Among the most important, complex relationships are those with our parents, relationships often painful to probe. And yet, in “Film About a Father Who,” here’s documentarian Lynne Sachs courageously exploring thirty-five complicated, problematic years of interaction with her father Ira. In addition to archival 8- and 16-millimeter footage, she interrogates Ira, grandmother Maw-maw, brothers, sisters, an ex-wife, and Ira’s girlfriends.
And what she learns in her incredibly honest profile is deeply disturbing. For Ira was, though cheerful, emotionally detached and an unrepentant womanizer. His mother, Maw-maw, describes him as a cripple, handicapped, since he had a wife, a mistress, and, as much as he could, multiple women. Director Lynne, his daughter, explicitly asks Ira about his life and behavior, to which Ira repeatedly replies, “I don’t remember.” In her investigation, Lynne discovers two previously unknown siblings (Ira had nine children), Ira’s traumatic childhood, fueled by Maw-maw abandoning Ira to lead her own life, and his real name.
None of these details suggest the truly captivating appeal of “Film About a Father Who.” That resides in Lynne’s pursuit of an ever-elusive understanding of Ira, of his essence. In her quest, Lynne and her brother Adam describe Ira having “his own language and we were expected to speak it.” They concur that they loved him so much that they agreed “to his syntax, his set of rules,” though they always felt there was a dark hole somewhere in his youth. Significantly, Lynne and a sister also acknowledge a shared rage they couldn’t name for the man called the Hugh Hefner of Park City, Utah.
“Film About a Father Who” is an emotionally wrenching scrutiny of another person, much less a parent. In voiceover narration, Lynne defines her grappling with her father best when she says, “This is not a portrait. This is not a self-portrait. This is my reckoning with the conundrum of our asymmetry, a story both protracted and compressed.” That she worked on this film for decades acknowledges the critical role her parents, and probably most of ours, play in our lives, their impact inestimable. It may raise the question, “Can we ever really understand another person?” Whatever the answer, Lynne Sachs shows her effort results in a powerful, haunting film. “Film About a Father Who” is available on the Cinema Guild website and through a direct link at the Webster University film series website.
You can keep your MCU. You can have your… whatever DC’s is. For me, the only cinematic universe that matters right now is the Sachs and Johnson Cinematic Universe. What’s that you ask? Well, it’s the films of brother and sister pair Ira and Lynne Sachs as well as Kristen Johnson with whom the brother Sachs has children, all of whom seem to make movies about and/or featuring one another. I feel like I know these people in very intimate ways because of the way their works reflects each other’s. It’s a curious little enclave of filmmaking that only enriches each additional film that I see.
I lead off with this somewhat facetious observation because the latest film, Lynne Sachs’ Film About a Father Who is about her father, which only seeks to expand and enlighten the story of this fascinating bunch of New York filmmakers…
Film About a Father Who is probably also a bit tougher to discuss, being more experimental and fragmented than the documentaries I normally review. This isn’t a political thriller or a heartwarming tale of overcoming adversity. Well, not in those traditional ways. Having said that, I do think audiences are becoming more comfortable with this brand of doc that ebbs and flows in new and evolving ways—perhaps that’s thanks to filmmakers like Johnson whose Cameraperson and Dick Johnson is Dead stray far from the conventional paths, but which have proven popular with audiences.
I saw Film About a Father Who back in mid-2020 as a part of Sheffield Doc/Fest’s virtual festival alongside a Sachs tribute retrospective (of which my favourite is probably Which Way is East). But it is a film that sits so comfortably and so snugly in the cervices of one’s mind that it at once feels like a distant, beguiling memory and something so potently immediate. As its title suggests (cribbed from dancer and director Yvonne Rainer’s 1974 documentary, Film About a Woman Who…), Sachs’ film is about her father, Ira Sachs, Sr. A filmmaker of his own unique sort; a local character from Park City who enjoyed picking up a camera to film home movies.
The film traces his life in fragments, featuring the elder Sachs along with Lynne, Ira Jr. and some of their other siblings. It details how his penchant for a particular lifestyle (he was a philanderer for one thing) came at the cost of his family. The Sachs matriarch, Diane, is featured, as is Ira’s disapproving maw-maw, the 100-year-old Rose. You could say that Ira led a life of perpetual teenagerdom, who in his elder years comes across as something of an aging hippie. His hair long and grey with a thick moustache and who often wears clothing that you would likely call eccentric. I hope that Lynne would forgive a viewer for thinking her dad took a lot of acid in his time.
It’s a deeply personal work of biography (via autobiography), of course. One that may perhaps mystify some viewers who may feel as if they need a post-it notes with string wrapped around thumb tacks just to make heads or tales of its myriad of connections. But this isn’t necessarily a film that tells a linear portrait of its subject. Far from it. Sachs, in fact, builds her own cinematic grammar to help construct an understanding of her father, reckoning with the mistakes that lead to where they all are in 2020.
The film has a particular emotional revelation that not only comes uncomfortably close to unforgivable, but also speaks the class in a way that underlines many of the extended family’s concerns about Ira Sr. It isn’t unforgivable to Lynne who clearly has compassion for her father in spite of his (many) transgressions. It is in these closing sequences—and it should be noted the film is only a scoot over 70 minutes—that lessons of family really come into a new light. With Sachs’ strong if shaggy (in a good way) direction, Film About a Father Who makes for an essential, powerful work of documentary to open 2021.
Release: Opens in virtual cinemas this Friday via Cinema Guild. Museum of the Moving Image will also be host to a Lynne Sachs retrospective, Lynne Sachs: Between Thought and Expression, from today until the end of the month also in their virtual cinema.
On the morning of Wednesday, January 6, I called up the poet and filmmaker Lynne Sachs to talk to her about her new documentary, Film About a Father Who and online retrospective at Museum of the Moving Image, which starts today. The film — which takes its title from an early influence of Sachs, Yvonne Rainer’s 1974 experimental film Film About a Woman Who — is an attempt by the filmmaker to better understand her father, Ira Sachs, Sr. Ira was a man who had, as he put it, “one wife, and many friends.” He slept around almost obsessively with scores of young women. He fathered nine children, some of whom remained a mystery to Lynne and her siblings for decades.
After picking up the phone, Lynne chatted with me a bit about the crucial runoff election that had played out in Georgia the night before, in which Democrats regained control of the Senate. She expressed optimism about those results, and I offered a comment that the future of our country could now hopefully be “at least a bit better.” Neither of us predicted that a few hours after our phone call, a large mob including white supremacists, QAnon conspiracy theorists, and even a handful of GOP lawmakers, incited by the President, would storm the Capitol in an attempt to prevent Congress from certifying the results of the presidential election. It was an astonishingly surreal, terrifying siege that left five people dead.
But our conversation happened before all that, in a past still tethered to even the slightest bit of hope. It was a fascinating and moving dialogue in which we ruminated on the now-fading intimacy of in-person experience, documentary filmmaking’s power to amplify voices, and the beautiful ugliness of split pea soup.
This conversation has been condensed and edited for clarity.
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Conor Williams: In the late 80s and 90s, you started making films investigating things like gender and the body and the male gaze. I’m also thinking about other films that were made at the time, like Elisabeth Subrin’s Swallow, or Flat is Beautiful by Sadie Benning. They’re kind of similar in that they highlight these feminist perspectives through the modes in which they’re made. I remember reading one of B. Ruby Rich’s essays about the festival scene at the time, and Barbara Hammer’s journals about screening her films to different audiences. It seems like this zenith of a moment. Could you feel that at the time?
Lynne Sachs: That idea is very different from bigger-budget commercial films, where a film travels, and then you say goodbye to it and look for another producer. Even the idea of a producer — we produced our own movies! And we traveled with them, we distributed them. It was a homemade thing in all the best possible ways. Of course, Sadie Benning’s work was really important to me in its intimacy, in its rawness, its ability to talk about desire. You mentioned B. Ruby Rich — she wrote a book, Chick Flicks, and it was like, “We’re okay with ‘chick!’ We’re okay with ‘queer,’ we have a bond that way and we’re into it!” The whole idea of a women’s film festival…the idea was, will that time pass? Will we not “need” it? And it wasn’t just that we needed it, we wanted it. We wanted to spend time together. We wanted to see each other’s films. It wasn’t that we needed to be separate, it was that we needed to have that collective experience to be in conversation. If you could, you would make it to all these people’s films. You needed to be there for other people.
CW: I know things are especially different right now at this moment — but do you think there’s any vestige of that kind of closeness left?
LS: That’s a very interesting question to ask during the pandemic. Closeness has to be in a spiritual kind of way. I think that my moment, which is also your moment, allows us to have hope toward the future, but not just nostalgic about the past, but awed by the past, those collective interactions. I think there needs to be an effort to bring in younger people so they understand you can’t do it all by yourself through YouTube or Vimeo. There is something about being in the same room together. I mean, here we have UnionDocs, and Mono No Aware, these other groups that commit themselves to that spatial interaction and to that presence.
CW: Your movies feel like something that you need to just go sit in a room somewhere and see projected. There’s this texture to your work, because you’ve shot most of it on analog film cameras.
LS: I totally agree. I also am trying to be not just optimistic about the possibilities that the virtual offers, but that it shifts a kind of elitism that could have happened to the avant-garde. Accidents will happen in the best of ways. George Kuchar loved accidents. He’d shoot a whole roll of film and it’d be overexposed and he’d say, “Great, we’ll call it a snowstorm.”
Anyway, this is not an accident, it’s our destiny to be in this time. And when this period in our lives is over, that we’ll also go back to shared spaces. I kind of think we’ll do both.
CW: I hope so. Especially right now, I think there’s no excuse to not make something just as widely accessible for anybody to see it. Because we’re all just in our houses.
LS: For example, my film Your Day is My Night, which is a part of the retrospective, started as a site-specific installation, and we traveled with it to homeless shelters or community centers for seniors, and we also showed it in museums, and I took it to other countries like China. So it was clunky and big and unwieldy and unpredictable in the real world. And then it became a film, so that you can see it in your living room. But I’m really glad that I did that site-specific work. And in the course of making the film, people saw other parts of New York they’d never seen, and then the people who watched the film saw a side of Chinatown they’d never seen, and we got to talk about that in actual spaces.
CW: Your new film is called Film About a Father Who. Can you talk a little bit about what motivated you to begin this project and what you’d say the film does?
LS: I think it connects to that first question as to why I was drawn to art. Once I was drawn to art and really jumped full on into filmmaking, I saw the practice of shooting and editing and thinking about one movie after another as very much intertwined with my life. So if you said, Lynne, what were you doing in 2001, I could say, oh, I was making Investigation of a Flame —
CW: They’re markers for you.
LS: They’re totally markers. And that probably really became clear to me in the late eighties, early nineties. At the same time, I was trying to understand my relationship to my father, how he had shocked me and my other siblings in many ways, and was also very supportive and a present dad, and how there was a life full of constant contradictions. And I said, okay, maybe if I say I’m making a film about this, to kind of give myself an internal permission to ask my father more and more questions about his life and our relationship, maybe it also opens up this context by which he’ll work with me on something. I’ve found that throughout my life. You work on a project, you become collaborators, and have a kind of commitment. To a great extent, he did that, and I kept working on what everyone called my “dad film,” but I didn’t really know where it was going. I just knew I was trying to make this film as a way to understand another person. That was a deep dive for me, to be able to say, how can this medium help me to understand the way that we understand other people?
CW: So much of your film work is centered on your family, inspired by your family, made with your family. Your brother Ira is also a filmmaker. In Film About a Father Who, you and your siblings talk about a kind of family grammar. Was cinema another shared grammar for you and Ira?
LS: Oh, wow. In many ways, yes. Doing things through a visual practice was also sort of the start. My mother says, “I gave you all a bunch of crayons and that was the beginning.” Ira came to filmmaking more through theater. He did children’s theater. He definitely knew the movies that Betty Grable was in. He was more aware of the movie stars and the newest Hollywood kind of movies. And I was definitely coming at it through experimental film. In a way that gave us a lot of freedom, because it sort of took out the competition. I wasn’t in the same field as him. Or maybe it was the same field, but not the same stadium. Or maybe he was in the stadium, and I was in like, the backyard. (Laughs) It’s actually really fun now, because we can ask each other for advice. I probably ask him more often for advice. I’m the older sister, I should add. So we send each other lists and, “Oh, I think you should definitely see this.” But in a lot of ways our taste is quite different. He wouldn’t necessarily be in conversation with Bradley Eros and Jack Waters, though he knows them. There’s a lot of overlap and then a lot of difference. The other day, he said to me, “All my old work prints, I think I should throw them away.” And I said, “No! No, you can’t.” I understood what old work prints were. I said he’s gotta keep them.
CW: Yeah, please tell him he can’t do that.
LS: I said that I’d store them for him.
CW: So talking about, I guess, extended family, Kirsten Johnson, who is the mom of Ira’s kids, also made a film about her father recently, Dick Johnson is Dead, and I watched her film and your film together–
LS: It’s funny, last night, I was going through my photos on my computer and I found four or five of them with my dad and Dick together. They’re holding hands up in the air, just last year. And I don’t think that will happen again, for health reasons, really. I sent it to Ira and Kirsten late last night while we were watching the [Georgia election] returns. Actually, Ira made a film called Forty Shades of Blue, with Rip Torn, and in a kind of quasi-fictional way, you could say that Rip Torn kind of plays our dad. Though it’s very different, and he’s a music producer, there are similarities…
CW: That’s interesting. So those two films together, yours and Kirsten’s, it’s this kind of diptych of fractured fathers. Kirsten’s film uses fantasy to sort of preserve this image of Dick, and your film is really about a shared narrative of your siblings. It’s a family production in a way. But I watched Dick Johnson with my dad—
LS: Oh, gosh!
CW: Something that he was a bit uncomfortable with — and I understood — is that Dick is very obviously deteriorating mentally. It made me think of questions not necessarily about the nature of the relationship between a father and daughter, but between a documentarian and their subject. Questions of ethics. In your film, your dad doesn’t say too much. And from what I gathered, it’s because he was reluctant to speak about his lifestyle and he would get defensive and omit things. But you also said that he’s getting older and sort of losing his ability to actually speak. I’m just wondering how you thought about that when you were making the film.
LS: What you just said is completely true, about his health and his ability to speak. But I think that that started in his present even before that. For me, the leap in the making of this film was that I decided to look at the world through his eyes — not so much, by the way he explained it and articulated his memories or his interpretations of things — but when I found videotape that he shot. And that became very important to me. That’s an aspect of filmmaking that maybe opened up to me in this film. When you’re looking at another person, you’re also wondering how they’re looking at you. And that tells you as much about the way their mind works. You know, we have this paradigm of the interview. You sit down, and then you ask these questions that you planned, and then you get the words back. But maybe by including the camera as a conduit to understand the mind, you get something very different.
For example, in the film, there’s three parts of the same shot, of three of my siblings on the water, on a little stream. At first, when I saw that footage, I thought, “Well it’s so degraded, it’s on VHS, it was in a garage for 25 years. I can’t use this at all.” And then I looked at it again and I thought, “This is the most important image of the whole film.” Because there is this delicate visual conversation going on through eyes — his eyes looking at them, and he’s sort of bossing them around in an affectionate way, like any dad would do, so it’s kind of a classic gesture, but he leaves the camera on, maybe accidentally. Consequently, to my eye, you get this exquisite, almost Renaissance image of the children moving around in this triangle. And you have these colors that reminded me of the impressionists. it was exactly the opposite of HD where you get things so unmediated, this was very mediated. By time. Our skin is mediated by time. If you were talking about film, you might talk about scratches, but it’s something else that happens to videotapes. And it’s part and parcel with what happens to the body — his body, our bodies, and in film, the body within the image stays the same.
I have those short films with my daughter Maya running around, and she grows older, but the film — like, she’s young, I can still grasp her in that way. And with this, I get three of my siblings, I get my father, and he’s chatty, which he isn’t anymore. And I get to hold on to that. It’s not just a memory, it’s a relic, like in an archaeological way.
CW: That’s really beautiful. Your film with Maya is just gorgeous. I remember seeing it somewhere online. It was so good.
LS: You probably noticed that that’s a kind of love of mine, having a person make a circle around you. There’s this intense gaze, which I kind of insisted on, and so I had her do that at different ages. I actually had my father do that a few times, and my mom. So it’s become a kind of conceit that I find very interesting, because as the filmmaker or shooter, you become dizzy. You become compromised, because if you’re in the center, you get dizzier than if you’re running around somebody. So I think that’s kind of the punishment for making them do it. (Laughs)
CW: And you have to trust that they’ll spot you. Or maybe they won’t. Okay, one last thing — watching Film About A Father Who — it really felt to me not just to be about your father, but about so many different women who were entranced by your father, or around in his orbit, or who felt betrayed by him, and hidden by him—
LS: Including his mother. Yeah. You’re right.
CW: I was really struck by the generosity of space that you give to people like maybe some of his girlfriends that I assume you didn’t know super well, but you guys all have this bond, this shared point which is your dad. And that connection is different to all of the women in the film.
LS: It’s very helpful for me to hear you say that. I think that was the reason I was finally able to make the film. I could make it as a peer with the women. Honestly, I grew older and my father’s girlfriends changed. They didn’t grow older, necessarily (laughs) and so as I grew older, I would think, okay, instead of feeling resentful toward them because they have found themselves in these situations, I need to understand what it means to be this woman at this point in time, and the vulnerability that comes with it, and the expectations, and the need and the desire to change whatever situation is going on in your life. You know, people take different opportunities. And not to see it as opportunistic, but to see it as all of us caught in different webs of attempts to make our lives better or different or possible. And so, you know, as an 18 year old, the first time I went to a therapist was to talk about my dad. And I remember, she said to me, “Oh, God, how can you handle that? That’s terrible. You should talk to your father.” And I didn’t want to be that person. I just had to grow into my own maturity and live my life in a different way. When I finished this movie, I could say that I finally grew up.
CW: Well, nonfiction films, and films like this, you could’ve just kept the perspective in this very personal, subjective place of judgment or anger, and those things are felt in the film, for sure, but I think it’s so nice that you seized this opportunity to bring them into the conversation as much as they wanted to be.
LS: I appreciate your saying that. And it was the same with the two sisters, really. [Ira Sr. had hidden the existence of some of his children from their siblings.] At this second, I’m sitting on the bed where I shot with Julia, and I’d only just met her and Beth. They were other women in this vortex, and I wanted to hear about their lives. When we’re all together, that was most definitely the first time we’d all been together, and probably the third time I’d ever met her.
CW: Wow.
LS: So to hear her speak about her life was definitely a first.
CW: That’s incredible. And for a film to create that opportunity for all of you guys is so wonderful.
LS: It’s so interesting that you say that — to create an opportunity — because actually some really dear friends of my fathers wanted to see the movie, so I let them and they all got together on Zoom, they’re all in their eighties and wanted to talk to me about it. I was really really nervous about it, because I thought they’d be like, “Oh, this isn’t the Ira we knew!” but actually they said, “I wish my daughter would make a movie about me. And that we could go this deep.” And I was so relieved and shocked. Because basically, what they were saying was, this is the life he led, and we live different lives, maybe more expected and typical, but it’s not on film. And it didn’t generate all these conversations and deeper reflections on the part of all the members of our family. As you know, all of us have an ability, a self-conscious or forced amnesia and there’s things that don’t get talked about. And I don’t mean like we should all be in therapy together. I just mean that it’s kind of freeing to talk about things. And something about a movie sort of gives everybody that license. Because you’re doing it together! It’s a collaborative effort and it’s something that everybody deems worth doing.
Stills from Film About a Father Who. All images courtesy of Cinema Guild.
For more than three decades, experimental documentary filmmaker Lynne Sachs has been shining an intimate light on our hearts and minds in poetic works that explore who we are and our place in the world. The Memphis-born, Brooklyn-based auteur is being celebrated this month with the Museum of the Moving Image virtual festival “Lynne Sachs: Between Thought and Expression,” being held in conjunction with the release of her latest work, Film About a Father Who. From January 13 to 31, MoMI will screen nineteen of Sachs’s films, from 1986’s four-minute Still Life with Woman and Four Objects, in which a woman goes through daily routines like preparing lunch, to the world premiere of the four-minute Maya at 24, comprising scenes of Sachs’s daughter, Maya, at six, sixteen, and twenty-four.
The festival is organized into five programs: “Early Dissections,” “Family Travels,” “Time Passes,” and the feature-length Your Day Is My Night and Tips of My Tongue. Each ticket comes with access to a new interview between Sachs and assistant curator Edo Choi delving into Sachs’s career and her unique, unconventional style, which evokes such avant-garde filmmakers as Chantal Akerman, Bruce Conner, Maya Deren, Bruce Naumann, and Martha Rosler. Sachs will also participate in the live, free “Discussion with the Sachs Family” on January 19 at 7:00 with her brother, Ira Sachs Jr., and documentarian Kirsten Johnson (Cameraperson, Dick Johnson Is Dead), introduced by MoMI curator Eric Hynes.
Sachs’s films invite us into her personal life as well as the life of others. Which Way Is East (1994) takes us on her trip to Vietnam with her sister Dana, who says when Lynne gives her the camera, “Lynne can stand for an hour finding the perfect frame for her shot. It’s as if she can understand Vietnam better when she looks at it through the lens of her camera. I hate the camera; the world feels too wide for the lens, and if I try to frame it, I only cut it up.” Lynne’s framing is extraordinary, unfurling in a calm, hypnotic pace that can be claustrophobic in its immediacy. In 2013’s Your Day Is My Night, Sachs documents a group of Chinese immigrants crammed into a closetlike apartment in Chinatown, where they ponder the differences between their lives in America and their native country and wonder if they made the right choice in coming here. There’s a fascinating kind of intervention when a young Puerto Rican woman moves in with them. And in 2007’s The Small Ones, Sachs shares the story of her Hungarian cousin Sandor Lenard, who during WWII in Italy was tasked with “washing, measuring, and cementing the bones of American dead.” His straightforward narration is accompanied by abstract images of war and slow-motion home movies of children at a birthday party.
In an essay Sachs wrote about the four-minute 1987 silent short Drawn and Quartered, depicting a naked man and woman divided into four frames, exploring the tacit nature of the human body, she explained how she felt at the film’s San Francisco premiere: “Within those few painful minutes, the crowd went from absolute silence, to raucous laughter, and back to an exquisite quiet. I was shaking.” That’s how you’re likely to feel as you experience Sachs’s work all these years later.
“We’re pretty candid about who Dad is, and we’ve seen him through a lot, but we’re also able to shift what we might recognize as who he really is to what we want him to be,” experimental documentarian Lynne Sachs says in Film About a Father Who, a revealing look at the patriarch of her seemingly ever-expanding family, her dad, Ira Sachs Sr. Inspired by Yvonne Rainer’s seminal 1974 work A Film About a Woman Who . . . , a cinematic collage exploring sexual conflict, and Heinrich Boll’s 1971 novel Group Portrait with Lady, Sachs’s movie consists of footage taken over a period of fifty-four years, beginning in 1965, using 8mm and 16mm film, VHS, Hi8, Mini DV, and digital images, edited by Rebecca Shapass. Now eighty-four, Ira Sachs Sr. was a sex-loving, pot-smoking minor-league hotelier, a neglectful, emotionally unavailable husband and father, both selfish and generous, carefully guarding secrets that Lynne, her sister, journalist and author Dana Sachs, and her brother, filmmaker Ira Sachs Jr., discuss with their six half-siblings, children their father had with other wives and girlfriends, some of whom they did not know about for many years.
Ira Sr.’s mother, Rose Sachs, known as Maw-maw, who left him when he was young, says of his womanizing, “I can’t stand that way of life.” His first wife, Lynne’s mother, Diane Sachs, speaks about what an easy decision divorcing him was. “Marriage was just a lot of being up at night, going to the window, wondering when he was coming home,” she explains. His second wife, Diana Lee, says through tears, “He’s a mistake.” Yet nearly all the women in his life, relatives and companions alike, profess their undying love for the long-haired, bushy-mustached man who was able to cast a spell over them despite, at least outwardly, not appearing to be a particularly eloquent Don Juan type and never remaining faithful. But there’s also more than a hint of psychological abuse he suffered at the hands of his mother. “She treated me as an enemy,” he says.
Perhaps it’s not surprising that the first three children of such a secretive man all went into the storytelling arts, mixing fiction and nonfiction in film and literature; Ira has won awards for such films as Forty Shades of Blue and Love Is Strange, Dana’s books include the novel If You Lived Here and the Vietnam memoir The House on Dream Street, and Lynne’s documentaries range from Investigation of a Flame and Sermons and Sacred Pictures to Your Day Is My Night and States of UnBelonging. There are numerous shots of family members filming other relatives; at one point, Lynne is filming Ira Jr. filming Ira Sr. while watching home movies on the television. A Film About a Woman Who . . . , which features music by sound artist Stephen Vitiello, is a striking portrait of an unusually dysfunctional family, a true story that has been in the making for more than a half century and even now provides only some of the answers. Perhaps you can find out more when it begins streaming January 15-31 in the Museum of the Moving Image festival “Lynne Sachs: Between Thought and Expression”; Sachs will participate in a “Discussion with the Sachs Family” on January 19 at 7:00 with her brother Ira and documentarian Kirsten Johnson, introduced by MoMI curator Eric Hynes.
One of the pleasures of doing this job for an extended period of time is that you get to watch filmmakers develop longitudinally. I’ve been writing about and chatting with Lynne Sachs for something like twenty years. She is a savvy filmmaker whose work straddles the boundaries of experimental, non-fiction and essay films quite adroitly. Her new film, Film About a Father Who, marks the first time in her career that she has had the benefit of a distributor and theatrical engagements, a breakthrough that, understandably, thrills her.
What makes it particularly enjoyable for Sachs is that the film is a jagged-edged amalgam of footage shot over nearly forty years, ranging widely in visual quality, aspect ratio and texture, with no concessions to the mainstream concept of a neat and orderly film. In other words, it’s an uncompromising personal documentary, very much a Lynne Sachs film, but one that most audiences will definitely get. Film About focuses on her singularly unusual family constellation, which revolves around the supernova that is her dad, Ira Sachs, Sr. Over the course of 75 minutes and three generations she gives us a series of slow reveals that at first amuse, then shock the viewer. To put it mildly, Dad is not your ordinary family man. (As usual I will eschew spoilers, but suffice it to say, he has more than one big secret.)
Every bit as important as the premiere of the new film, Sachs is also the subject of a mid-career retrospective at the Museum of the Moving Image, which runs from January 13-31. Among the highlights are new HD presentations of early films — Drawn and Quartered (1987), The House of Science: a museum of false facts (1991) and Which Way Is East: Notebooks from Viet Nam (1994) — and the premiere of the latest in her ongoing series of portraits of her children, Maya at 24. For a full listing of the program go to movingimage.us/LynneSachs/.
There’s a famous exchange between John Ford and a French critic. The interviewer asked Ford why the theme of family was so important in his films. His reply was brusque: “You had a mother, didn’t you?”
Sachs had, indeed has a mother. She does make a fleeting appearance in the film, but the title tells you who the central figure is. He’s a charmer, a seducer and probably a monster, but Sachs withholds final judgment with the cool detachment of a Jean Renoir. Film About a Father Who shows offer her strengths admirably and is a heck of a good way to begin 2021.
Film About a Father Who opens Friday via the Belcourt’s virtual cinema
Dick Johnson Is Dead — the largely acclaimed Netflix release in which filmmaker Kirsten Johnson (Cameraperson) finds myriad ways to kill her father on camera — was not the only documentary released last year in which a female filmmaker puts the focus on her old man.
Film About a Father Who, which was the opening-night film at last year’s Slamdance Film Festival and will be playing virtually at the Belcourt starting Friday, has Lynne Sachs doing a dark, deep dive into the life of her father, Ira Sachs. The younger Sachs mostly does this by patching together home-video clips and other footage she and her fam have shot throughout the decades on various formats.
Sachs immediately establishes that her dad is something of a character. Ira has spent most of his life building hotel properties (including a posh winter resort in Park City — Sundance territory), all while rocking a wild, walrusy mustache. But even when he was making major moves as a successful developer, he always had time to play.
It turns out the man was a big-time lothario, dating a series of ladies even though he had a wife and kids at the house. Ira would continue to do this after he was divorced, picking up not only several girlfriends, but several baby mamas.
Sachs basically uses Father to get to know her half-siblings, a couple of whom she didn’t even know that much about, as well as examine how these newfound kinfolk affected her and her siblings, among them fellow indie filmmaker Ira Sachs Jr. (Quick side note: Sachs Jr. and his spouse, Boris Torres, are the fathers of twins. Who’s the mom? Why, it’s Dick Johnson Is Dead director Kirsten Johnson.)
Of course, Sachs tries to figure out why her dad was such a major rolling stone. As always, all signs point to the grandparents — mainly, her wealthy grandmother, who is referred to as Maw Maw. Way, way back in the day, Maw Maw left her husband and took young Ira with her, practically setting off Ira’s daddy issues. As you would expect, Maw Maw is one ornery cuss, disapproving of her son’s bon vivant lifestyle and declaring she doesn’t want to know more about his other kids — so she won’t have to care about them.
It’s kinda crazy that Sachs’ dad was such a playa, pulling so many ladies that the director herself admits she couldn’t get many of their names. These days, old age has set in, and the younger Sachs predictably finds that getting answers out of the artful codger about his years of reckless philandering/fathering isn’t easy. Then again, as sly as he is, maybe dude is using his elderly state as a smokescreen, pretending not to remember because he doesn’t want to bring back the pain and confusion he inflicted upon people.
Lynne Sachs goes for an abstract, experimental tone in Father, essentially creating a fractured collage of, shall we say, life with father. You could say she makes Father all dazed and jumbled because that’s mostly how her dad eventually made everyone feel. No family is perfect, but having to discover all these secret relatives must have been a jarring mindfuck for Sachs and her peoples.
Nevertheless, Sachs and most of the brood surprisingly take this all in stride. As their father now spends his days picking up litter, his kids don’t seem to carry that much of a grudge. That was their father, and — as messed up as it all was — they’ve come to accept that.
Near the end of the film, there’s a lengthy shot in which Lynne and Ira watch TV on the couch, sharing a blanket. Even with everything that has happened with this man and his ever-expanding family, Sachs and Film About My Father Who show that you can still have quality time with the son of a bitch who brought you into this world.
Life’s Material:
An Interview with Lynne Sachs
By Chris Shields
The major online retrospective Lynne Sachs: Between Thought and Expression runs from January 13–31 at Museum of the Moving Image, and will feature a first-run release of her latest, Film About a Father Who, from Cinema Guild. Read more info and order an all-series pass here.
Lynne Sachs’s Film About a Father Who is a hybrid work—part documentary, part experimental cinematic essay. Deftly weaving together several media formats and 35 years of footage, Sachs’s richly textured new film reveals the life and secrets of her father, Ira Sachs, a charming and enigmatic outsider-businessman, as well as the family members who in various ways are attempting to understand him.
Throughout her career, Sachs’s work has brought together thoughts, feelings, and materials collected throughout her daily life, wherein filmmaking is a seemingly daily practice, and her latest is no exception. It features Sachs’s characteristically beautiful 16mm photography, home movies, and interviews (past and recent) in which generations come together to discuss just who and what connects them. Beyond a family portrait however, Sachs’s film is an interrogation of the cinematic medium itself and its formal possibilities for the intimate and autobiographical. It’s an exciting work that is both formally uncompromising and surprisingly inviting.
As the centerpiece of Museum of the Moving Image’s current retrospective, “Lynne Sachs: Between Thought and Expression,” Film About a Father Who represents the culmination of years of her experimentation and exploration in the DIY film underground. Sachs’s career represents a balancing act between ideas and experiences, the personal and the formal, and the intellectual and the heartfelt. For Sachs, whose art is finding the profoundly human in the space between her life and her materials, the classic Lou Reed lyric that provides the title for her current retrospective rings true: “Between thought and expression, lies a lifetime.”
Reverse Shot:Film About a Father Who feels like—I don’t want to say conventional because it’s certainly not—it’s in a more accessible documentary format than the more experimental essay films you’re known for. Was this a conscious decision?
Lynne Sachs: I like that you used the word accessible, because actually my mother told me the same thing. I think it kind of touches on that word accessible—some people use it in a disparaging way and some people use it in a way to say, you know, that you can have an entry point to it. And I think part of that entry point maybe has to do with [how] we’re all trying to contend with the imprint of our own families on us, and how we will then come to a certain point. Maybe you come to that point at 18, or maybe you come to that point at 65 or whatever. It’s a point where you sort of say, I am who I am, but I see myself in my family, and I also separate myself. It’s like a Lacanian moment or psychoanalytic. So I think accessibility maybe had to do with that, that kind of prototype of family, and you just grappling with where you fit, where you can find an entry.
RS: Was there a moment where you realized the film could have a wider audience?
LS: Film About a Father Who was not only invited to screen at Slamdance, it was their opening night film. And I had this great conversation with one of the founders and directors of the festival, Paul Rachman, who said, “I know you’ve been in this niche world for a long time, but I think you can cross over.” I had a doubt about that, but I’ve always had a foot in the experimental world and one in the documentary world, but never strictly in one or the other. I would probably identify more with the experimental world than with the straight-ahead documentary. But I like the part about documentaries that allows you to work with all these different kinds of people and ask questions and be nosy and work with these complicated ideas around how society works.
RS: There is an approachability, yet it still fits so well with the rest of your work.
LS: The other side to it that maybe is more similar to my other previous work is that when I was working on it, I actually cut it as twelve little experimental films with Rebecca Shapass, my editor. My goal was to have a single film, but I didn’t want to structure it in a chronological order. So to work my way against that, against that obvious time passing, I just had to edit based on different themes or relationships between things or certain shots that I thought had this kind of resonance. Then I would build around it. And each of those shorter films began to have a beginning and an end. And then I spent another year with Rebecca, and we broke apart all those films and wove them together. So in that way it was similar to my process in that I often begin in the middle of a film and have to go searching for the start and the finish, which is very different from how you would organize a narrative film per se, where you would know where you’re going.
RS: Speaking of your work with Rebecca, the editing is tremendous. Once you started to work together, how did you know it was the time after collecting footage over so many years to complete the film and release it?
LS: She had never edited a film of that—let’s call it magnitude. And she really thinks of herself as an artist, not an editor. And so this was an experience that she could dive into. And so we would sit there together. And the reason I knew that I could work with her and that it was the right time was that I never felt that she was judgmental.
RS: And why did you feel that was important?
LS: Because I needed a way to both edit and distance myself from it. And so things I might get self-conscious about or question, Rebecca provided a sort of objectivity. At the same time she’s an artist and brings that perspective as well
RS: Were there revelations as you went through the footage in preparation for the film?
LS: Yes, things that seemed peripheral became very central, like the image that I actually decided to bring back three times of the children playing in the water. The first time I looked at that material, I thought, oh, it’s very degraded, I can’t use this. The second time I thought, hey, this looks like an impressionist painting. And then the third time I said, “This is actually the center of the whole film,” because we have my father’s point of view on his children, which is very loving. We were able to see his world as a dad and that we needed to have access to his psyche and that license.
RS: How was your interview process with your father?
LS: He wasn’t really giving me very much in a more conventional sort of question-and-answer way of interacting. So the material that he shot, for example, was so important. In documentary work it’s not just about seeing someone; it’s how they see that can tell you just as much about them.
RS: I think “Between Thought and Expression” is a very apt title for your current retrospective. There’s so much memory in your films, and yet also materiality is such a huge part. It feels like a really fundamental thing that you’re using so many different means, materially—film, video, spoken word, written word—to get at something that is essentially an ineffable, illusive place of feeling, memory, perception, understanding, etc. Do you see that as a central part of your work?
LS: The title of the current retrospective came from Edo Choi, the curator, and I was pretty excited about it because people often think that films start with a story, and that is not how I work. My films start with ideas. So that was very insightful. It was Edo Choi and Eric Hynes, but I think it’s really got Edo’s fingerprint over the whole retrospective. He chose to feature Same Stream Twice and Maya at 24. So, Maya at 24 is my daughter at 24, but it’s also the idea that you’re 24 frames per second. I made a film when Maya was six, when she was 16, then when she was 24, and all three are in the retrospective. So I thought that was at first kind of surprising, but then the audience gets to kind of move through the films as material things, as you said, but also move through her life.
RS: Your family has factored into your films before, and in your new film you had your brothers and sisters so heavily involved. Were they hesitant or onboard?
LS: For many years everybody just called it “Lynn’s [sic, this will be edited] Dad film.” They’d say, “When are you going to finish that Dad film?” So, I finished some other projects, even as far back as my film Which Way Is East?, which I finished in ’94. And so even then they’d say, “When are you going to go back to that? You started three years ago.” So I’d continue and I would shoot some more. And I would set up these interviews, kind of a familiar way of making a documentary—you set up a time and a place. But with my dad, I’d asked the same questions every time. And I’d always get the same answers, and I wasn’t really going any deeper. I could say that’s part of his generation for men, but maybe that’s not it, maybe it’s that people, certain people, are closed off from going to that place of sort of interiority. So my brothers and sisters became essential in forming a picture of my father. I found that when I would talk to different siblings, yes, they would be kind of protective of dad, but they also wanted to help me build an understanding of who he was.
So around 2017 and ’18, I, when I was aware that I had two sisters I hadn’t known about, I would either fly to where they lived or we would take special time when we were having a family gathering. And I think most of us are unaccustomed to being interviewed; it doesn’t happen that much in our lives. And I decided that those later interviews would be without a camera. So then you’re not as self-conscious. And so actually I think that sometimes they came to a place where they understand who they were in relation to our father that maybe they hadn’t ever expressed before. And so there was an appreciation for that, and it kind of brought us closer.
RS: Did you ever have any personal hesitation moving forward with the film?
LS: I was finishing the film very much in the “me too” era. And I had to contend with that and that I was trying to explore my relationship as a woman to this male presence in my life. But I think there’s another corresponding experience: my brothers and their own search for their masculinity. Your father is a model—it might not be a role model, but it is a model. So you either follow that and you yearn to be that, or you differentiate yourself as a man. And in the last period of time, when I was making the film, I think each of my brothers explored who he wanted to be as a man, both in a loving way to my dad, but also to say “I’m different, and I’m going to conduct myself differently.”
RS: Was Su Freidrich’s Sink or Swim an influence in any way, or a film you considered?
LS: Well, her work has been extremely important to me, and she has spent a lot of time making work about both her mother and her father. And if I’m interpreting the film correctly, I think that her alienation from her father continues and that is also reflected in the fact that you don’t see her father in it. So her father comes in kind of like a mythic person, and her film ends up being as much about her, and maybe mine does too. That might be something that I’ve learned from her. Sink or Swim uses these, let’s call them incidents in a life or a relationship as parables. And I really liked that. Like I used an incident where my father talks about two cars—he says he has two Cadillacs, and he wanted to hide that from his mother. So he just painted them the same color. And so it’s really just an anecdote, but it’s also telling about the way someone moves through their social space. I think that’s something I share with her. We take incidents and they kind of blossom or inflate into something more resonant, even for someone watching the film.
RS: Could you talk a little bit about how your feelings might have changed towards your father when the film was being completed or even now that people have been seeing it.
LS: When I was making the film, I took a walk with Alan Berliner, who had made a film about his dad called Nobody’s Business [1997]. And he said, “Our dads left a mark…they left a mark on the world that could be invisible to most but maybe not their children.” And so in some ways I feel that whatever flaws or scars or bad blood that happened as a result of my dad, he also lived this full life. I showed the film to some men of his age who were in a fraternity with him from the University of Florida. And so there was a part of me that felt really protective, or embarrassed, or I thought, “Oh my God, now they’re not gonna think he’s as perfect as they might have thought he was. They’re going to really know.” But instead they said, “I wish my daughter made a film about me, Lynne.”
There might be things that you did that people could call egregious; well it’s still the life you lead. It is your place on the earth. And so in that way I feel like it’s kind of giving my father this different kind of legacy per se. And I think he’s kind of excited. He came to the New York premiere; he was there with his cellphone and he was getting photographed and was pretty excited for the party afterwards.
RS: I wanted to ask you about your commitment to film as a material. I feel that there is something that I get from watching your films, especially images of the year 2017 or 2016 shot on 16mm film—there’s a presence.
LS: Well, I’ll tell you something that will even shock you more. I bought a 16mm Bolex windup camera in 1987. And that’s the camera I use. Wow. Can you think of all the cameras and cell phones and computers and laptops that each one of us has had in those intervening years? And I love that. I don’t have to worry about batteries. Sometimes I do hand processing, and I really like to go to a local lab in New York. And so it feels like you can just drop it off the way we used to. There’s a touching of the material that connects us to painters or ceramicists. I think it’s fascinating that people who shoot in 16 now like to show the sprockets—it’s an aesthetic choice.
RS: I think there’s sometimes a misunderstanding about formally engaged films and formally experimental or radical films. There’s a very accepting and humanistic aspect to imperfections and flaws.
LS: Do you know the Japanese expression, wabi-sabi? It’s all about that, about being drawn to the flaws of things. If that is your sensibility, then it is exactly the inverse of everything we see on television these days. But interestingly enough, now there are programs on Premiere where you can add scratches. It’s a trick, but it’s also coming full circle; it’s people saying, we’re hungry for the rust and for the path for the passage of time. When I was working with Rebecca, we started to recognize that the decay of the materials or degradation of the footage weren’t flaws, but something that gave it the test of time. Isn’t perfect a little dreary?
All the great filmmakers have been artists of the lens. If you think about Hitchcock, Truffaut, Wilder, Kazan, Visconti, Fellini and endless more that make up our collective cinematic heritage, they constructed their work like one long sequence of aesthetics — sight and sound.
Lynne Sachs is no exception. While effortlessly flowing between documentary, experimental and narrative styles, Sachs’ films — whether 4 minutes long or full length — reward the adventurous viewer with a sense of beauty, elegance and joie de vivre. And I say “adventurous viewer” because it may have been difficult for non-urban audiences to catch the prolific artist’s work.
Until now that is. While in the past someone like me had to rely on the cool publicist devoted to Sachs and her films to point me in the direction of her next screening at a festival or inside a hip city venue, this January the Museum of the Moving Image has organized a wonderfully comprehensive retrospective of Lynne Sachs’ cinematic work. Beginning on January 13th and streaming online this proves a rare treat, since Sachs’ films are perfect for the kind of intimate viewing we are relegated to these days. Watch one, switch it off, talk about it with your family or friends, share your views online with the larger social media community — Sachs is the filmmaker of the times and how appropriate for her retrospective take place now!
Lynne Sachs, dir. of Film About a Father Who
Lynne Sachs photographed by Abby Lord, used with permission
So what makes Sachs’ work so unique? When I met her in person, right before our current pandemic and at the screening of her latest film at MoMA in NYC, she struck me as a rare combination of kind, unconventional and courageous. And her clothes betrayed the kind of effortless elegance that makes her films so appealing. Her voice, so often the soundtrack of her work, feels familiar even the first time you hear it, like that of a best friend who calls just to see how you’re doing. And in doing so makes the world a better place.
To me, Sachs is an artist, a visual explorer of the beauty that is hidden in cinema, for only a few to figure out. But I wonder how she views herself, as an artist or a filmmaker, or even a poet? She answers via email from NYC, kind as ever. “When you add the word “hidden” to the word “beauty”, I really start to get interested. Lately I have been thinking about certain images that, like our bodies, are growing old with the dignity of their own life span, their provenance. These are the kinds of images that reveal their journey and don’t pretend to have appeared on this earth, or more precisely on our screens, in the year 2021.” She continues, “artist and cultural theorist Hito Steyerl writes eloquently and perceptively in her essay “In Defense of the Poor Image” about the way that images from the past move into our present by carrying the baggage of time. I like seeing the dirt, rust, and wrinkles that tell a story in a purely visual way. When I see images that insist on carrying slivers of their past –- be it joyous or traumatic –- I see beauty.”
The retrospective includes some of Sachs’ earlier work, shorts and mid-length films about her children, the world around her, art, poetry, feminism — her own brand of the stuff — and science. It’s divided into five programs — Early Investigations, Family Travels, Time Passes, Your Day Is My Night and Tip of My Tongue — plus a special online screening of her latest feature ‘Film About a Father Who’ which is a personal favorite and a must-watch for anyone wanting to learn more about Sachs and her fascinating family. You can find my personal review of it here.
There is a Michael Apted feel to her work which often revolves around family, or rather those who are important in Sachs’ life, shot over a long period of time. I’m thinking of the shorts which star her daughter Maya at around 6, in her teenage years and then again at 24. What a treat they are but also a wonderful way to examine the constantly changing pattern of our lives. So I ask Sachs how she’s seen the pandemic change things, as related to her work-in-progress with Maya and she surprises me. “Now this is an intriguing way of asking me about the pandemic, through a film about my daughter Maya that I have essentially shot three times over the course of twenty years. When she was six I made ‘Photograph of Wind’, at sixteen I made ‘Same Stream Twice’ and at twenty-four I made ‘Maya at 24’. What I think you are getting at is an epistemological question about the meaning of time.” Yes, she gets me, she really gets me! She continues, “in this period of sheltering-in-place or at least quasi-isolation, many of us are wondering how to register our days. Is there going to be an end? Or are we caught in a constant, traumatizing, unending middle? We are all aging at the same rate; we register each day in the same way. In these three films (each between 3 and 4 minutes), I asked Maya to run in circles around me while I was filming her with my 16mm camera. We both stare at each other the entire time. Dizzying as it may be, we are together exploring our relationship through our eyes. Without touching, we are as intimate as a parent and child can be. During the pandemic, as I communicate with my own mother from hundreds of miles away using the virtual technology available to us, I must remember that this form of contact might not be great, but it is good enough.”
A still from ‘House of Science’ by Lynne Sachs
Elements of her feminist spirit, but not the extremist kind we see these days rather a more inclusive approach, also permeate Sachs’ work. It’s a breath of fresh air to see a woman filmmaker explore our bodies, our minds and our sexuality on screen. And what a wonderful surprise to find out that Edo Choi curated for the Museum of the Moving Image this comprehensive retrospective of Sachs’ work. As both a lover of film and a film writer, Choi makes the perfect conductor for our journey in the midst of the filmmaker’s opus. So as a final question I asked Sachs how it feels to have a retrospective of her work at MoMI, especially now.
“Scary, vulnerable and exciting,” Sachs admits, mentioning Choi right away. “Today, I was working with the Museum of the Moving Image’s marvelous, insightful, and dedicated assistant curator Edo Choi on some technical aspects of the program. You see when you are dealing with film files that were created over thirty years, they might not be compatible, on a technological, thematic or conceptual level with other films that you recently completed. I mentioned earlier what we all know –- time runs in seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, years. It does not change. But technology does, at least in the world of video. So, some of my files run at 29.97 frames per second, some at 23.98 fps and some at 24 fps. It all depends on when the films were born! This makes it very hard to stream them together.” What does that mean to a filmmaker? She explains, “maybe this is telling me something about myself, what was on my mind back in 1986 may be very different from what I am thinking about in 2021. To my surprise, I do see themes that connect me to who I was at 25 and who I am today at 59. When people watch the films, I hope they can find some of these threads that carry through all of the work. I am not going to say here what I see, because I am very interested in finding out what viewers discover on their own.”
In FILM ABOUT A FATHER WHO director Lynne Sachs takes 35 years of film and video of her father, mixes it with interviews with her family and friends and tries to figure out who her dad really is.
What starts out as a typical look at father by a daughter slowly becomes something else as revelations about Sachs’ father begin to muddy the waters and change what she and others think of him. It quickly becomes clear that there are more than one way to see him.
What I love about the film is that Sachs throws things out and doesn’t tie it all up. We are left to piece things together. If you’ve noticed that I am not discussing the details of the revelations it is because how Sachs tells us things influences how we feel at any particular moment. If I start to feed you revelations before you go in you will have a differing experience than what the director intended. You will also know where this goes and the journey there is the point of the film, so I’m not telling.
So where does that leave this review? It leaves me simply to say if you want to take an intriguing ride though one woman’s life see FILM ABOUT A FATHER WHO.
Screen Time is your curated weekly guide to excellent documentaries and nonfiction programs that you can watch at home.
The documentary world lost Michael Apted last Friday, and the one work that most distinguished his career was The UP Series, which began in 1964 as an exploration into the British class system through the lens of a cross-section of seven-year-old children, then deepened over the subsequent decades into an affirmation—and perhaps refutation—of the Jesuit maxim that drove the entire series: “Show me the child at seven, and I’ll show you the person.” Most of the original 14 protagonists continued to participate in the series, right up to the final one, from 2019: 63-UP. We learned to love these UPpers. We agonized over their darkest days, we rooted for them when they bounced back, we welcomed them back to the series after they had dropped out, and with one of the UPpers, we mounted her passing. You can catch the entire UP Series on Amazon Prime, or BritBox.
Premiering in virtual theaters through Magnolia Pictures on January 15, Lance Oppenheim’s Some Kind of Heaven ventures into The Villages, America’s largest retirement community—a massive, self-contained utopia located in Central Florida—to meet some of the residents whose dreams and desires of a retirement in paradise have fallen short.
Premiering January 15 through Cinema Guild is Lynne Sachs’ Film About a Father Who. Shot in multiple formats over a period of 35 years between 1984 and 2019, the film profiles Sachs’ father, Ira Sachs Sr., a bon vivant and pioneering businessman from Park City, Utah. Her film offers simultaneous, sometimes contradictory, views of one seemingly unknowable man who is publicly the uninhibited center of the frame yet privately ensconced in secrets. With this meditation on fatherhood and masculinity, Sachs allows herself and her audience to see beneath the surface of the skin, beyond the projected reality.
IDA Documentary Award nominee Acasa, My Home, from Radu Ciorniciuc, introduces viewers to the Enache family, who live in the wilderness of the Bucharest Delta, an abandoned water reservoir just outside the bustling metropolis. The family has lived here for decades, sleeping in a hut on the lakeshore, catching fish barehanded, and following the rhythm of the seasons. When this area is transformed into a public national park, they are forced to leave behind their unconventional life and move to the city, where fishing rods are replaced by smartphones and idle afternoons are now spent in classrooms. Acasa, My Home, premieres January 15 through Zeitgeist Films, in association with Kino Lorber.
Premiering January 11 on Netflix, Crack: Cocaine, Corruption & Conspiracy, from Stanley Nelson, takes viewers to the origins of the devastating crack epidemic of the 1980s, which ravaged the poorer communities of America, resulting in the ongoing marginalization of Black and Brown people trapped by the US prison and healthcare systems.
Launching January 14 on Topic, IDA Documentary Award nominee Abortion Helpline, This Is Lisa, directed by Barbara Attie, Janet Goldwater and Mike Attie, takes viewers to the Philadelphia abortion helpline, where counselors arrive each morning to the nonstop ring of calls from women and teens who are seeking to end a pregnancy but can’t afford to. This short documentary exposes the economic stigma and cruel legislation that determine who in America has access to abortion.
Premiering January 15 through IFC Films, MLK/FBI, the three-time IDA Documentary Award nominee, directed by IDA Career Achievement Award honoree Sam Pollard, lays out a detailed account of the FBI surveillance that dogged Martin Luther King’s activism throughout the 1950s and ‘60s, fueled by the racist and red-baiting paranoia of J. Edgar Hoover. In crafting a rich archival tapestry, featuring some revelatory restored footage of King, Pollard urges us to remember that true American progress is always hard-won.
