A film is never really good unless the camera is an eye in the

Hear the immortal words of Orson Welles, the conjurer of Citizen Kane and master of vision, who declared: “A film is never really good unless the camera is an eye in the head of a poet.” In this saying he revealed the heart of all great cinema, that the machine which records must not be cold or mechanical, but must gaze upon the world with imagination, with passion, with the fire of poetry burning behind its lens. For without the poet’s spirit, the camera sees only surfaces; but with it, the camera pierces into the soul of things.

The camera, though born of technology, becomes in the hands of the true artist more than glass and gears. It becomes the eye of a poet, one who looks not only at what is, but at what it means. A poet transforms reality into symbol, gesture into revelation, silence into thunder. Thus, when the camera is guided by the poetic vision, a film is no longer mere moving images but a vessel of truth, beauty, and emotion. Welles himself proved this with Citizen Kane, where each angle, each shadow, each movement of the lens whispered of ambition, power, and loss.

The ancients knew that the poet’s gaze was sacred. Homer sang of heroes, but behind his words was the poet’s eye, turning war into meaning, turning grief into lessons for generations. Likewise, the tragedians of Greece lifted the ordinary lives of men into symbols of fate and justice. So too must the filmmaker, if he is to be great, let his camera see as a poet sees—beyond the flesh to the eternal truths. Without this vision, the film is spectacle only, dazzling the eye but leaving the soul untouched.

Consider, O listener, the example of Sergei Eisenstein, whose films in the early days of cinema turned the struggles of workers and revolutionaries into living poetry. His “Odessa Steps” sequence in Battleship Potemkin transformed a massacre into something larger than history—it became a hymn of human suffering and resistance. The camera did not merely record bodies falling; it became the poet’s eye, shaping chaos into meaning. It is in such works that we see Welles’ wisdom alive: poetry is the breath that makes the image eternal.

But when the camera is not guided by poetry, when it serves only commerce or spectacle, the film is empty. It may entertain for an hour, but it does not endure. Its beauty fades because it was never born of vision, only of calculation. This is why Welles insisted on the poet—for the poet feels what others overlook, and in that feeling finds the thread of universality that binds audience to story across time.

The lesson here is luminous: whatever tools you wield—be it camera, pen, brush, or voice—let them be guided by the eye of a poet. Do not see only with your eyes, but with your soul. Ask not only what something looks like, but what it means, what it whispers beneath the surface. For it is only when vision is infused with poetry that art becomes more than craft; it becomes a beacon for the generations.

Therefore, O seeker, do not live as one who records without reflection. Live as the poet, even in your smallest acts. When you look upon the world, let your eye be more than sight—let it be understanding. When you speak, let your words be more than sound—let them be meaning. For in this way, your life itself shall be like Welles’ vision of film: not mere moments passing on the screen of time, but poetry eternal, alive in the memory of those who come after.

So remember Orson Welles’ command: the camera must be the eye of a poet. And so too must you—whether you hold a lens, a pen, or only the vision of your own heart. In poetry lies the key to greatness, and without it, all else is only shadow.