Dawn Dreyer
I met the star of Fear, Dr. Zenglo Chen, in a therapy group. In one session, he bounded up out of his chair and declared, “Dawn, you are my sister!” This kind of outburst was unusual, both for Zenglo and the group. I didn’t (yet) feel a similar sense of kinship with Zenglo, but I was pleased and curious. We decided to meet for coffee.
Zenglo knew I was working on a documentary exploring the experience of living with mental illness, including my own. We’d discussed the idea of interviewing him for the film. A few minutes into our conversation, he started talking about his childhood in Beijing, China, during the Cultural Revolution. After a couple of sentences, I told him to stop. He could tell me the rest of the story when I had my recording equipment. A few days later, that’s where we began our conversation:
“I start my depression when I was close to 4 years old. My parents were prosecuted and they'd been taken away by the Chinese authority….”
I immediately knew I had a film and where it would begin.
Many of my creative decisions in my documentary projects (including Fear) are driven by how much I love voices. I love variations in cadence and pronunciation, the little stumbles of “ums”and “like y’knows,” the places where language fractures and falls apart and then begins to rebuild itself. I mourn the breakdown between how we talk and where we’re from, the layers of specificity washed away on the airwaves of newscaster homogenization, bolstered by the too common belief that speaking with an accent or using non-standard English somehow relates to intelligence.
I am a very wordy girl. Learning to listen without interrupting has meant resisting every bit of socialization I’ve received since I could talk. I learned to hunt for gaps in conversation like baby animals learn to hunt for food. To not respond during interviews with even an acknowledging “mm hmmm” nearly killed me at first, until I experienced the pain of one too many perfect edits ruined by my empathetic mumblings.
I relish the challenge of letting silence hang, unfettered by my insights or follow up questions. I’ve learned to silently count to ten or touch the tip of my tongue to the roof of my mouth as I wait for the power of silence to take hold. It’s worth it to experience what can happen on the other side of silence in an interview: the subtle shift in tone when someone strays from the same story they’ve told hundreds of times. Both the storyteller and I feel a palpable curiosity about what might come next.
I also learned early on that the parts of people’s stories that felt wobbly and imperfect – where the narrative wasn’t yet honed or polished – are the places to return to, gently, during the course of the interview. And that the telling of these stories forged an intimacy between storyteller and interviewer that was not to be taken for granted. Sometimes it feels as if the storyteller has been waiting a lifetime for someone to stop and listen to their particular story.
The key to this dynamic lies not in any validation that I, as documentary maker, confer upon the subject. It’s the profoundly simple act of listening. Its power reverberates twice over as the storyteller feels what it is to be deeply heard. That said, I’m aware of my capacity for harm. There is the power I wield as the one behind the camera or microphone, and in front of my screen as an editor. Or, for example, my white privilege when people of color are the subjects of my work. Still, I persist in moving forward because I believe close listening holds the potential to be a sacred exchange, both for the storyteller and listener.
Zenglo knew I was working on a documentary exploring the experience of living with mental illness, including my own. We’d discussed the idea of interviewing him for the film. A few minutes into our conversation, he started talking about his childhood in Beijing, China, during the Cultural Revolution. After a couple of sentences, I told him to stop. He could tell me the rest of the story when I had my recording equipment. A few days later, that’s where we began our conversation:
“I start my depression when I was close to 4 years old. My parents were prosecuted and they'd been taken away by the Chinese authority….”
I immediately knew I had a film and where it would begin.
Many of my creative decisions in my documentary projects (including Fear) are driven by how much I love voices. I love variations in cadence and pronunciation, the little stumbles of “ums”and “like y’knows,” the places where language fractures and falls apart and then begins to rebuild itself. I mourn the breakdown between how we talk and where we’re from, the layers of specificity washed away on the airwaves of newscaster homogenization, bolstered by the too common belief that speaking with an accent or using non-standard English somehow relates to intelligence.
I am a very wordy girl. Learning to listen without interrupting has meant resisting every bit of socialization I’ve received since I could talk. I learned to hunt for gaps in conversation like baby animals learn to hunt for food. To not respond during interviews with even an acknowledging “mm hmmm” nearly killed me at first, until I experienced the pain of one too many perfect edits ruined by my empathetic mumblings.
I relish the challenge of letting silence hang, unfettered by my insights or follow up questions. I’ve learned to silently count to ten or touch the tip of my tongue to the roof of my mouth as I wait for the power of silence to take hold. It’s worth it to experience what can happen on the other side of silence in an interview: the subtle shift in tone when someone strays from the same story they’ve told hundreds of times. Both the storyteller and I feel a palpable curiosity about what might come next.
I also learned early on that the parts of people’s stories that felt wobbly and imperfect – where the narrative wasn’t yet honed or polished – are the places to return to, gently, during the course of the interview. And that the telling of these stories forged an intimacy between storyteller and interviewer that was not to be taken for granted. Sometimes it feels as if the storyteller has been waiting a lifetime for someone to stop and listen to their particular story.
The key to this dynamic lies not in any validation that I, as documentary maker, confer upon the subject. It’s the profoundly simple act of listening. Its power reverberates twice over as the storyteller feels what it is to be deeply heard. That said, I’m aware of my capacity for harm. There is the power I wield as the one behind the camera or microphone, and in front of my screen as an editor. Or, for example, my white privilege when people of color are the subjects of my work. Still, I persist in moving forward because I believe close listening holds the potential to be a sacred exchange, both for the storyteller and listener.
Andrea Love
My involvement with Fear began in 2014, when Dawn Dreyer reached out to me with Zenglo Chen’s story and her vision for Bipolar Girl Rules the World and Other Stories. I was both intrigued by the opportunity to tell such a powerful story, and intimidated by the responsibility of representing experiences that were so different from my own. Luckily, Dawn has tremendous faith in my art, and I decided that if Zenglo could find the courage to share his story, so could I. I am so thankful that I did, because I could not have anticipated how rewarding this process would be.
I am always drawn to things that are handmade. Thus, I like to use recognizable materials (like wood, clay, and wool) and not be afraid to show imperfections. I aim for a sweet spot, which for me looks like artful sleight of hand with a rough polish. While animation is often used to exaggerate movement and suspend reality, it can conversely be used to draw attention inward, to our more human qualities. The animation in Fear goes in both of these directions. There are hand-drawn abstract concepts and dream-like sequences, woven in with more realistic stop-motion that pays homage to the traditional documentary form. I animated Fear over 5 months, with the intention to approach the content with respect, do my research, take my time, and enjoy the process. I am very privileged to have had the opportunity to put my stamp on Zenglo’s story.
I am always drawn to things that are handmade. Thus, I like to use recognizable materials (like wood, clay, and wool) and not be afraid to show imperfections. I aim for a sweet spot, which for me looks like artful sleight of hand with a rough polish. While animation is often used to exaggerate movement and suspend reality, it can conversely be used to draw attention inward, to our more human qualities. The animation in Fear goes in both of these directions. There are hand-drawn abstract concepts and dream-like sequences, woven in with more realistic stop-motion that pays homage to the traditional documentary form. I animated Fear over 5 months, with the intention to approach the content with respect, do my research, take my time, and enjoy the process. I am very privileged to have had the opportunity to put my stamp on Zenglo’s story.
