From Hot Tungsten Lights to LEDs: A Filmmaker's Journey Through Lighting Evolution

I attended film school, and aside from being the last class to edit a freshman film by splicing it on a Steenbeck, I spent a significant amount of time handling hot lights. The experience was largely an exercise in carrying heavy, cumbersome lights in Pelican cases to a friend’s poorly conceived kitchen sink drama—or, if you were lucky, a goofy fourth-rate Troma knockoff.

The lights were not only heavy but also turned whatever environment you were shooting in into a furnace. The wiring ranged from borderline to outright illegal. You had to wear bulky gloves, and if you touched the bulbs, the oil from your fingers could cause them to explode.

If you had money, you might get one of the (still quite good) Arri lights. If you were poor, you had to use a Lowell light that looked like it was made of chicken wire. (Credit: Arri, B H)

A not insignificant portion of cinematography class was devoted to teaching a group of indoor kids—who had never played sports or worked in the trades—how many lights a 15-amp circuit could handle before blowing a fuse. Given how much of my current career involves rewiring appliances, it is probably the most useful class I ever took at the School of Visual Arts.

Eventually, Kino Flos—big fluorescent bulb fixtures pioneered for the Mickey Rourke movie Barfly—became ubiquitous on tiny indie sets. Students loved them because they didn’t give you an undiagnosed hernia in your early 20s. These would later give way partially to Litepanels, and then LEDs revolutionized the industry.

Tungsten lights and HMIs didn’t disappear, though. The big, powerful 12K and 18K lights still stick around because replicating the quality of light from a filament getting way too hot is shockingly difficult. The Diva Kit couldn’t match the output of a hot light, but man, was it lighter. Kino-flo now mainly sells LEDs. I had an earlier version of the thing on the right and it cost me an arm and a leg. Credit: B H

My early 20s were spent as a permalancer—functionally unemployed. The term “predator,” a portmanteau for “producer” and “editor,” was often used to describe a jack-of-all-trades video person. I really hope that term isn’t still in use.

Before DSLRs and cellphones disrupted the industry, you could make at least rent and beer money with a handful of jobs a month if you owned a semi-decent video camera and an onboard light. I had a Panasonic AG-HVX200, which I bought with my savings, and a big, dumb camera-mounted light panel brick. It gave off an unflattering, blinding glow, made everything look like the show Cops, and cost between $800 and $1,000. I think they still sell a version of those, but there’s no reason to buy one.