When I first heard about Ross McElwee’s latest documentary, Remake, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of unease. McElwee, a pioneer of the documentary essay, has always been a filmmaker who wears his heart on his sleeve, but this time, it’s different. Remake isn’t just another personal journey—it’s a raw, unfiltered exploration of grief, fatherhood, and the limits of art itself. What makes this particularly fascinating is how McElwee, now 79, confronts a story he never wanted to tell but couldn’t avoid. It’s a film born out of necessity, not choice, and that tension is palpable.
One thing that immediately stands out is McElwee’s relationship with his son, Adrian. Adrian has been a recurring character in McElwee’s films, from the quick-witted child in In Paraguay to the sullen young man in Photographic Memory. But in Remake, Adrian’s presence is ghostly, haunting. The film grapples with the unbearable reality of a parent outliving their child, and McElwee doesn’t shy away from his own self-doubt. He wonders if he filmed Adrian too much, if he could have been a better father. This raises a deeper question: Can art ever truly capture the complexity of a life, or does it inevitably reduce it to fragments?
What many people don’t realize is how McElwee’s career has been defined by this tension between the personal and the artistic. His breakthrough film, Sherman’s March, is a masterclass in digressive storytelling, blending history, romance, and self-reflection. But Remake feels like the culmination of a lifetime of questioning. It’s not just about Adrian’s death; it’s about the fragility of memory, the chaos of time, and the ways we try to make sense of loss. Personally, I think this is where McElwee’s genius lies—he doesn’t offer answers, but he forces us to sit with the questions.
A detail that I find especially interesting is the film’s genesis. Remake began as an attempt to create a fictional, commercial version of Sherman’s March, a project Adrian had jokingly encouraged. There’s a bittersweet irony here: Adrian wanted his father to make a ‘real movie,’ but Remake ended up being the most real—and devastating—film of McElwee’s career. If you take a step back and think about it, this speaks to the unpredictable nature of art. Sometimes, the stories we think we’re telling are just placeholders for the ones we need to tell.
From my perspective, what this really suggests is that McElwee’s work has always been about the search for meaning in the face of chaos. Whether it’s the death of his father in Time Indefinite or the loss of Adrian in Remake, he’s constantly grappling with the unstoppable march of time. His films aren’t just documentaries; they’re acts of survival. And yet, there’s a strange beauty in that. As McElwee himself notes, ‘The reels are all out of order,’ but it’s in that disorder that we find moments of clarity and connection.
What this film also highlights is the role of the audience in processing grief. McElwee admits that screenings of Remake feel like attending his son’s memorial service all over again. This raises a broader question about the ethics of personal documentary: When does sharing become exploitation? In my opinion, McElwee navigates this line with remarkable sensitivity. He doesn’t exploit Adrian’s story; he honors it by letting us see Adrian through his own eyes, thanks to the footage Adrian shot himself.
If there’s one takeaway from Remake, it’s this: art doesn’t heal, but it can redeem. McElwee’s film is a testament to the power of storytelling to transform pain into something meaningful—not just for the artist, but for the audience. As I reflect on Remake, I’m reminded of why McElwee’s work has endured. He doesn’t just make films; he invites us into his life, his struggles, his doubts. And in doing so, he reminds us that we’re not alone in ours.
