Olivia Schroder
DEC 30, 2025
Olivia Schroder's earliest memories bring her back to her bored elementary school self—already on the computer, already using her parents' Flip Video camera, already making movies. "My love story with filmmaking begins and ends with possibility," she says. Based in New York, the filmmaker, editor, and colorist specializes in work on celluloid, drawn to 16mm film as "a way to replicate sight, or the medium most faithful to the act of remembering." Her work explores the boundary between tangible and spiritual experiences, often examining memory and haunting through dreamlike, intimate imagery.
Can you tell us about your background and how you found your way into filmmaking, editing, and coloring work?
I was raised in the Midwest, where there is not much to do. My earliest memories bring me back to my bored elementary school self. I was already on the computer, already using my parents’ Flip Video camera, and already making movies. The first ones starred my family dogs, and over time, I worked my way up to friends. In high school, I had this French New Wave phase (I was particularly obsessed with Pierrot Le Fou) that taught me how serious filmmaking was more possible than I was led to believe. This brought me to RISD and to 16mm film. It wasn’t until I was actually handling the film object that I realized I wanted to edit. You have completely renewed control over the story—control that overrides the screenwriter, the DP, and whomever else. Color came with it. My love story with filmmaking begins and ends with possibility.
Can you tell us about your background and how you found your way into filmmaking, editing, and coloring work?
I was raised in the Midwest, where there is not much to do. My earliest memories bring me back to my bored elementary school self. I was already on the computer, already using my parents’ Flip Video camera, and already making movies. The first ones starred my family dogs, and over time, I worked my way up to friends. In high school, I had this French New Wave phase (I was particularly obsessed with Pierrot Le Fou) that taught me how serious filmmaking was more possible than I was led to believe. This brought me to RISD and to 16mm film. It wasn’t until I was actually handling the film object that I realized I wanted to edit. You have completely renewed control over the story—control that overrides the screenwriter, the DP, and whomever else. Color came with it. My love story with filmmaking begins and ends with possibility.
You describe yourself as specializing in "work on celluloid." What draws you to film as a medium, and how does working with 16mm shape your approach differently from digital?
I’ve come to think of analog filmmaking as a way to replicate sight, or the medium most faithful to the act of remembering. Light is channeled through the lens onto light-sensitive material and then chemically alters the celluloid, becoming a physical memory or sorts. While it could be argued that the digital camera is more akin to how our eyes respond to light (light is focused and converted into information that the brain—or the camera–interprets as an image), I believe that celluloid filmmaking is akin to the experience of sight, less so the neurological phenomenon. Think of the memories that arrest us in the middle of the day. These images interrupt the goings on of our mind’s eye, and we are made to behold something distinctly lost to time yet so immediate. It is at once lucid and dream-like, very much real and tactile but beyond reach. With this in mind, a lot of my work explores the boundary between tangible and spiritual experiences. Memory and haunting as themes arise often, as well. When I work digitally, I’m more inclined to interpret the world literally, and without filters. There is less mysticism and more practicality. Because celluloid is sensitive to so many variables, it is only natural that I kind of run wild with it.
The image you create gives a sense of dreaminess and intimacy. What kind of visual language do you explore in filmmaking?
I think a lot of my interest lies with the imagery of the mind’s eye—things we imagine, memories we recall. Just like dreams, the visual language of memory is muddled, unclear, translucent, close and yet so far. How can memories speak to us across the limen?
Your work explores vast themes like landscape and history. Can you tell us more about it?
It goes without saying that land and history are inextricably linked—especially so in the US. As someone who was born and raised on stolen land, I feel it is important to appreciate the impressions of history on the landscapes we occupy. On an individual scale, our memories (or our histories) are rooted in place. And when we return to these places, we feel something—a presence. Presence of the past, almost palpable and certainly visceral. So when I set out to make Moon hangs low in Casper, WY—where I had never visited—it came as a surprise that I felt the ‘presence’ of memories. Memories that were not mine, but my mother’s. This led me to the thematic intersection of landscape and history. Land can hold not only our own memory, but a collective one.
What step do you start with when working with a time-based piece?
You should see the number of abandoned movie playlists on my Spotify. That’s what I start with: music. Not my own necessarily, although I wouldn’t be opposed to that. Music for me is the most illustrative and imaginative artform we have. It can create a world and a story, but also conjure unearthed emotions and ideas. So I begin with a playlist that creates the world of the piece. Take this one, for example. They may not look cohesive (Pale Saints and Piero Piccioni and Sufjan Stevens don’t exactly mix), but for me they weave together to make a layered picture that I can use to begin writing.
You work extensively with sound. How do you approach editing audio material, and how does it become part of the poetic language of your work?
Podcasts get a bad rap, and I completely understand why. But I believe podcasts and other immersive audio projects are some of the most direct and inventive ways of reaching the audience’s heart. Eliminating the visual aspect of storytelling actually vastly expands the possibilities. You empower the audience to craft their own visuals, of course with the assistance of soundscapes and other sound engineering tricks. So with every audio project I work on, immersion comes first. How can we make this story visceral and most impactful? In the scheme of my entire body of work, I think it places importance on sound as an experience—an essential part of storytelling, with or without the visuals to accompany it.
How does working between different positions in filmmaking shape the way you think about and create a film?
I’m always thinking about filmmaking on the smallest scale possible. I don’t have producers or grants to fund my work, so the resources I do have are stretched to their fullest extent. That means the skeleton crew wears many hats, which makes for a highly flexible team. That applies to me as an individual as well. It all sort of comes down to the editing. Write like an editor, direct like an editor, shoot like an editor. Not only does it make the whole process simpler and easier for me, it also challenges me to think in a more streamlined and more financially-conscious manner.
You've worked on both personal films and collaborative projects like museum soundwalks and music videos. How does your approach shift between these different sets?
Immersive storytelling always, always comes first. I have no interest in projects that don’t center this. So really, my approach doesn’t differ very much. It comes down to the core themes of the story and how we can best deliver that to the audience. How can we transport the viewer/listener to the world of this story? How can we make them feel it? How can we involve as many senses, layers, and textures as possible? How can we make this real?
Who are some of the filmmakers, artists, or other influences that have shaped your approach to image-making and storytelling?
Chantal Akerman, Sky Hopinka, Deborah Stratman, Ana Mendieta, Kenneth Anger, Roy Andersson, Eliza Hittman, David Lynch, Kirsten Johnson, Apichatpong Weerasethakul, Joahchim Trier, Ramell Ross, Wong Kar Wai, Sean Price Williams, Kelly Reichardt, Miranda July, Luca Guadagnino, Andrea Arnold, Jean-Luc Godard, Laurel Halo, Joanne Robertson, Piero Piccioni, Gia Margaret, Hana Stretton, Grouper, Joan Didion, Annie Ernaux, Clarice Lispector.
What projects are you working on now, and what directions are you hoping to take your practice?
I’m working on a couple of projects. First, I am producing and editing a culture/politics podcast that explores empathetic disagreement. Second, I am working out (and have been for some time) the story for a film I’d like to make—this time a fiction film, which has been a challenge but also joyfully exploratory. Third, I am always writing, though not necessarily towards a goal. I like to write in my journal, in my Google Drive, in the margins of books; anywhere I can exercise my hand and mind.