effect and, when a model aeroplane flew through, the fire looked truly convincing. The encounter with this unusual project gave me much insight into the art of cinematography. Joe Johnson helmed the miniature unit.
Always, directed by Steven Spielberg (1989)
What can you tell me about your meeting with Gordon Parks and about Solomon Northup's Odyssey a 1984 American television film based on the 1853 autobiography Twelve Years a Slave by Solomon Northup directed by Parks?
Solomon Northup’s Odyssey, an American Playhouse series for Public Broadcasting Service (PBS) was filmed in 16mm, its location, Savannah, Georgia. I felt I was an apprentice under Gordon Parks, a Renaissance man whose photographs, movies, music, and literary works were so expansive beyond my grasp. Yet, his directorial style was minimalist, succinct, and clear to follow. Never more than needed was said to the cast, crew, or anyone else for that matter - he managed to keep his complex emotions beneath an austere façade with wry humor and wit. I was far from being on the same wavelength as his, but I was stimulated and compelled to try my best. Gordon was very attentive, needless to say, to color, composition, and the visual texture (illuminating for my own interest), but he expounded on them placidly. With his wealth of experiences, he was still a curious explorer. He focused on the actors so that their raw emotional expressions surface involuntarily, unconditionally beyond technical performance. I realized that from decades of photographing the civil rights movement and African American lives, people in despair or in power, Gordon Parks’ intuition was truly insightful. His innate and cultivated ability to see and bring out what was under the layer of masks they wore was quite visible. And in this small budget period drama, finding and relying on the natural source of light, thereby minimizing the amount of light and grip equipment, was one of the best educations I had on filmmaking.
And what about the documentary Half Past Autumn: The Life and Works of Gordon Parks (2000) directed by Craig Rice?
Half Past Autumn, a biographical documentary on Gordon Parks, was an unfinished project, and Gordon gained control of it and restructured with a new writer. I was brought in for additional footage to fill in the gaps: interviews and Gordon in the process of creating Half Past Autumn. There is a short segment when Gordon is composing a music for the film in his living room. Since he did not read or write music note, he used his own system of notation, numerals and symbols, decipherable only to him. He told me that among all the media - film, photography, prose, poetry, painting - in which he worked, he felt special ease with music. It just came to him, finding its way through the cracks in his consciousness; an enigma in creativity. Again, on this project finding the best and apropos angles was the first step, augmenting with lights if necessary. I used only two small lights the entire time.
Hiro Narita with Gordon Parks (1982)
What can you tell us about your collaboration with director Joe Johnston, with whom you photographed Honey, I Shrunk the Kids (1989) and The Rocketeer (1991)?
Having worked with Industrial Light & Magic for many years as a story sequence creator on the Star Wars series, Joe Johnston has very experienced with compositing live actions with miniature sets, blue screen, and a host of visual effects. On Honey, I Shrunk the Kids, he had to deal with over-scale sets as well. We shot the main portion of the film at the Churubusco Studios in Mexico City for financial reasons. A street exterior, several interiors, and of course, the over-scale sets were built there. It was my first experience dealing with gigantic sets and the huge number of lights My gaffer from the US, one of a few English-speaking crew, was inventive and helped me immensely.
For The Rocketeer, Joe did not want a comic-book-to-movie transplant. The story is based around the mid-1930s, and during my research on the period, I realized that colour movies were rare and they were in their infancy. I drew my inspiration from the colour palette of movie posters from that period instead. The set and costume design added a great visual flavour and I enjoyed every day of working, ever challenging. Neither project utilized computer graphics or digital effects but was produced the old-fashioned way.
The Rocketeer, directed by Joe Johnston (1991)
What do you remember of your cinematography for Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country (1991)?
Director Nicholas Meyer and producer Steven-Charles Jaffe visited me on the set of The Rocketeer and they were fascinated by the computer-guided lighting grid, which, after pre-rigging, expedited day-to-day filming. Nick felt comfortable with my working method and I was taken on board his project. I told him upfront that I was not a Trekkie. He was happy that I was not. He did not want preconceived ideas. But a challenge I came to face was that there was a tradition in Star Trek: sets and, to a certain degree, in visual style. And to reduce the cost we had to recycle some old sets. The director wanted to evolve and update images. But we met with resistance from those attached to the previous franchise, and in retrospect, there were many compromises in the production, beyond the director’s control.
Which film of the past has impressed you most in terms of cinematography in your artistic training?
Certain movies left a strong impression on me, and as time passed, other great movies impacted me also; stacked on top of each other and superimposed in my memory. It is difficult to single out which movie inspired me most. I drew countless lessons from films all over the world and I have come to believe there are no boundaries in the geography of the mind.
All things said and considered, however partial, I choose The Last Emperor photographed by Vittorio Storaro as an inspiring film in my mid-career. In a way, it was a textbook of cinematography and I used it later in my film classes. His aesthetic lighting and the use of special film lab processes in some parts of the film embraced realism and fantasy, historical scope and emotional validity. In the interior of the Empress’s palace, for example, the shafts of sunlight poured only through selected windows. But to our eyes, it was a heightened reality. Storaro’s exploration into light and colour in moving images reawakened me: it was what painters centuries ago practised and achieved on canvas. The film stirred me toward a new visual horizon.
The Last Emperor, directed by Bernardo Bertolucci, photographed by Vittorio Storaro (1987)
What was your most favourite or memorable scenes to light, and can you describe the process and how you did the lighting for the scene?
There is a dance sequence in The Rocketeer. In the two-story night club set, there were many light changes. Thanks to computer-assisted dimmer boards, I could repeat the light change synched with the pre-recorded music. Importantly, I wanted the viewer not to be distracted by the light changes as an effect, but be absorbed in the emotional continuity of the scene. As the actors danced, I wanted them to look beautiful under the seductive lights or look seductive under the deceptive lights. Sometimes it takes a complex technique to achieve a simple, seemingly effortless look. I am sure I pulled out of my memory bank the images from 8 ½, thinking that emotional continuity and visual continuity are two sides of a coin.
Which Italian cinematographers, past and present, do you most admire?
There are many extraordinary cinematographers in Italy, past and present. Some of them have made great contributions to American movies and inspired students of cinematography. Giuseppe Rotunno and Vittorio Storaro come to my mind immediately. Storaro’s understanding of light and colour expanded the visual language in cinema, bridging what is seen and what is felt, and reaching straight to our emotions. Fellini’s 8 1/2, photographed by Gianni Di Venanzo, opened my eye. The camera is active; it moves along with actors or weaves through scenes. The camera seems like another character in the scene or an inquisitive spectator, bringing the audience to a story, or a story to the audience. After viewing it several times, I realized there was something outside logic and linear storytelling that felt very real: I use the word “real” subjectively. There were lighting changes in the middle of a scene or camera movements that produced unique sensations: they were more than just eye-catching or sweeping tracking shots. They were, I believe, amorphous sensations that aroused and gave life to the ethos of emotion, beyond the boundaries in the geography of the mind.
Hiro Narita
New technology: what do you think of the epochal transition from film to digital?
There have been many ardent dialogues and debates about the subject. In my lifetime, we have gone from black-and-white, through colour negative and reversal, magnetic, now to a digital medium. Cinema, a synthesis of art and technology, evolved from silent movies to talkies - a far greater change in technique and process than today’s shift from film grains to digital pixels. We should not confuse the limitations and potentials of different media with our own blindness or vision. I see so much potential in the digital medium, opening the door to an expanded spectrum of colour which, until now, has been veiled under our conditioned or biased perception. I hope the new technology will help merge our visual experience and emotional one, in the blink of an eye.
I dived into digital cinematography twenty years ago and love it.
How could you describe your cinematography style?
I’d like to say I have an “approach” to my work, not necessarily a “style”. A director has his vision or visual concept, and a cinematographer’s role is a collaborative one, to achieve and enhance his vision. In doing so, the cinematographer’s personal perception and understanding of light, shadow, and colour inevitably seeps out, becoming a form of personal expression. But it is shaped by his understanding of the story presented before him. Ultimately the story dictates visual style, I believe. Art direction, editing, and a myriad of day-to-day production complexities and limitations under the director’s control contribute to the outcome. We all make preconceived assessments, but I take them as a starting point, allowing discovery to navigate. In that sense, I do have my approach. I am sometimes praised and sometimes accused of my chameleon-like work. So many styles. Some cinematographers are said to impose their style on the films they shoot. But I think their so-called style is a result of life experience, mature recognition of reality, both empirical and in their mind’s eye.
You are a member of the ASC-American Society of Cinematographers - the oldest continuously operating motion picture society in the world: the Italian cinematographers Luciano Tovoli and Vittorio Storaro, members of AIC and ASC, were among the major animators of the battle for the recognition of copyright for cinematographers. What do you think of the concept of authorship for your category?
I have experienced my work looking different in release form from what I signed off at the end of the final colour grading, especially in DVD. This is a major issue to fight for as cinematographers, and it must be resolved. In digital transfer, engineers can control so much and affect the end result. Cinematography is a personal expression, personal art, and without the author’s consent, his work should not be altered.
Over the course of your career, which camera model did you prefer?
I have used Panavision and Arriflex for film, and Sony cameras for digital cinematography, sometimes by choice, often for the producers’ budgetary reasons. I pay more attention to the choice of lens.
Is there an anecdote about a movie you want to remember?
I’d like to talk about a unique experience. The Unbearable Lightness of Being; The film was directed by Phil Kauffman and photographed by Sven Nykvist. After the main unit in Europe completed, Kaufman needed a US unit to film scenes in a northern California house with Lena Olin. Although I was familiar with Nykvist’s work, I had to study his mastery of light, his subtle use of ambience and mood it created. It might have taken me a lifetime to absorb it, but I tried to emulate his work in shorthand, at least tried to make my work integrate into the tonality of his work. Kaufman described me an anecdotal account of Nykvist’s work; minimalistic and inventive. I was also fascinated by Kaufman’s directing, at least on this US segment. As if writing a note about Olin’s character or sketching her on a pad of paper, he studied the space and the light before settling on camera angles, some of which seemed extemporaneous and organic. In the edited version, I realized the rhythm of the scene was in concert with what came before and after. Some shots never made it into the film, yet I appreciated that fragments can articulate more than the whole when seen in context.
The Unbearable Lightness of Being, directed by Phil Kauffman, photographed by Sven Nykvist (1988)
What can you tell us about your last film Love Is Love Is Love (2020), an american drama film directed by Eleanor Coppola, in which you photographed the segment Late Lunch?
Late Lunch is a triptych in Love is Love is Love, written and directed by Eleanor Coppola, is a drama but, as Eleanor explained, with a flavor of documentary. In the story ten women sit at a long dining table reminiscing about a recently deceased mutual friend in an afternoon. Filming for eight days in a San Francisco location posed logistic and technical hurdles; to maintain a consistent “one afternoon” look - a visual uniformity and esthetic value - while changing sun light and varying weather complicated the lighting set ups. Drawing from our experiences in documentary films my gaffer and I planned a manageable and flexible lighting scheme with small HMIs that can be powered by the house electricity (prerequisite); creating a consistent sun light effect while blocking the real sun was our solution. For the interior, by minimizing lighting from the floor, I wanted the actors to feel unrestrained. I wanted them to feel they are in a real lunch. To maintain the room ambience, we pre-hanged Kino Flo tubes with diffusions above the windows facing south, which we left in the same position for the duration of the shoot. With the benefit of 4K digital photography, we were able to film under relatively low light conditions without sacrificing the quality. Eleanor Coppola is a very accomplished director in both narrative and documentary genres; she is also a talented cinematographer and artist. Late Lunch, she reminded me often, should be enveloped in the spirit of a real atmosphere, the now-moment. Wide shots and fluid details create visual and emotional rhythm, and I made sure to provide the editor with choices to create that rhythm in the post production. In concept, the camera should become an unobtrusive participant in the lunch as well as an observer of the story. During the pre-production, while pondering over filming strategy with Eleanor, I felt strongly a need for another eye on the set, not only to meet the daily schedule, but to add a visual perspective of another cinematographer. I recruited a camera person (Dyanna Taylor) who was an experienced director and cinemaphotographer of many documentary films. In some respect, I was looking for something less contrived, but astute, images from the second camera. With each scene blocking we would determine “A” camera position first in a conscious way, and we gave “B” camera a liberal reign of camera angles in concert with the scene. And whenever the space allowed, we used camera sliders to facilitate adjustment to the composition while the cameras were rolling, adding a sense of spontaneity. In this project the unique characteristics and atmosphere of the location set, and perhaps because of their limitations, motivated us to explore images we are oblivious to and, sometimes, fail to recognize. In a movie reality and fiction intersect, or the boundary is blurred in our perception. Late Lunch challenged my cinematography, also my psyche, to bridge both spheres mirroring each other.
Love Is Love Is Love directed by Eleanor Coppola (2020). Photo by Kalman Muller
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