This morning I read that Douglas Dennis, died from a heart attack suffered while serving out his life sentence in Angola for a murder that took place in the 1950’s. I only knew him by his nickname Swede.

Swede was the most intriguing man in that place. Sarcastic, bitter, but funny and brilliant. I used to bring him New Yorker Magazines which he loved and we’d talk about almost any topic imaginable as though he had been everywhere and thought of everything. No doubt about it, Swede was the smartest person in Angola and a good storyteller.

Over the years, I asked Swede every time I saw him if I could make a film about his story.  He was always resistant, saying that if he did that he ran the risk of losing the ‘nickels’ the prison afforded him, meaning the bits of freedom he had achieved within the system. You see Swede had escaped in 1979 and was free and living successfully in Silicon Valley, California until 1989. Eventually he was picked up and brought back to serve the rest of his life sentence. As a risk threat he was never permitted to travel.

The crazy part of the story is that Swede was picked up for drunkenness while on a cross country road trip, ended up in the drunk tank with another man, got into a fight and the guy died.  He had no record until then.  That was in the 1957, the day I was born.  In the early 1960’s he got into a fight with another inmate in Angola and was sent to death row until 1976.  In 1979, while working for the Governor he escaped out of Baton Rouge, apparently first traveling to Central America and later returning back to California.

It would have been powerful for him to share his story with the world and ironically, the last time we met he actually indicated he’d consider doing it.  Maybe somebody else can still tell his story, but I’ll always feel that I let it get away somehow except inside of me.

I remember Swede telling me the night that Antonio James was executed in 1996 that he wasn’t sad, but a bit envious.  The other inmates working at the Angolite said, ‘Tell him Swede, tell him what you do every night!”.   Gruff as always, he said, “every night before sleep, I kneel down to pray. I ask God, please don’t let me wake up in the morning’.
For him, it was preferable to be dead then to serve forever in Angola. Well, he finally got his wish…

Just got back from Haiti.  By all accounts the trip was amazing.  Our last night in Jacmel was also the night of the National Carnival.  A week of anticipation and planning and in the end, what a success.  On the eve of Carnival the students, school staff, and I met for final preparations and for our official goodbye.  As we went over the 18 hour, 6 team, 4 location shooting schedule, I think we were all in awe of what we had  collectively accomplished in just one short week…

There is something about the spirit in that country that is powerful.  People were kind and generous and hard working.  The love and passion they committed to, in order to make something excellent in such difficult circumstances was inspiring.  Alix Nobert, a full time school teacher, with a wife and children at home, has long loved  to share films with his students.  He found substitute teachers to cover his classes the week I was in Jacmel so he could participate in the workshop, and bring his students back what he had learned.  Marjarie LaFleur, only 20 years old, has to earn her own living and lives alone so that she can attend film school.  All the students arrived in the early dawn hours and stayed until late at night; their level of commitment was just astounding.

I saw so many discover their talents while I was there.  Keziah, a professional violinist, discovered her gift for cinematography.  Her gracefulness and ease with a camera was stunning – it earned her the nickname “human tripod”.  Jocelyne, who had virtually no prior film experience, was by week end, producing and directing like a master.  Fritzner with his camera and Guy Marie on sound, made a tag team that even the best film crews would envy.

The characters the students chose were all people involved in carnival, from the star musicians to the cross dressing teacher to the street sweeper.  We wanted a diversity of voices to capture the spirit of the event.   Filming began on Wednesday with two sessions per day.  The first session began at 6:30 a.m., and the afternoon session around 3 p.m.  We were out to capture the best light.  It is not always easy to make a film about a place and people you know so well.  Often, the things you take for granted are the best material for a film and it can be uncomfortable for a beginning filmmaker to approach neighbors and friends for interviews.  Yet, over the course of the week the students really came into their own.  They navigated their home with a confidence and a focus that showed they were starting to see their world as storytellers.

On the day of Carnival the fifteen characters the students had chosen, 6 primary and 9 secondary, all came together.  This was when the vision of collective storytelling really came to a fore.  We needed all “hands on deck” to cover all of the action. Some followed their characters as they visited the voodoo temple, or put the finishing touches on hair and make up.  Others were up at 5:00 am to stake a spot on the official stand.  Still others were mingling in the crowds to get good b-roll. 

None had made a documentary before, some of the camera people had only been shooting for a week or so, but I tell you there is a lot of beautiful material and I am confident the film will be great.

It’s day six of the workshop. The challenge, creating a film with 20 people in one week who have never made a documentary in their lives, is working itself out.  To watch in one week what a group of dedicated students can achieve has been incredible.  Days one and two, we cast for the principle and secondary characters. We imagined scenes, got the permissions and set up a schedule.  Days 3,4 and 5 we shot 2 or 3 sessions a day.  In between we critiqued the footage and kept hammering home basic principles of documentary filmmaking.  

We began to imagine how the film might open (Sun rise Voodoo ceremony) and close (woman sweeping the streets).  The excitement is building in the town.  Tomorrow is the Carnival.  We’re going to have fantastic material for this film.

I’m off to Haiti this coming weekend to lead a documentary workshop for 16 young men and women.  The goal is to not only to teach them the skills required, but to make an actual film.  Our topic is Carnival in Jacmel.

I believe in the power of the collective and know that 16 relatively inexperienced young people who are enthusiastic, dedicated, open minded and intelligent can do in a week what one experienced filmmaker could not accomplished in a month.  So we set out to tell the story of Carnival in a country that had the only successful slave revolt in the world.  Toussaint L’Ouverture, a freed slave, guided Haiti to independence in 1805, becoming the second country in the Western Hemisphere to create its own independent nation.  Carnival in Haiti is filled with all kinds of symbolism that will emerge without doubt over the course of the production.  All of the students have begun tracking down characters to follow during the week and all were guided by my friend and fellow filmmaker, Annie Nocenti.  She sent back photos and they’re pretty amazing.

My conclusion?  My life’s trajectory continues to unfold in unexpected ways.  Angola Prison, named for slaves that were brought over from Africa.  Liberia, a nation founded by freed slaves in West Africa.  And now Haiti.  There are no accidents or coincidences in life.

I had planned to spend January 20th either in DC or in NYC, but somehow it worked out perfectly to be in Angola Prison.  Something incredible about being there for first Martin Luther King Day and then the following day for the Inauguration.  I wasn’t the only journalist thinking that a former slave plantation was an apt place to witness history being made.  Gary Fields from the Wall Street Journal made it down as well. http://online.wsj.com/article/SB123249731564600367.html.

I was on a row of cellblocks talking to men through bars who were given the day off and were watching all the proceedings on television.  One inmate said to me, “If my Grandma came back to life for this moment it would be one of the proudest and saddest days of her life.  Proud to see a black President. Sad to see her grandson serving a life sentence.”  He said Obama gave him hope. Hope for what? Hope to get out? “No,” he replied, “hope that future generations of young black Americans can really believe that anything is possible.”