→ October 23, 2024
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Daughters.

Daughters is a documentary about a single father-daughter dance, remarkable because the fathers are all incarcerated, some for many years to come, and the dance is part of a program that began in Richmond, Virginia, called Date with Dad.

The film follows several daughters and an entire circle of fathers at a prison in Washington, D.C., from when the men start their required fatherhood coaching sessions about ten weeks before the dance through the event itself and its immediate aftermath. There is no narration, as the subjects do all of the necessary talking to the camera or in groups. We hear from the girls and some of their mothers about how hard it is for them to grow up without their fathers around, sometimes going months or years without touching their dads and maybe talking to them once a week for 15 minutes – for which the mothers are charged outrageous fees. The fathers open up quite a bit about their feelings about being absent fathers, sometimes as children of absent fathers themselves, and the film wisely avoids telling us anything about why they’re incarcerated. Some of the strongest scenes are the smallest ones, like the one where the men, who are provided with suits and haircuts before the dance, are tying their ties, with one man showing a group of the others how to tie a Windsor knot; or the one of Aubrey, the youngest of the daughters we meet, as she rattles off her multiplication tables but who is too young to fully grasp how long her father will be gone. The daughters we see range in ages from 5 to about 15, and their feelings range from sorrow to confusion to outright anger at their dads for their life choices.

When we finally get to the day of the dance, and those girls start walking down the hall towards their fathers, who are sitting in a row of plastic chairs in their suits and polished shoes, I dare you not to cry. I just dare you. Those reactions, both of the daughters and the fathers, are as pure a distillation of what it means to be human as you will see in years of movies. There is far more to the movie than that – the conversations the fathers and daughters have in the dance itself are illuminating and direct and often heartbreaking – but that one moment is the perfect unscripted scene.

I can’t relate to these men completely, because I have never been in that situation, where I couldn’t see my daughter, or hold her, or even talk to her whenever I wanted. That scene where the dads see their daughters for the first time the night of the dance did remind me of one thing, though: the fear that gripped me for almost all of my daughter’s childhood that I would die before she was an adult. I just imagined the grief, the hole in her life, all the things I didn’t get to do or say. When they tell you that being a parent means living with your heart outside of your body, they aren’t even scratching the surface. Being a parent meant living for her more than I was even living for myself.

Daughters follows the dance with brief looks at the aftermath for both sides, with one man, whose daughter couldn’t make it but who is there in suit and tie (and perhaps thought she was coming?), giving a speech to the other dads that is so open and vulnerable that it underscores again their humanity and the cruelty of our prison system. The film ends with two-sentence updates on a few of the incarcerated dads and their daughters, one of whom is now in a facility that doesn’t allow visitation rights. I don’t think I knew that was possible outside of people held in solitary confinement (which is, itself, cruel and unusual punishment), but what Daughters underscores is that such a policy harms more than just the inmates: Regardless of what the father did, depriving his children of the right to even see him – not for a dance, or even a “touch visit,” but literally just to see him to talk to him – harms the kids, and I can’t imagine what the benefit or justification is for the policy other than spite. Our national addiction to incarceration is bad enough, but this film makes it clear how the carceral state also harms succeeding generations. The damage done when we are deprived of a parent, regardless of the reason, is immense. The Date with Dads program boasts a 5% recidivism rate, meaning 95% of fathers who go through the program and are subsequently released from prison do not reoffend. That such a simple program has such powerful results should be reason enough to expand its reach.

Avoiding mention of the fathers’ crimes, alleged or otherwise, is a choice, of course. If we found out that one of these men was responsible for someone’s death – which I don’t think is true given what we hear about the lengths of their sentences – it would alter our view of him whether we want it to or not. That choice by the directors, documentarian Natalie Rae and activist Angela Patton, keeps the focus where it belongs, on the people themselves and the essential relationship between fathers and daughters that will resonate with most of the viewing audience. There are some outtakes from the dance that play alongside the closing credits, and they are definitely worth hanging around to watch, as they show more joy from the night itself than is immediately evident from the main footage, which doesn’t show a whole lot of actual dancing, a choice I understand (this is about their relationships, not the Harlem Shuffle) but that they could have balanced differently.

Daughters won two Audience Awards at the Sundance Film Festival this year, U.S. Documentary and Festival Favorite, after which Netflix picked it up; it’s already showing up on top of predictions for the Academy Award for Best Documentary, along with another Netflix documentary, The Remarkable Life of Ibelin, that premieres today. I imagine the powerful social justice angle here will help Daughters in awards season, and I hope that encourages more people to watch it and to consider doing something to help fight the incarceration cycle.

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→ October 18, 2024
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Will & Harper.

Will & Harper (streaming on Netflix) telegraphs its main problem in the title, which is too bad for a film that has its heart in the right place and mostly gets the emphasis right. Will is Will Ferrell, without whose involvement this documentary likely never happens, but it is his friend Harper Steele, a trans woman who only came out about a year before the film was made when she was around 60 years old, who is the real star and the focus of the story.

Steele was a writer on Saturday Night Live when Ferrell first joined the cast, and she saw his comedic potential when other writers didn’t, leading to a longtime partnership and friendship between the two that went beyond the show into movies (including Eurovision Song Contest).

Harper emailed Will to announce her transition a year or so before the events of this documentary, and Will suggested the idea of a cross-country road trip, something Steele liked to do before she transitioned, but that obviously brings some new challenges she hadn’t faced before.

For the first half of the film, Harper is the real main character, as it should be. This is very much her story, and she needs to be at the heart of the movie. Ferrell is supportive and cracks the occasional joke, but he cedes center stage to Harper at every turn where there are other people around until we’re past the one-hour mark. His personality is so big, and he is so recognizable, that of course it is hard for him to fade entirely into the background, but he does manage to step back enough to allow Harper space to speak and even to have conversations with other people where he is just an observer.

Ferrell ends up taking center stage in a weird sequence where the pair go to a Texas steakhouse that offers a 72 ounce steak that’s free if you eat it within an hour – and he goes into the restaurant as Sherlock Holmes. The whole thing feels like a stunt, or something to help market the film, and it doesn’t go over well, for which he does offer a sincere apology afterward – one of many points in the film where it becomes clear that he’s trying to be supportive but that one of his usual mechanisms for that, his over-the-top comic style, doesn’t work here. Later in the film, Harper suggests that the two go out for a nice dinner, and Will goes into a costume store to look for something to disguise him enough that he won’t be recognized … and then buys the most ridiculous wig, glasses, and mustache so that it’s even more clear that he’s Will Ferrell. It’s like he can’t help himself – in a potentially stressful situation, and one where he is trying to be a good friend, he resorts to his favorite trick of playing the clown. In so many environments, that might work wonders by diverting attention from Harper when she’s extremely self-conscious or simply doesn’t want that kind of attention, but in these two scenes it backfires. 

That said, the two do meet some wonderful, accepting people in unlikely or unexpected places. Hate is not inherent to humanity. Fear is, and we have plenty of people who will weaponize that fear to advance their own agendas, and the two stop at one point and read some vile tweets directed at Harper from people who saw the two together at one of their more public appearances on the road trip. That’s one of several moments in the film where Harper is the entire focus and her emotional struggles are laid bare for everyone to see – and where Ferrell acts “normally,” just being a supportive friend who listens to Harper and validates her feelings as best he can.

Documentaries like Will & Harper do suffer from the observer’s paradox: people will behave differently when they know they’re being observed, and in this case, recorded. There are certainly points in the film where you can see the joists holding it together; the two meet up with Molly Shannon near the end of the movie, and she asks a question that is so obviously scripted it took me out of the movie for a moment. Yet there is still a lot that is real, or feels real, from the interactions in an Oklahoma dive bar to the retired therapist they meet in Arizona, things that couldn’t have been scripted but that also read as far more honest and authentic, along with several of Harper’s spontaneous soliloquies – the one near the house she bought is particularly powerful – that give this film its emotional heft.

I’m sure the film wouldn’t have sold as well had it been called Harper & Will, but that’s what this movie is about. Ferrell’s occasional missteps don’t overshadow Steele entirely, just for some segments, and even with those choices it is very clear that Ferrell is trying to be a good friend and a good ally, and in moments where he doesn’t know exactly what to say or do, he doesn’t just resort to cheap laughs, but says very little and just listens, making it clear he’s there to listen – and giving Harper the floor to share some very vulnerable and painful thoughts. It’s uneven and sometimes uncertain, but at the end of their trip, Will and Harper get us, and the film, where we needed to go.

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→ December 24, 2023
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The Mission.

If you’re like me and are fascinated by geography – I would pore over maps and atlases as a kid, always finding something new and interesting, as if they were telenovelas – then you may be familiar with North Sentinel Island and its residents, the Sentinelese, one of the last ‘uncontacted’ tribes on earth. The island is part of the Andaman archipelago in the eastern Indian Ocean, and is part of India, which patrols the waters around the island and prohibits anyone from landing on the island or trying to contact the Sentinelese, who have in fact been contacted, but very rarely, and in the last few decades only by sanctioned anthropologists … and one very deluded American.

John Chau was 25 years old and a rabid fundamentalist Christian who believed in the nonsense doctrine that anyone who had never heard the Gospel would be condemned to hell. He read about the Sentinelese people online – how he first learned about them isn’t entirely clear – and decided that God wanted him to go preach the Gospel of Jesus Christ to them. The Sentinelese are extremely hostile to outsiders, and a few years prior had killed two fisherman whose boat drifted ashore on their island. Chau made several visits to the Andamans and approached North Sentinel Island several times, making contact with its people, before they finally killed him too – sparking mockery online of this idiot colonizer breaking several Indian laws to go shout, in English, to people who wouldn’t understand him, about his own superstitions, even though these people are well known to shoot arrows at anyone who comes near their shores.

The Mission, a new documentary from National Geographic, tells some of Chau’s story, exploring his life to try to answer the question of why a seemingly intelligent young man, raised in some privilege, would do such a profoundly stupid – and likely suicidal – thing. It’s riveting and infuriating, a severe indictment of the evangelical circles in which John traveled and the various people who enabled him to do this illegal, dangerous, and frankly inhumane thing, but I don’t think it adequately answers that fundamental question of why.

The North Sentinelese have good reason to fear and loathe outsiders. They were targets for slavers who saw the Andaman peoples, many of whom appear to be descendants of African migrants from several millennia prior, as chattel. British colonial authorities would take a break from subjugating what is now India and Pakistan to treat the Andamanese as a sort of circus freaks, with one measuring the sizes of their crania and genitals in the name of “science.” Any contact with people from beyond the islands also introduced the Sentinelese to pathogens to which they had no immunity. Since Partition & independence, India’s government has largely protected the tribes of the Andamans, some of which have chosen, in a way, to assimilate with broader Indian society, while the Sentinelese remain apart.

Where The Mission succeeds is in its depiction of the history of Christian missionaries trying to convert these ‘lost’ tribes, including an endeavor in Ecuador in the 1950s where the Huaorani tribe killed five white missionaries, but further efforts eventually led to the conversion of many tribe members and the subsequent deterioration of their culture. One of the experts who talks on camera is the linguist and former missionary Daniel Everett, who went to the Amazon to convert the Pirahã with his wife and children, but after several years lost his faith and became an ardent atheist, giving him a unique perspective on Chau’s religious mania and willingness to ignore all voices telling him not to do this terrible, dangerous thing. The film also interviews several of Chau’s enablers, including one group that specifically targets these uncontacted or low-contact tribes to spread the Gospel, regardless of impact on the people involved or risks to the missionaries, coming off very much like members of a cult. (Their leader claimed he posed no threat to the Sentinelese because we have antibiotics.)

Where The Mission falls a little short is in depicting Chau as anything more than a very naïve evangelical who started down this missionary path and didn’t seem able or willing to stop until he hit the bottom. His father is a psychiatrist who nearly lost his license for reasons that are only hinted at in the film, while his mother was the evangelical parent yet is barely mentioned here. It’s clear that at least some of his fervor came from his time at Oral Roberts University, one of the most evangelical and also one of the most homophobic/transphobic colleges in America, including one man, Bobby Parks, who was “Missions/Outreach Coordinator” at ORU until 2016 and still runs a nonprofit that uses soccer as a way to indoctrinate kids in refugee camps and other high-risk areas around the world. Parks appears to have been a Svengali to Chau, yet he declined requests to appear in the documentary or speak to its makers, so his exact role and level of influence is only implied. So how Chau went from a good student with a strong interest in the outdoors to a stark raving madman who hatched an intense months-long plan to invade North Sentinel Island remains unanswered.

I suppose my views on Chau and such efforts are quite clear, and I think he was both an aggressor and a victim here. I knew Chau’s story from this 2018 Outside story, which appeared in my links roundup on November 24th of that year, and which I think goes a little more into his own personal journey and at least asks more questions about how he got to that kayak in the Indian Ocean. (This Guardian story has more.) I know the documentary just left me fuming at how willing others were to waste Chau’s life, and how easily he fell into this downward spiral, where even his Christian faith, one founded on respect and love for one’s fellow man, led him to disregard the significant dangers he posed to the very people he was trying to save.

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→ April 18, 2021
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Collective.

Collective has repeated the feat of 2019’s Honeyland by earning nominations in the Best Documentary Feature and Best International Feature categories at the Oscars, and if I had a vote, I’d at least give it a nod in the first one. It’s an amazing story that became bigger and more impressive well after the filmmakers had already chosen their subjects, as a small group of investigative reporters helped bring down an entire government, only to have the same party voted back into power less than a year later.

Collective (Colectiv) was a nightclub in Bucharest, Romania, that was the site of a deadly fire caused by the use of pyrotechnics at an indoor concert, which ignited the soundproofing in the venue – the same cause of the Station fire in Providence, Rhode Island, about 12 years earlier. Where the Collective fire differed, however, was the lower death toll at the site; 26 people died at the scene, but 38 more died later in hospitals, with 146 people injured. An journalist at a daily sports newspaper, The Sports Gazette, saw the number of deaths in hospitals as worthy of further investigation, and the work he and his colleagues did uncovered a massive corruption scandal that included a supplier of disinfectants to hospitals diluting the solution ten times, rendering it ineffective, and the refusal to send some patients abroad to burn units for fear it would reflect badly on the ruling party. The technocrat who takes over the Ministry of Health after the government collapses discovers that the state-run health system is rotten to the core, and there is no straightforward way to fix it or root out corruption. In the end, therefore, little really changes, and we are left to think that the corruption will resume with the restoration of the Social Democrats to power and the government’s failure to replace incompetent hospital managers. In parallel, we see parts of the journey of one of the survivors, Tedy Ursuleanu, who was very badly burned, losing parts of both hands and suffering burns all over her body, as she tries to reclaim something of her life, creating an art installation that provides the movie with some of its most central imagery.

Collective works as a documentary more than anything else because the story is so incredible and so vast in scope. What must have seemed at first to be just a film that followed some investigative reporters looking into irregularities around a major tragedy turned out to be a scandal that reached the top levels of the Romanian national government – something the documentary makers couldn’t have anticipated. They also received what appears to be unfettered access to meetings held by the technocrat Minister, who comes across as a would-be reformer who wants to be as transparent as possible with the press and public, but whose hands are tied by existing regulations and contracts and realizes he can’t do anything he’d want to do to try to fix the system. Meanwhile, the reporters keep uncovering new angles to the scandal, enough that you would think Romanian voters would have had no interest in voting for the same party that oversaw the erosion of the state hospital network, but they did so, the one event in the film that probably could have used some more explanation. It means the film ends on something of a hopeless note, which I suppose was unavoidable – documentary makers can’t choose their endings – but it’s a gut punch to watch all of the survivors and victims’ family members for nearly two hours, only to see that the state and the voters just don’t care enough to act on it.

I’ve seen all five nominated documentaries, and Collective would be my choice for the award, with Crip Camp second. This film does what I think great documentaries need to do – it stays out of the way of the story it’s telling. That’s not always possible, depending on the circumstances of the film’s subject, but in this case the filmmakers’ access to the reporters, press briefings, and eventually the Ministry’s internal meetings obviated any need for narration or other structure. It can be very hard to watch in the early going, because the camera doesn’t shy away from the details – we have footage from inside the concert venue, and we see plenty of burn victims, including one stomach-churning shot of a victim in the hospital whose wounds contain live maggots – but this film, more than any of the other nominated ones, has the power to force changes, if not in Romania, then perhaps elsewhere in the world. We need more documentaries like this, and more reporters like those who broke the story, and Collective should be an inspiration to anyone who tells stories for a living.

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→ January 25, 2021
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Boys State.

One casualty of the new streaming wars is that some good films are going to go unseen by a wide swath of the audience, and may miss out on awards consideration for the same reason. The documentary Boys State looks like one of those, as Apple bought its rights after it won the top documentary prize at Sundance, so now it’s on Apple TV+ and unavailable any other way. I only know about it because Will and Tim discussed it on the Grierson & Leitch podcast, and both had it on their top 25 for the year (Will had it at #3), but right now it’s one of the ten best movies I’ve seen from the 2020 slate.

Boys State takes its name from a nationwide series of events run by the American Legion – yes, there is also a separate slate of Girls States – where high school students from around each of the 50 states gather for a long weekend, split into two fictional parties, and then hold elections for major state offices all the way up to Governor. The filmmakers followed the kids at Boys State in Texas in 2018, focusing on four boys in particular who went into the event hoping to run for prominent roles, from party leaders to Governors, while also getting solid representation of ethnic backgrounds and political views.

It’s hardly surprising that we hear a lot of reactionary political statements from these boys as they give speeches early in the film to vie for various positions in their two parties’ apparatuses, notably hardline opposition to gun control and misogynistic views against any sort of abortion rights, with a dash of homophobia and some generally anti-government sentiments thrown in for added flavor. (I do wonder how different that last bit might be whenever they next hold Boys State events, in the wake of the terror attack on the Capitol earlier this month.) What is far more interesting, however, is the extent to which at least some of those comments are performative, or just plain Machiavellian, as one participant who seems to be a hardliner says in a one-on-one moment with the filmmakers that he doesn’t believe these things – he just sees Boys State as a game, and voicing those views is a path to winning.

The four main stars of the film all turn out to be extremely compelling for their presences on camera and for the diversity of their backstories. Steven Garza, who runs for Governor, is the son of a woman who came to the U.S. from Mexico as an undocumented immigrant, and makes his mark on the conference with his compassion and his willingness to find common ground with potential voters through individual discussions. René Otero grabs your attention early in the film with a powerful speech that helps become chairman of one of the two parties, coming across as progressive compared to the room but also managing to sound that way without committing himself too strongly to specific policy ideas. He’s Black, and Garza is Latino, which is notable given how overwhelmingly white the entire student body at Boys State is – the filmmakers clearly made a choice here to follow some nonwhite students. The other two boys at the center of the film are Ben Feinstein, a double-amputee due to childhood meningitis, and seeks to lead the opposite party from Otero; and Robert MacDougall, a good likeness for a young Blake Jenner, and more of what I expected to see from the film – a good ol’ boy, an athlete, and someone who says all the right-wing things.

Where it goes from there surprised me, as not every kid is quite what they seem to be at first, various conflicts arise between and within the two parties, and we see some real growth from a few of the boys even though the event takes place in just a few days. There’s also some organic drama in the run-up to the final elections, including some underhanded tricks on social media, and the ending is far more emotional than I anticipated given the film’s subject. There’s some fat the filmmakers could have trimmed, like the glimpses we get of the event’s talent show, time that could have gone to showing more of the conference’s press corps, who seem to play a more important role than the film lets us see. I might have a little more of a connection to Boys State because I attended some similar events in high school (but not Boys State specifically) and helped run a Model Congress event while I was in college, but Boys State is so well-crafted, and so generous towards its subjects, that I think it’ll appeal to anyone who is able to see it.

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→ December 3, 2020
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The Donut King.

The Donut King tells a rags-to-riches immigrant story worth of Horatio Alger, but with a twist, as its protagonist – a hero to hundreds if not thousands of his fellow Cambodians – turns out to be a deeply flawed man. It’s available to stream free via hoopla if you have a library card and your system is a member.

Ted Ngoy is the donut king of the title, a refugee from the Khmer Rouge who comes to the U.S. in 1975 with his wife and children, staying in the makeshift refugee camp at Camp Pendleton when they first arrived. He finds work at a gas station when he notices the smell of fresh donuts, which leads him to get a job at the iconic California chain Winchell’s. From there, it’s all straight uphill for Ngoy, who works his way to manager, buys an independent donut shop called Christy’s, and builds a chain of 32 shops by training fellow Cambodian immigrants and leasing the new stores to them. Ngoy amassed a fortune of about $20 million, by his own reckoning, and gave generously, sponsoring a thousand families (again, in his own telling) of Cambodian refugees. At the peak of his success, he owned a $2 million mansion, which we see in the film.

Director Alice Gu shows just how broad that success was, as Ngoy helped populate southern California with Cambodian-run donut shops, and he gave several members of his extended family their starts in the United States. Several cousins shown in the film run their own shops, although one of the subplots is the way the youngest generation is turning away from the business, especially as they’ve gotten the post-secondary educations made possible by their parents’ donut enterprises.

The real story here is that Ngoy developed a gambling problem shortly after emigrating to the United States, and it eventually cost him everything. The generous, assiduous immigrant from the movie’s first two-thirds throws everything away through his gambling and, eventually, even worse transgressions. He’s a rich subject for a documentary because of these contradictions, and even family members who owe their prosperity to the first chances he gave them have a hard time reconciling their feelings about him. (His children appear to no longer speak to him, however, a subject that didn’t get the exploration it deserved.)

Gu begins the film with a good ten minutes or so of explanatory content on the Cambodian civil war, which would probably be necessary for most American audiences, using first-person accounts from Ngoy and his family as well as American TV news clips from the time. The Khmer Rouge overthrew the U.S.-backed government, killing nearly 2 million people via torture, imprisonment, and execution, and via the famine caused by the new regime’s forced agrarian schemes. We see scenes of the emptied capital of Phnom Penh, and Ngoy walks through the Tuol Sleng prison, which is now a museum of the civil war. It’s a strong opening, and predisposes you to root for Ngoy and the many other Cambodians we see on camera, discussing their histories.

Yet The Donut King doesn’t give enough time to the back end of the story – to Ngoy’s gambling and other more serious transgressions, to the changes wrought by big chains on mom-and-pop operators like those we see here, and to how the next generation might not be so willing to take over from their parents. If anything, Gu spends too much time on the young woman who’s helping popularize her family’s shop through aggressive use of social media, which is very fun, but a complete digression from any of the main stories she’s telling here. Ngoy’s own arc would be enough to support the film if Gu gave more time to his decline, and to how little he really seems to take responsibility for the damage he wrought. The digressions just aren’t necessary, and they’re the main thing keeping The Donut King from being a great film.

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→ January 21, 2020
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American Factory.

American Factory might be more famous now for who produced it than for its content; it’s the first film from Higher Ground Productions, Barack and Michelle Obama’s production company, which has a deal with Netflix (where you can find this film). It’s also nominated for an Academy Award for Best Documentary Feature, with a strong case for the honor because of how much work clearly went into this endeavor and how timely its themes are – globalization, automation, anti-union sentiment, and people voting against their own interests.

The movie starts with the closing of a long-running General Motors plant in Moraine, Ohio, which had operated for more than a half-century and provided thousands of jobs for local residents. About seven years after its closure, the Chinese conglomerate Fuyao acquired and reopened the plant as Fuyao Glass, a move that was initially welcomed by the community for the jobs it would re-create. Fuyao also brought over hundreds of employees from China to try to integrate their operations and improve the efficiency of the new plant, but over time the Chinese management’s practices, including much lower hourly pay, dubious safety procedures, and a staunch anti-union policy, begin to alienate the American workers, even though they and their Chinese counterparts have established stronger relations on the factory floor.

American Factory documents the entire process over seven years, from acquisition to re-opening, through a failed unionization vote, with a level of access that seems comical given how often the Chinese managers essentially confess on camera to violating American labor and work safety laws. There’s no question here who the bad guys are – it’s primarily Fuyao’s billionaire founder and chairman Cao Dewang and a few of his lackeys, who think American workers are lazy and have “fat fingers,” and who go out of their way to crush any attempts to unionize, a bit ironic from a company founded in the ostensibly still-communist country of the People’s Republic of China. (Workers of the world, take what we give you!) The managers openly retaliate against workers involved in organizing or encouraging people to vote yes, while the firm brings in expensive consultants to lecture employees on how there’s actually zero difference between good things and bad things and they should all vote no against their own interests so the billionaire can make more money.

The film may have a clear tilt in the direction of the American workers, but that doesn’t make it less powerful, and the filmmakers manage to keep the documentary more interesting by with some of the funniest bits you’ll see in a movie this year. None is more cringe-comedic than the scenes of the Fuyao company celebration, with a half-dozen Moraine workers flown to China to participate, including a choreographed routine of a corporate song that sounds like a mediocre pop track but has lyrics that sound more like the East German anthem from Top Secret, with lines like “Noble sentiments are transparent!” amidst blind praise of the company and its leaders. Many scenes of culture shock in both directions are simultaneously funny and alarming, as they underline the magnitude of the gap between the two nations’ differing ideas on work (one Chinese manager can’t understand why Americans won’t work six or seven days a week) and ‘loyalty.’ The ultimate outcome in such cases will always favor capital over labor; the workers here try to organize and fail in the face of the company’s overt and expensive efforts to convince them unionizing would somehow be bad for them*, and Fuyao’s vengeance is swift. Paying the workers less than half of what they made under General Motors isn’t enough for Fuyao; workers apparently should say “thank you, sir, may I have another?” while accepting lower pay and reduced safety conditions.

* The economics of unionization are certainly more complex than just “unions good!” but unions almost invariably benefit members; negative economic effects are far more likely to hit consumers or non-member workers.

There’s no narration in American Factory, and no artificial framing device; the Fuyao executives are indicted by their own words, often said as if they forgot the cameras were running or that they were saying such things in a country where workers have more rights than they do in China (for now). The film is full of amusing vignettes to provide some levity, but the slope of this story’s curve is negative and logarithmic. It’s a powerful piece with a call to action and no action available.

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→ March 18, 2019
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Free Solo.

Free Solo was the only Oscar-nominated documentary I hadn’t seen at the time of the Academy Awards ceremony, and of course it was the winner for Best Documentary Feature, but it’s free to stream on Hulu now and certainly worth a watch … although I wonder if I got a very different message from it than many other people did. I don’t think this guy is a hero at all, nor is it really a portrait of a great achievement. Free Solo presents us with a sort of modern Don Quixote whose quest is inexplicable and maybe pointless, and who pursues the goal in this film with disregard for his own life and for the wishes of the person who is, or should be, the most important to him.

Alex Honnold is a free solo climber, which means he climbs giant, sheer rock faces without ropes or other safety gear. This is, as you might imagine, really fucking dangerous; at one point in this documentary we see brief video or photo montages of other famous free soloists who fell to their deaths. In Free Solo, directors Elizabeth Chai Vasarhelyi and Jimmy Chin follow Honnold as he prepares to scale El Capitan, known as El Cap, a 3000-foot wall in Yosemite National Park in California, which nobody had free-soloed before. We know that he survived – had he died, the film might not exist, and his death would have made the news – although the way the documentarians filmed the ascent is itself noteworthy, and many of the drone shots, near and far, of El Cap are utterly breathtaking. There’s a scene at the end that gives you a sense of how small a human is in comparison to the rock itself, and I think it challenges our ability to understand the scale of the world around us.

Free Solo aims to be about much more than strictly the ascent, and it partially succeeds. Honnold is a different cat, to put it gently. He reveals things about his childhood that may explain his strange affect, and undergoes an fMRI at one point that tells him and us that his amygdala is not very sensitive to excitement, which likely contributes to his thrill-seeking behavior as well. He and his mother have extremely different stories of what his father, who died when Honnold was 19, was like. Honnold has lived in a van for years and keeps a rather ascetic existence, with bizarre habits that would seem to go along with just a peculiar choice of living arrangements. There’s a scene where he cooks some strange assemblage of vegetables and beans and then eats it with a giant, flat cooking spatula, as if no one ever showed him how to use utensils.

Early in the film, a new character appears, Sanni, who attended a book-signing of Honnold’s, slipped him her number, and has since become his girlfriend. (Nobody has ever slipped me a number at a book signing, so clearly climbing giant rocks > baseball stats.) She clearly loves him, although there’s never the sense that this is some sort of hero-worship, and she is actively working both to get him to participate in a normal, adult, romantic relationship, and to consider that chasing death with these free solo climbs now affects her life too. He’s strangely detached in most of his interactions with her – there’s one exception at the end of the movie when we see him react to her in new ways, like the egg cracked and he’s coming out of his shell – and comes off as unaware of her emotions much of the time. It does not help matters that Sanni is both very upbeat and very pretty, which I think had to bias me in her favor and likely will have the same effect on many viewers. She’s just – here’s that word – likeable, which makes Honnold look like Lukas Haas playing a character with Asperger’s by comparison.

Sanni’s arrival in the film was a necessary bit of luck, as she gives us the best window on to Honnold’s personality and pushes him at least a little to explain his motivation for continuing to climb increasingly dangerous cliffs. (It’s not mentioned in the film, but Honnold described himself in a 2011 interview as a “militant atheist,” and I can not imagine having the strong belief that there is nothing after death and then pursuing a career that is likely to lead to an early decease.) I don’t think Free Solo explains enough why Honnold does what he does; he comes off like a modern George Mallory, who answered the question of why he wanted to climb Mount Everest with the possibly apocryphal answer “Because it’s there.” We get something from that fMRI result, and more from his interactions with Sanni, but he’s still something of an enigma even at the end of it all, especially since there’s no good reason he has to climb without some sort of protection. When you watch him ascend, it is absolutely impressive and Vasarhelyi and Chin do a superb job of capturing his climb, but how he could do this when there’s someone on the ground who’s waiting to hear he survived and would be devastated if he didn’t, is completely beyond me.

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→ March 6, 2019
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Leaving Neverland.

Leaving Neverland, the new, four-hour documentary airing exclusively on HBO, is a difficult watch. Two men who say that Michael Jackson sexually molested them repeatedly over a period of many years repeat those claims on camera in unsparing detail, which in and of itself would be a painful and infuriating scene to see and hear, but that’s only a small part of what makes this film both powerful and very uncomfortable. It’s far more than a new indictment of Jackson, whose status as a serial sexual abuser is beyond doubt (and beyond remedy) at this point, but serves more as a portrait of the spiraling, exponential damage wrought on their victims and their families years after the abuse has stopped.

Wade Robson and James Safechuck both say in Leaving Neverland that Jackson began abusing them when they were very young – Robson from age 7, Safechuck around the same age – and that it continued for many years, accompanied by all of the behavior we now associate with serial abusers: grooming, co-opting, and above all threatening. Robson says many times that Jackson convinced him that they would both go to jail if they were caught. Both Robson’s and Safechuck’s mothers appear in the documentary as well, as both were there when Jackson met the boys and fell under the singer’s spell, becoming unwitting accomplices to the abuse, agreeing to let their sons spend many nights sleeping at Jackson’s Neverland Ranch and accepting their sons’ answers at the time that no abuse was taking place.

While the documentary tells the history of the abuse and the public accusations of Jackson while the singer was still alive, including the 1993 accusation by Jordy Chandler, settled out of court for $23 million, and the 2003-04 accusations by Gavin Arvizo, which led to a criminal trial and an acquittal on all charges, it’s far more about the victims here than the pedophile at its center. (That said, there are some shocking moments from historical footage, including one of Jackson’s lawyers standing before the media in 2003, threatening to ruin the lives of anyone who might come forward to accuse Jackson of further crimes.) Robson was born in Brisbane, and won a dance contest that allowed him to meet Jackson, who thoroughly bamboozled Robson’s mother to the point that she left Australia and her husband, taking Wade and his sister Chantal to California in the belief that Jackson would help develop her son’s career as a dancer. Safechuck, who was the boy in the dressing room in that famous Pepsi commercial with Jackson (if you’re old enough, you almost certainly remember it), is an only child, but Jackson’s ‘interest’ in him led his mother to similarly turn their lives upside down to try to further James’ career, driving a wedge between her and his father that persists today. (His father doesn’t appear in the film.)

There’s too much commentary out there already about the mothers’ culpability in allowing the abuse to begin and continue, as well as a comment from one of the jurors in the 2003 trial that Gavin’s parents were idiots for letting the boy sleep with Jackson, but Leaving Neverland documents how well-meaning, loving parents can be hoodwinked by a sociopathic, determined pedophile who has the means to assuage any doubts or, unfortunately, buy them away. He showered the families with gifts, flew them places first-class, gave the boys unforgettable experiences on stage, while also presenting himself to the families as a lonely, misunderstood adult whose childhood was stolen from him by the pressures of global stardom. The way that the victims and their families describe the early stages of Jackson’s grooming of the boys, you can see how someone in the moment might have felt sorry for the singer, whose childhood was obviously difficult and who said he was beaten by his father, but it also becomes clear that Jackson used his past as a wedge he could drive between his victims and their parents – and that he did so with the help of enabling assistants who probably should have long ago been called to account for their actions.

Part one of the documentary delivers a lot of prologue, explaining how the two boys met Jackson and ended up victims, but part two is where the point of the story lies, as we hear, in their own words and those of family members, about the permanent damage wreaked upon them all by Jackson’s abuse. Both men speak of mental health issues, never saying PTSD but clearly suffering from it, and are still coping with their effects, while their relationships with family members are all fractured, some likely beyond any repair. Both mothers are themselves wracked with guilt that will never fade, because the damage cannot be undone, to their sons and to their families, and to other victims who might have been spared had anyone picked up on the signs of abuse and put a stop to Jackson’s ‘sleepovers’ sooner.

Both men describe the molestation in specific terms, which is a potential trigger for some viewers and worth bearing in mind before you watch Leaving Neverland. I was not personally triggered by that, but the part of the documentary – and the online response – I’ve found profoundly unsettling is the support for the abusive pedophile at the heart of the story. We see scenes of supporters outside the courthouse with signs proclaiming Jackson’s innocence (really, how could you know?), including some dingbat releasing white doves when the not guilty charges come through. We see videos of people attacking Robson online from when he went public with his abuse story, contradicting testimony he’d given in the 2003 trial that Jackson had never molested him. And if you’ve been on Twitter at all the last few nights and clicked on the #LeavingNeverland hashtag or searched for names involved in the documentary, you’ve seen all manner of support for the singer, saying he was innocent and attacking the victims and their families. You have to be deeply deluded to think that all four of the accusers we know about have lied about everything, even though these two men tell stories that are highly specific and show a pattern of behavior, to still think Jackson is the real victim here.

Director Dan Reed largely stays out of the way of the story here – aside from some drone shots of LA that don’t add much except some running time – but there is also a clear subtext to Leaving Neverland about the allure of celebrity, and how Jackson used it to seduce the families of both boys, and then to seduce the boys themselves. Both mothers, interviewed very extensively on camera, speak of Jackson’s interest in their sons’ careers and in their families as immensely flattering, and the combination of power and money led them to choose to upend their personal lives and helped blind them to what, in hindsight, should have been blindingly obvious.

Robson’s sister and Safechuck both say that they’re not asking people to forget Jackson’s artistry, but to remember the whole person – that this incredibly talented human was also a pedophile and sexual predator. I don’t see how we can continue to separate the art from the artist in this case, not now that I’ve seen the movie. You can’t simply “cancel” a musician of his importance and influence; we can stop playing Jackson’s music, and certainly Capital One should stop playing its commercial with “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough” now, but Jackson has directly and indirectly influenced multiple generations of pop musicians since “I Want You Back” was their first hit in 1969. There is no erasure here, only a time for an overdue reckoning with his legacy as a talented person who did unspeakable things and ruined many lives. Leaving Neverland won’t convince people who don’t want to hear it, but it is a devastating portrait of grooming, sexual abuse, and the cascading ramifications that come years after it ends.

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→ February 8, 2019
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Of Fathers and Sons.

This year’s slate of nominees for the Academy Award for Best Documentary Feature might have had the biggest surprise of all in its omission of Won’t You Be My Neighbor?, the rare documentary to cross over into popular success, earning over $22 million at the U.S. box office, putting it 12th all time in the category on BoxOfficeMojo. (The categorization there is itself debatable; three films in the top 11 are concert films, another is a Dinesh D’Souza propaganda piece, and two are Michael Moore propaganda pieces.)

One of the five films that did make the Oscar cut this year was the little-known Of Fathers and Sons, an Arabic-language film by the Syrian-Kurdish director Talal Derki, who was previously honored for his film Return to Homs. For Of Fathers and Sons, Derki spent over two years with a jihadist family in Syria, watching the Islamist father radicalize his sons and speak of the inevitability of a world war that leaves his particular brand of fundamentalist Sunni Islam triumphant across the world, in fulfillment of prophecy. It is harrowing and defeating, yet deeply personal, even intimate, as we watch two of the sons in particular react differently to their father’s exhortations.

Abu Osama is the father, apparently one of the founders of al-Qaida in Syria, and Derki spent those two years watching Abu Osama and his eight sons, most all of whom are named after jihadists, including his eldest, Osama Osama, and another son, Ayman Osama, named for current al-Qaida leader Ayman al-Zawahiri. The documentary has no narration, other than Derki occasionally posing questions to Abu Osama, and the only narrative arc is a natural one – the father’s indoctrination of his sons into the rhetoric and mania of a holy war against the enemies of their very specific branch of Salafi jihadist Islam (which includes pretty much everybody else, although Americans, Jews, and Shi’ites all get their turn as targets of derision). This process is set against domestic scenes, including more ordinary interactions between father and sons, as well as scenes of the boys by themselves, mostly just being boys, a strange reminder that jihadists are made, not born, and that even the father, who comes across as inhuman almost every time he speaks to the camera or to other adults, has a human side when it comes to his family. Eventually, however, the time comes for Osama to head off to training camp to become an al-Qaida fighter, while Ayman balks at the brutality of the training, and Abu Osama suffers an injury that shifts the story without deterring him from raising an army of jihadist children.

The marvel of Of Fathers and Sons is its access, apparently unfettered where the males are concerned, but with virtually no women or girls appearing on camera – the only women of any age on screen are shown at a distance in public spaces, such as outside the local school. Abu’s niece is outside at one point, never shown, when we hear the boys yelling at her that she shouldn’t be outside without her burqa, and Abu then jokes about punishing her or worse. Then we find out she’s two.

And that’s where Of Fathers and Sons becomes very uncomfortable to watch, which cuts both ways. Derki has ceded his voice to maintain access (and, perhaps, stay alive?) among men who would gladly commit murder for the sake of their very narrow beliefs. Abu has a sniper’s hideout near his house, and at one point, he and Derki are in it, when Abu seems someone on a motorbike and shoots him, gloating that the man fell off but asking someone off-camera for another gun so he can kill the man, which he doesn’t appear to do. Does Derki have any moral responsibility to say something there? Could he, without compromising his life and those of whatever crew he had? Less strident but just as disturbing is the sequence where he shows Osama, who is about 12 but whose age Abu doesn’t even know, how to shoot a pistol; with all of the kids looking younger than their stated ages, probably due to their diets, seeing a child who isn’t old enough to shave holding a pistol and shooting with an adult’s confidence while talking about God’s will and, eventually, training to fight with al-Qaida is even more disturbing to watch than the on-screen slaughter of a sheep towards the end of the movie.

I know it might sound contrarian to say this, but I’m completely fine with this getting a nomination over Won’t You Be My Neighbor?. Of Fathers and Sons has something important to say, and Derki lets the subjects say it for him. His direction feels totally hands-off, which means there are some scenes in here that might be superfluous, but do serve to fill out the picture of Abu Osama and his sons as a family who still have some bonds in common with any other family, but who live in a war zone, in dangerous conditions, and preach hate as a regular way of life. It is a story without hope, at least not for these boys, but perhaps a warning to the rest of us if we want to prevent the next generation from growing up to be jihadists too.

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