The History

Celesta Davis was at Sundance two years ago watching a screening of Susan Froemke's documentary "Lalee's Kin." After the film, she was approached by documentary film guru Albert Maysles. "It was an amazingly powerful film, and the whole time I was watching it, I just kept thinking, what am I doing with my life? I want to be making stories that change people's lives. When Albert came up, I didn't know who he was right away, but once we started talking, I felt immediately comfortable and knew I could trust him. I had just found out about Matthew and I was emotional. Albert listened and was immediately empathetic. Now when I look back on the experience I realize that it was the beginning of my process, even though it was a year after that before I realized I was going to make this film."

As her family began to prepare to "confront" the man who had molested her and her sister as girls, she says she felt an "instinct" to document it. "Not only have I dealt with sexual abuse, but I have so many friends who have dealt with this issue in their lives, and no one talks about it. I just find it so alarming. I've found that when I say that I've been molested, people feel immediate permission to open up. I felt like making a film about my opening up could open the door for other people on a much larger scale."

So she began to call everyone she knew who had worked in or on documentary films to solicit advice. "One friend, Karin Hayes, who has gone on to complete two documentaries since then, was invaluable. Join the IDA she told me. Make sure your sound is good. She really guided me through the process. Albert Maysles and I also kept in touch. I visited him in New York. He was so warm and accessible. He encouraged me, and sent me home with the "documentary cookbook" he and Jon Else had put together. I had amazing mentors."

As she found her footing, she also found her producing partner, filmmaker Tim Skousen who responded immediately to the subject of the film, and came aboard sight unseen. "Tim was invaluable from day one. Without stepping on my toes, he became my constant resource. From what kind of mic to use, to nudging me and telling me we might want to get a certain shot. He also trusted me, which encouraged me to trust myself and grow as a director. During almost all of the shooting, I was involved as a subject, so I depended on him to get the coverage we talked about beforehand. It was amazing to rely on someone so completely and be rewarded with such great work."

Once we finished shooting, I felt so victorious. I was aware of the task that lay ahead in post production, but everyone had told me how hard the shooting was going to be, so once it was completed, I felt somewhat relieved. I had no idea. Not only was shooting the easiest part, but by contrast, logging, and personally transcribing every last minute of footage was hell. I raked myself willingly over the coals for hours and hours, day after day, reliving painful, shameful moments – and discovering new ones. On top of that, I was broke, knew I had a great story, and I had almost no idea where to begin telling it.

So, I worked every day at my regular job, then came home and transcribed till my fingers seized up, or my eyes closed. On the weekends, I usually worked somewhere between twenty and thirty hours transcribing. By Mondays I usually couldn't write anymore, so I looked forward to going to work and giving my fingers a break. It was an amazing time. I knew exactly what I was going to be doing every day. I had no free time, and I cried a lot. I was not prepared for the pain, the emotional pain, of watching myself and my family talk to Alan, word for word, second by second, rewound and replayed over and over till I had it written. It really messed with me.

Once I'd transcribed everything, somewhere in late February, I again, felt like I'd gotten over the worst. And again, I was miserably wrong. The mulling hours staring at what I now called "the bible" (the collection of transcripts), trying to figure out what the story was, what clips I wanted, etc. was insane. Literally. I talked to myself, called people asking advice they couldn't give me, couldn't sleep, did a lot of emotional eating and non-eating. It was desperate. I finally called a friend, Christina Kemeny, who came to my rescue mid-March and watched the footage with me. She was amazing and really led me to ask some hard questions. I think it was traumatic for both of us, but I learned so much!

After that, it was a matter of being able to find an editor. I knew the film would all be in the editing, but I couldn't afford to go and rent an editing bay and pay an editor, or take off work to do it. Just as I was getting ready to tear my hair out, Tim Skousen called to check in with me, and he volunteered to edit. It was a miracle.

I flew out, and we had five days to get a cut. It went beautifully, and we couldn't believe that by 9:00 Sunday night, we had a feasible film to show. My family came over to watch it at about 9:15pm, and Tim and I hadn't even seen it all the way through yet, we'd been rushing so much to get something complete before I left Monday morning. So we all sat down together, feeling nervous and excited. The moment it began, I knew it was going to work. Further into the film, we were laughing, crying, white knuckling it. We were lucky. The story was there. From that cut, it's really just been a matter of refining."

You say at the end of the film that it made everything better for you. Can you be more specific? "Yes and no. I'm constantly discovering. Some of it's bizarre, like I don't get afraid to go outside at night alone anymore, or, I have an astoundingly easier time asserting myself personally and professionally than I used to. Other discoveries are more personal. But I noticed something very interesting on my way back home after seeing Alan. I was excited to get on with my life, and Chuck, our therapist, had told me to expect changes, some dramatic, some less dramatic, now that I'd done this.

As I stood in the security line at the airport before going into the terminal, I noticed that I moved a ring that I always wore on my left finger to my right finger. I sometimes did that anyway, just to play with it, but this time, I didn't change it back. And as I went to get on the plane, a specific place I always wore my ring to assure I wouldn't get hassled, I realized that I wasn't afraid of getting hassled anymore, and that I didn't need the ring. I could wear it, but I could just as easily not, and say no to anyone who was too forward with me, or made me uncomfortable. It was so liberating. I'd just gotten over a fear of saying no to men in a small but dramatic way. That was just the first of many small, but obvious steps I've taken in the last year and a half. I've broken patterns I've followed and lived with for years as a result of fear. Fear that I didn't know I had. And fear that I'm now in the process of overcoming."