Kazuhiro Soda "Observational Cinema" Workshop - Hamburg, October 8-11, 2026
A quick hello from Kazuhiro Soda — join us for “Observational Cinema” in Hamburg this October!
In documentary filmmaking today, more and more directors are turning to experimental imagery, animation, and fictional elements. At the same time, "observational cinema" seems to be increasingly regarded as an outdated, even somewhat primitive, way of making films.
For Japanese documentary director Kazuhiro Soda, however, observation hasn't lost its meaning — it remains, for him, the most important way of understanding reality.
From Campaign and Peace to Oyster Factory and The Cats of Gokogu Shrine, Soda has held to an almost minimalist method: no preset themes, no script written in advance, no attempt to control reality — instead, through sustained watching and listening, he lets the film grow naturally out of the real world.
In this interview, we spoke with Soda about observational cinema, meditation, chance, moving images in the digital age, and how his move from New York back to rural Japan reshaped the way he thinks about life and filmmaking.
(The original conversation was conducted in English. This piece is based on a translated and edited transcript, and is presented in slightly condensed form compared with the original interview video.)
Kazuhiro Soda "Observational Cinema" Workshop
This October, we're bringing Kazuhiro Soda to Hamburg, Germany, for a 3.5-day in-person + half-day online "Observational Cinema" workshop.
Over the course of the workshop, he'll share his creative method and lead participants into real spaces to shoot footage, then review the material together, discuss, and edit — thinking through the relationship between documentary and reality.
On Observational Cinema
Yes, always — and I welcome that questioning.
I call my films "observational films" because I want to use that framing to redefine what "observation" means. I think observation is the key not only to making a good documentary, but to appreciating one. When people talk about observation, they tend to associate it with "keeping one's distance" and "standing as a third party" — that's the most common understanding. But for me, observation means watching carefully and listening carefully. It has nothing to do with distance, and it isn't indifference toward the world in front of the camera. On the contrary, it's a form of active engagement — because as long as you are observing, your presence inevitably affects the world. So the only reality you can ever film is the reality that has already been changed by your presence.
In films like Peace and Oyster Factory, for instance, you can actually hear my voice. In fact, when I was making Campaign, I still wanted to be a traditionally "invisible" observational director, like Frederick Wiseman — he's my hero, I genuinely love his work. But later I realized that's impossible. You can't be invisible, because you are yourself part of the world you're observing. So I began wanting to fold myself into the film too — I wanted to observe the world, and that world includes me. That's what "observation" means to me, and I think it matters a great deal.
In a society running at this kind of speed, combined with a culture that constantly consumes our attention, people are staring at their phones all the time. Even when we sit down together to eat, we're constantly interrupted by messages and other things. So we're losing the capacity to watch carefully and listen carefully. You used the word "primitive" earlier — yes, it is a primitive form of documentary. But I'd also say it's the core of documentary, the most fundamental thing, and I want to return to that foundation. By sticking with observational cinema, I'm trying to find documentary's most essential method — I want it to return to where it started.
On the Camera and Reality
We were filming together, and patients would often tell very heavy stories. Kiyoko was hit directly by the emotional weight of those stories, while I didn't feel it as intensely, because I wasn't just listening. I also had to think, at the same time, about where the camera should be, how it should move, the sound recording, the framing. Even though I was listening carefully too, my state of mind was completely different from Kiyoko's. In a sense, the camera is like a shield. I have to admit that's true.
On Meditation and Documentary
Yes. Meditation and documentary filmmaking are actually very similar. Meditation means observing your own body and mind, and accepting them as they are in this moment; documentary is the same — you watch carefully, listen carefully, and accept whatever happens in front of the lens.
If you keep thinking, "I wish this person would say that line," or "I wish things would go in that direction" — too many unnecessary thoughts, too many self-interested plans — you're already drifting further and further from documentary.
The most important thing in documentary isn't controlling reality, it's accepting reality. Sometimes reality becomes extremely complicated, even incomprehensible; sometimes it develops in a completely unexpected direction. But that's exactly what makes documentary fascinating — the moments that exceed my own imagination are often the most powerful ones.
Yes, often. While filming, all kinds of thoughts pop up: "I hope this scene ends up being usable." "Damn, I missed that moment." These thoughts all belong to the future or the past. And when you're thinking about the past and the future, you've already left the present moment. So whenever I catch myself starting to overthink, I remind myself: "I'm making an observational film — I have to observe what's happening in front of the camera right now." That brings your mind back here, back to the present, and the shoot usually goes much more smoothly after that.
On Chance
When we make a choice, we don't actually know what outcome it will ultimately produce. Say there are two roads ahead of you — whichever one you take, maybe you'll reach your destination either way, but you still generally have to choose: left or right. If you choose the right, maybe something unexpected happens along the way — nobody knows. And yet we still have to keep making choices. That's how life is built. In a sense, this is itself a kind of chance operation.
It always feels like a gamble. And I think documentary is a gamble too, because we're dealing with reality, and reality itself is unpredictable. So I think documentary is an art form that uses chance, coincidence, and the unexpected, and turns them into a work of art. That's one of my definitions of documentary. What we're working with is coincidence, accident, chance — and that is documentary's most fundamental nature.
On Constraints and Creation
All of us live within constraints — no one has 100 percent freedom. True creativity isn't doing whatever you want in an environment with no constraints; it's finding new possibilities within constraints. You have to look carefully: what are the constraints here? And then keep creating within them.
On New York and Starting Life Over
It was completely by chance. Kiyoko and I had lived in New York since 1993 — 27 years there. In 2020 we went back to Japan to promote our new film, Zero, and then the pandemic suddenly broke out, and we got stuck in Tokyo. All flights were cancelled; we couldn't get back to New York.
We ended up escaping to Ushimado, where we'd filmed Oyster Factory and Inland Sea — there was a house we'd always rented there, and we knew we could keep renting it. Once we got there, I suddenly felt a huge sense of release. Cats, for instance, don't wear masks. Neither do trees. Insects, fish, plants — none of them care at all.
I suddenly realized how human-centered my thinking had always been. I used to think it was the end of the world, but it wasn't. The only ones afraid, anxious, trapped, were human beings. If you live in a big city, almost everything around you is artificial — cinemas, department stores, parks, restaurants, all built for humans. So of course they're all affected, and of course you feel like you're in crisis. At the same time, I realized how far apart, how disconnected, humans and nature have become. We always think in human-centered terms, and we never care about the damage we do to nature.
So I started thinking: wait, maybe we should change. I wanted to live within nature — or rather, within nature's cycles. That's what I was thinking at the time. Later I said to Kiyoko, "Why don't we move to Ushimado?" At first she was completely shocked, almost unable to accept it. But slowly, she began to feel that maybe it really was a good option. So we moved here.
In New York, work was the most important thing. I'd sacrifice everything for work — time with my wife, time with friends, time to clean, cook, do laundry. All of that felt, to me, like an interruption of my work. But after moving to Ushimado, everything flipped completely. Now, what matters more to me is cooking, eating, spending time with the cats, chatting with friends. Work comes after. I realized this is actually how it should be — it's a more natural way to live.
In New York, you have to make progress every single day. There's always this idea that you must become better, stronger, faster, must have more. Every day you can only move forward, never backward. The moment you slip, that's failure. If you once reached a certain height and then fell from it, that's failure too.
But can a person really live like that for a whole lifetime? Is it really possible? I don't think so — especially as I've gotten older, I feel this more and more clearly. My eyesight keeps getting worse; I can no longer carry a camera for long stretches the way I could when I was young. People inevitably age. You can't keep improving forever — life just doesn't work that way.
If you look at nature, everything is cyclical. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west, and the next day it's the same thing again. The seasons cycle round and round — there's no such thing as "progress" in any of it. Look at cats — they never try to become better versions of themselves, and that's completely fine. Life is fundamentally a cycle, not an endless upward line.
On the Digital Age
Digital technology has democratized moving images. In the past, only a small number of professionals could make films; now, anyone can record the world with their phone. That's a tremendous change — but everything has two sides.
In the past, even making a twenty-minute documentary required a lot of money and technical skill, so the images themselves were precious. Cinemas were almost like shrines or temples — people were willing to pay to walk in.
Now, anyone can post a video to YouTube or TikTok, and moving images have become much cheaper. That's the other side of democratization.
Advice for Young Filmmakers
Don't go looking for funding. What you need to find is your own market.
For me, when I'm making a film, the only thing I think about is the film itself. I never think about who the film is "for," because however you imagine it, you're never going to get it exactly right. You can't really define what "an international audience" is, and you can't define what "a Chinese audience" is either — everyone's taste is different. Even if a few of you watch the same film together, you'll each come away with completely different reactions. So I only make films that I personally find interesting — but once the film is finished, I try hard to turn myself into a salesman.
Honestly, my films are hard to sell, because they have no stars, no narration, no manipulative score. So I'm constantly looking for different ways to reach people. I use social media to promote them, I go to film festivals, I try to generate discussion at international festivals. There are simply too many films out there now — you have to find a way to stand out. Use the reputation you build at festivals, then bring the film back home.
In the end, you have to find your own way to actually get your work to an audience. And that method is probably different for every director, every country. When it comes down to it, it's the same thing again: watch carefully, listen carefully.
Stay open. Don't limit your film, and don't limit yourself.
The world is far richer, and far more unpredictable, than you imagine.
If you're willing to open yourself up to reality, you have the chance to create something that goes far beyond yourself.
Join Kazuhiro Soda in Hamburg
If this conversation resonated with you, this is a chance to spend 3.5 days learning his method in person — spaces are limited to 15.
Translation & editing: Yuan Run
Review: Sheng Hanqi