An Emotionally Truthful Path in Cinematography with Zhen “Donny” Li

It seems at times that the entire world is fixated on aesthetics. To be honest, it’s a fixation on receiving attention rather than a pure fascination with visuals. This is not something Zhen “Donny” Li cares for. This is even more ironic when you consider that this professional cinematographer has been praised repeatedly for his work. As he puts it, “I care a lot about intuition. I don’t believe in style for the sake of style. Instead, I try to be present, to respond honestly to the emotional rhythm of the scene and to build images which reflect that. If there’s a through-line in my work, I hope it’s that—that the visuals are quietly working to hold what the characters are feeling, even when they can’t say it out loud.” His intuition produces remarkable results and has been praised by the community in the form of his nomination for the ASC Heritage Award for Before the Winter, the Indian World Film Festival Award–Winning Best Film Malti, and many other productions. A native of China who has travelled the world in pursuit of his filmmaking career, the international acceptance Donny has found displays how artistic passion channeled through great skill is a life fulfilling endeavor. To inform and encourage others, Mr. Li has agreed to carve out space in his packed schedule to impart some practical wisdom. 

You’ve contributed your cinematography talent to so many different films. I wonder what it is that draws you to a project, beyond the obvious script or previous work of a director that you have seen?

Donny Li (DL): When I’m first considering whether to take on a project, the most important thing I try to understand is the director’s creative motivation. I spend a lot of time in conversation, trying to get a sense of where the story comes from—what inspired it, what’s personal about it, and why they feel compelled to tell it. If there’s a real-life experience or background story behind the script, I always want to hear it. These conversations help me understand the emotional lens through which the director sees the film. As we continue talking, we usually move into more concrete territory—what kind of mood or tone they envision, whether there are reference films they connect with, or even specific elements they’ve been drawn to. It doesn’t always have to be about a full film; sometimes it’s the color palette from one scene, or the texture of a particular costume, or even a song that captures the emotional rhythm of the story. I tend not to fully replicate or imitate visual references, but having those conversations helps me understand where the director is coming from and what emotional or visual direction they’re aiming for. It gives me a sense of whether our instincts and styles align—and whether I’m the right person to help bring their vision to life.

You referenced music. Is this something that you feel allows you to pinpoint an emotional target that you and/or the production is headed towards?

DL: Absolutely. For some projects, we’ve created shared Spotify playlists during the early stages of development. Everyone adds music that feels emotionally connected to the film, and it becomes a kind of moodboard in audio form. These collaborative rituals say a lot about how a director approaches the creative process—and whether that process feels like one I want to be part of.

You’ve worked in both long form films and short films. Does the length or running time of a film have any bearing on how you will approach it visually?

DL: . For me, whether it’s a short film or a feature, my approach tends to start in the same place: with the emotional core of the story. I’m always trying to find a visual language that captures subtle emotional shifts, and that goal doesn’t really change based on the film’s length. That said, of course there are practical and narrative differences. Short films often center around one specific theme or emotional moment. There’s usually less time for buildup or complexity, so the images have to be more distilled—more direct and precise in what they express. Features, on the other hand, offer more room to shape rhythm over time. There’s space to explore contrast between different emotional beats, to evolve the visual tone alongside the characters, and to build a sense of atmosphere that slowly accumulates. That can be incredibly rewarding as a cinematographer. Ultimately, the differences probably have less to do with length alone and more to do with genre, tone, and structure. A meditative short can feel more like a feature in pacing, and a high-concept feature might demand the clarity and economy of a short. For me, the process always starts with: what does this moment feel like, and how do we translate that feeling into an image?

I think that the cinematography approach of someone like yourself is the most powerful means to convey an altered emotional state to an audience. A film like Insomniac displays how adept you are at doing this. What was your process on this particular film?

D: That’s an interesting one because my first instinct was to go with handheld camera work, longer lenses—50mm and above—to create a sense of visual compression and instability. It made sense. The physical shakiness of the camera would naturally mirror the character’s inner chaos. But I’ve learned to challenge my first instincts, especially when they feel too familiar. While working on the cinematography lookbook, I started asking myself: what if we did the opposite? Instead of going handheld, what if we used dolly shots—long, slow, steady moves that gradually built tension through stillness and duration? That one shift in thinking changed everything. Suddenly, the film’s visual language moved from something close to Black Swan to something more like The Shining. The smoothness of the dolly added a kind of formal, unnerving calm. It created a pressure cooker effect—the camera wasn’t panicking, but it was observing, slowly enclosing the character in their own mental space. In scenes where the protagonist begins to unravel, the dolly actually heightened the discomfort. The stability made the instability more palpable. That contrast—between the calm of the camera and the chaos within the character—became the emotional friction we built the visuals around.

I guess it’s accurate to say that you feel it’s important to challenge your own intuition and get out of a comfort zone? Does that also apply to working in different genres?

DL: I’m not sure if it’s a conscious decision to try something new in this case but rather it’s about finding what’s most ideal to serve the tone of the film and story. Before working on the film Xander, I had very little experience shooting comedy. So the film became a really valuable opportunity for me to rethink my approach as a cinematographer. A lot of the visual instincts I had developed from working on dramas or more psychological stories didn’t apply here—and in some cases, I had to do the exact opposite.

Could you be more specific?

DL: One of the biggest adjustments was in framing. In many of my past projects, I would lean into more layered compositions—foreground elements, profile shots, characters partially obscured by space. But for Xander, I found myself opening up the frame more deliberately. I avoided heavy foregrounds and composed with a much cleaner, more “presentational” style. The characters often faced more directly toward the camera, which made their expressions and timing clearer for the audience. Over-the-shoulder shots, which are a staple in dialogue scenes, were used very sparingly. Instead, I relied more on wider coverage and singles that gave the actors room to perform physically, which is so important in comedy. It also gave us the freedom to play with pacing and reaction, letting the audience stay ahead of the joke or catch up with it in real time. Visually, this was also one of the more colorful and high-key lighting projects I’ve done in recent years. The brighter tone of the story allowed me to work with a more saturated palette and softer shadows, which helped support the comedic atmosphere without over-stylizing it. All of this taught me a lot about flexibility—and how the same toolset can be completely reoriented depending on genre. Comedy has its own visual rhythm, and learning to find that rhythm was one of the most rewarding parts of the process.

In contrast to your filmwork, do you feel that commercials allow you to exercise your creative muscles? Do you enjoy working on commercials as a DP?

DL: I really do! One of the most creatively exciting experiences I’ve had in commercial work was shooting multiple Toyota ads with Formula Drift driver Ken Gushi. Filming with a high-performance vehicle in motion—especially in the context of precision drifting—is completely different from working on narrative stories. It’s high energy, extremely technical, and visually thrilling. What I find particularly interesting about working on commercials is how different the visual priorities become. In narrative filmmaking, I often strip away any camera movement that doesn’t serve the emotional arc or storytelling. I try to keep the language minimal and focused. But in commercial work, especially with automotive brands, the opposite is often true. Every movement of the camera can become a tool for amplifying the energy of the moment. In a 30 or 60 second spot, there’s very little time to build mood gradually—so every frame has to deliver. That demands a different kind of precision from me as a cinematographer. The visual expression has to be immediate and impactful. Shooting with Ken Gushi was especially memorable because his control over the car allowed us to push visual choreography further than we normally could. It wasn’t just about capturing the car—it was about capturing the rhythm, weight, and physical drama of how it moved.

Too often we think of what professionals in the arts do as simply entertainment. While it does apply to this in some degree, the arts have always been an instrument of social awareness and possible positive change. Your role as the cinematographer on the film Malti was not only impressive for its heavy reliance on visuals to tell a story without dialogue but it also is at the forefront of female led filmmakers in India telling stories from a female perspective. How did you come to be involved in the making of Malti? (Malti received Best Experimental Film at the Hollywood Reel Independent Film Festival in addition to numerous international awards).

DL: One of the things that struck me most when I first read the script for Malti was how quietly powerful it was. Mrunal, both as a writer and director, wanted to explore the kind of silence that often exists in marriages—not just the absence of words, but the emotional vacancy that can grow over time, especially for women. She was interested in what happens when someone chooses endurance over confrontation. When a woman continues to show up, day after day, even as she’s slowly disappearing inside herself. It’s a deeply personal theme, but also one that reflects broader social dynamics—how many women are expected to carry emotional labor silently, how often their interior lives are overlooked or dismissed. At its core, Malti is also a story that speaks to the lives of many women in contemporary Indian society—women who are expected to remain silent, emotionally resilient, and invisible within their own homes. Mrunal’s intention was not just to tell one woman’s story, but to reflect a pattern that is still painfully common. What she wrote was subtle, but incredibly loaded—an emotional reality that lingers between gestures, pauses, and domestic rituals. As a cinematographer coming from a different background, I felt a responsibility to truly listen and understand what she was trying to say, culturally and emotionally. My role wasn’t to stylize her story, but to give it space—to create a visual container that honored the stillness and weight of what she wanted to express. I felt deeply honored to be trusted with that responsibility, and to help her bring this quiet yet urgent narrative to life. Our goal with the visual language was to mirror that silence, but not to flatten it. Instead, we wanted the camera to become an observer—calm, precise, sometimes even indifferent—so that the weight of Malti’s experience could sit in the frame without being pushed. That’s why we chose to shoot the film in black and white. The lack of color stripped away distraction and allowed the viewer to focus entirely on her gestures, her stillness, her eyes. We built the visual style entirely around still, composed shots—no handheld camera work at all. This was a conscious choice from the very beginning. Instead of inserting artificial movement or urgency, we wanted the camera to feel quietly observant, even distant. The stillness wasn’t meant to be aesthetic—it was meant to reflect the emotional stasis of a woman trapped in a routine, in a role, in a life that no longer sees her. What Mrunal achieved with Malti is a kind of social portrait through restraint. She didn’t need dramatic dialogue or overt symbolism—just the quiet, relentless truth of someone fading in plain sight. I felt incredibly privileged to be part of that process, and to help shape a visual world where that kind of truth could live and breathe on its own terms.

As a filmmaker who is also something of a world traveler, working in different cultures and locations to tell stories about things that might be somewhat unfamiliar to you, do you see yourself as purely a filmmaker or is there another component to what drives you?

DL: When I first decided to become a filmmaker, I was still in high school in China. At the time, I was just beginning to study film history, and I remember being deeply moved by Italian Neorealism—those films felt raw, grounded, and full of quiet power. Later, I discovered the French New Wave, and films like The 400 Blows left a lasting impression on me. In the beginning, my dream was to make realist films that reflect the world around us—to shine a light on the quiet, often overlooked corners of everyday life. I believed (and still believe) that cinema has the ability to make people pause, notice, and perhaps care a little more about things they may not encounter in their own lives. That doesn’t mean I dismiss or look down on entertainment-driven cinema. I enjoy those films too, and I think in today’s world—where people are often overwhelmed by stress and pressure—the ability to escape into a story is genuinely important. But as a creator, I find myself naturally drawn to stories that carry emotional depth, and to films that offer a unique voice or personal perspective. I tend to gravitate toward work that feels authored, emotionally specific, and often rooted in reality. So while I may not set out explicitly to make “social change” films, I do think that being honest in what I portray—being emotionally truthful—can, in its own way, be socially meaningful. In the end, I follow my creative instincts. But I also recognize that when we make films in this moment, in this world, those stories inevitably reflect the time we live in.

Writer : Calvin Hooney