Deborah Hoffmann's Long Filmmaking Journey
by Loren King
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It isn't just movie hyperbole to say that since its first theatrical
release in 1984, The Times of
Harvey Milk, the Oscar-winning documentary about the slain San
Francisco gay activist, has changed people. The film, with its precise
and poignant rendering of a man, a time, a place, and a still-shocking
political and human tragedy, remains, for gay viewers especially, the
definitive chronicle of the blossoming of an entire community's
visibility and empowerment -- and its accompanying vulnerability.
The Times of Harvey Milk is enjoying an encore theatrical run in
some major cities with a new 35mm print (the original film was shot and
released in 16mm). One of the people most responsible for the enduring
power of this film is its editor, Deborah Hoffmann, whose assemblage of
archival material, interviews, and searing footage of the riots that
erupted after Milk's murder create a cathartic journey for the viewer.
"I teach editing and use clips from that film. I find it still works.
Despite the fact that it was about the gay community in 1984, it doesn't
feel dated. It's a basic human drama that still holds up," says Hoffmann
in a telephone interview. "It's gorgeous in 35mm."
The Times of Harvey Milk launched Hoffmann's professional career,
and forever changed her personal life as well. It was while editing the
film that she and its cinematographer, Frances Reid, met.
"Every time there was new footage, I'd call the cinematographer and I'd
say. 'Wow! This looks great!' And of course she fell in love instantly
each time. When we finally finished the film, Rob [Epstein, the
director] and I planned a trip to the Cape. I asked Frances to join us
and that's when our romance began."
Sixteen years after The Times of Harvey Milk brought them
together and earned them solid reputations, respectively, as documentary
filmmakers, Hoffmann and Reid are preparing to attend the Academy Awards
ceremony March 25 in Los Angeles. Their latest film, Long Night's Journey Into
Day, about South Africa's Truth and Reconciliation Commission
hearings, has been nominated as Best Documentary. In a category often
dismissed by the viewing masses as snack time, the prize means not just
validation but a financial boost to films that get made by lots of sweat
and personal sacrifice.
Hoffmann and Reid, who live outside San Francisco, have survived Oscar
fever before. Hoffmann was nominated in 1994 for Complaints of a Dutiful
Daughter, an intimate chronicle of the battle being waged by
Doris Hoffmann, Deborah Hoffmann's mother, with Alzheimer's Disease.
("The film probably saved me thousands of dollars in therapy," says
Hoffmann.) That same year, Reid was nominated as a producer of Straight From the Heart, a
short documentary about the positive ways in which parents deal with gay
children. Although neither won, the event marked a personal and
professional milestone for the couple.
"Documentaries are still the stepchildren" at the Oscars, laughs
Hoffmann. "But all the nominees get good seats. If you win, they don't
want to have to wait for you. ... The last time, my heart was pounding,
and I kept thinking, 'This can't be healthy.' No matter how much I tell
myself not to be, I am a wreck. Frances is the same way. We're excited,
but we're already losing sleep."
Hoffmann has made a living editing documentary films such as 1997's
Cadillac Desert. Reid shot A Personal Journey With Martin
Scorsese Through American Movies in 1995. But the couple had not
co-directed a documentary until Long Night's Journey Into Day,
which involved seven trips to South Africa over a six-month period.
The idea for the film emerged one morning at the breakfast table as
Hoffmann read about Bishop Desmond Tutu's formation of the Truth and
Reconciliation Commission (TRC), an open forum set up in 1994 that
attempted to bring accountability, closure, and healing to the crimes
committed under the country's apartheid regime. Rather than judge guilt,
the TRC offered conditional amnesty in exchange for the truth, an often
searing, cathartic process.
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Deborah Hoffmann
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"I was reading a newspaper article and I was thinking, 'This is the most
courageous and innovative thing happening in the world and there is so
little news about it,'" recalls Hoffmann. "It was absolutely historic. I
said to Frances, 'There should be a film about this.' Me and my big
mouth. Within two months, we were in Capetown. We had no funding at the
time. It's the kind of thing you do when you're 20, not 50."
The women decided on their first visit that their film would focus on
four separate amnesty cases that raised different moral questions. The
confessional style of the face-to-face interviews conducted by Hoffmann
and Reid underscored the intent of the TRC, an experiment in justice
aimed more at contrition than retribution. "South Africa had looked at
[Germany's] Nuremberg trials and had seen that it didn't work. All you
had were [accused war criminals] denying their culpability. It wasn't
satisfying for anyone," Hoffmann says.
"People were anxious to tell us their stories. They liked that these two
wacky Americans had come all these miles to hear them. What appealed to
me was not only that the hearings were incredibly emotional and moving;
they were also heady and intellectually challenging. The entire county
was engaged on all these levels. You'd get off the plane and the cab
driver wanted to talk about it. It was extraordinary. I think being
outsiders helped. They really wanted us to talk to us."
The most difficult subjects -- the ones who were not eager to talk --
were the perpetrators of crimes, Hoffmann says, such as security officer
Erik Taylor who requested amnesty for his role in the gruesome murders
of the anti-apartheid activists known as the "Cradock 4." "It took a lot
to convince him and he backed out a few times at the last minute,"
recalls Hoffmann.
Similar problems arose with Robert McBride, the black political activist
responsible for a bar bombing that killed three white women. "At one
point, all we had was him for that story and then he got arrested and
was in jail. We didn't even know if he would be released in time for his
hearing. It was very tense for us when the victim testified in the
morning and the perpetrator that same afternoon. They knew we'd been
talking to both sides and we had information that was not our place to
reveal."
Hoffmann said during the grueling shoot there were numerous times when
each of the four stories appeared in danger of falling apart. The
tension and the travel tested the filmmakers' resolve more than a few
times. "It was intense. When it was good it was great; when it was bad,
it was horrible and there was no escape," Hoffmann says. "We had one
really tough trip where everything went wrong and Frances said to me, 'I
wish you were home so I could call you on the telephone and you'd be
nice to me.' ... Our arguments weren't big -- we had the same vision for
the film; the same aesthetics. But the little things ... oy. But we
survived it and are stronger for it."
The first indication that Long Night's Journey Into Day was
headed for critical acclaim was a host of festival awards, including a
Grand Jury Prize at the Sundance Film Festival. The film will air on HBO
later this year.
With limited exposure and modest financial gain, all documentary
filmmakers -- the industry's stepchildren -- hope for the kind of
endurance and influence that The Times of Harvey Milk has
continued to enjoy.
"Except for New York and the Bay Area, people just don't see
documentaries theatrically," says Hoffmann. "You get a rave review and
you think, 'Wow. People are going to flock to see this.' And they
don't," she laughs. "We hear all the time, 'Oh, but [Long Night's
Journey Into Day] is so heavy.' Is it heavier than Hannibal? But the people
who do see our film are so affected by it that the rate of return is
high. Three people will come up to us and tell us how moved they were
and we think we're changing the world. We are happily deluded."
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