Entries tagged with “Personal Narrative” from Rooftop Films Blog

New York Underground Film Festival
April 2-8, 2008
@ Anthology Film Archives
www.nyuff.com
Tickets

March 27 @ 9:45pm
Selections from the 2007 NYUFF
@ IFC Center
Tickets



The New York Underground Film Festival, a venerable anti-establishmentarian institution, the godfather of all "Underground" film festivals, will be hosting its 15th and Final installation in April, and then doing what any good punk rocker should do: dying young and . . . re-establishing itself as year-round programming consortium called "Migrating Forms."

The NYUFF has always been a haven for strange and beautiful, shocking and revealing avant garde cinema, and is definitely a big inspiration for Rooftop. I'll certainly be out for many screenings, including films by the following Rooftop alums: Jim Finn, Jacqueline Goss, Patrick Jolley, Jeanne Liotta, Jennifer Matotek, Seth Price, Robert Todd, Keith Wilson, Bryan Boyce, Lyn Elliot, Kent Lambert, Darrin Martin, Eileen Maxson, Kelly Oliver, Keary Rosen, Shelly Silver, Jim Trainor, Cory Arcangel, Skizz Cyzyk, Joe Nanashe, Moira Tierney, and Aaron Valdez (film pictured).

Check back here to the Rooftop Films blog for some write-ups and reviews of films, and I hope to see you there!

Late last night, after jumping from IFC's My Morning Jacket / Yo La Tengo concert to the wide-open SXSW Closing Night party and finally onto Joel Heller's birthday, I wound up at the Magnolia diner, eating scrambled eggs and discussing scrambled documentaries. I was there with Dan Nuxoll from Rooftop, Joel, and Alex Karpovsky and Eric Bruggermann, the director and editor, respectively, of "The Hole Story" and 2008 SXSW selection "Woodpecker."

I brought up the fascinating dialogue about the distinctions of fiction and non-fiction filmmaking that I had heard surrounding some of the films here at SXSW, including Alex's film(s), Daniel Stamm's "A Necessary Death," and even films as different as Nanette Burstein's "American Teen," Morgan Spurlock's "Where in the World is Osama bin Laden?" and Josh Safdie's "The Pleasure of Being Robbed," where categorical definitions would appear pretty straightforward. We'd heard a rumor that when "A Necessary Death" played one European festival, it was in the documentary section, and the crowd was incensed.

Why is it that people get so mad about films that blur these distinctions or even deliberately mislead the audience? Do these distinctions matter? And if so, how should we be defining these films?

[To read this entire article, please click here.]

[This is the complete article originally published on March 13, 2008.]

Late last night, after jumping from IFC's My Morning Jacket / Yo La Tengo concert to the wide-open SXSW Closing Night party and finally onto Joel Heller's birthday, I wound up at the Magnolia diner, eating scrambled eggs and discussing scrambled documentaries. I was there with Dan Nuxoll from Rooftop, Joel, and Alex Karpovsky and Eric Bruggermann, the director and editor, respectively, of "The Hole Story" and 2008 SXSW selection "Woodpecker" (pictured left).

I brought up the fascinating dialogue about the distinctions of fiction and non-fiction filmmaking that I had heard surrounding some of the films here at SXSW, including Alex's film(s), Daniel Stamm's "A Necessary Death," and even films as different as Nanette Burstein's "American Teen," Morgan Spurlock's "Where in the World is Osama bin Laden?" and Josh Safdie's "The Pleasure of Being Robbed," where categorical definitions would appear pretty straightforward. We'd heard a rumor that when "A Necessary Death" played one European festival, it was in the documentary section, and the crowd was incensed.

Why is it that people get so mad about films that blur these distinctions or even deliberately mislead the audience? Do these distinctions matter? And if so, how should we be defining these films?

One of the first things we realized is that general audience members, far more than film critics, filmmakers, and film programmers, do question what's "real." You hear in Q & A sessions how important it is to them. And a great number of film professionals also debate (and confuse) these terms and distinctions. So the distinctions do matter. And I think the first reason why they matter, why people want to know if a film is a work of fiction or non-fiction, is because people don't like "being suckered" (as entertainment lawyer and SXSW panelist Alan Levy put it when I was discussing the issue with him). Being suckered is different from being tricked: a murder mystery tricks you, but that's what you want it to do; a fiction film that poses as a non-fiction film (the thinking goes) suckers you. People think that the film is somehow lying to you, which you don't want it to do.

I think this discrepancy comes initially from expectation: when you go to see an action movie, you don't want to find yourself instead watching a quiet drama. When you see certain documentary aesthetics, you expect that what you are seeing is non-fiction. So the second and more important reason why audience members want to know the nature of the film is because of the inherent differences in the way we interact with fiction and non-fiction films. People are more likely to immediately connect emotionally with non-fiction characters because one of the greatest challenges of fiction cinema--effective suspension of disbelief--is alleviated. When a character in a fiction film does something outlandish, an audience member is likely to think, "No one would ever do that." Not so in documentary; you have to assume they really did it. So when you think a film is non-fiction, and it turns out to be scripted, you mistrust your own emotional reading of the film. The same is true in reverse for non-fiction films. Every camera move and edit in a documentary is of course a manipulation of reality, yet people still get hung up on the details of some non-attainable objective truth.

With either fiction or non-fiction, that mental approach to film watching is limiting. We should be able to watch a movie, and analyze our feelings and our thoughts based on the emotions expressed and the ideas addressed, not solely on whether it was "real." I think keeping the lines between fiction and non-fiction blurry is a wise move. Whether the filmmaker writes a story and casts actors to play the characters, or if the filmmaker follows the story of people leading their existing lives, the goals are the same for any film: to entertain the audience, to enlighten them, to take them to emotional highs and lows.

This is where films like Safdie's "The Pleasure of Being Robbed" and Burstein's "American Teen" come in. I thought "American Teen" was entertaining and engaging, but I didn't love the film because of some of the manipulations--jumps in time to enhance the weight of an emotion, moments that are clearly created in the editing room but didn't happen live. My problem isn't the manipulations per se, and I don't doubt the veracity of the basic facts. My problem is that because of those manipulations, I didn't really connect with the characters. I thought the jumps in time simplified complex emotions, and the forged scenes fell flat. When watching either a non-fiction or a fiction film, you understand that this isn't an objective reality, but if the cuts and camera angles fail to create a subjective emotional and intellectual truth, the film has failed.

In contrast, some scenes in Josh Safdie's film are, as he put it, "stolen"--he caught people on the street unawares and wrote them into his narrative. I was impressed by the way he was able to fluidly bring these elements into his rather fantastical story, and from a narrative standpoint, I was touched by the interactions.

Karpovsky's "Woodpecker" is a brilliant example of the way a filmmaker can blend fact and fiction to make an amusing, moving and meaningful film that transcends either documentary or fiction modes. The film is about the true story of the supposed sighting of an Ivory Billed Woodpecker in the bayou of Arkansas. Hundreds of bird watchers descended on the swamps, hoping to confirm the sighting. Alex sets the stage for his film with mostly documentary footage, and provides a sincere and intriguing look into a region transformed and polarized by this funny little bird. We meet ordinary people who were transfixed by the beauty of the bird, and hunters who are displeased that the search for the bird is keeping them from their hunting grounds. There are locals opening tourist shops selling bird trinkets, and taxidermists who claim to be able to manufacture an Ivory Billed in minutes. Into this world, Alex injects Jon e. Hyrnes (pictured below left), an actor who Alex discovered, ironically, when Johnny appeared as the subject of another documentary, "Johnny Berlin." Alex makes the wise point, "Much like the bird itself, "Woodpecker" explores the intersection of fact and fiction, manipulating our notions of documentary and narrative techniques within a tragic comedy about hope, perception, and some very very strange birds."

One of the ingenious cinematic devices in "Woodpecker" is the way Karpovsky has the character he scripted continue to develop a theme first brought up by one of the documentary characters. One of the birdwatchers who (I'm pretty sure) is real, says that the bird's cry is simply the announcement, "I am here." This phrase becomes a core leitmotif for Johnny, the lead in the film, who himself is looking for the bird in order mark to his place in birdwatching history. This lonely guy, who drolly remarks that when his wife left him "she was essentially saying 'I am not here,'" thinks that if he spots the bird he will somehow justify and signify his own existence. He wants to be famous, yes, but only in this obscure realm. His core desire, as he explains in one of his ludicrous but subtly insightful rants, is to be an integral part of the birdwatching community. He wants people to know he is there, to care that he's there, and to enable people to see this bird. So as we watch Johnny mingle with the locals and drift through the swamps, we relate to the community with his specific perspective, this strange but pure and life-affirming connection with the world.

The film raises a lot of issues about environmentalism and hunting, about dying small towns and the pitfalls of media attention, about individual isolation and community, and the way in which the issues are presented through the perspective of an entertaining and astute on-screen character effectively makes them more genuine and resonant than if we were seeing them in a purportedly neutral documentary. "Woodpecker" is a far more potent use of motion pictures than a purely factual news report of the (possible) discovery of the Ivory Billed Woodpecker.

So if blurring the lines between fiction and non-fiction can be useful, how do we define such films? Even though I think audiences shouldn't determine their appreciation of a film by any categories or expectations, I think we need definitions in order to avoid confusion and reach a more universal understanding of these conventions, so that audience members aren't burdened by misconceptions.

There are three essential categories, and a handful of styles within them. All films are fiction, non-fiction or a hybrid. I think one of the core confusions stems from the misleading term "narrative film." Most films, whether based on imagination or fact, are narrative--they are telling a story. Non-fiction films, however, can be told in a variety of styles, which include documentary, verité, and recreation. Conventional "documentary" style would include films in which the camera records events as they unfold in real time, without the director intentionally influencing the action. Documentaries often include elements such as music, titles, and effects that did not appear directly in front of the camera, and interviews, in which the action is perhaps staged with lights, sets, and questions, but what the subject says is not shaped by the filmmaker. In contrast, verité filmmaking does not use any such non-diegetic elements or staged events.

A film like Robinson Devor's "Zoo" (pictured left) is still non-fiction, because the audio and video are all based on facts not imagination, but it is a work of non-fiction not made in a documentary style, because the voices of the subjects were re-recorded by actors, and the images were recreated with actors, lighting, set-decoration, etc. (Throughout this article, I used the terms "documentary" and "narrative" to refer to the style of filmmaking, but not the category of films.) It's interesting to note that Morgan Spurlock's "Where in the World is Osama bin Laden?" is considered a work of non-fiction (by most people), in a documentary style, even though, like "Woodpecker," it contains scripted elements and a "character" who is interacting with real people. The differences between Spurlock's and Karpovsky's films is the way in which the character is presented (Spurlock as himself; Jon e. Hymes as the fictional Johnny Neander), and the essence of the narrative (Spurlock investigating a question; Karpovsky crafting a portrait).

Within hybrid films, the distinctions of style are equally varied, including mockumentaries, faux documentaries, meta-documentaries, and fake home movies. Over lunch at Stubb's BBQ joint, I was discussing the issue with filmmakers Andrew Bujalski and Garrett Savage, and filmmaker plus "Woodpecker" co-producer Dia Sokol, and for Karpovsky's film we settled on the term "faux documentary." Although "Woodpecker" is black comedy, it shouldn't be called a "mockumentary." A "faux documentary" is a film that incorporates fiction and non-fiction, and uses the style and conventions of a doc to tell semi-fictional story. A "mockumentary," in contrast, is completely imaginary, and tends to be making fun of the characters. Further, I think most "mockumentaries" poke fun at documentary form itself, with overly-contrived sit-down interviews and obvious nods to the camera, such as the ubiquitous "don't film this" moments.

In "Woodpecker," by contrast, although one is often laughing at Johnny's naiveté and quirky obsession, he's more like a Don Quixote, the madman on a mission who is lovable and laughable but also honest, noble, and inspiring. The film treats Johnny and all the characters with warmth and respect, so it lacks the spoofing of a mockumentary.

Non-fiction and fiction "meta-documentaries" would include films that explicitly address the essence of documentary form. "Woodpecker" does not, but Karpovsky's "The Hole Story" and "A Necessary Death" both in some ways deal with the nature media and the way the act of filming events inherently affects the action. "Fake home movies," such as the infamous "Blair Witch Project," purport to verité filmmaking conventions in which the on-screen characters are filming their own lives, only the characters and actions are scripted and staged.

So, I hope all my rambling has proved helpful or at least interesting to some. It seemed interesting enough in late-night film festival conversations over eggs migas and pulled pork sandwiches. The next question, I guess, is whether I've accurately documented all that we discussed.

I think that Dan's going to write a post as well, but "Sugar" is such a rich film there's plenty to write about, and I'm eager to share my delight with this film. What I love about Anna Boden and Ryan Fleck's films is that they find ways to externalize internal struggles. Unlike most films, in which resilient characters battle outside forces, in their wonderful new film "Sugar" the drama is all about the lead character's internal fear, or even cowardice. It's rare in films to see characters succumb to uncertainty: the feeling is subtle, but in this film the writing and acting render it as potent and powerful as any grand emotion you'll ever see in narrative filmmaking.

The film tracks about a year in the life of a professional baseball prospect (nicknamed "Sugar," and played by Algenis Perez Soto, a non-professional actor plucked from the ballfields of his native Dominican Republic), and as a baseball fan and player myself, I was really eager to check this film out. But "Sugar" is much more than a baseball movie: it is an immigrant tale, a coming-of-age story, and an examination of to what extent we all have the courage to truly follow our dreams.

As a young prospect, Sugar faces incredibly long odds of actually making the major leagues. But the game is not the hard part--leave that to Hollywood sports melodramas. Acclimating to life away from home is the real challenge, sent off as he is to the strange foreign land of Bridgetown "Eye-A," as Sugar pronounces 'IA' (Iowa) in the first indication of the daunting (and often humorous) language barrier facing Sugar.

Again, the struggles are always fascinatingly internal as Sugar has to discern friends from enemies with only scraps of language available to him. There's the compassionate waitress who helps him order new food, and the thugs in the club who attack him for unknown reasons. There's the concerned foster family, who only confuse things further with their sweet but futile attempts at Spanish ('soap' comes across as 'sopa,' the Spanish word for 'soup.') But most importantly there's the kind-hearted manager, who tries to relate to downtrodden Sugar, but can't get through the linguistic differences. When the ballplayer finally hears some words he understands, "work hard," he lashes back that he does work hard, and you can just see the reputation of another "hard-to-coach Latino ballplayer" growing.

In the end, Sugar can't take the pressure. He leaves the team and heads to the Bronx, looking for low-pressure work as a dishwasher and a carpenter. Will he give professional baseball another try eventually? Will he regret not playing out the string? Perhaps. The stakes in this film are not artificially high--it's not the World Series he's missing; when he flees to New York, he's not facing life or death drama. The brilliance of the film is the simple and thereby universal struggle that is rendered in intimate detail. Sugar's debatable cowardice is an act that hit me at the core of my own self-confidence: do I have the courage to give myself completely to my dream? Would it be okay if I didn't? "Sugar" is an emotionally complex and astonishingly touching portrait of a young man playing out these same questions.

Here at Rooftop, we're hoping we'll get a chance to take this wonderful film to the ball fields of New York and provide a powerful and unique viewing experience where so many baseball dreams have been born, and where so many have faded into the dirt.  

There is no film I'm more pleased and proud to see here at Sundance than "Trouble the Water," directed by Rooftop's neighbors and friends Carl Deal and Tia Lessin. Dan and I first saw a rough cut of this film about a year ago and the material was so powerful and the story so compelling we would've shown it right then. But after a year of hard work editing, the film has truly become a masterpiece.

Kimberly Rivers Roberts and her husband Scott (pictured above) had just gotten a video camera a few weeks before Hurricane Katrina, and "Trouble the Water" includes their astonishing footage documenting the experience in their neighborhood, New Orleans' 9th Ward. The incredible power of the film comes directly from Kim and Scott's strength, insight, charm, and from the potent symbolism of their story, representing the story of so many people in America today--those whose lives were ruined (or lost) to Katrina, and those across the country who are being left behind by an uncaring government.

Kim and Scott are somewhat cavalier about the impending storm, and in a subtle but striking moment, we hear that Kim is a drug dealer, and that she's raising prices because she expects a shortage soon. At the same time, though, we see the early signs that Kim is a remarkably thoughtful and caring person. As she wakes her uncle Nat from a drunken stupor and tries to send him home to safety, she also turns to some nearby kids and tries to convince them not to be like Nat.

Kim's narration of these sections is both biting and poetic. "If I had wheels [a car] I'd be gone, too," Kim says to some neighbors, a direct articulation of a point later made by critics of the government's initial failure to help evacuate the city. When the rains come, and the water begins to rise, she points the camera at the wind-lashed streets while her off-camera monologue mixes prayers and bravado, fear, resignation and hope.

The flooding forces Kim and Scott into their attic, along with neighbors and children they rescue into their taller house. In an absolutely heartbreaking sequence, we see the family trapped by the water, and hear desperate 9-1-1 callers being told, point blank, that no rescue teams are coming until the flooding recedes, leaving thousands to die. But when the police and the coast guard can't or won't help, locals do: Kim and Scott's neighbor, a rival dealer named Larry Simms, swims from house to house with a large punching bag, floating women and children to safety.

Larry's astounding heroism is contrasted, later, with the actions of the men at the local Navy base. The gated base was on the highest ground in the neighborhood, was running emergency generators for power, and, because of government cutbacks, had some 500 empty apartments. But when Scott and others approached the base, they were greeted with automatic weapons, and told to leave. "What good is it to have a military if they can't serve us," Scott says ruefully. Yet in spite of this harsh treatment, Scott thanks the individual National Guardsmen he encounters who have come to help rebuild New Orleans after the storm. "I hope you don't have to go back to Iraq," Scott's friend says, "Because that ain't our war. Our war is here."

The film follows Kim and Scott for over a year as they try to rebuild their lives, and, quite literally, their city. The battle FEMA for their pitifully small relief assistance checks, struggle to start a new life in a new city, and are still looked-down upon by the very authorities meant to serve them. Rooftop alum PJ Raval shot the post-hurricane footage, and he has done a brilliant job showing the destruction of the city without fetishizing the ruins, as so many films do. His intelligent cinematography highlights the heartfelt compassion the filmmakers feel for their subjects, creating a perfect balance between Kim's footage and the "professional" footage shot later, drawing the audience into the story.

There are moments of poignant heroism and tragedy throughout, and the climax of the film is the final reveal of Kim's talents and spirit: a hip-hop song about her life that she belts out directly at the camera. She has a dynamic gift for rhythm and rhyme, and the insightful and intimate lyrics that lay her emotions bare are extraordinary. I've seen this film four times, and I still don't think I've ever been able to take a breath when Kim performs. It may be the most magnificent piece of music I've ever seen in a film.

The raw footage which the filmmakers were given to work with is incredibly compelling, but what really makes "Trouble the Water" such a significant movie is the way Deal, Lessin and editor T. Woody Richman have been able to cull from the material parallels and contradictions--the heroism and ingenuity of supposedly "bad" people; the cowardice and incompetence of those supposed to protect us--which tell a grand socio-political story through a tragic personal narrative. I've seen quite a few excellent Katrina documentaries and narratives, but none so perfectly encapsulates the human tragedy in New Orleans and across the country. I hope everyone in America can see this film. Maybe Rooftop can start by screening it on the White House lawn.

Rooftop showed Chris Waitt's humorous narrative short "Dupe" a couple years ago, so I was very eager to check out his debut feature. The slick short starred Chris as an extremely lazy hipster who orders off the internet a cloning machine (that looks like an crappy old photocopier) so he can send his dupes off to work for him. (We actually showed that film in a program, about labor and industry; indicative of Rooftop's attempt to mix serious and silly films in themed programs.)

"A Complete History of My Sexual Failures" is a hysterical and inventive personal documentary which reveals that Chris is every bit the extremely lazy hipster he appeared to be in "Dupe." After realizing that he'd been dumped by every woman he'd ever dated, Chris decides to try to make a film of self-discovery: why do ladies drop him as easily as he drops his dirty clothes on the floor?

The first handful of exes he contacts dismiss him out of hand, with Chris demonstrating his deadpan ability to get rejected and to say the wrong thing. When interviewing a young lady on the street, he asks her how long her boyfriend's penis is. Her reply: a shy smiling "Uhh, me mum's right there." It's only when Chris' mum gets out some old love/hate letters sent to her son (one of which is addressed "Dear Shit-Fuck), and negotiates interviews on his behalf, that he is able to even really communicate with any other woman.

And that's when we get to see that his awkwardness and social irresponsibility isn't just limited to pestering women on the street; his failures run far deeper. From the interviews, a pattern emerges: he's uncaring, constantly late, a liar, and in one instance even tried to kiss his girlfriend's mother. One woman is so ashamed of having dated him, she only agrees to be interviewed behind a curtain, typing her humiliatingly harsh answers into a computerized voice machine. In the Q & A following the screening, Chris pointed out that he'd really allowed these women to "discover their inner anger."

One former fling who is a self-described sex addict reminds Chris that he was unable to perform in bed, he is forced to admit (in front of a wide-eyed female hotel clerk) that he's impotent. The film then really goes wild, with Chris seeking medical help, getting advice from drunks on the street, and visiting a dominatrix who literally whips his balls, in full view of the camera, in an uproariously funny sequence which is sure to vindicate many of his former lovers. Finally, Chris OD's on Viagra (and beer), and runs around the streets asking women to fuck him. Call it his own "Super Size Me" moment.  

The film is certainly part of the growing trend of "stunt" documentaries, with these numerous set pieces that wouldn't be happening if not for the camera. One has to wonder at points if Chris isn't hamming up his own lack of awareness, his own ignorance of basic human relationships. But I think Chris and these women are being pretty earnest. The fact is, Chris is a charming, attractive, creative, hip guy: women really want to love him. But he's also solipsistic and painfully uncaring, and so he disappoints his girlfriends badly. If he was just a dumb schmuck, none of these women would care one way or the other. But the fact that he does have so much potential makes the sting of his failures all the more poignant, and makes the film all the more compelling.

Chris does learn some lessons from the process. For one, he heals his relationship with his longest-running girlfriend, and now that she's had a baby, Chris seems to gain more respect for her, and seems to actually acquire some sense of responsibility. Even more amazingly, Chris ends up in a long-term relationship with one of the women he accosted during his little blue pill freak-out. At the Q & A, she said that remarkably she hadn't seen the film until now (a sign of both his insecurity and his callousness, it would seem), but though she was quite shocked by the film, she claims he's been a much better boyfriend.  

When asked if there was anything that was too embarrassing to put in the film, Chris said that it was all damn embarrassing, "but I had gotten some funding, and there comes a point when people have put all this time and effort into the thing, and I couldn't go back. I wondered when it would ever end, because after all, it's my life. And believe me, it wasn't good news for me when the film got into Sundance. I was like, 'Oh no, now even more people are going to know what a fuck-up I am."

That he is, but a charming and delightful one, who has made a daring, insightful and hilarious film, one which really fits with Rooftop's ethos of showing personal documentaries, even "home movies."

Katrina Browne can trace her family's history back to the early American colonial days . . . back when they ran one of the largest slave trade operations in the world. What do you do with knowledge like that? It's been at least 140 years since anyone in your family owned or traded other human beings--it's not your fault. Many people in Browne's position ignore that part of their heritage (check out Margaret Brown's fascinating "Order of Myths" to see some similar denial in action), or make excuses for it. But Browne decided to contact 200 of her known relatives, and invite them on an exploration of their family's past. 9 agreed to come, and the documentary "Traces of the Trade" is one of the many results.

The family members travel from Rhode Island (where the family was based) to Ghana (where they purchased slaves) to Cuba (where they owned plantations, worked by slaves, which fueled the cycle). One might wonder what these (mostly) privileged white people, in the 21st Century, would gain from such a trip--if it would merely end up as a guilt-assuaging tour of near-forgotten horrors. But for me, the film faces down complex moral turmoil and emotional anguish, and it's all split open on the family's first day in Ghana, where they see that these atrocities are not nearly as forgotten in Africa, and by African-Americans, as they may seem in to white Americans.

One relative says, [to paraphrase] "I had always excused my ancestors, saying that they were only a product of their times, that trading slaves was just the way of the world. But after being in one of the slave prisons, where hundreds of people were held in cramped, dark cells before being shipped across the Middle Passage, now I know that's bullshit. What they were doing was evil, and they had to know it was evil, and they did it anyway. I wouldn't have thought that if I hadn't come here."

That crucial admission, and the knowledge that he could only have reached that revelation by confronting the past directly, is the moral crux of the film. By making that admission he opens up the possibility of his own complicity, acknowledging that there are aspects of this horrible past which he may be suppressing, thereby continuing the legacy of denial,  ignorance, racism. And so the 9 press on, opening themselves up to learn and understand and attempt to do the right thing. They realize that even though slavery was abolished a century and a half ago, the problems of racial inequality persist, largely because the root causes have never been fully acknowledged. In the end, they each find ways to try to make amends, and Browne and a few others begin to advocate for large-scale reparations, with the funds earmarked for social programs that might help end the systems of racism and inequality.  

It could be easy to dismiss this family's journey as a limited example, relevant only to them and other direct descendents of slave-owners. But such a dismissal would avoid the important point that Browne's film makes: morality cannot be complacent. We all have beliefs--we're against the wars in the Middle East, we fear for the environment, we're outraged by the myriad inequalities in our society, for example--but are we doing enough? If we rationalize away our inactivity, our morals will crumble and fail. At a certain point, we have to examine at our excuses and simply say, "That's bullshit." It's time to do something.