Some seventeen years after directing the immortal Hoop Dreams and essentially handing MTV half of its future reality-based line-up, Steve James brings it all back home with The Interrupters, a tremendous work of reportage centered on a trio of "violence interrupters" working largely in the city of Englewood. Based out of the Chicago offices of the anti-violence non-profit CeaseFire, the eponymous counselors, all of whom have served jail sentences and grew up under the veil of gangland warfare, offer a glimpse at redemption for those in the midst of potentially grave confrontations, but the implications of James' documentary, certainly the best I've seen thus far this year, burrow deeper in to locate, examine, and, in moments of devastating honesty, root out the impetus for our history of violence.
Expanding on from a 2008 article written in the New York Times Magazine by journalist Alex Kotlowitz, who is here credited as producer and "creative partner" to James, The Interrupters spans a year and is punctuated by the seasonal change, and the gradual, precise changing of weather is not an entirely unworthy allegory for the trajectory of an interrupter working with a potential attacker, victim, or past criminal. As the film begins, Ameena Matthews, a reformed gang member and practicing Muslim, is working with a troubled teen named Caprysha, who she meets during a scuffle at a local foster home. Ameena takes on a maternal role in the relationship but the conversation the two magnetic subjects are having shifts several times in tone and dimension, nearly touches the brink of positive thinking before dithering and flaming out. CeaseFire founder and executive director Dr. Gary Slutkin asserts that violence works much like a disease and James's treatment of Ameena, the daughter of legendary Chicago gang leader Jeff Fort, and Caprysha is much like watching a doctor attempt to cure a critical patient dialectically.
Despite the family connection, Ameena's colleague, Eddie Bocanegra, seems even more personally involved in the struggle. James films Eddie working in a classroom setting, but also, more importantly, talking about a murder he committed when he was in a gang; James even films him revisiting the site of the crime. Eventually, Eddie begins to get involved one-on-one with the sister of a shooting victim, who begins to lash out, but his work in the classroom ties in not only to the film's stress on the importance of community and education but also its interest in the now infamous Derrion Albert killing and its YouTube fallout. The Albert killing becomes a reference favored by the filmmaker but also by the interrupters, tying personal moments to a more widespread story in a similar way to how the film takes the idea behind violence and pitches it through unique, charismatic and sincere subjects. The film is pro-education and glorifies social responsibility, but it never seems political, not even for a second, thanks largely to the fact that James forgoes narration, graphs, graphics, pop songs, cartoons, and film clips in favor of observation, molded only by Aaron Wickenden's agile editing.
Eddie's backstory remains the least clear, though we feel the weight of experience in his speech and his relationships. In contrast, Cobe Williams seems like an open book and is easily the most lovable subject James has ever had the pleasure of interviewing and following. We see Cobe dealing with two separate cases, one of which serves as a type of bookend to his year. This conflict regards two brothers in warring gangs and their forever-suffering mother, who has kicked them both out for fear of household violence. The story and the participants have the makings of stunning drama but though they are never anything less than compelling in their disputes, it is Cobe's relationship with multiple-time offender, Flamo, that delivers the film's most moving sequences. Though obviously more fraternal in tone, Cobe and Flamo's interactions are very close in vein to Ameena's work with Caprysha in the slow-paced way in which the instinct towards violence is drawn out and treated. But whereas the ambiguousness of Caprysha's fate offers perhaps the most honest depiction of CeaseFire's objectives, the way Cobe and Flamo build a relationship that leads towards something like redemption solidifies James's film as an essential work of modern social theory and investigation.
And still, there are dozens of other interrupters that we see around the tables at CeaseFire meetings, each with a story that we often can merely sense in their demeanor and their attitude. Tio Hardiman, the director of CeasFire's Illinois chapter, himself struggled with addiction but rather than wallow in the assumed tortures of his past, he spends most of James's film expounding on anti-violence and singing the praises of the interrupters. Seen in mosques and suburban homes, speaking at the funerals of young men not yet out of high school and staging philosophical lectures on the germ of violence in the middle of the street, the three singular figures of The Interrupters are enough to summon a renewed faith in the importance social responsibility, ethics and personal morals amongst the public. Indeed, it would not come as a surprise if James's film beget a reality series, and for perhaps the first time in the history of that particular programming bug, we would be all the better for it.
Expanding on from a 2008 article written in the New York Times Magazine by journalist Alex Kotlowitz, who is here credited as producer and "creative partner" to James, The Interrupters spans a year and is punctuated by the seasonal change, and the gradual, precise changing of weather is not an entirely unworthy allegory for the trajectory of an interrupter working with a potential attacker, victim, or past criminal. As the film begins, Ameena Matthews, a reformed gang member and practicing Muslim, is working with a troubled teen named Caprysha, who she meets during a scuffle at a local foster home. Ameena takes on a maternal role in the relationship but the conversation the two magnetic subjects are having shifts several times in tone and dimension, nearly touches the brink of positive thinking before dithering and flaming out. CeaseFire founder and executive director Dr. Gary Slutkin asserts that violence works much like a disease and James's treatment of Ameena, the daughter of legendary Chicago gang leader Jeff Fort, and Caprysha is much like watching a doctor attempt to cure a critical patient dialectically.
Despite the family connection, Ameena's colleague, Eddie Bocanegra, seems even more personally involved in the struggle. James films Eddie working in a classroom setting, but also, more importantly, talking about a murder he committed when he was in a gang; James even films him revisiting the site of the crime. Eventually, Eddie begins to get involved one-on-one with the sister of a shooting victim, who begins to lash out, but his work in the classroom ties in not only to the film's stress on the importance of community and education but also its interest in the now infamous Derrion Albert killing and its YouTube fallout. The Albert killing becomes a reference favored by the filmmaker but also by the interrupters, tying personal moments to a more widespread story in a similar way to how the film takes the idea behind violence and pitches it through unique, charismatic and sincere subjects. The film is pro-education and glorifies social responsibility, but it never seems political, not even for a second, thanks largely to the fact that James forgoes narration, graphs, graphics, pop songs, cartoons, and film clips in favor of observation, molded only by Aaron Wickenden's agile editing.
Eddie's backstory remains the least clear, though we feel the weight of experience in his speech and his relationships. In contrast, Cobe Williams seems like an open book and is easily the most lovable subject James has ever had the pleasure of interviewing and following. We see Cobe dealing with two separate cases, one of which serves as a type of bookend to his year. This conflict regards two brothers in warring gangs and their forever-suffering mother, who has kicked them both out for fear of household violence. The story and the participants have the makings of stunning drama but though they are never anything less than compelling in their disputes, it is Cobe's relationship with multiple-time offender, Flamo, that delivers the film's most moving sequences. Though obviously more fraternal in tone, Cobe and Flamo's interactions are very close in vein to Ameena's work with Caprysha in the slow-paced way in which the instinct towards violence is drawn out and treated. But whereas the ambiguousness of Caprysha's fate offers perhaps the most honest depiction of CeaseFire's objectives, the way Cobe and Flamo build a relationship that leads towards something like redemption solidifies James's film as an essential work of modern social theory and investigation.
And still, there are dozens of other interrupters that we see around the tables at CeaseFire meetings, each with a story that we often can merely sense in their demeanor and their attitude. Tio Hardiman, the director of CeasFire's Illinois chapter, himself struggled with addiction but rather than wallow in the assumed tortures of his past, he spends most of James's film expounding on anti-violence and singing the praises of the interrupters. Seen in mosques and suburban homes, speaking at the funerals of young men not yet out of high school and staging philosophical lectures on the germ of violence in the middle of the street, the three singular figures of The Interrupters are enough to summon a renewed faith in the importance social responsibility, ethics and personal morals amongst the public. Indeed, it would not come as a surprise if James's film beget a reality series, and for perhaps the first time in the history of that particular programming bug, we would be all the better for it.
