Instagram Story Viewer

I had a lot of fun shooting for @celsiusofficial
Some of my favorite scenes on 16mm 🎞️

Client: @celsiusofficial
Production: @loudlux
Director: @jackbotti
EP: @bradpierce_
Apres Field Producer: @dylan__malone
Apres DP: @notjvck
Apres Cam OP/1AC: @caleb_ely_
Apres Bolex: @ely.longwill
Apres Photo: @huntermoreno
Apres Photo PA: @cassadycreations

Apres Talent: @mollymcarthur @evanmbjerke @megan.mielke
Ski Talent: @mo_lebel @griffink5 @ernspence

we made a fashion moouvie for our talented friend Marina🧵🌝 <3

Designer:
Marina Malin @maarrinna
Directors:
Niko Cvitanic@niko.cvitanic
& Ely Longwill @ely.longwill
Score:
Ben McAvene @benjamincatch

Talent:
Vitaly Capellan
DeAnte’ T. Dennis Jr. @deantedennisjr

Proud to share that Lucha Vida just won an award at the Hispanic Film Festival of Lewes, Delaware.
This documentary means a lot to me, and I’m excited to finally share the trailer with you all. Hecho con mucho corazón junto a @il0vkatz

Orgulloso de compartir que Lucha Vida acaba de ganar un premio en el Festival de Cine Hispano de Lewes, Delaware.
Esta historia significa mucho para mí, y estoy emocionado de finalmente compartir el tráiler con todos ustedes. Hecho con mucho corazón junto a Aden Katz.

Directors:
Ely Longwill
Aden Katz

Cast:
@elsilencio_99
@deltajunior1

Dolce & Gabbana - test -bw super 16 #7222

By Ely Longwill
Model: Lyle Knudsen @lyleknudsen
Score: Bob Warner
Set: Mike Clements
PA: Aristotle Makoujy @aristotlemakoujy

8mm Camera Test: Perpetual Siesta

and a visual concept for something I’m writing rn.

Actor: Elias Hadida

Papi Elias does not like to be called Moroccan, despite having lived there until he was 25. He insists with his Spanish heritage. When his nationality is questioned-or not-he is often quick to go around showing people old photos of his father when he served a stint in the Spanish military. Now, I guess I’m doing the same, but of him just waiting… and waiting. Though I don’t understand how people distinguished themselves as Spanish or Moroccan in the Tetouan region. Yet, when Ferran Torres misses an open goal, he can’t help but yell out in Arabic. It’s in those moments of passion that the truest test of heart slips to reveals itself.

Caresse le temps

un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept…

Alongside el río Yanayanko, I woke up to sopa de bagre-the same fish that attacked me the night before.
8/27/25
It was a typical night on Cañalito, a close knit community built around a sugar cane plantation, two hours down el rio de Yanayanko, a tributary of the Peruvian Amazon. After our evening game of fútbol with the locals, a game that always ended the same way with swarms of vicious mosquitos rolling in alongside the setting sun, we exchanged sweaty hugs and shared words of appreciation for the joy of football. Then Xavi and I would strip and dash for the water, slapping our salty bodies and pushing and pulling each other down the muddy, dark Amazon riverbank. Neither of us wanted to be the first to test the, murky waters. But it was either that or be consumed alive by mosquitos.
Despite Papá Pedrito’s warnings about bathing safely amongst pirañas, caimans, and dangerous currents, the warm tropical air, the tune of the rainforest, and the brightest stars begged me to sit with it. So I surrendered to the water and took a long dive and dragged Xavi by the waist with me into the dark abyss of the Yanayanko.When we rose to the surface, we scuffled with each other for a few seconds, dragging each other underwater, laughing in fear, until his slippery body escaped my grasp and he scurried up the riverbank. He was covered in mud and somehow dirtier than when we started. I was hysterically laughing as I faced his Spanish wrath of beautiful profanity. Then the roles reversed when I felt a sharp pain in my baby toe and my foot went numb. I shrieked. Xavi entered a new level of hysteria as I scrambled up the muddy bank. When I reached dry land-full of mud and blood-I felt for each toe to make sure all five remained.Meanwhile, Xavi was manically stabbing the water with a stick, trying to locate the aggressor. Only after my pleas finally landed did he throw my arm over his shoulder, and we limped up the hillside of the Cañalito, screaming for Pedrito’s help.
Pedrito believes it was a bagre that bit me.
And there it was, I woke up to sopa de bagre, the same fish that bit me the night before, floating in my breakfast soup as if the yanayanko delivered it back to me.

Alongside el río Yanayanko, I woke up to sopa de bagre-the same fish that attacked me the night before.
8/27/25
It was a typical night on Cañalito, a close knit community built around a sugar cane plantation, two hours down el rio de Yanayanko, a tributary of the Peruvian Amazon. After our evening game of fútbol with the locals, a game that always ended the same way with swarms of vicious mosquitos rolling in alongside the setting sun, we exchanged sweaty hugs and shared words of appreciation for the joy of football. Then Xavi and I would strip and dash for the water, slapping our salty bodies and pushing and pulling each other down the muddy, dark Amazon riverbank. Neither of us wanted to be the first to test the, murky waters. But it was either that or be consumed alive by mosquitos.
Despite Papá Pedrito’s warnings about bathing safely amongst pirañas, caimans, and dangerous currents, the warm tropical air, the tune of the rainforest, and the brightest stars begged me to sit with it. So I surrendered to the water and took a long dive and dragged Xavi by the waist with me into the dark abyss of the Yanayanko.When we rose to the surface, we scuffled with each other for a few seconds, dragging each other underwater, laughing in fear, until his slippery body escaped my grasp and he scurried up the riverbank. He was covered in mud and somehow dirtier than when we started. I was hysterically laughing as I faced his Spanish wrath of beautiful profanity. Then the roles reversed when I felt a sharp pain in my baby toe and my foot went numb. I shrieked. Xavi entered a new level of hysteria as I scrambled up the muddy bank. When I reached dry land-full of mud and blood-I felt for each toe to make sure all five remained.Meanwhile, Xavi was manically stabbing the water with a stick, trying to locate the aggressor. Only after my pleas finally landed did he throw my arm over his shoulder, and we limped up the hillside of the Cañalito, screaming for Pedrito’s help.
Pedrito believes it was a bagre that bit me.
And there it was, I woke up to sopa de bagre, the same fish that bit me the night before, floating in my breakfast soup as if the yanayanko delivered it back to me.

Alongside el río Yanayanko, I woke up to sopa de bagre-the same fish that attacked me the night before.
8/27/25
It was a typical night on Cañalito, a close knit community built around a sugar cane plantation, two hours down el rio de Yanayanko, a tributary of the Peruvian Amazon. After our evening game of fútbol with the locals, a game that always ended the same way with swarms of vicious mosquitos rolling in alongside the setting sun, we exchanged sweaty hugs and shared words of appreciation for the joy of football. Then Xavi and I would strip and dash for the water, slapping our salty bodies and pushing and pulling each other down the muddy, dark Amazon riverbank. Neither of us wanted to be the first to test the, murky waters. But it was either that or be consumed alive by mosquitos.
Despite Papá Pedrito’s warnings about bathing safely amongst pirañas, caimans, and dangerous currents, the warm tropical air, the tune of the rainforest, and the brightest stars begged me to sit with it. So I surrendered to the water and took a long dive and dragged Xavi by the waist with me into the dark abyss of the Yanayanko.When we rose to the surface, we scuffled with each other for a few seconds, dragging each other underwater, laughing in fear, until his slippery body escaped my grasp and he scurried up the riverbank. He was covered in mud and somehow dirtier than when we started. I was hysterically laughing as I faced his Spanish wrath of beautiful profanity. Then the roles reversed when I felt a sharp pain in my baby toe and my foot went numb. I shrieked. Xavi entered a new level of hysteria as I scrambled up the muddy bank. When I reached dry land-full of mud and blood-I felt for each toe to make sure all five remained.Meanwhile, Xavi was manically stabbing the water with a stick, trying to locate the aggressor. Only after my pleas finally landed did he throw my arm over his shoulder, and we limped up the hillside of the Cañalito, screaming for Pedrito’s help.
Pedrito believes it was a bagre that bit me.
And there it was, I woke up to sopa de bagre, the same fish that bit me the night before, floating in my breakfast soup as if the yanayanko delivered it back to me.

Alongside el río Yanayanko, I woke up to sopa de bagre-the same fish that attacked me the night before.
8/27/25
It was a typical night on Cañalito, a close knit community built around a sugar cane plantation, two hours down el rio de Yanayanko, a tributary of the Peruvian Amazon. After our evening game of fútbol with the locals, a game that always ended the same way with swarms of vicious mosquitos rolling in alongside the setting sun, we exchanged sweaty hugs and shared words of appreciation for the joy of football. Then Xavi and I would strip and dash for the water, slapping our salty bodies and pushing and pulling each other down the muddy, dark Amazon riverbank. Neither of us wanted to be the first to test the, murky waters. But it was either that or be consumed alive by mosquitos.
Despite Papá Pedrito’s warnings about bathing safely amongst pirañas, caimans, and dangerous currents, the warm tropical air, the tune of the rainforest, and the brightest stars begged me to sit with it. So I surrendered to the water and took a long dive and dragged Xavi by the waist with me into the dark abyss of the Yanayanko.When we rose to the surface, we scuffled with each other for a few seconds, dragging each other underwater, laughing in fear, until his slippery body escaped my grasp and he scurried up the riverbank. He was covered in mud and somehow dirtier than when we started. I was hysterically laughing as I faced his Spanish wrath of beautiful profanity. Then the roles reversed when I felt a sharp pain in my baby toe and my foot went numb. I shrieked. Xavi entered a new level of hysteria as I scrambled up the muddy bank. When I reached dry land-full of mud and blood-I felt for each toe to make sure all five remained.Meanwhile, Xavi was manically stabbing the water with a stick, trying to locate the aggressor. Only after my pleas finally landed did he throw my arm over his shoulder, and we limped up the hillside of the Cañalito, screaming for Pedrito’s help.
Pedrito believes it was a bagre that bit me.
And there it was, I woke up to sopa de bagre, the same fish that bit me the night before, floating in my breakfast soup as if the yanayanko delivered it back to me.

Alongside el río Yanayanko, I woke up to sopa de bagre-the same fish that attacked me the night before.
8/27/25
It was a typical night on Cañalito, a close knit community built around a sugar cane plantation, two hours down el rio de Yanayanko, a tributary of the Peruvian Amazon. After our evening game of fútbol with the locals, a game that always ended the same way with swarms of vicious mosquitos rolling in alongside the setting sun, we exchanged sweaty hugs and shared words of appreciation for the joy of football. Then Xavi and I would strip and dash for the water, slapping our salty bodies and pushing and pulling each other down the muddy, dark Amazon riverbank. Neither of us wanted to be the first to test the, murky waters. But it was either that or be consumed alive by mosquitos.
Despite Papá Pedrito’s warnings about bathing safely amongst pirañas, caimans, and dangerous currents, the warm tropical air, the tune of the rainforest, and the brightest stars begged me to sit with it. So I surrendered to the water and took a long dive and dragged Xavi by the waist with me into the dark abyss of the Yanayanko.When we rose to the surface, we scuffled with each other for a few seconds, dragging each other underwater, laughing in fear, until his slippery body escaped my grasp and he scurried up the riverbank. He was covered in mud and somehow dirtier than when we started. I was hysterically laughing as I faced his Spanish wrath of beautiful profanity. Then the roles reversed when I felt a sharp pain in my baby toe and my foot went numb. I shrieked. Xavi entered a new level of hysteria as I scrambled up the muddy bank. When I reached dry land-full of mud and blood-I felt for each toe to make sure all five remained.Meanwhile, Xavi was manically stabbing the water with a stick, trying to locate the aggressor. Only after my pleas finally landed did he throw my arm over his shoulder, and we limped up the hillside of the Cañalito, screaming for Pedrito’s help.
Pedrito believes it was a bagre that bit me.
And there it was, I woke up to sopa de bagre, the same fish that bit me the night before, floating in my breakfast soup as if the yanayanko delivered it back to me.

Alongside el río Yanayanko, I woke up to sopa de bagre-the same fish that attacked me the night before.
8/27/25
It was a typical night on Cañalito, a close knit community built around a sugar cane plantation, two hours down el rio de Yanayanko, a tributary of the Peruvian Amazon. After our evening game of fútbol with the locals, a game that always ended the same way with swarms of vicious mosquitos rolling in alongside the setting sun, we exchanged sweaty hugs and shared words of appreciation for the joy of football. Then Xavi and I would strip and dash for the water, slapping our salty bodies and pushing and pulling each other down the muddy, dark Amazon riverbank. Neither of us wanted to be the first to test the, murky waters. But it was either that or be consumed alive by mosquitos.
Despite Papá Pedrito’s warnings about bathing safely amongst pirañas, caimans, and dangerous currents, the warm tropical air, the tune of the rainforest, and the brightest stars begged me to sit with it. So I surrendered to the water and took a long dive and dragged Xavi by the waist with me into the dark abyss of the Yanayanko.When we rose to the surface, we scuffled with each other for a few seconds, dragging each other underwater, laughing in fear, until his slippery body escaped my grasp and he scurried up the riverbank. He was covered in mud and somehow dirtier than when we started. I was hysterically laughing as I faced his Spanish wrath of beautiful profanity. Then the roles reversed when I felt a sharp pain in my baby toe and my foot went numb. I shrieked. Xavi entered a new level of hysteria as I scrambled up the muddy bank. When I reached dry land-full of mud and blood-I felt for each toe to make sure all five remained.Meanwhile, Xavi was manically stabbing the water with a stick, trying to locate the aggressor. Only after my pleas finally landed did he throw my arm over his shoulder, and we limped up the hillside of the Cañalito, screaming for Pedrito’s help.
Pedrito believes it was a bagre that bit me.
And there it was, I woke up to sopa de bagre, the same fish that bit me the night before, floating in my breakfast soup as if the yanayanko delivered it back to me.

I loved the 4th floor #graduación

I loved the 4th floor #graduación

I loved the 4th floor #graduación

I loved the 4th floor #graduación

I loved the 4th floor #graduación

I loved the 4th floor #graduación

I loved the 4th floor #graduación

I loved the 4th floor #graduación