Why Studying Joan of Arc Made Me a Better Filmmaker

There’s a painting I keep coming back to whenever I visit the MET. It’s Joan of Arc by Jules Bastien-Lepage, and no matter how many times I see it, I always pause longer than I expect. That stillness. That moment. It hits you. Bastien-Lepage captured something filmmakers are always chasing: an internal transformation told purely through visuals.

Joan stands in her family’s garden, but she’s not really there. Her body is rooted in place, but her mind is gone—somewhere far beyond what we can see. You can feel her entire world shift in this moment. And what makes it so powerful isn’t just the saints floating ghostlike behind her. It’s her hand. Her fingers are caught mid-motion, strumming a branch. That’s what gets me every time.

It’s such a small detail, but it says everything. You feel the texture of the leaves, the way time slows down when a realization crashes into you. She’s having the moment that defines who she will become—and we’re right there with her.

That kind of visual storytelling is what filmmakers live for. And it’s often the tiniest gestures that carry the most weight. Think of your favorite scenes in movies you love. I’d bet you remember some small, human moment: the way someone hesitated before answering, or touched an object like it carried a memory.

That’s something I try to explore in my own work. In my film The Luring, I focused a lot on these subtle interactions—small gestures that hopefully tell you something deeper about the characters.

There’s a quiet moment near the beginning when a young boy wants to lie down in the basement while his parents tour the house. As his mom goes to close the door, he playfully asks her to stop. She smiles and adjusts it—just enough to leave it open the way he likes. It’s probably a little ritual they’ve done before, and I wanted it to feel intimate and real, like we’re catching a private exchange between a mother and son. Nothing dramatic, just a simple request that says so much about their bond.

Later in the film, there’s a scene by a lake—a long, continuous shot where the surface calm starts to crack. The camera begins behind Garrett and Claire as they sit on a blanket looking out at the water. Everything looks peaceful. As the camera slowly moves forward, their conversation reveals something more complex. Claire opens up emotionally, and Garrett brushes it off. When he realizes he may have pushed too far, he apologizes and puts a hand on her back. From the outside, it might seem comforting. But there’s something else underneath. Power dynamics. Emotional control. He knows exactly how to keep her within reach.

That’s the kind of detail I look for as a director. You don’t always need dialogue to say everything. A hand on someone’s back can tell you more than a monologue ever could.

Bastien-Lepage’s painting reminds me of that. The way Joan’s fingers brush a branch—that tiny moment anchors the entire emotional weight of the painting. It grounds the epic in the everyday. And if we as filmmakers can learn how to embed that kind of detail into our scenes, even the quietest moments can speak volumes.