Tinted Glass

“I’ve always thought of filmmaking as a powerful tool for action. It pulls you out of the predictable rhythms of everyday life and immerses you in landscapes filled with novelty and wonder.“

The first phase of filming for this project began in the summer of 2018, during the months of June and July. At the time, I was quite young and inexperienced on a film set, and this was not an easy production to start with. The pace was relentless: 21 days of shooting, the majority of which were night shoots.

The second phase took place in 2021, right after the grip of the COVID-19 pandemic had started to loosen its grip, and life was gradually returning to its normal rhythm. Nearly three years had passed from the beginning of the shoot to its conclusion. And yet, that only accounts for the filming process. Behind the scenes, there were many more years of groundwork conceptualizing ideas, drafting and redrafting scripts, securing funding, pitching, and finally navigating countless iterations of the same story through the editing process.

I have been going to film sets since I was young with my father, Pedro Varela, writer/director of this film. Growing up in that environment is a curious experience, the people you meet, the unusual hours you keep, and the far-flung places you travel to create a world unlike any other.

I’ve always thought of filmmaking as a powerful tool for action. It pulls you out of the predictable rhythms of everyday life and immerses you in landscapes filled with novelty and wonder. There’s an unpredictable magic to it you never quite know what challenges or surprises tomorrow might bring. This constant state of flux keeps you firmly rooted in the present, always alert and ready to solve new problems.

There’s a certain charm to this way of life, though it’s contrasted by the undeniable toughness of what it really takes to make a film. Behind the allure lies a world of grit, determination, and relentless hard work.

Mari Oliveria as Miriam

This time, it was a privilege to travel to Brazil, a completely new environment, rich with vibrant culture and document the set where the story of Tinted Glass was coming to life. Immersing myself in this unique setting was an experience unlike any other, as I witnessed the blend of art and storytelling unfold against the backdrop of Rio de Janeiro.

The story itself tackles the countless cases of abuse and violence against women. Through its narrative, it sheds light on these realities by focusing on two compelling characters: Mary, an American student navigating life in Rio de Janeiro, and Miriam, a strong community leader determined to forge her own path.

Much of the story unfolds within the confines of a small van, a space that, at any given moment, held two to three actors performing their scenes, alongside the director of photography, the first assistant camera, and the sound technician. It was a tight squeeze, to say the least. Meanwhile, the director and producers worked from a separate van outfitted with monitors, enabling them to watch the live feed of the filming as the vehicles moved through the streets. Communication between the two vans relied entirely on walkie-talkies, creating a unique dynamic of coordination and control.

The process was far from leisurely. Once the vans left the base, they would often drive around for thirty minutes or more, filming continuously. Every moment counted, making efficiency a non-negotiable priority. This high-pressure environment demanded a near-360-degree functional setup for shooting, a logistical and creative challenge that likely haunted the whole team.

The van featured in the story was anything but practical when it came to rigging standard lighting equipment. Its compact interior and limited structural flexibility made traditional solutions impossible. On the rare occasions when a low-loader was available, a specialized vehicle that transports a car being filmed and offers multiple rigging possibilities, things ran a bit smoother. However, for the majority of the shoot, the team had to rely on an inventive workaround: At time quite new in the industry I believe, small LED lights, about the size of a smartphone, clamped to the exterior of the van.

This unconventional solution initially felt precarious, but it ultimately delivered results far beyond expectations. The tiny LEDs created precise and beautifully sculpted pockets of light, just enough to illuminate the actors while preserving the shadowy intimacy of the setting. These glimmers of light didn’t just serve technical needs; they enhanced the storytelling, often requiring only a glint in an actor’s eye to convey the emotion of a scene. It was a testament to the creative resilience of the crew, a moment where limitations became opportunities to craft something uniquely atmospheric.

Pedro on the video assist van

One scene, in particular, lingers vividly in my memory, a scene that was deceptively simple to read on paper but proved incredibly challenging to bring to life for everyone involved. Before this moment, I never truly grasped how fiction cinema could evoke such raw, genuine emotions. Having been exposed to the mechanics of filmmaking from a young age, I’d grown accustomed to a certain detachment when watching a final cut. It was as if I could dissect every frame, recalling the rehearsals that shaped the performances, the technical details that framed the visuals, or the calculated choreography of every movement and word.

Unconsciously, there was always an awareness that what I was watching wasn’t real but a crafted representation of reality, a mimicry of the world we inhabit. Yet, with this particular scene, a depiction of a physical assault, the line between fiction and reality blurred in a way I hadn’t experienced before. The emotions it stirred felt overwhelmingly real, not just for me but for everyone present in that moment.

I know this because, years later, at the film's premiere, it remained a topic of conversation. Many who had been in the van or watching from the video feed in the monitoring van confessed they couldn’t keep their eyes on the screen. Some turned away from the monitor entirely, while others closed their eyes, as if trying to shield themselves from the intensity of what they were witnessing. But closing one’s eyes doesn’t offer true escape; it only shifts the focus to sound, a sense we cannot simply turn off at will.

In the absence of visuals, the auditory experience became unrelenting—every strained breath, every tremor in the voices, every muffled sound of struggle seemed to amplify in the mind. It was visceral, inescapable, and it left an imprint that still lingers to this day.

For me, it was a moment of revelation: the power of cinema not just to mimic life, but to cut through artifice and strike at the core of human experience.

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Martim Plantier Varela