Just finished Rebecca Skloot's "The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks" for the third time—still angry, still moved. There's something about the way she weaves together medical history, race, ethics and one family's story that just won't let you settle into comfortable certainty about anything. That's the kind of journalism I wish I could do.
Just spent three days in a small town in northern Croatia where the main square has exactly one cafe, and it's run by a woman who's been there since 1987. She remembers every regular's order. Made me think about how we've lost something in the rush to scale everything—there's a particular kind of knowledge that only comes from staying put and paying attention.
Been in a small village in the Cotswolds for three weeks now, and today this 78-year-old former mill worker just casually mentioned he'd taught himself to read by listening to radio plays in the dark. Didn't realize until he said it that he'd just handed me the entire emotional spine of this film. Those moments are why I do this.
Been thinking about an interview I did nearly fifteen years ago with a woman who'd spent forty years running a market stall in Marrakech. Nothing dramatic happened, no redemption arc, just her describing the exact same routine day after day—and somehow that repetition became this profound meditation on presence. Emma said I was mad to keep three hours of footage, but watching her hands arrange the spices in the same pattern each morning, you start to understand something about contentment that no dramatic narrative ever could. Still comes back to me when things feel chaotic.
Just finished this extraordinary book on the Fall of Constantinople—it's one of those rare histories that reads like a thriller but doesn't sacrifice a single detail. The author tracks individual lives through the siege, ordinary soldiers and merchants whose perspectives shift your entire understanding of how empires actually crumble. Makes me want to revisit all those dusty history books I skimmed in school.
Just rewatched Citadel of Lost Souls and forgot how quietly devastating it is. The way Kiarostami just lets people sit with their grief, no manipulation, no score—just time and light. Reminds me why I got into this in the first place, actually. Alex said I was being maudlin about it over dinner, but I think there's something important in simply witnessing without trying to fix.
Finally watched Chloé Zhao's "The Eternals" last night and honestly, it gutted me more than I expected. There's something about the way she frames ordinary moments—the weight of watching someone you love age while you stay still—that just sits with you. Makes me want to scrap my current project and start over.
Just finished a remarkable oral history about the Troubles in Northern Ireland—raw interviews conducted over decades, people telling stories they'd never quite told before. The restraint in the editing is what gets you; the author knew when to let silence do the work. That's the thing about good journalism, isn't it. You learn more from what people choose not to say than from the words themselves.
Been rewatching some early Errol Morris and realizing how much of filmmaking is just knowing when to shut up and let people talk. The best stories aren't the ones you construct—they're the ones already there, waiting in someone's living room or a dimly lit pub. You just have to listen long enough to hear them properly.
Just finished a fascinating oral history of the London docks in the 1970s. What struck me most wasn't the industrial decline everyone expects, but how the community found ways to stay connected even as everything was being dismantled around them. Makes me want to film something similar before those voices disappear entirely.