Welcome to Reel Talk, where we deep-dive into the minds of the industry’s finest—directors, producers, actors, writers, and all the unsung heroes on set. Each conversation gives a glimpse into their craft, passion, and the stories that drive them.

This week, I’m honoured to be welcoming the incredible Kaayla Whachell to The Produced, a Vancouver-based cinematographer of of mixed descent (Okinawan, Red River Métis, Czech), an associate member of the Canadian Society of Cinematographers and its Diversity Committee’s co-chair.

In this conversation, we dive into Kaayla’s creative journey, whose work continuously challenges traditional norms in the industry. With a focus on her latest projects, Kaayla shares her experience of growing into her craft, grappling with the complexities of identity, and confronting the micro-aggressions and stereotypes that come with being a BIPOC woman in film.

Her journey is raw, real, and full of lessons on resilience and carving out space for yourself in a world that’s constantly trying to box you in.

The Chef & The Daruma (2024):

One of Kaayla’s most recent work is her cinematography in The Chef & The Daruma, a beautiful documentary deep-diving into Hidekazu Tojo’s journey & stories creating the beloved ‘California Roll.’ The film recounts the story of how Tojo introduced sushi to the West, facing racism and skepticism towards his craft in the 1970s.

This film explores Tojo’s journey of adaptation and identity, paralleling it with the Japanese fable of Daruma—a symbol of resilience and perseverance—offering a vibrant lens on his story of triumph over adversity.

TP: Your cinematography in the documentary excels in connecting with Tojo on a personal level while honouring his culinary artistry. How did you approach balancing these different aspects visually?

It was such a cool experience, and it was my fourth TELUS Originals project. I really want to shout out TELUS because they support a lot of artists and creatives like myself in the city.

It was my first time working with Mads K. Baekkevold, our director, who comes from a commercial background, which made the creative process really interesting.

So coming in, I tried to shift my brain into thinking: What would I do if this was a commercial? Because of that beautiful blend of our expertise, it felt like a hybrid documentary, with lots of beautiful handheld shots of Tojo’s food, montages of him going to the restaurant, and other scenes where I’d quickly whip my camera to capture the next person.

A lot of my creative process and shooting came down to being very close and spending a lot of time with the people in the documentary.

Approaching documentaries.

TP: What conversations did you have with the subjects in the documentary that helped you understand them better and portray them authentically on screen?

With documentaries, I spend the first week figuring out whether I’ll be a friend to the people in the film or just an observer behind the camera and monitor.

For this project, I wasn’t sure at first, especially since Mads and Tojo have such a special friendship. So, during the first week, I approached filming as an observer—following them around and staying out of their conversations.

As time went on, though, we got to know Tojo on a more personal level, which brought out some sweet moments that didn’t make it into the doc. For example, after long 10-hour days, you’d see him just go quiet—it was such a human moment.

In the end, it felt like a half-and-half process, a hybrid approach to documentary filmmaking.

Portraits from A Fire (2021)

Directed by Trevor Mack, Portraits from a Fire follows “An Indigenous teenage boy fights through distorting realities as a family secret unravels.”

The film has won multiple awards and nominated across different film festivals world-wide, prominently for Best Direction, Best Picture Editing and Best Cinematography for the 2022 Leo Awards.

TP: What was the experience with screenings when coming from behind the camera?

I think Portraits from a Fire is one of my most memorable screenings.

It was released during COVID, so you had to be vaccinated to enter the theatre, and there were fewer people in the screening. Yet, it remains one of my most memorable and fondest experiences.

Before working on that project, I had worked on some projects with Indigenous leads, and I was frustrated with how they looked due to the projection color. I didn’t spend much time with the colourist.

But with Portraits from a Fire, I spent a lot of time with the colourist to make sure I portrayed them authentically. I would take photos of their skin tones for reference because I didn’t want to manipulate the images.

TP: You won “Best Cinematography” for the 2022 Leo Awards for your work in this film. What’s your relationship with it now?

Whenever I think back on Portraits from a Fire, I know I worked incredibly hard, and I don’t think I’ll ever recreate what we made.

At that time, I was so hungry and spent so much time in prep. I remember being so excited and passionate to film it that it felt like a summer camp. The crew and I truly felt like friends making a movie.

One memory that stands out was when we were filming on the res. My first AC, Diana, was sitting on the ground with her monitor right behind me. Two young girls, under 10, passed by and asked, “What are you doing?”

Diana invited them over to watch the monitor with us. Normally, on a film set, you’d ask people outside the crew to leave, but this felt like such an important moment.

I didn’t grow up with moments like that, so I try to create those spaces whenever I can.

On Mentorship.

TP: What is the space you want to create?

Mentorship is really important to me.

I always make an effort to have someone shadowing or coming with me on set. It’s often a process of figuring out: Can we pay this person, and how can we support them best?

I believe paid mentorship is important because it provides an incentive to commit, show up, and absorb as much as possible. Right now, I’m focused on university-level internships and supporting these students.

TP: How has becoming a mentor changed you?

When I think back to my time in university and starting out in film, I didn’t have a mentor—I had to figure everything out on my own. Fortunately, I do have a mentor now who has supported me a lot.

I made so many mistakes I wish someone had warned me about. Now, when people ask me questions, I’m quick to say, “Let me tell you so you don’t make the same mistakes. Try this instead.”

I believe access to information is fundamental in this industry. I’m also a big fan of gossiping—especially as women, we need to keep each other informed about what’s happening, particularly around issues like the gender pay gap.

When I was starting out, production companies would offer me a lower rate than my male counterparts. I only found out by talking with them about the job, which goes to show why these conversations are so important.

TP: How has mentorship changed the way you think about art, and how has it inspired you?

I’m not sure, especially with the constant rotation in art and film, where there’s always a quick change in what’s in style.

It’s a feeling I’ve never had before, and there’s definitely a growing sense of responsibility. And sometimes, I have to remind myself that my mentees need to find their own path, understand what works for them, and decide for themselves the cinematographer they want to be.

A big part of being a cinematographer is gaining confidence. I think that’s a big reason why there aren’t as many female cinematographers yet—we don’t always feel confident enough to go on set and be in charge of three different departments.

“Now, I still fight, just in different ways:” On Mentorship & Representation

TP: In what way have you grown in visual storytelling from “Portraits from a Fire”?

The film was made six years ago. Reflecting on it, I think I’ve been constantly evolving.

When I first started, I made it really hard on myself by refusing to buy into the “conventional” stuff or trends. I told myself I wouldn’t shoot on anamorphic, wouldn’t film models, or use red and blue lighting.

But now—funny enough—I’ve started shooting on anamorphic again. Laughs.

I think the biggest growth I’ve had is that I’m no longer making it such a fight for myself. Back then, I wanted to tear down the system by constantly resisting it.

If I don’t agree with what is being portrayed in the script, I will not should it.

When it’s not a commercial, especially with shorter narrative projects, I feel like I’m constantly fighting—either directly or quietly pushing back. For example, telling the director, “We can’t afford overtime, and we’re not going into it. This is the cut-off.”

I take that responsibility on myself, saying, “I’ll make this day happen.” Even if it means I have to compromise on three shots I don’t love because there’s no time to perfect them, I’m okay with that.

But I still face challenges when I’m on set. Sometimes someone from another department will say something sexist, or ask, “Who are you related to, Kaayla, to get this job?” Or they assume I’m the BTS person, even when I’m standing right next to the camera.

There’s still a lot of that, but I think it will change as more female DPs start working in the city.

Choosing a project.

TP: I want to go back to what you said about not taking on a story if it doesn’t sit right with you. What type of story speaks to you, and how do you decide to take on a project?

I work on a lot of Indigenous projects, and as an Indigenous person, those stories are really important to me. But I’ve noticed a pattern—many of these films are trauma-based. They’re incredibly important stories to tell, but filming them is emotionally draining from my experience.

I’ve had nights where I cry after shooting, and it’s a lot to carry.

Moving forward, I want to work on projects that feel like Portraits from a Fire, especially about youth. I really enjoy working with kids because it brings so much fun and lightness to the process.

For non-Indigenous narratives, I pick scripts that resonate with me—stories I want to see. I also reflect on the films I watched growing up and the patterns they created. Even now, writing Send the Rain with Haley, I’m exploring questions like, Did I only like white guys because Hollywood films were full of them?

So, I approach scripts with that perspective, looking for something meaningful and unique.

TP: What do you notice about working with directors with different tastes, and what advice do you give mentees about bringing a vision to life?

As a cinematographer, I work with a lot of different directors. Some have amazing taste—they know what they like in terms of movies, clothing, style—but when it comes to executing their vision, they struggle.

I see it with my mentees a lot—they’ll be unhappy with their projects because they didn’t learn how to make everything come together. They’ll get the best camera, the best lighting, but without collaborating with a production designer, for example, it doesn’t look how they imagined.

Right now, a lot of people try to be good right away. They want their film to get into TIFF or go viral on TikTok. When that doesn’t happen, they’re devastated and often give up.

It’s a long journey, but I hope that with time, it only keeps improving.

On more female representation in the cinematography position.

TP: It seems like you take on a lot of responsibility as a filmmaker—not just in creating opportunities for younger people who might lack access, but also for women of colour, women in general, and in telling Indigenous stories. Do you feel a sense of responsibility in this work?

Yes, I feel like if I don't contribute, we won't see any change within representation for cinematographers.

Right now, for example, the Canadian Society of Cinematographers (CSC) has no women of colour as full members. So, when you see a cinematographer's name with CSC next to it, there isn't a single woman of colour in that group, despite so many talented women who have been working for a long time.

There’s a generation of cinematographers who don’t think about the community as a whole—they’re just focused on their individual work, and that's fine.

I’ve noticed a pattern where female DPs, especially, come into the field full of passion, but after a few years, many quit because they can't handle the sexism and stress. I believe if there was more community support for them, the chances of them staying and succeeding would be much higher.

TP: As a female cinematographer in a field predominantly led by men, can you share a specific moment when you experienced sexism on set? How did that shape your approach to your work?

When I was working as a camera assistant, there were cinematographers who never learned my name, even after working with them for weeks.

There’s a clear hierarchy on set, and I understand the need for it to keep things organized and safe, but it often left me in a powerless position where I couldn’t speak up.

As a cinematographer, I realized that if I raised concerns about safety or issues with the crew, it was taken more seriously.

But if a 1ST AC did the same, it wasn't always treated the same way—there was always fear of losing their job. I’ve also experienced things like producers telling me I was only hired because the director was interested in me, which made me question whether they thought I was good enough for the job in the first place.

One time, on a commercial shoot, a producer told me I was hired because I was the only female cinematographer available in town, and the conditions were brutal—a crazy schedule, lack of resources. Yet, I still had to perform at my best. It took a while for me to figure out how to push through these micro-aggressions, but ultimately, it was about keeping my focus on the work and hoping to get hired again for better opportunities.

Navigation & Growth Mindset

TP: What advice would you give to young women and female-identifying filmmakers for navigating all of these struggles in the industry?

For a long time, I approached set as my true self, speaking whatever that came to mind. But over time, I realized that some producers and directors, especially those who are older than me, seemed unfamiliar with my directness. Certainly, it created a clash and I started thinking: “I don’t have to make it harder for all of us.”

But it doesn’t mean not being your authentic self and trusting in your artistry–it’s simply shifting your mindset. As a cinematographer, my goal is to create beautiful frames that tell powerful stories, not add to the tension.

I began separating work Kaayla from off-set Kaayla, and that shift has helped me feel more grounded. When working with a much older director, I found that dialling back my assertiveness made interactions easier, and I encountered fewer clashes.

Although it might sound like a compromise, being more approachable helped. As a female BIPOC cinematographer, I often felt eyes on me, which made people wary. It’s about letting others adjust to working with you, not letting them define you as "difficult" because of biases.

One time, a crew member didn’t recognize me as the cinematographer despite having interacted with me during prep, which was frustrating. But instead of reacting angrily, I calmly addressed the misunderstanding.

It’s an ongoing learning curve, but I find that taking a step back, evaluating the situation, and responding thoughtfully has made my work and relationships on set more productive.

TP: Was there a moment that has stuck with you that has impacted the way you look at filmmaking and your identity as a female cinematographer?

I distinctly remember watching the Academy Awards as a kid, and Kathryn Bigelow winning for The Hurt Locker really stuck with me.

I was only 11, and I found it confusing.

The movie felt so masculine, and the press kept saying she deserved it because she made a film "a man would make." That stuck with me, and I started to question why women in film were often measured against men. It made me wonder if I was unconsciously trying to imitate male cinematographers, like Roger Deakins, when I filmed.

As a mixed Métis person with an immigrant mother, my identity has always been questioned. This constant questioning shows in my art, where I sometimes feel torn between influences. It's something I talk about with my Indigenous and mixed friends too, the struggle of "Is this really me?"

I

t's a challenge, and it’s something I didn’t fully confront until I became a cinematographer. Suddenly, I had to answer questions about how I identify, sometimes on forms for grants, and those moments made me realize how much my identity shapes my work.

Over time, I’ve seen how my perspective on myself has evolved. I go through seasons in my identity and my cinematography, and even my goals. The strike over the past few years showed me just how much I need change and new opportunities to keep growing, both as a person and an artist.

“There’s space for people like me.”

TP: Where is your headspace right now both as a filmmaker & person?

It’s been strange over the past couple of years, especially with the strikes that have impacted the industry and trickled down to the work I do. It’s been an interesting adjustment, one that has led me back to documentary filmmaking from my usual focus on shooting commercials.

The strikes have also shifted the way I look at filmmaking as a whole. Having witnessed its ups and downs, I find myself asking: what is the next step in my career?

TP: What are some steps you are taking right now positioning away from that period?

Right now, it’s about figuring out when is the right time to join the union. I’ve been getting more requests from directors and producers who have seen my work online, for example Portraits from a Fire, and they want me to shoot their show.

But timing is quite a challenge as I don’t want my decision to impact the projects I’m working on.

Then there are another series of questions that I have to ask myself, especially being a female-identifying a person in the industry.

TP: What makes you hopeful?

What gives me hope is that when I started, there was only one other freelance female DP in town, and she eventually left.

Now, there's a group of about eight female DPs, and it's really encouraging. A few months ago, some of us organized a mixer for diverse people working below the line, and that really made me feel like the industry, especially in Vancouver, is changing.

Even if I don’t make it in this career, I know that others will, and that’s reassuring.

Stay in Touch!

Kaayla Whachell

Instagram: @kaayla_whachell | Website: kaaylawhachell.com 

The Produced - Thanh Lieu

For collaboration inquiries, please shoot me email at [email protected] or my Instagram @the.produced.