The Cinematography of Sean Price Williams: An Exercise in Grit, Fluidity, and Realism

By Colin Kerekes, Edited by Bridget Zhang

Sean Price Williams began his career shooting for low-budget, unadorned independent films with skeleton crews. These features tended to follow a smaller cast, feature narratives grounded in realism, and contain dialogue-heavy performances emblematic of the mumblecore movement of the 2000s. According to Maria San Filippo, professor of visual and media studies at Emerson College, films of this movement had a “minimalist aesthetic” and “unpolished idiom” that resisted traditional “Hollywood” models - these models being engendered by classic story structures and big budgets (Filippo 2011). These terms are easily applicable to Williams’ imperfect visual style emphasizing a mobile camera and naturalistic environments. Film critic Richard Brody describes Williams as a “cinematographer for many of the best and most significant independent films of the past decade, fiction and documentary” (Folden 2024). In fact, Williams’ personal style is inspired by many prominent documentary filmmakers, such as Albert Maysles, who is known for helping pioneer cinéma vérité (Williams 2023). Even though he mainly works in fiction, films shot by Williams feel as though the viewer is stumbling upon real people undergoing real situations. Therefore, I will be conducting an analysis on three films he has served as DP on which explore overlapping themes of anxiety and the search for personal freedom, to investigate William’s technique of extreme realism. This includes Yeast (2008), Heaven Knows What (2014), and his directorial debut The Sweet East (2023). In each of these works, Sean Price Williams harnesses fluid camera movement reminiscent of art cinema of the 1960s and 1970s in conjunction with heavy zoom effects, naturally sourced lighting, and imperfect exposure. In doing so, he offers an intimate perspective into characters’ psychological dispositions while portraying tension and conflict with a sense of urgency. Williams illustrates a portrait of real life for the viewer, free of glorification and rough around the edges as reality tends to be. 

Cinéma vérité, the style most reminiscent of Williams’ work, is historically utilized in documentary filmmaking. John Hassard, professor of organizational analysis at the University of Manchester explains that on the surface, cinéma vérité can be defined as filmmaking concerned with capturing the truth (Hassard 1998). He cites film scholar Roy Armes, who describes that within cinéma vérité, “an interesting visual style and striking beautiful effects are rejected as a hindrance to the portrayal of the vital truth” (Armes 1966). In other words, pictorial beauty is exchanged for complete realism. Mary Bronstein’s Yeast is the ideal example of cinema at its rawest. Being Williams’ second time as director of photography on a full-length feature film, Yeast follows Rachel (Mary Bronstein), an emotionally unintelligent, perpetually disturbed young woman who is thrust into conflict with her unmotivated roommate Alice (Amy Judd), and her obnoxious, childish friend Gen (Greta Gerwig). The dynamic between each of these unlikeable individuals spirals into biting hatred, physical violence, and cyclical bickering, constructing an experience colored by discomfort and frustration. 

This sense of uncomfortable tension is captured through the viewpoint of a MiniDV camcorder. Through this, it is immediately clear that Williams is not interested in depicting images through a sharp, vivid lens. Instead, scenes are often drenched in grain, blurred, and cloudy. The true artistic prowess emerges from the emotive movement the camcorder offers. Williams tends to shoot handheld, granting him the freedom to follow character actions fluidly and shift easily for the benefit of narrative development. Simultaneously, the motion of the camera can feel clunky, but not at the disservice of the plot. In fact, oftentimes clunky camera movement is deliberate in heightening anxiety and allowing the story to feel cemented in the real world. For instance, a key incident within the film revolves around Gen and Rachel going on a deeply strained camping trip together. As the pair grow tired of each other, the two walk through the forest side by side. Rachel complains incessantly, whether it be about Gen’s lack of planning or the spoiled weather. Eventually, Gen’s annoyance reaches a climax as she hits Rachel across the head before placing her in a chokehold. There is an incredible sense of intimacy associated with Williams’ mobile cinematography as the camera first follows the pair quite freely throughout the scene, mimicking the experience of actually walking with the two. That intimacy is exploited and turned to unease when the camera begins to shake aggressively at the beckon of Gen’s physical aggression. The viewer still feels invested in the scene through means of immersion, however this immersion now serves to make the viewer feel as trapped and overwhelmed as Rachel feels. Though it can appear low-effort, Williams’ distinct camerawork grants the spectator a portal to the world of the film, leaving no room to escape. The aesthetic of invisibility is lost, and instead the viewer is made aware of the camera and meant to connect with it, feeling as though they are eavesdropping upon Rachel’s bitter interactions with her distanced friends. 

Williams’ portrayal of emotion and toxicity is further manifested through the use of close-ups. When Rachel is not outwardly verbalizing her emotions, the viewer is made to infer upon her irritation as the camera looks inwards. Before the camping trip, Rachel and Gen dine at a Burger King. As the two sit at a booth of a closed diner, Rachel condescendingly questions the validity of Gen’s job. Gen is vexed and steps away from her seat, leaving Rachel alone at the booth. The camera then zooms closely on Rachel as she appears perturbed. Her face fills the screen before the camera pans to her hands as she crumbles a Burger King bag with her fist. Though this perspective is mobile, our view is still tightly locked onto Rachel’s actions and feelings. She says little, making every slight variation in expression more notable. Through near proximity, the viewer acknowledges that Rachel is a victim of her own mind who internalizes interactions while hiding behind the facade that she is not the initiator of the friction within her life. No cinematographic choice better elucidates this than the ending shot, where Rachel reaches the realization that Alice no longer needs her nor desires to associate with her. Credits roll over a frozen close-up of Rachel in a dark parking lot, looking off to the side with a certain impotent callousness. This stillness serves as a deliberate contrast to Williams’ constantly moving camera, emphasizing that Rachel’s dissatisfaction will persist for as long as she refuses to recognize her own faults. Essentially, these close, detailed shots force the viewer to see these characters as they truly are. Close often becomes too close, and that is exactly the point. Williams puts the ugly and personal on display. 

Six years following Yeast, Williams collaborated with the Safdie Brothers on Heaven Knows What, a film depicting Harley (Arielle Holmes), a woman living in New York City, as she meanders through a brutal life with an addiction to heroin and a mentally disturbed boyfriend named Ilya (Caleb Landry Jones). Though the film had a slightly higher budget, Williams’ cinematographic tendencies set forth in Yeast still apply, including fluid camera movement and ample close-ups. However, there is a clear maturation in technique on display in Williams’ camerawork which consciously alienates Harley in an environment that cares little for her wellbeing. Williams shot Heaven Knows What on a Sony F3, substituting a home-video aesthetic for a more realized look into the dark underbelly of New York City. Interestingly, desolation is not characterized by low-lighting. Instead, Williams relies on high exposure to render the reality of a bleak, unforgiving city in the dead of winter. Harley weaves through sidewalks and across streets amidst a landscape of dead trees and harsh light. This overexposed light creates a sort of haze that washes over the image. As seen through Yeast, dynamic and unblemished picture quality is not a priority. What is seen on screen is in many ways a reflection of the protagonists’ respective mental states. In Harley’s case, she spends most of the film high, tired, or troubled. Therefore, the washed out light expresses the mental fog she experiences. 

Williams experiments with different types of shots as well, including a panning shot across the cityscapes of New York. This sequence, like the majority of the film, is overexposed. The white, cloudy sky dominates over gray skyscrapers to craft a vision of the city that forgoes beautification. After all, a hallmark of Williams’ cinematography involves portraying spaces and characters as they are - vulnerable, imperfect, and even ugly at times. Harley’s existence is unglamorous, so the camera displays it as such. His experimentation extends to an increased usage of the zoom feature. As Harley sits on a busy sidewalk pleading for money, the viewer sees her from afar. Slowly and choppily, the camera zooms inwards onto her as she is obscured by passing pedestrians. The image becomes flattened. As dimension is lost, the viewer is reminded of Harley’s desperation as the weight of the world crushes in on her narratively and visually. Per usual, Williams still employs his classic handheld style for similar functions seen in Yeast. The opening scene of the film features Harley cutting her wrist with a razor blade in an attempt to appease Ilya. As the razor blade digs into her skin, the camera shakes energetically in panic, cutting rapidly between close images of Harley’s pained expression and blood pouring from her wound. The alarming scene is shot with immediacy. The camera is unflinching and as a result, suspense is overflowing. Though what is shown on screen is not always clear, the camera is not meant to be an objective perspective. It rather acts as a representation of Harley’s frenzied state in the wake of a self-destructive choice. It may not depict the entire reality of the situation, but it does depict the reality of Harley’s hysteria. 

Interestingly, Williams does decide to incorporate small amounts of unnatural lighting at the expense of realism. When Harley injects a heroin needle into her arm, a stylized neon light colored with purple and pink hues pervades the screen, washing over her face as she gives into drug-induced euphoria. In some ways, the resulting image is beautiful. It is expressive of the joyful relief Harley must feel when taking drugs. However, the light is also sourced from the room of a cramped apartment that Harley is barely able to call home. It is a reminder that the difficulties she faces are only bound to fester as the heroin rushes through her veins. Therefore, even when Williams foregoes natural lighting, he does so to authentically convey the unsavory truths of the matter. 

The Sweet East marks Williams’ first time directing, and 32nd feature film as director of photography. It is perhaps one of his more fantastical works, centered on a young student named Lillian (Talia Ryder) who embarks on a surrealist journey across the American east coast, placing herself in increasingly strange and unrelated situations which include the basement of a punk political anarchist, a secret neo-nazi rally, an obnoxious independent film set, and more. Here, shot on an Aaton XTR Prod, Williams utilizes all the tricks in his tool box, incorporating shaky camera movement, quick pans, close-ups, zooms, etc. Yet, Williams’ cinematography on The Sweet East differentiates itself from his prior productions, namely because there is a greater reliance on aesthetic beauty and visual variation. Despite this, conventions typical of cinéma vérité still apply. The film opens with a montage of Lillian on a high school field trip to Washington D.C., where Williams uses handheld that is characteristic of the rest of his work. As the camera swings around a school bus, bobs up and down as Lillian jadedly saunters beside the U.S. Capitol, and zooms in on her glued to the screen of an iPhone, the viewer watches these events unfold like a documentary. It is an honest portrayal of modern American youth through the eyes of Williams. Throughout the sequence, Lillian's boredom is palpable amidst the visual chaos of her high school class. While the cinematography overwhelms, the viewer sympathizes with her desire to slip away. Williams’ purpose here is, as is the usual case, to bring the viewer closer to his protagonists’ desires, needs, and issues. 

The film takes a jarring shift into the bizarre when Lillian sings a Wonderland-esque melody to a mirror, acknowledging the camera directly, before leaping into a metaphorical rabbit hole. In an interview conducted at Film Fest Gent in Belgium, Williams explained that he wanted distinct “changes [in camera motion] when Lillian is with the different characters she meets” (Williams 2023). This is evident when Lillian stumbles upon a neo-nazi rally in the middle of a field, where she meets far-right professor Lawrence (Simon Rex). Williams delineates that in scenes with the professor, he put the camera “on a tripod” (Williams 2023). A still camera, though not entirely absent, is generally uncharacteristic of Williams’ work. However, its usage in The Sweet East functions to underscore Lillian’s personal relationship with security and spontaneity. She wanders through life apathetically, though this apathy allows her a sense of flexibility. She welcomes whatever comes her way, even if it happens to be a near-romantic relationship with a neo-nazi professor twice her age. She seeks refuge in his home, and for a short while, begins to feel secure in this dynamic. That is until she gets bored and decides to flee with a duffel bag full of his money. As she hastily races away, the camera transitions to handheld and a sense of chaos is instilled. This dichotomy between stillness and mobility signalizes her agency. Lillian takes initiative in any situation she wanders into. Even if she feels comfortable for a moment, her restlessness tends to build, leaving her to pursue the next absurd encounter.

Though Williams has become more exploratory in his recent works, at the core of his cinematography is the preoccupation with depicting the truth of the characters being filmed. The imperfect camera united with uneven lighting become vehicles for the messy nature of life. Williams is concerned with accentuating a reality that is not sugar coated. Even if it is not the direct reality the viewer is accustomed to, it is the personal realities of the characters we get to know all too well.

Works Cited

Folden, Matt. “Sean Price Williams’s 1000 Movies - Journal.” Metrograph, 18 Mar. 2024, metrograph.com/sean-price-williamss-1000-movies/#:~:text=The%20New%20Yorker%2 0film%20critic,and%20 Nathan%20Silver%27s%20Thirst%20Street. 

Filippo, Aria San. "A cinema of recession: micro-budgeting, micro-drama, and the 'mumblecore' movement." CineAction, no. 85, winter 2011, pp. 2+. Gale Literature Resource Center, link.gale.com/apps/doc/A269691785/LitRC?u=anon~b365da7a&sid=googleScholar&xid =b3cf6fb1. Accessed 19 Apr. 2024. 

Hassard, John, and Ruth Holliday. Organization/Representation: Work and Organizations in Popular Culture. SAGE, 1997. 

Williams, Sean Price. “Sean Price Williams on ‘The Sweet East’: ‘The Script Was Written to Make Us Laugh.’” FILM TALK, 13 Mar. 2024, filmtalk.org/2024/03/13/sean-price-williams/.

Ryan Murphy’s Flaws as a Queer Historical Storyteller

By Quinn Jennings, Edited by Alexis Lopez and Emma Smith

Growing up in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, I first heard of Jeffery Dahmer when I was seven years old, as the 20th anniversary of the headlines had teachers and friends' parents mumbling where they were and what they remembered from the day in 1991. As I got older, I learned the community believed the best way to respect the victims' families, many of whom still resided in the area, was to discredit any retellings. Most turned out to be dramatized, disrespectful, and created with monetary goals. When Dahmer – Monster: The Jeffrey Dahmer Story (2022), created by Ryan Murphy, became the most streamed television show on Netflix in September 2022, the taboo around true-crime was severely intensified and cross-referenced with Murphy as a creator (White). Schools, publications, and social circles in Milwaukee discussed boycotts of Netflix and Ryan Murphy as a director. It was only when I saw teachers reprimanding students for watching Glee (2009–2015), an earlier Murphy production, during their lunch periods that I began to question the validity of the avoidance strategy and how the Dahmer series, tagged as an LGBTQ+ story by Netflix, fit into the portrait of queer television. 

Ryan Murphy himself is an extension of queer television; he serves as a representation of the genre due to his extensive work with queer media: Glee, Pose (2018–2021), Nip/Tuck (2003–2010), Hollywood (2020), to name a few. However, classifying queer television as existing under one umbrella dismisses the notion that marginalized voices have a unique place in the mainstream. Crediting one creator and forming a designated grouping for queer television flattens the nuance of queer stories. Furthermore, the attribution of Dahmer – Monster: The Jeffrey Dahmer Story as a queer story further alienates Black and brown members of the queer community. Murphy takes true-crime stories and morphs them into sexual thrillers, ultimately altering the themes and compromising the integrity of the storytelling as a result. This is evident in the Dahmer series and the next installation of the Murphy true-crime saga: Monsters – The Lyle and Erik Menendez Story (2024). Although the show does not focus on queer storytelling, it suffers from the same Murphy-erotiscm veil that proves unnecessary and distasteful. The Dahmer series does not exist as a queer story in the same way as Pose, another Murphy creation. Pose highlights resilience that propels the queer community forward while the Dahmer series neglects the humanity of victims and disregards the values of the queer community it aims to represent. As a creative, Murphy is not fit to oversee true-crime anthology television. His cachet and affiliation with shows across the true-crime and queer fiction genres–as well as his attempted overlap with the Dahmer and later Menendez Brothers series–is dangerous for the future standard of queer representation through a dramatized historical lens. 

Classified as a true-crime biographical thriller, Dahmer – Monster: The Jeffrey Dahmer Story utilizes established stars to portray a retelling of Dahmer's horrific crimes. The marketing of the show emphasizes Evan Peters as the titular role and praises the dark place he entered as a performer, wielding abhorrent acts of a serial killer to entice viewer interest. Murphy draws on Dahmer's patterns of targeting queer men of color as a narrative promotional tool rather than addressing the historical context of prejudice and violence towards LGBTQ+ communities of color in the Midwest. Additionally, the Dahmer series failed to consult victims' families, including those portrayed by actors, or even notify them of the Netflix adaptation's existence, further separating the content in the show with the lived experience of community members (Vlamis). In fact, in 2024, Murphy stated that he had “no interest in talking to [the Menendez Brothers]” since he felt he already knew their perspective on prison reform and the public’s perception of their 1996 conviction (Vlamis). Murphy also declared his show to be “the best thing that has happened to the Menendez brothers in 30 years” (Malkin). Murphy has demonstrated a clear pattern of oblivious behavior in his creative projects and repeatedly treats his subjects as character studies to be observed rather than interacted with and understood. In contrast, his fiction work, Pose, draws talent and perspective from the active community whose history Murphy aims to represent on screen. Lynne Joyrich, a renowned professor at Brown University focused on gender and sexuality studies points out the "diversely racialized group of trans women" Murphy centers in the narrative as well as places in front of and behind the camera in Ryan Murphy's Queer America (33). Pose is emotionally immersive queer television as it is grounded in history and a "lived recognition of the particular experiences, embodiments, and emotions" of trans women of color (Joyrich 33). Purposeful and conscious involvement from community members adds a layer of sincerity to historical storytelling. Without this involvement, we get something like the Monster true-crime anthology series: vapid television that fails to honestly characterize and contextualize queer accounts. 

Pose and Ryan Murphy’s stabs at true-crime storytelling, although both spearheaded by Murphy, have vastly different approaches to depicting queer history in tone and the positioning of queer subjects. The personal and political storylines of Pose portray turmoil and tension within queer communities of color while ultimately celebrating triumphs in a time of racism and homo- and transphobia, in addition to contextualizing the struggles of the HIV-AIDS crisis. The show works to "[refigure] dominant culture" to live "through and with history" and argues that present levels of queer liberation could not have been achieved without the acknowledgement and uplifting of these marginalized stories (Joyrich 39). Stories of past tragedy and joy in the queer community resonate with contemporary audiences as a form of identification. Contrarily, the Dahmer series does not draw from a lifetime of experiences; rather, it focuses on a singular perspective, skewing it in an attempt to capitalize on queer trauma. Although later removed, Netflix's initial choice to add Dahmer – Monster: The Jeffrey Dahmer Story to their LGBTQ+ collection contributes to an erasure of dignity and further adds to Murphy's incomplete cultural phenomenon. The series is a painful reminder of a long history of abuse for queer, Black and brown communities, especially in Milwaukee. The lack of focus on societal issues that positioned queer communities of color as easy targets for violence directly contrasts the emphasis of the community’s perseverance against discrimination in Pose. Standing on almost the opposite end of Murphy’s work, Monsters – The Lyle and Erik Menendez Story does not deal with queer subjects, but it handles topics of male sexual abuse. During the trial, the show depicts the prosecution alluding to Erik’s homosexuality as a tactic to discredit his account of violent sexual abuse at the hand of his father. Murphy had many chances to empathetically investigate the cycle of abuse and trauma with a post #MeToo lens, but instead, moments of critical analysis are overshadowed by Murphy’s favor for shock value and his tendency to oversaturate the taboo. 

The work Ryan Murphy produces serves as a representation of societal issues in underserved and marginalized communities. His filmography also demonstrates the arc of a respected creative who misuses the power at his disposal. Murphy’s true-crime anthology series combines his established aesthetic of good-looking stars with the Netflix exposure that carries weight on social media and translates into TikTok and X (formerly known as Twitter) discourse. Historically, true-crime projects on Netflix have sparked new discussions about an era of problematic thirst traps. In 2019, Netflix’s documentary release of Conversations with a Killer: The Ted Bundy Tapes (2019) and biopic Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile (2019) starring Zac Efron emphasized the serial killer’s reputation as a handsome manipulator. Around the same time, the stalker-thriller You (2018–) starring Penn Badgley had social media users excusing and condoning the brutality taken by the show’s protagonist. Young attractive actors are a parcel of the Ryan Murphy brand: they are part of why multiple generations of young people propelled his television shows forward for years. As a white male creator, Murphy’s casting allows his own identity to shine through in the underbelly of his work. These choices allow similar audiences to accept his work at face value without considering the degree to which Murphy is attached to these stories. The Dahmer and Menendez brothers series have ushered in a new era of TikTok thirst traps and fan edits that are unsavory and offensive on multiple levels: to the memory of the victims of these crimes, their families who are still exposed to their depiction on television, and in the case of the Menendez brothers, the subjects themselves. Murphy’s mobilization of young actors to play these offensive roles and take part in depicting these gruesome stories is an act of wielding his power and name recognition to add supposed credibility to the irresponsible storytelling. 

Despite Murphy's flaws, his incorporation of queer stories in television is career defining. On television, he has "[redefined] cultural formations (such as family and home), yielding knowledges and ignorances […] that cannot be characterized as either simply negative or positive" through his presentation of queer characters as multifaceted (Joyrich 35). By incorporating queerness into the mainstream, Murphy structured his work around challenging televisual norms. But while he may have paved the way for uplifting queer representation on television, Murphy’s portfolio is flawed. The understanding of Dahmer – Monster: The Jeffrey Dahmer Story as a queer story told by Murphy that gains viewers from shock value of that association. The series attempts to hide behind this trait with Murphy's position as a creator, striving to add credibility to this supposed queer story with his association with queer television. Murphy takes risks with his true-crime shows despite the genre not leaving room for creative interpretation. The Menendez Brothers series includes a scene of the brothers kissing after killing their parents to add a layer of shock to the show and ambiguity around the degree of sexual abuse Lyle and Erik endured. The implication that the characters–who are representative of real people and public figures–are in an incestuous relationship despite an extreme lack of evidence suggests irresponsible, exploitative, and lazy storytelling. Overall, Murphy's multiple attempts at historical retellings fall short of being captivating or nuanced and remain incomplete without historical and cultural references. 

Extensive work has been done in the past several decades to incorporate queer stories into the mainstream. It would be thoughtless to omit Ryan Murphy’s catalog of work from these accomplishments and milestones. Although Ryan Murphy can be credited with paving a way for the volume representation on television, audiences should be wary of appraising his depictions of queer history–especially when regarding gruesome true-crime cases. There must be a future standard of consultation and consideration for historical retellings. Instead of shying away and allowing acclaimed executives to run free with creative interpretation, it is essential to confront the reality that creating complex queer high schoolers and their intricacies through gossip and song does not license the presentation of layered queer history without consulting lived perspective. 

Works Cited 

Dahmer – Monster: The Jeffrey Dahmer Story. Created by Ryan Murphy, Netflix, 2022. Glee. Created by Ryan Murphy, Fox, 2009–2015. 

Joyrich, Lynne. "Posing as Normal?" Ryan Murphy's Queer America, 2022, pp. 27–40. Pose. Created by Ryan Murphy, FX, 2018–2021. 

Malkin, Marc. “Ryan Murphy Has ‘no Interest’ in Meeting the Menendez Bros. and Believes New Trial Is Possible: ‘Monsters’ Is the ‘Best Thing That’s Happened to Them in 30 Years.’” Variety, Variety, 26 Sept. 2024, 

variety.com/2024/tv/news/ryan-murphy-menendez-brothers-retrial-monsters-backlash-net flix-1236157104/. 

Monsters – The Lyle and Erik Menendez Story. Created by Ryan Murphy, Netflix, 2024. Vlamis, Kelsey. “My Brother Was Murdered by Jeffrey Dahmer. Here’s What It Was like Watching the Netflix Show That Recreated the Emotional Statement I Gave in Court.” Insider, Insider, 26 Sep. 2022, 

www.insider.com/rita-isbell-sister-jeffrey-dahmer-victim-talks-about-netflix-show-2022- 9.

White, Peter. “‘Dahmer: Monster – the Jeffrey Dahmer Story’ Locks up Netflix’s Biggest Audience since ‘Stranger Things’ Return.” Deadline, Deadline, 28 Sept. 2022, deadline.com/2022/09/dahmer-monster-the-jeffrey-dahmer-story-netflix-biggest-audience-since-stranger-things-1235128248/.