The rusty reality of the working-class artist:Aspiration, Authenticity, and Humor in American Movie

‘I was a failure, and I'd get very sad and depressed about it, and I can't be that no more, 'cause I really feel like I betrayed myself big time. I know when I was growing up, I had all the potential in the world. Now I'm back to being Mark who has a beer in his hand and is thinking about the great American script and movie. […] This time, it's most important not to fail, just to drink and dream, but rather, to create and complete.’

- Mark Borchardt, Chris Smith’s American Movie (1999)

Mark Borchardt, the main subject of Chris Smith’s 1999 documentary American Movie, is a struggling yet passionate filmmaker from Menomonee Falls, Wisconsin who, like most of his colleagues, dreams of one day having his feature film Northwestern reflected on the glamorous silver screen. When he first appears in the film, Mark’s situation gives us little reason to believe that dream will ever become his reality: he is a 33-year-old alcoholic who lives with his parents, is buried in debt, works a part-time newspaper delivery job, cannot afford child support for his three young children, and has yet to finish his short horror film Coven (the presumed profits being a prerequisite for producing Northwestern) on which he has been working for multiple years. Despite being in a position that some would find hopeless or even tragic, Mark remains optimistic; for him, failure is no option. He must ‘create and complete’ (American Movie, 1999, 00:00:54).

When documenting subjects with such remarkable personalities as Mark’s, the line between observation and voyeurism is anything but clear and therefore easily crossed. A common critique of American Movie, then states that the film is fundamentally exploitative: Mark, the eccentric people around him, and his ambitious dreams are on display for entertainment purposes only. According to critics the film presents Mark’s empty ambition and rural community as objects of ridicule, a humorous spectacle. Others praise the documentary for giving a voice to interesting people who would have otherwise remained unheard and unknown. Fans of the film argue that the film invites the viewer to laugh with Mark, rather than at him.

Since the subject of most documentaries are ‘real’, usually unpaid, and often not well-informed people, the art form is especially apt for moral scrutiny. In the documentary-filmmaking process, conflicting interests leading to ethical dilemmas are common. For example, a filmmaker’s desired narrative structure and truthfulness might conflict with their subject’s personal wellbeing. In the case of American Movie, filmmaker Chris Smith and his team were tasked with deciding whether the film would be a story about Mark, or a story with Mark.

The exploration of this seemingly minor distinction constitutes the motivation for this essay. The first section will illustrate salient theories on documentary ethics and lay the groundwork for my overall argumentation. Here, the principles posed by Brian Winston and Kate Nash will prove to be elemental for understanding documentary ethics. Additionally, the view of theorist David Alamouti will serve a supplementary role for an exhaustive theoretical overview of documentary ethics.

In the second section I will close read parts of American Movie while applying the established theoretical framework. Here, I will examine the moments onscreen wherein moral controversy arises and argue that American Movie does not exploit its subjects for entertainment value. Rather, the film admirably displays how humor can be used as a form of authenticity, displaying the absurdities of American working class struggle as ultimately real, while letting Mark and his community speak for themselves. Their story, I believe, remains inspirational at its core.

The moral delicacy of documentary filmmaking

For an ethical analysis of any documentary film to be constructive, the theoretical framework and discourse of documentary ethics must first be illuminated. In this section, I will shine light on the salient theorists of documentary ethics and thereby lay the foundation upon which my further analysis and argumentation will build.

            In his chapter ‘Nous sommes dans le bain’ or ‘We are implicated’ from the book The Act of Documenting (2017), Brian Winston opens with the anecdote of filmmaker Henry Corra, whose intimate participation in his own documentary became the topic of an ethical debate. Corra, a man in his fifties, made the documentary Farewell to Hollywood (2013), which revolves around the final stages of Regina Nichols’ life, a terminally ill 18-year-old girl with ardent filmmaking aspirations. Corra is a filmmaker, who, after co-directing a strict non-interventionist documentary, in the editing room apparently became “sick of pretending he was not there” (Winston 2017, 154) and pursued participatory and performative modes of filmmaking since. This is clearly the case in Farewell to Hollywood, as his role in the film is essential to the narrative. Over time, the relationship between the two evolves from filmmaker and filmed into something more intimate: the film and Corra’s presence fully take over Nichols' life, an emblematic moment being when she asks him to become her advanced care director, to the understandable disdain of her parents who gradually build resentment towards the filmmaker, as “Corra assumes the role of caregiver which would normally be theirs” (Winston 2017, 153). Along with destigmatizing natural deaths, the film also attempts to destigmatize romantic intimacy between people who greatly differ in age, which, as Winston notes, raises far more complex ethical questions (2017, 153).

These issues stem from “the conflict of rights and responsibilities that pitches the harm principle against free expression” (Winston, 2017, 151). Winston explains that documentary filmmakers have the duty to care for their subjects, in which the do no harm principle, which states that the wellbeing of the filmed subjects must be prioritized over all else, is fundamental (2017, 151). The blurring of Corra’s professional relationship with Nichols in Farewell to Hollywood creates ethical difficulties since a violation of the harm principle is dubious: Corra believes his duty to care extends towards Nichols’ emotional wellbeing, which relies greatly on their intimate relationship and the finishing of the film. He cannot force himself to take on the role of a neutral spectator as he believes that “masking one’s presence – itself unethical as far as Corra is concerned – demanded candor” (Winston 2017, 154). However, his passionate involvement caused distress to Nichols’ family members and possibly harmed the family’s relationship. Other ethical concerns reside in the power dynamics between the two: did Corra, a filmmaker, abuse his position to exploit Nichols, a terminally ill aspiring filmmaker – and therefore a vulnerable subject – to achieve his desired narrative (along with intimacy with a much younger woman)?

Farewell to Hollywood exemplifies the tension between a filmmaker’s (intimate) care and objective apathy, where leaning towards either would have its own ethical consequences. In such cases, it remains the filmmaker’s duty to find an Aristotelean golden mean between their moral responsibility and their free expression.        

Potential power dynamics as the one described above are often oversimplified, Kate Nash argues. In her article Exploring power and trust in documentary: A study of Tom Zubrycki’s Molly and Mobarak (2014), she criticizes historic theories of power in documentary filmmaking for lacking nuance. Nash states that power is generally viewed as one-sided: a filmmaker has the power to dominate and exploit their subjects. Challenging this notion, Nash argues that such a view obscures the complex nature of power relationships upon which documentaries are contrived (2014, 24). Instead, she pleads for a Foucauldian approach of power where power is seen as a dynamic network that expands with every newly formed relationship and every performed action. Nash thus sees power as interactive, fueled by discussion and resistance, and argues that both the filmmaker and the subject have the power to influence subject-representation and ultimately, the film itself (2014, 26-27). While nuancing common notions of power in documentary filmmaking is a welcome discourse catalyst, I believe Nash’ notion overlooks the power of the filmmaker during post-production: here, deliberate editing can alter the presentation of any scene and hence the representation of any subject, ultimately putting the filmmaker in the position of final control.

            As Winston emphasizes later in his chapter, (unforeseen) consequences of the filmmaking process are tightly connected to the precarious nature of documentary ethics. When filming there will always be a risk of harm to subjects in the form of trauma or backlash. As an example, Winston highlights reality television incidents, where subjects experienced physical or emotional trauma during or following the filming, and which tragically often ended in suicides, even when subjects consented to any potential harm beforehand (2017, 156). Moreover, Winston argues that informed consent (while being elementary to documentary protocol) is a gray area, since participants rarely understand how the film could affect their life in the future, and in some instances might be manipulated or even coerced to sign (2017, 161-163). Reality television particularly propagates ethical intricacies since – due to its growing popularity – its subjects are often people who would exert themselves for some screen time and so might be blind to the risks of participation. However, to assume the consequences of reality television – or any documentary for that matter – are predominantly negative would be detrimental to a filmmaker’s free expression, Winston argues. Ultimately though, “Whether revealed or not, there might well be outcomes – benefits and harms – and the filmmaker bears responsibility for them” (2017, 157).

             Expanding on Winston’s duty to care principle, David Alamouti formulates a modern ‘checklist’ for examining documentary ethics. His revision is motivated by the transnational quality of contemporary film distribution: the digital revolution allows films to be produced and accessed anywhere at any time, exposing them to transnational ethical scrutiny. Therefore, he forms a global ethical framework that – and he emphasizes this – builds upon local frameworks and accounts for the complexities of contemporary filmmaking. As this list is too long to fully incorporate here, I will briefly highlight the concerns I find most novel, and intrinsic to transnational distribution:

• Who is being filmed and what is their cultural, social, educational, religious, and political background?

• (Is the subject aware of) who will be able to watch this film?

• Can a subject’s actions be viewed as (socially) deviant in any (sub)culture? And if so

• How can you safeguard a subject from (intercultural) backlash of any kind?

• How can a filmmaker flatten the power-unbalance without losing their expressive freedom? (Alamouti 2020, 118).

When connecting these questions to the ethical framework posed by Winston along with Nash’ formulation of power dynamics, a nearly flawless contemporary-documentary-ethics passe-partout emerges, left to be perfected only by this final question: who is the filmmaker, and what is their background? With the number of filmmakers from minority populations and non-western backgrounds steadily growing, this question becomes increasingly relevant for evaluating whose view a film truly voices: does a film speak about a subject or does a subject speak through the film? For the audience, knowing who made a film considerably shapes their interpretation; a filmmaker’s reputation is closely tied to a viewer’s sense of (dis)trust. Therefore, who made a film is essential when ethically examining it.

American Movie: voyeuristic or faithfully candid?

Again, some criticize American Movie for being exploitative by displaying and framing its subjects as an absurd comedic spectacle. To analyze whether this is the case, this section will focus on applying the theories set forth by Winston, Nash, and Alamouti onto the parts of the film I deem most fit for moral scrutiny.

            Formally, the film seems mostly observational, with long takes, minimal interventions of the filmmaker, and little use of non-diegetic elements. In the few instances the filmmaker does participate, it is in the form of asking subjects questions or replying to something that is said. The main subjects are Mark, the aspiring filmmaker, Mike, his best friend and recovering alcoholic and drug (ab)user, Bill, Mark’s cynical, presumably slightly senile, uncle and producer, and Monica, Mark’s mother and production assistant.

In the following scenes, the questions that I will focus on answering are: Is harm minimized? What are the dynamics between filmmaker and filmed? How are the subjects represented?

In one of his many meetings with Bill, taking place inside Bill’s trailer home, Mark attempts to happily reassure Bill about the $3000 he invested into Mark’s short horror film Coven (28:10 – 30:15). Here, Mark’s buoyant positivity is starkly contrasted with Bill’s depressed cynicism; it is glaringly obvious Bill does not believe he will receive any return on his investment into Coven. The scene continues outside, where Mark rambles on about his marketing and distribution plans. When Mark mentions 3000 copies will be sold, Bill mockingly replies “That’ll be the day”. Mark responds by asking Bill what wine he should buy him from Coven’s future profit. The scene concludes with Mark and Bill sitting outside the trailer in silence, leaving the impression that while Mark fantasizes about his future success, Bill dreams of wine.

You could argue that the filmmaker here presents Bill as Mark’s antagonist to install doubt towards Mark’s ambition, supporting the narrative of Mark as a comedic failure. Similarly, a conversation about Bill’s life achievements is juxtaposed with images of the interior of his cluttered trailer, which could be interpreted as voyeuristic and demeaning as such a construction too might frame Bill as a failure.

1. Mark and Bill discuss Coven's future success.

Before objecting to this criticism, I will highlight a similar scene also featuring this pair. At (1:07:25 – 1:11:35) Mark returns to Bill’s trailer to record some ADR (Automated Dialogue Replacement) for Coven’s opening scene. Mark orders a slow and cantankerous Bill into a car to record one line of dialogue. Bill struggles to perform the sentence in Mark’s desired manner (Bill is 83 and by no means a professional actor). After showing the first few takes, where Mark begs Bill for more passion and Bill voices his disapproval of all Mark’s ambitions, it cuts to the 31st take, where Bill gives up. This time jump comically emphasizes the lengthy duration and strain of the session. We are left with a disappointed Mark who laughs at the absurdity of the situation.

While in both scenes Mark and Bill’s oppositional dynamic combined with the strategically timed editing forge a humorous display, I believe they fit within the aforementioned norms of ethical filmmaking. Since in neither scene any type of harm is visible, the filmmaker’s duty to care is here channeled through subject representation.

2. Bill's quick ADR session

Both subjects, I believe, are kept in dignity and represented authentically: the editing constructs, rather than manipulates, their relationship. The humor arises naturally through the contrasting nature of their respective characters; Mark’s relentless positivity and Bill’s skepticism are unfabricated and candidly observed, providing a raw representation of a long-standing familiar relationship. Furthermore, Bill, while cynical, is shown extensively conversing and cooperating with Mark, portraying him as a multi-faceted individual rather than a one-dimensional antagonistic caricature. These scenes prove that with minimal expressive freedom (editing) a symbiosis of authentic representation and comical entertainment can still take place. Like Mark, you end up laughing at the absurdity of the situation.

The last section of the film I will highlight is composed of multiple scenes (40:00 – 44:10). This section serves as a microcosm for the whole film, as it demonstrates how through the tactful ordering of scenes an authentically comedic tone is shaped. It starts with Mark confessing all the money he owes to different people and organizations, which is followed by an interview with his father, who voices his reasons for breaking off Mark’s financial support.

Subsequently, an interview where his brother expresses his incomprehension of Mark’s films – he thinks they lack moral, political, or entertainment value – is crosscut with Mark filming a scene for Coven and shots of his earlier films. Mike then appears with a recounting of how he and Mark met through their shared love of vodka. The film continues with a scene in which Mark is filming using the aid of his children. Immediately after, it cuts to an interview with Mark where he states his ex-girlfriend is threatening to take his children away, though, in his eyes, he is a good father. The scene ends with a model Borchardt quote, “I don’t wanna end up being a nothing”(44:05), then fades to black, and opens back up on a shot of Mark handling a large supermarket turkey, marvelling at its size, and exclaiming “holy shit” (44:10).

By ordering these scenes so that candid lightheartedness is followed by either exterior criticism or honest reflection – or vice versa – the contradictions inherent to Mark’s life are emphasized, but never mocked: the film is filled with such contradictions, some more subtle than others, to create the underlying comedic undertone, but even more so, to highlight Mark’s authentic humanity. With different intentions, the film could have easily been reedited as a mockumentary. But the minimalist style, observational nature, careful editing, and music performed by subject Mike, make for a film overflowing with both creative freedom and authenticity. American Movie celebrates rather than exploits humanities’ inconsistensies, to which both the filmmaker and subjects contribute. The film ends with Coven’s premiere, where Mark’s relentless determination is finally rewarded as he for once can take on the role of a successful filmmaker.

However, while addressing the sold-out theater, he focuses on the contribution of his close friends rather than his own achievements. Even during his modest triumphs, Mark, and the film, remain authentic.

In 2025, Northwestern is still in production. American Movie, on the other hand, has become a classic: Mark’s feature films might never shine on the silver screen, but his face already has, and will for a long time.

 Cited Works

Alamouti, David. 2020. “The digital ethical space: towards a transnational documentary ethics, a filmmaker’s point of view.” Transnational Screens 11:(2): 103-120.

Nash, Kate. 2010. “Exploring power and trust in documentary: A study of Tom Zubrycki's Molly and Mobarak.” Studies in Documentary Film 4(1): 21- 33.

Winston, Brian, Gail Vanstone, and Wang Chi. 2017. “Nous sommes dans le bain/ We are implicated.” In The Act of Documenting, 1st ed, Bloomsbury Publishing Inc.

Filmography

American Movie (Chris Smith, 1999, United States)

Farewell to Hollywood (Henry Corra, 2013, United States)