Courtesy of the writer
What’s in My Bag spotlights the setups that help create the stories of our times. This regular column offers a peek into the technical and philosophical underpinnings of some of the most important crew on documentaries—camera and sound people and editors.
In 2017, I traveled to Japan to film a documentary. It was a couple of years into my career as a DP, and I was straddling the wide chasm between commercial, music video, and documentary work. I was accustomed to big, elaborate rigs—the kinds where the setup’s size was often seen as a testament to skill. I liked to think I valued substance over spectacle, though I wasn’t immune to the film world’s expectations. At film school, outside Los Angeles, the culture encouraged the idea that bigger meant better; a sprawling rig was a mark of legitimacy. For the project in Japan, I aimed for what I thought was simplicity: a Sony FS7, with an extension unit for brick batteries, and a director-chosen 10:1 zoom lens, which was heavy and unwieldy but optically beautiful.
In Tokyo, we went to Panavision to tech our gear, where I learned that my “simple” setup was anything but. The zoom lens required extra support—a baseplate, 19mm rods, a bridge. Its heft demanded a sturdier tripod, so we were given an O’Connor head with standard-height sticks. After a few hours, the minimalist rig I’d envisioned had ballooned into something far more cumbersome. With gear in hand, we—three Black filmmakers in Tokyo—ventured out, our equipment in backpacks, our tripod broken down and bungee-strapped to an aluminum luggage carrier.
Accompanying us was a lovely fixer but no driver, and so we navigated Tokyo’s rush-hour crowds, lugging the tripod rig up staircases and through bustling train stations, and squeezing into packed trains. I wasn’t unaccustomed to roughing it, but this was different. The precariousness of our setup and the constant adjustments felt unsustainable.
Since then, I’ve refined my approach to building a gear package in a way that better aligns with my philosophy of storytelling. Every project demands a setup crafted with specific intention but open to flexibility. Through conversations with directors, I assemble each piece of gear in support of the film’s heartbeat. Decisions about camera format, lensing, or stabilization aren’t just about image fidelity—they’re also about creating the intimacy required to capture those images. I always consider the role the camera will play in a given space; sometimes it’s an unseen observer, and other times it’s an active participant in the environment. Not knowing exactly what an environment might demand, I focus on the very real and often possibility of spontaneity, creating a setup that embraces adaptability.
These days, my equipment bag is lean, intentional, and designed for any last-second pivots. I keep a Cinesaddle for handheld stability or mount the camera on my shoulder if I need height. Advances in sensor technology now allow me to use smaller formats, like the Sony FX6 or Canon C500, which offer the quality I desire without the weight. I love the Angénieux EZ zoom series; it’s versatile and perfectly suited to my style. Alongside my gear, I always carry the Leatherman multitool my father gave me for my 21st birthday, a few BongoTies to keep things tidy, Velcro stickies, basic lens cleaning equipment, a notebook for jotting down story thoughts and shot ideas, a few novelty pins (my latest obsession), and some Tylenol or ibuprofen. It’s an unassuming collection that helps me focus on the essence of filmmaking: capturing real human moments with as little distraction as possible.
Back in Japan, the bungee cord held up until the very last day of shooting, when it finally snapped. The luggage carrier was so misshapen it hardly rolled anymore. We laughed about it—these improvised pieces of equipment held everything together, only to give out just as the job was done. I often think about that trip because we made a beautiful film by the skin of our teeth, and you’d never be able to tell. The rigor of those 10 days holds a special place in my heart, reinforcing the necessity of preparation and an appropriate gear package that serves the story, the environment, and the crew, however scrappy they may be.
Ultimately, my goal is to create a setup that makes the mechanisms of filmmaking invisible. I want the experience in front of the lens to feel real, unfiltered, and unhindered by the barriers of bulky equipment. My rig allows me to work quickly, pivot when necessary, and pause to reflect when the situation demands it. This nimbleness and ability to stay both present and adaptable is what I’ve come to value most.
Image Annotations:
Water bottle
Baseball cap
Shoulder bag
A tiny, short-cabled shotgun mic so I always have some sort of camera audio—I’ve often requested shotgun mics for shoots only to receive a really long mic probably meant for a boom pole
Airpods—from my partner because I keep losing mine
Tylenol
Novelty pen that looks like a match stick
Multitool case
Leatherman multitool
Bitset
Notebooks
This piece was first published in Documentary’s Winter 2024/2025 issue, with the following subheading: Capturing reality without the barriers of bulky equipment.
Zac Manuel is a director and cinematographer from New Orleans, Louisiana. Zac’s work in documentary draws from complex legacies of Southern identity, with a particular interest in the impacts of identity, history, and inheritance on Black communities. Zac’s cinematography credits include Alone (2017), Academy Award-nominated Time (2020), Buckjumping (2018), and Descendant (2022, Netflix). His directing credits include This Body (2021, PBS); Nonstop (2021, Criterion Channel), and Lil Nas X: Long Live Montero (2023, Max). Zac's latest feature documentary, Ghetto Children, premiered at the 2024 New Orleans Film Festival and was produced by XTR. Zac is the proud son of a touring jazz musician and a community builder at the Department of Housing and Urban Development.