A group of incarcerated fathers are warned in the documentary that they鈥檙e about to go on 鈥渆motional rollercoasters.鈥� A truer prediction has never been uttered.
In the film, directed by Natalie Rae and Angela Patton, the imprisoned fathers at a Washington, D.C., correctional facility, are given a rare gift: a few hours to spend with their daughters, who range in age from 5 to late teens. For one afternoon, they can be together to dance, hug and laugh.
For some of the girls, the program, called the Daddy Daughter Dance, will be the first time they鈥檝e ever touched their father. Others haven鈥檛 seen their dad in years. The trend in U.S. prisons has been toward video calls and away from in-person 鈥渢ouch鈥� visits. Even 鈥渋n-person鈥� visits are often through plexiglass and a phone.
The unspoken question that runs through 鈥凄补耻驳丑迟别谤蝉,鈥� which debuts Wednesday on Netflix, is: Should it be this seldom that incarcerated men have real human interaction with their children? In this heartache of a documentary, the most plaintive plea is a basic one. Whatever else they are, one of the incarcerated men says, 鈥淲e鈥檙e still fathers.鈥�
鈥凄补耻驳丑迟别谤蝉,鈥� earlier this year, first turns its attention to some of the young girls as they prepare for the afternoon. Aubrey, a chatty, immediately loveable 5-year-old, says, 鈥淲hen he says he loves me, I鈥檓 gonna say I love him more.鈥� Aubrey鈥檚 father, Keith, will be in prison for another seven years, a time period that even a 5-year-old as bright as Aubrey simply can鈥檛 conceive. She鈥檚 learning to count.
Others have more complicated feelings before the dance. Santana, 10, vows not to shed a tear when she goes. 鈥淭he only reason he ain鈥檛 here is he wants to keep doing bad stuff,鈥� she says. Her father, Mark, didn鈥檛 hug his daughter until she was a year old. For Ja鈥橝na, 11, seeing her father is even rarer. Her mother didn鈥檛 want her to see her father behind bars. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 remember nothin鈥� about my father, nothin鈥� at all," she says.
On the day of the dance, the fathers, all wearing suits and a flower on their lapel, are sitting in a long row of seats when their daughters arrive. The filmmakers capture the moment almost like a fairy tale, with lots of light and little sound besides some music, a few shouts of 鈥淒addy!鈥� and a little muffled crying.
Inside a gym, the fathers and daughters play and dance. Some have a ball. For others, it鈥檚 clear that the gulf between them can鈥檛 be bridged in a day. When it鈥檚 time for the daughters to go home and the fathers to return to their cells, the parting is inevitably crushing. Before the girls depart, the fathers sign pledges to remain their life. In the 12 years of the program, 95% of participating fathers don鈥檛 return to jail.
We've had the good fortune of two exquisitely tender films this summer about the lives of incarcerated people and the paths they might take to redemption in 鈥凄补耻驳丑迟别谤蝉鈥� and the recently released In 鈥凄补耻驳丑迟别谤蝉,鈥� the dialogue around the dance is cause for reflection, also, on the imprisoned men鈥檚 own upbringing and cycles of parental absence that can extend across generations.
Time is the fundamental metric of prison life, which makes a documentary like 鈥凄补耻驳丑迟别谤蝉,鈥� filmed over years, uniquely, maybe even monstrously capable of capturing its passing. As much as 鈥凄补耻驳丑迟别谤蝉鈥� can be an emotional rollercoaster, there鈥檚 no preparing for the film鈥檚 painful years-later epilogue. Aubrey is now 8. She hasn鈥檛 seen her dad since the dance. When she's finally permitted to visit her father, she doesn鈥檛 recognize him through the plexiglass. On the ride home, Aubrey no longer looks like the bundle of optimism she was at 5. Make no mistake. This is tragedy, in very real time.
鈥凄补耻驳丑迟别谤蝉,鈥� a Netflix release, is rated PG-13 for some thematic elements and language. Running time: 107 minutes. Three stars out of four.
Jake Coyle, The Associated Press
