Walking Toward the Flame: An Interview with Robert Greene About ACTRESS

Walking Toward the Flame: An Interview with Robert Greene About ACTRESS

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Documentarian Robert Greene’s evolution has been astonishing. His second and third features, Kati with an i and Fake It So Real,
are immersive portraits of his half-sister during the period leading up
to her high school graduation and a team of amateur wrestlers,
respectively. They’re accomplished films, but they don’t prepare one for
the skill shown in his latest film, Actress. Depicting Brandy Burre, an actress who appeared on The Wire
but gave her craft up to became a homemaker, it comes as close to
Douglas Sirk as it does to Frederick Wiseman. Using devices like slow motion and
saturated color, Greene follows Brandy over a troubled year in her life,
as her relationship with her partner Tim crumbles and she tries to get
back into acting. His next film will integrate fictional devices even
further, as it tells the story of an actress (Kate Lyn Sheil) playing a
news anchor who committed suicide on air in the ‘70s.
Greene recently ran a (successful!) crowdsourcing campaign to raise money for the music rights
so that Actress could be released on November 7th
(Note: I don’t think Actress
is the kind of narrative film for which spoiler warnings need apply,
but readers should be forewarned that this interview discusses its final
scene.) 
Press Play: At what point did it become apparent that Actress was as much a melodrama as a documentary? 
Robert Greene:
That’s an interesting question. Brandy is my neighbor. We’ve known
each other for years. We have kids the same age, so that our friendship was
based more on children than on being grown-up friends. When you’re
friends with other parents, it’s often through what your children are
taking you to, like parties. From the beginning, my interest in Brandy
as a subject grew before the story became so dramatic. She’s a theatrical
human being. The basic premise was, “What happens if you make an
observational documentary about an actor?” What is the effect that has?
Maybe she’ll be overacting. That has aspects of melodrama from the
beginning. That could’ve found its way in different forms. One of my
original ideas was just to show her performing acts of wife-ness, and
motherhood, and showing instability and fragility in these performances.
Then that could’ve taken us anywhere. Before we knew where the movie was
going, we thought about staging things and revealing they were staged.
The actual events in her life gave us the grounding I needed. All the slow motion stuff was shot in camera as slow motion. There’s a
technical difference between doing that and adding slow motion effects later.
The scene where Tim walks in behind her as she’s putting makeup on was
done when I had the camera around, and I just liked the framing, so I
put it on in slow motion, but it’s as observational as anything else.
The miracle of the film, I guess, is that the things that were happening
matched my instincts from the beginning. 
Press Play: Were there any aspects of her life that she hesitated to let you film? 
Greene:
Yes. As she says in the movie, she has a real love/hate relationship
with the camera, as most actors do. I think she was hesitant about the
whole thing and also wanted to embrace it. I think Brandy’s the type of
person who, if she feels hesitant, will walk towards the flame.
That’s her natural instinct. A lot of actors go, “If I’m scared, do it.”
The whole concept of stage fright is fascinating. Actors get stage
fright,  but they wouldn’t be on the stage in the first place if they
just succumbed to it. There’s this love/hate relationship with the
spotlight. You sense that tension, hopefully, throughout the film. It’s a
totally natural response. My instinct was to protect some things. I
knew that a portrait of Brandy was never going to be a sweet,
no-blemishes depiction, because that’s not the type of human being she
is. She’s tough and prickly. I knew there was always going to be an edge
to it. At the same time, I never put in fights that she and Tim had,
and she appreciated it. It’s all true, but like all documentaries, it’s
my version of the truth.  
Press
Play:
That scene with the bruise over her eye creates some expectations
in the spectator. When I first saw it, I thought that Tim had hit her,
and I didn’t completely believe her story that it was an accident. Is
that kind of question something you want viewers to ask? 
Greene:
The reason that scene is in there the way it is—I would prefer not to
spoil it if possible—is to elicit that reaction. When I first saw Tim
after it happened, he said “I didn’t do it” jokingly. The whole movie
is about her stepping out of line in some ways. It’s about her testing
the boundaries of what’s OK. The response that a fair number of people
have is that she deserves to be swatted down. I don’t think most people
think she deserves physical violence. But the fact that it happened and
that we could play with that expectation and the viewer could think
about where they stand with Brandy’s decisions was fascinating.
Hopefully, by this point, the viewer is thinking about the layers of
reality around everything. Is she acting? Is she being authentic? Is
this real? All these things that are happening in every scene pay off.
You don’t know what you’re looking at. It’s totally true that she did
fall out of a car. But the fact that you don’t believe her is an
interesting way that women are often viewed. The whole film is about a
woman with a radically specific take on her life, by a filmmaker with a
radically specific take on her life. It puts you in a position where you
have to think through some things and judge, as we often do. When
people go through breakups, we judge people, and the film pushes that
last scene to some extreme point. I’d like viewers to cycle through all
their thoughts. Who hit her? Is she lying? Is this a role she got when
she walked through the ABC building? Is this some stupid metaphor the
director came up with to describe her plight? In thinking through those,
hopefully you’re thinking about your own take on the image of a bruised
face. Beyond that, this is something documentaries are often afraid to
do. Forget observation! Go for expression! The image of a bruised face
should mean something, even if it’s a complex thing and seems like a
stunt at first. Also, it’s the last thing we filmed. It’s literally the
end of the story. 
Press Play: How do you think your interest in performance developed? It’s nascent in Kati With an i, blossoms in Fake It So Real and Actress and is developing even further in your next film. 
Greene:
I was probably 14 when I heard this cliché that there are 17 words for
snow in the Inuit language and became completely obsessed with language
and the way words function in culture. Similarly, the idea of social
performance, that we’re always performing identities, is something I got
fairly obsessed with. I think it’s probably because I am a person who
went to 15 different elementary and middle schools. I moved all the
time, often having to run out in the middle of the night because my mom
couldn’t pay the bills. There were schools where I’d be the poor loser
kid. There were schools where I’d suddenly be the smart kid or the cool
kid, although that was very seldom. By the fourth grade, it was clear
that I was taking this role on. It troubled me, because I’m not the
person who was cool five days ago. I find it fascinating. I don’t think
it’s a dead end. In Actress, the goal of talking about
performance is to show that these are traps. The role of wife, mother,
or filmmaker is only part of the truth. We’re supposed to “do the right
thing” all the time, but it’s often filling what Joshua Oppenheimer, in
an interview I did with him recently, called “unacknowledged social
scripts.” So that’s fascinating to me. The documentary camera—specifically, an observational camera—held by someone who’s attentive
to behavior can detect these layers and reveal what makes up society. In
Kati With an i, you have a girl who says she’s getting married
and going to college, but she’s just repeating back what society tells
her to say. What does that mean and why? In Fake It So Real, these guys are creating escape fantasies for themselves and creating art out of it. Actress
is a step forward from that. It’s about how you get out of that role.
Because Brandy has a master’s degree in acting, I knew she could bring
something more to it. Who knows how many more times I can explore this? I
just think there’s something in the non-fiction form that allows
you to see things clearly, if you’re patient.
Press Play: Kati With an i and Fake It So Real both depict your relatives, although I don’t think the films mention that. Did that make the filming easier? 
Greene: It does. I think I appear very briefly in Kati With an i,
and you see me hugging Kati very briefly with a camera. You can put two
and two together and figure out who I am, especially because I say in
the credits that I appear. I didn’t feel the need to say that Chris
Solar is my cousin in Fake It So Real. But it does make it
easier. It’s simply that these are films I could get made. I’ve never
raised any money upfront to pay for a movie. That’s changing now with my
next film. I was supported by a company I used to work for, 4th Row
Films, who could give me equipment and help pay for travel expenses if
necessary and buy tapes for my DIVX camera. There’s no big sum of money
upfront. At the same time, I’m not interested in my personal take on the
stories. I had Sean Williams shoot Kati With an i because he was
looking at my half-sister in a way that I never would have. It was much
more interesting. That movie wouldn’t exist if I had shot it. Chris Solar
was the “in” for this world in Fake It So Real, but it’s an ensemble piece. For Actress,
I’m looking out my window now at Brandy’s house. It’s obvious that’s
the only way this could have been made. It’s very pretentious to call
out John Cassavetes as an influence, but we made a grown-up movie about
grown-up themes in each other’s homes with a similar “go for broke,
let’s see what happens” aesthetic. The next film stars a friend of mine.
I was hesitant to make Actress because I didn’t want to keep
making films about people who are close to me. But in the end, the movie
took hold, as they tend to do. I don’t care about the idea of objective
distance from your subject. Hopefully there’s something explored here. 
Press Play: Is it frustrating to have a distributor for Actress and an opening date locked in, but still have to raise money for the music rights? 
Greene: It’s frustrating in some sense, but I’m lucky to be able to do it. Basically, the Cinema
Guild is great, but they don’t pay money. They help you get your film
out there, and hopefully if all things click in some beautiful and
magical way, Actress could be one of a hundred documentaries that
succeeds. I hope that could happen, but I don’t expect it. I’ve seen
the movie connect with people that aren’t just cinephiles. I’m hoping it
continues and we’re working hard to make it happen. 4th Row Films paid
for The Rachels and Colleen and several other songs in the film, and
the posters, with no money raised upfront. It eventually got to a point
where it wasn’t sustainable. They’ve supported every one of my films,
and I felt like I couldn’t ask them to do it anymore. They believed in
these songs. We’d been working for months to get the quotes on those
songs down. The original price was much, much higher. We had several
choices. Do we cut these songs? We got the prices down to a manageable
level where I didn’t feel like it was an obscene or absurd amount of
money. The choice really was to cut the songs or raise the money this
way. At the same time, it’s an effort to preserve the vision I had for
the money. For a movie that was made for no money, you would never
assume you would use that music. I feel lucky to be able to fight for my
vision. Cutting those songs would physically hurt me. I usually think
“Don’t fall in love with a song in a rough cut, because you’re gonna
have to cut it.” This isn’t that case. This is a case of expressing
something through music. One of them is the love song that Brandy and
her boyfriend have. It’s their song. It would kill me to cut that song
or use some cheap alternative. So it’s frustrating, but thank God I have
people around who think it’s worthy. 
Press Play: In Kati With an i, you used a song by the Red Jumpsuit Apparatus. Were there any similar issues? 
Greene:
No, they loved it. It’s a different ballgame. They’re a big deal in
certain circles, but they’re not Harry Belafonte. They don’t have legacy
costs built in. Colin Blunstone and Belafonte are owned by Sony. I used
a Guided By Voices song in Fake It So Real. Those were manageable costs: in the hundreds, not thousands and thousands. As crucial as that song is to Kati With an i,
I probably would’ve had to cut that scene if I couldn’t afford it.
Here, it’s a case of believing strongly that the film deserves that
moment. I’ve always cringed at crowdfunding, but this film’s done and
ready to go. The only thing we had to do is a fun, behind-the-scenes
clip of the Red Jumpsuit Apparatus watching that clip on the DVD of Kati With an i. I flew down to Florida to shoot it. That was a slightly bigger cost than the cost of the song, but it was worth it. 
Press Play: Do you think Actress will be the performance for which Brandy will most likely be remembered? 
Greene: She’s in what I consider to be the greatest television show of all time, The Wire, and she’s pretty great in it. I think she’s extraordinary in Actress.
How many movies are going to be able to shed a light on all that she
is, like this movie? It would be presumptuous to think that’s the
answer. The sky’s the limit for her. She wants to act in good stuff, but
she has to pay the bills. She has to work the same balance we all do,
between art and commerce. When people see her in this movie, she’s going
to be able to choose some very interesting things. On the one hand, how
could another role be as fully Brandy as that role? On another, who
knows what’s going to happen? I would like to be one of her memorable
roles. I think that’s a better way to put it. 
Press Play: Do you consider it a feminist film? 
Greene: Feminism is basically “Do women deserve equal treatment?” Yes, obviously. 
Press
Play:
Well, it goes beyond that. You explore several examples of
sexism, like the scene where Brandy talks about the lack of a
diaper-changing board in Tim’s restaurant and that the only roles
available for her are the “wife or girlfriend.” It gets into the
specifics of how women in their thirties are treated, both in Hollywood
and in the larger world. 
Greene:
Absolutely. From the start, it was clear that we could make a film
about a woman in her thirties. When I heard the story about her being
passed over for parts because she’s in her thirties, that was the first
time I felt like I had a movie, because I’ve constantly heard those
kinds of stories but couldn’t remember seeing them in a movie. I
consider it a feminist film, in some ways radically so. Tim is
deliberately marginalized. He’s an aloof person—that’s just how he
conducts himself. This is a magnified version of himself. It’s radically
her perspective, about a woman in her situation. At the same time,
hopefully the film doesn’t stop at feminism or a political perspective
on womanhood. I want the viewer to think about exploitation but also
about Brandy exploiting herself, the camera exploiting her and all these
levels of intricacy. Hopefully the experience is complex enough that it
goes into spaces that are sometimes troubling and upsetting and moving.
It’s sometimes hard to talk about politics and art. Obviously, I have my
core beliefs, but I think art is best when it’s troublesome and pushes
against stuff. Did I want to make a film that confirms that it’s hard to
be a woman when you’re repressed creatively? Yes, I wanted to reveal
that. Hopefully it doesn’t stop at that statement. 
Press Play: That also ties into the ending. 
Greene:
The ending is a provocation, but it’s tied into non-fiction filmmaking.
That’s what happened. My job was to say “Shit! In some ways, this has
to be in the movie. “ Along the way, a lot of filmmakers get rid of
things that are messy or don’t fit in some ways. To me, I want to work
with serendipity and things we happened upon. That’s our job, that’s
what the form demands. It absolutely does speak to a feminist 
perspective. You could take the image of her face with a bruise out of
context and use it as a feminist provocation, but hopefully there’s also
more going on. 
Press Play: Your next film sounds like your most complex narrative yet. Do you think you’re moving closer to fiction? 
Greene: I’m gonna do what a lot of documentary filmmakers do and move into fiction, royally screw up. That’s my goal. 
Press Play: I said “move closer to fiction,” not make a fiction film. 
Greene:
It’s a joke that Alex [Ross Perry] always says:  ”You’re going to be a
laughingstock in no time. Why don’t you make a comedy about an actress?”
I think with Actress it’s not fiction I was interested in, but
filmmaking, aesthetic choices that touched on the reality of the
situation. With the next film I find myself continuing to step back and
say, “I make non-fiction partly because I’m not that good of a writer. My
talent, if I have any, is in balancing, capturing and directing
reality, rather than creating scenarios.” That’s how I would describe
fiction. I’m much more interested in finding a chaos in reality which
you can swim in. Only because that’s what I’m good at and feel
comfortable doing. When I think about the new film, I think I can do
whatever I want with fiction, but the more documentary it is, the better
it will be because that’s what I’m good at. I’m good at observing
people’s behavior and putting these unspoken things into movie contexts
in ways that other people can sometimes miss. Not to compare myself to
the Maysles brothers, but they were great at taking sensational things
out of reality. If they tried to write those things, they would be
failures. At the same time, I love working with Alex and editing things [such as Ross Perry’s film Listen Up Philip] and working in the
fiction realm. I can’t imagine that I’m not going to challenge myself to
try it at some point. But I think the potential for formal
boundary-pushing is higher in documentaries.   
Press Play: How did your column in Sight and Sound come about? 
Greene: I wrote a few things for Hammer to Nail,
and then they reached out. I write from a filmmaker’s perspective about
documentary, which means that I’m talking about camera, editing and
performance. These are things that don’t find their way into mainstream
writing about these films. I started saying things that found some
small audience. Then, Nick Bradshaw at Sight and Sound was
expanding their online presence. It’s amazing to have that monthly
deadline, even if I’ve tip-toed it. It allows me to flex a muscle, and that’s
very satisfying.    

Steven Erickson is a writer and
filmmaker based in New York. He has published in newspapers and websites
across America, including
The Village Voice, Gay City News, The Atlantic, Salon, indieWIRE, The Nashville Scene, Studio Daily and many others. His most recent film is the 2009 short Squawk.

NYFF Documentaries: Political Cinema Horizons from RED ARMY to CITIZENFOUR

NYFF Documentaries: Political Cinema Horizons from RED ARMY to CITIZENFOUR

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For
the first time in 52 years, the New York Film Festival has expanded to
include a 15-film documentary sidebar. This includes the expected
portraits of artists (Ethan Hawke’s Seymour: An Introduction, Albert Maysles’ Iris, Les Blank & Gina Leibrecht’s How to Smell a Rose: A Visit with Ricky Leacock in Normandy),
but it also encompasses films in which Americans gaze at other cultures
and even attempt to critique them (Joshua Oppenheimer’s The Look of Silence, J. P. Sniadecki’s The Iron Ministry, Gabe Polsky’s Red Army.) There’s another strain of documentary here, which might be called the national self-portrait. Arthur Jafa’s Dreams Are Colder Than Death attempts to take the pulse of black America. Ossama Mohammed & Wiam Simav Bedirxan’s Silvered Water, Syria Self-Portrait
shows the ravages of civil war in Syria. All these films suggest
different ways of making political cinema. Do any of them offer real
innovations or ways forward? 
It’s not exactly news that sports can be a realm where nationalism plays itself out in a more benign fashion than war, but Red Army
examines the last decade of the Cold War through the lens of hockey.
Relying heavily on a varied array on archival footage, as well as
present-day interviews, he centers on Soviet hockey great Slava Fetisov,
who came to prominence in the early ‘80s. Despite a few odd stylistic
tics, such as printing interview subjects’ names first in Cyrillic and
then in English, Polsky resists the urge to wallow in communist kitsch,
like the “North Korea is so cool” tone of several recent documentaries
about the hermit kingdom. He’s more concerned with illuminating the
differences between  the U.S. and U.S.S.R. Fetisov learned to play
hockey well, but his training came at the cost of a private life.
(Granted, this may be the universal price of fame and success.) When he
and his Russian peers were finally allowed to play in the NHL, Red Army
doesn’t present this as an unmitigated triumph. While acknowledging the
human cost of communism, it also depicts their culture
shock, being attacked by North American players and the media, and
having difficulty adjusting to a more individualistic playing style. I’m
not sure what Fetisov’s exact present-day politics are, but he accepted
a post from Putin as Minister of Sport. Now that American-Russian
tensions are flaring up again, this reminder of the last Cold War feels
more  contemporary—and painful—than it might have five years ago:
Russia is once again becoming the Other, a convenient source of villains
for action movies and TV shows.  
If Red Army offers a relatively mellow look at the damage wrought by the Cold War, the much-awaited The Look of Silence
serves up a full, unblinking look at the horrors committed in the name
of anti-communism. If it goes down somewhat easier than its abrasive and
deeply disturbing companion piece The Act of Killing, in which
Oppenheimer had  murderers reenact their crimes on film, that’s because
it adds some warmth and humanity to the mix—protagonist Adi, an
optician, is shown interacting with his family. However, Adi’s elder
bother was murdered in the 1965 massacre of a million Indonesian
“communists,” and Adi lives in a village alongside his killers, who were
never punished and in fact remain free today. The film’s methods are
deceptively simple: Oppenheimer shows Adi outtakes from The Act of Killing,
which gradually evolve into discussions of his brother’s death, on a
video monitor while he watches silently, and then  and goes about his
daily life, which includes making glasses for the surviving killers from
1965 and interviewing them about the bad old days. Adi seems to be the
only Indonesian who wants to remember this period in the country’s
history—or, at least, recall it accurately. In some respects, The Look of Silence feels like a response to the critics of The Act of Killing. Violence is never shown, just described, although its full awfulness may exceed what happens in The Act of Killing:
several killers describe drinking human blood. People who find
Oppenheimer’s films pornographic and exploitative may simply be
uncomfortable with an NC-17 reality. But unlike The Act of Killing, The Look of Silence depicts an inspiring level of resistance to historical oblivion. 
South Korean director Jung Yoon-suk’s Non-Fiction Diary revolves
around a group of serial killers called the Jijon Clan, but it takes in
a wide swath of ‘90s Korean history and politics. The Jijon Clan were a
gang of six youths who committed a series of horrific murders in 1993
and 1994; their crimes were so surreally awful that when one of their
victims described them  to the police, they thought she was high on
drugs. However, Non-Fiction Diary contrasts the Clan’s murders,
condemned by the whole of Korean society and quickly punished, with the
collapses of a bridge and a department store shortly afterwards due to
irresponsisble building methods, which actually killed far more people.
Relying on period news clips (especially a lengthy talk show debate
about the crisis in Korean morality) and interviews with cops,
professors and a nun, Jung also lends a stylish touch to the grim
proceedings. Non-Fiction Diary begins with still photos, and it
then goes into a split-screen montage of some of the images that will
follow. The Jijon Clan both hated and envied the wealthy; the first part
of their three-line manifesto read “the rich shall be loathed,” yet
they wanted to become millionaires. Non-Fiction Diary sees their
crimes as an extreme manifestation of the amorality implicit in
neo-liberal capitalism. At times, it comes dangerously close to making
excuses for them because they weren’t rich, unlike the head of the
Sampoong Department Store, whose fall killed more than 500 people. They
got capital punishment, he got a slap on the wrist, despite bearing
ultimate responsibility for his store’s collapse, as the film points
out. However, Jung ultimately offers a range of perspectives on issues
like the death penalty, told with a distanced touch, although he
sometimes seems to be chafing at the constraints of his film’s form. 
The Iron Ministry opens with extreme close-ups of trains as disorienting and immersive as anything in Leviathan, the film that put Harvard’s Sensory Ethnography Lab on the festival map. (Although Sniadecki is a graduate of the Lab, The Iron Ministry isn’t an official product of it.) Shot over three years on trains across China, The Iron Ministry
is an experience in flux. Its constant  change mirrors that of the
economic and social change sweeping the  nation it depicts. Sniadecki
initially opts for a purely sensual experience; 20 minutes pass before
the first subtitle appears. It’s not edited to look seamless—Sniadecki
clearly cut together numerous train rides and makes no attempt to
smooth over the vehicles’ different looks. Taking a train in China seems
a lot like riding on Amtrak 20 years ago, when they routinely
over-booked trains and cigarette smoking was still allowed. Yet for
every moment of filth Sniadecki shows, there’s an image of beauty or
grace to counter it. He also delves into Chinese politics, interviewing
passengers on  subjects like the role of Islam in Chinese life,
pollution and possible progress towards democracy. His presence is
subtly but definitely felt. Sniadecki has crafted a film that can stand
proudly along the best recent Chinese-made documentaries. 
CITIZENFOUR
director Laura Poitras was the first journalist to become Edward
Snowden’s regular correspondent. (Technically, her film is part of the
NYFF’s main slate, not its documentary sidebar.) As an opening card
reveals, she was also put on a U.S. government watch list after making
her first film and is subject to constant harassment at American
airports. I’m sure they’ll be thrilled by her respectful treatment of
Snowden here. While the film starts off as a wide-ranging depiction of
issues around privacy and surveillance, it settles into a Hong Kong
hotel room with Snowden and Glenn Greenwald (then a columnist for The Guardian)
for its central hour, which depicts the meeting that led to the public
revelations about the NSA’s out-of-control spying. At first, the film
seemed strangely impersonal. Poitras uses the first person in on-screen
text and reproduces E-mail and chat sessions with Snowden. Yet she never
appears in the image  herself for more than an instant. I initially
thought that a film which dealt more directly with her personal
struggles with the U.S. government would bring home the dangers of the
NSA’s activities more forcefully. But ultimately, the film she did make,
which often resembles an elegantly shot spy thriller, does deliver the
justified paranoia of Snowden and Greenwald’s message effectively. It
also does a lot to humanize a man who’s too often been demonized as a
traitor; the Snowden depicted in CITIZENFOUR is a likable,
friendly guy who tried to do the right thing, acted on the fly and  got
caught up in a world drama  that overtook him. Poitras is on his side,
certainly, but her depiction is believable. 
The relationship of form and content in political cinema has been debated since the late ‘60s, when Cahiers du Cinéma
declared all films more conventional than Jean-Luc Godard and
Jean-Marie Straub’s work reactionary. I don’t want to jump on that
bandwagon here, particularly when a film like Kirby Dick’s The Invisible War,
although stylistically bland, has managed to accomplish real political
goals in  changing the way the military prosecutes sexual assault.
Nevertheless, there’s something disheartening about the way Non-Fiction Diary
conveys an explicitly anti-capitalist message mostly through the usual
assemblage of interviews and archival footage, which threatens to
collapse into formula. 
However, documentaries like The Look of Silence and The Iron Ministry seem to point the way forward. Oppenheimer’s touch in The Look of Silence
is a subtle one; his voice is sometimes heard, and interview subjects
occasionally refer to him, often in an unflattering light. Adi is
definitely not just a stand-in for Oppenheimer, and he’s a strong enough
presence to remind one that The Look of Silence really is a collaboration with Indonesian filmmakers, including a co-director who can only be billed as “Anonymous.” The Iron Ministry
is less politically inflammatory than Oppenheimer’s films, but it
synthesizes several documentary traditions in an inventive manner. If
Americans continue to make films about other cultures – or our own, for
that matter – it seems best to  leave traces of our own subjectivity in
the frame, as The Look of Silence and The Iron Ministry do, and honestly acknowledge our own perspective’s role in shaping the films we make.

Steven Erickson is a writer and
filmmaker based in New York. He has published in newspapers and websites
across America, including
The Village Voice, Gay City News, The Atlantic, Salon, indieWIRE, The Nashville Scene, Studio Daily and many others. His most recent film is the 2009 short Squawk.

An Open Letter to America about the Central Park Five

An Open Letter to America about the Central Park Five

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Dear America,

Please watch this movie!

No, I'm just kidding.

But seriously, just watch it, would you?

It's in my nature to overanalyze and to equivocate, and to make light of the things that are most important to me, but sometimes even those who can close off their emotions with seemingly little effort come up against a force that moves us in strange and powerful ways. I saw The Central Park Five at the closing night of DOC NYC last night, and at the end, when the five men who'd been wrongfully convicted came up onto the stage, together in one place for the first time since that night in Central Park on April 19, 1989, I was choking back tears, and maybe all my perspective (too much fucking perspective) has gone out the window, but I think this is one of the most important films I've ever seen.

In April 1989, I was a senior at Bard College. It's funny, but back then, I thought of those teens arrested for the brutal assault and rape of the "Central Park Jogger" as kids. Now I can see that I wasn't that much older than they were. Me and my little circle of friends followed the news, and we knew something was wrong with this case. Gradually, news trickled out of overnight interrogations without counsel, of a timeline that didn't quite jibe with the kids' confessions, and of a total lack of physical evidence connecting any of the suspects with the crime (as if Hannibal Lecter had done it, and not a "wolf pack" of "wilding" teenage boys). The media coverage was mostly sensational, dehumanizing, and reprehensible.

I think I'd read about Donald Trump in Spy Magazine. Although he'd sounded like a classless, puffed-up buffoon, I had no reason to despise him. Now there I have many reasons, but the first was the series of full-page ads he took out in all the major newspapers in the city, calling for a re-instatement of the death penalty, specifically in reference to this case, in which the suspects were mostly juveniles, and which the crime was not even a capital one. Every time this man appears on TV or in a newspaper, I'm reminded of what a destructive, hateful fool he is. Dog the Bounty Hunter and Michael Richards had to publicly apologize for their racist outbursts, but if you're a certain type of racist, you get to keep your awful hit TV show and you can keep selling your cologne at Macy's.

In any case, me and my friends chatted and expressed our concerns, and we kept reading the paper and decrying the biased coverage, and then I was out of school and living in Manhattan, and the cases were going to trial, and like every middle-class (though descending) white person living here, my progressive ideals frequently abandoned me out on the street, when circumstance brought me out of the shocking homogeneity of the Upper East Side, and into an unfamiliar neighborhood, or when it was late and quiet and it was just me and a dark shape coming the opposite direction down the street, or when a pair of angry-looking eyes caught mine on the subway.

The first inkling of our shared humanity in the media coverage is there in this documentary, in that news footage of the grieving families leaving the courthouse. It's almost like the reporters feel compassion for them.

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In 1990, the case was decided, and all five of those kids went to jail. After the public outrage and handwringing died down, I moved on to other things. There was always plenty to be upset about, and the foul explosion of media coverage ebbed. Those kids and their families didn't move on, but we did.

But we were damaged, too. I know I was. I know I was afraid of that "wolfpack." I know that as rational as I could be about the facts of the case, on an emotional level, I was scared of those kids. I know that something was lost, or then again, something was not lost, our criminal justice system and our city was simply putting on display an ugliness that was always there. We punished those kids because the sense that we couldn't control them terrified us. We needed to be placated, and Linda Fairstein, the NYPD, and a credulous news media were eager to oblige.

And then, miraculously, after thirteen years, another man confessed to the crime, and DNA testing proved his guilt. Some had called it "the crime of the century," but when those convictions were finally vacated, I guess it just wasn't such an interesting story anymore. I remember seeing those news stories for a couple of days, and being shocked and horrified and angry all over again, but also feeling relieved. And Robert Morganthau's office acknowledged, finally, the discrepancies in the confessions that sent those kids to jail. And then it was like nothing had ever happened. It wasn't a story anymore.

It is now a story again, over a decade later, and nearly ten years into the civil suit filed by Antron McCray, Kevin Richardson, Korey Wise, Yusef Salaam, and Raymond Santana. It is a story again, and hopefully this time, it will get the attention it deserved, and for that I'm grateful to Sarah Burns, David McMahon, and Ken Burns. I knew a lot of the facts already, but their amazing, gut-wrenching movie still shook me. Hearing these men describe their personal experiences is a big part of it. Their lives were destroyed, irrevocably. McCray, who moved away to Maryland after being released from prison, and who only allowed the filmmakers to use his voice in the documentary, choked up tonight as he told the crowd, "I don't even go by 'Antron McCray' anymore." But there the five of them were, on the stage tonight, expressing their gratitude to the filmmakers and the audience, full of more grace and life than I would have thought possible.

nullAnd the documentary makes it very clear. We did this. Our beknighted city did this. We who represent the best, the most enlightened, the most tolerant place in our country, maybe in the world. We ruined these young lives and we have been affected by it, too, even if we don't realize or acknowledge it. It's not too late to learn from this, though. It's possible that I sound like a self-serious blowhard, but I don't really give a shit. I urge you to see this film. Support justice and restitution for these men. I resolve to examine and challenge the assumptions I make about other people every day in this great city.

Josh Ralske has written on film, television, and theater for The New York Resident, Muze, All Movie Guide, and other outlets, and is a longstanding member of the Online Film Critics Society. He once co-wrote a screenplay for a mockumentary seen by thousands of Red Sox fans, and he co-produced a documentary series about happiness, of all things, for Rhode Island PBS. He has also programmed and curated several film series in New York and elsewhere.

What the Sikhs Taught Me

What the Sikhs Taught Me

Several years ago, Press Play Editor in Chief Kevin B. Lee produced a video documenting hate crimes against the Sikh American community in the aftermath of 9/11. That video, "Dastaar: Defending Sikh Identity" has been circulating in the wake of the mass shootings in Oak Creek, Wisconsin last Sunday. The video is embedded below. Lee has also written a personal reflection about how the video led to his involvement in Sikhism. This essay is also published in Slate.

nullThis is a photo of me taken in 2008. I was in the middle of a five-year personal journey with the Sikh community, during which I seriously contemplated adopting the Sikh faith as my own. It was the most intensive and productive period of spiritual growth in my life, even if it ultimately ended in a personal failure of sorts. The tragedy that befell the Sikh congregation in Oak Creek last Sunday brought back to mind all my experiences with the Sikh-American community, and certain invaluable lessons they taught me that I am still trying to put into practice.

Seven years ago, I was just another aspiring independent filmmaker in New York City, biding my time in a nondescript office job to make ends meet. Frankly, I was ashamed to be a white-collar drone, so I kept a low profile. But word got around about my moonlighting, and one day a Sikh co-worker visited my cubicle. He told me his son and other Sikh children were being called terrorists by their classmates because of the turbans they wore. He asked if I could help him make a short educational video about his community that he could use at his son’s school. How could I say no?

That weekend I filmed my co-worker and other Sikh parents at a school fair, as they shared with other parents some facts about their culture and faith, varnished with more than a small sense of pride. Sikhism has the fifth-most followers of any world religion. (“More than the Jews!”) Founded in the 15th century, Sikhism is a newcomer among the major faiths. (“Our founder Guru Nanak studied all those other guys and learned from their mistakes!”) Sikhism emphasizes equality among all people regardless of faith, race, gender, or class. (“We fought the caste system in India!”) Sikhism doesn’t believe that one religion is better than any other, but rather that each has its own way to peace and enlightenment. (“We accept the other religions, that’s why Sikhism is the best!” wink)

The religious cynic in me found this all too good to be true. My youth had left me weary of organized religion: The church I grew up with was more of a social club where its congregation of professionals could network; the other kids seemed more interested in discussing designer clothes and cars than debating what appeared to me the obvious contradictions in the Bible. I had even spent two years as a missionary in China trying to come to terms with my Christian upbringing, ultimately to make a separate peace with God and keep my faith to myself. I haven’t attended church regularly in over a decade.

Now here I was listening to these lovely spiritual ideals being spouted by men in turbans, and they stirred the long-dormant idealist in me. Part of it was due to the presentation: They seemed so relaxed and accepting of other people’s questions and misgivings, betraying no anxiety to persuade their audience to do anything more than simply understand who they are. They boasted, somewhat ironically, “We are non-evangelical! We are not allowed to push our faith on others! Once you understand our beliefs, you’ll know why we don’t have to force them on others!” But their lack of interest in evangelizing, I realized, could partly explain why so many—myself included—were ignorant about their faith, an ignorance which has, at times, had tragic consequences.

This became apparent only a week after we started filming, when several white men brutally attacked a middle-aged Sikh man named Rajinder Singh Khalsa on a sidewalk in Queens in broad daylight, denouncing him as a terrorist. Once Khalsa left the hospital, my Sikh friends ushered me to his home to interview him for our video. I also met members of the Sikh Coalition, a group of young professionals who organized to protect Sikhs from violence and harassment. These men and women were the same age as me, and like me were the children of immigrant parents, and here they were were attending City Hall hearings and lobbying Congress and the White House, all in the time they could spare away from their jobs as lawyers, doctors, and programmers. My habitual self-pity over my unfulfilling day-job and my filmmaking routine looked laughable next to their work ethic and sense of purpose. Above all, I admired their cheerful optimism, a quality known in Sikhi as chardi kala: an attitude towards life that dusts off the cliché of “making the world a better place” and makes it radiate anew with the energy of Sikh convictions.

The Coalition introduced me to other Sikhs who were dealing with workplace harassment: an NYPD officer and a New York subway driver who were disciplined for not removing their turbans while on duty. The subway driver, Kevin Harrington, was an Irish-American man who adopted Sikhism 30 years ago and had been wearing a turban without incident while driving the subway for 20 years. September 11th had suddenly made his attire a problem. I would later learn that he, too, was moonlighting, as a Sikh Kundalini yoga instructor; I began taking his classes to help manage my stress. As I worked on the documentary, these people became fixtures of my days—and also good friends. Life seemed to be pointing me further in the direction of the Khalsa, the community of the Sikh faith.

http://video.google.com/googleplayer.swf?docid=5243469727255150190&hl=en&fs=true

The resulting short documentary, “Dastaar: Defending Sikh Identity,” eventually made its way to my co-worker’s son’s classroom, and it was also broadcast on PBS in New York City. The Sikh Coalition adopted it as their video of choice to show at schools and government agencies across the country. Rajinder Singh Khalsa, the beating victim, suggested I make a feature documentary on Sikhism, with him as the on-camera guide. His insights into Sikhism were always colorful, even when they were somewhat questionable. (“You know why there are no Buddhists left in India?” he asked. “Because they were too peaceful and got chased away. You can’t just be peaceful all the time, you have to stand up for yourself.”) On and off we worked on this documentary for the next three years. We didn’t quite finish it, but the journey became its own destination. We went to India together, staying in temples for three weeks and observing Sikhism in its homeland. We visited the Sikh holy city of Amritsar and its most sacred site, the Golden Temple, a building that is so beautifully conceived that the sunrise seems to ignite it with the light of heaven. And yet throughout the journey I found myself searching for signs of corruption and hypocrisy in the organized aspect of the faith, or anything to cast a more critical view. Old habits die hard.

Following the trip, I continued to internalize Sikhi. I routinely attended services at gurdwara, the Sikh temple, enjoying the extended raags performed during kirtan. (It’s sort of like being at a Grateful Dead or Phish concert, but on a much higher level.) I attended a university class on Sikhism for a scholarly perspective, and a workshop for people learning how to practice the faith. I talked with Sikh immigrants from India and their children, gauging how their values were passed across generations in a new environment. I hung out with Kevin Harrington and asked other American followers about how they practiced Sikhism without the benefit of a cultural upbringing within it.

As much as I learned from all of them, I knew that, underneath all this exploration and research, there was just one person who could take me where I needed to go: myself. My hipper-than-thou cynicism had run its course. Whatever my misgivings about organized faith, I knew that this, at its core, was as beautiful a belief system as anything I’d ever encountered, at least as beautiful as my own heart and mind would allow it to be. And so I found myself at the brink of becoming a practicing Sikh.

But ultimately I faltered. Why?

The answer lies in the same item, the same image, that brought me to work on behalf of the Sikh community in the first place. As a practicing Sikh, a man is required to wear a turban at all times in public. The turban was given to the Sikhs by their tenth Guru, Gobind Singh, at the time of their greatest peril. The turban, previously an article of clothing worn only by royalty, was placed on the heads of all Sikh men to make them see themselves as kings and conduct themselves accordingly: with honor, self-respect, courage, and piety. At the same time, the turban makes Sikhs symbolically “give their head” in the service of a higher order. No longer can they hide in anonymity. They are united in their values, and must stand together to uphold them.

I’ve worn the turban on several occasions, when visiting gurdwara or attending Sikh events, like the Surat Youth Conference where the photo above was taken. But when it came to making the commitment to wear it in daily life as a practicing Sikh, I couldn’t find the courage. It was such a bizarre disconnect. Everything about Sikhism on paper pointed to its being a belief system as perfect as anything I’d encountered: its de-emphasis on the retributive cycle of sin and forgiveness in favor of harmony between oneself and the world; its core doctrine of equality among all people across class, religion, race, and gender, a true oneness with all.

And yet, to truly be a Sikh, you have to stand out like a sore thumb as a living, visual manifestation of your beliefs. I just couldn’t do it, simply because I felt too self-conscious about how people would look at and perceive me. I couldn’t resist the comfort of not being looked at, of knowing that I could blend into a crowd, withdrawing into the secluded, private existence that I’d grown accustomed to. (Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man is my favorite novel for a reason.) Maybe this is why I’ve found a more successful career as a film critic than as a filmmaker: I find it easier to watch others than to be looked at.

Let me make it clear, in no uncertain terms, that my failure to don the turban does not reflect poorly on Sikhism itself. On the contrary, the turban has a perfect logic to it. When you adopt a set of values that represent humanity at its finest, why wouldn’t you want to become a living symbol of it? By wearing your values in public, you “out” yourself as someone who must conduct themselves according to those values. It is a virtuous cycle, and it gives the Sikh faith its own special sense of drama, with its followers performing a sacred role in public every day.

In contrast, my failure to adopt the turban, after all my experiences and all that I learned about Sikhism, symbolizes the distance between my present self and the ideals I wish to embody. What the turban tells me is that our ideals are not a matter of convenience, but of true conviction. It also fills me with respect for all the Sikhs in America who do choose to look as they do, especially the Sikh children born in this country who every day are faced with the temptation to assimilate, particularly when post-9/11 America sees the turban as a threat. But the real threat has been the other way around all along. Oak Creek is only the most recent and most devastating instance of this perverse irony, and the distorted reality we live in, rooted in misperception.

My experience has stuck with me, and it taps me on the shoulder now that this tragedy has happened. Even though I still lack the courage to wear a turban, I learned that you can’t hide from the world forever. As long as you care about the world and the people in it, something will bring you out. This is why I felt compelled to write this testimony. I have to take my experiences and manifest them into something visible and useful that I can offer to others. We haven’t truly lived until we stand up for what that we believe is good in life. This is what the Sikhs have taught me.

Why did so many Nazis get away with murder?

Why did so many Nazis get away with murder?

nullSimon Weisenthal’s greatest contribution to the world was his dogged pursuit of Nazi criminals who escaped punishment at the end of World War II. His second greatest contribution was his reminder that despite being described as “the Good War” or “a just war,” not enough good was ultimately done, and comparatively little justice was meted out. Some of the most prominent and heinous architects of mass murder simply got on with their lives, and some were the recipients of largesse — jobs, travel assistance, even money and government protection — that was denied to the people who endured their cruelty. And we tend to forget that for every high-ranking sadist or mass murderer who was imprisoned or executed after the war, thousands more who assisted them directly (through action) or indirectly (through silence) were never even called to account.

This grim fact is the jumping-off point for “Elusive Justice” (Tuesday, PBS; check local listings), a documentary by Jonathan Silvers about Holocaust survivors (and victims) and the German war criminals that still weigh on their minds nearly 70 years after the end of the war. Narrated by Candice Bergen, the movie hits some of the expected topics and people, including the Nuremberg Trials and the efforts of Weisenthal (who disliked being called a “Nazi hunter” because so much of his work consisted of sifting through documents) and Asher Ben Natan, who funded and organized ex-Nazi-tracking operations in Europe.

You can read the rest of Matt's piece here at Salon.

Matt Zoller Seitz is publisher of Press Play.