Join us for conversations that dig into the art of documentary storytelling, as filmmakers share the ideas and practices behind their latest films.

When Sang, one of countless children abandoned after the Vietnam War, miraculously finds his ailing American father, he follows a lifelong dream to meet him in the USA, leaving behind everything he loves in Vietnam to confront what home, family, and identity truly mean.

Mariska Hargitay was just three years old when her mother, Jayne Mansfield, died in a tragic car accident. My Mom Jayne follows Mariska as she grapples with her mother's public and private legacy, discovering who Jayne was to her fans and those closest to her.

The personal tragedy suffered by Nora Cortiñas, a former suburban housewife with no prior political experience, fuels her unwavering determination and intrepid activism during Argentina’s 1970s dictatorship, when the military regime kidnaps and “disappears” her activist son Gustavo and thousands more. She co-founds the renowned Mothers of Plaza de Mayo resistance movement in 1977, a group which fights for truth and justice for the missing children; before she emerges on the country’s political scene, time and time again over 4 decades, as a stalwart of human rights, including in 2018 during the fight to legalize abortion.

This intimate, first-hand perspective on life under siege in Gaza is captured through video
calls between director Sepideh Farsi and 25-year-old Palestinian photojournalist Fatma
Hassona, combining raw immediacy with deep humanity.

RED HOUSE PRODUCTIONS PRESENTS

"The lake was our mother, our father. Now, we are orphans." The Uru Indigenous Nation of Bolivia had lived off the waters of Lake Poopó for generations. They subsisted off of hunting and fishing, lived in floating island homes, and formed centuries-long cultural ties to the ecosystem. By 2016, due to diversions of its headwaters for mining operations and climate change-induced drought, Lake Poopó dried out completely. The Uru communities continue to call themselves Qotzuñi—their ancestral word for "people of the lake"—even in its absence.