Life preserver

Filmmaker Sterlin Harjo on real people, real places & telling stories before they’re lost forever

Sterlin Harjo lived in my house before I did, before he moved home to Holdenville to shoot his 2014 release, “This May Be The Last Time.” I still receive his mail, and occasionally it looks important enough to get in touch with him, which is how I ended up at Philbrook for his recent talk on visual storytelling.

He spoke a lot about home and his inspiration to keep telling the stories that give his life humor, richness and continuity. A question drifted across my mind as I sat in the audience. Making such a point to keep tradition alive, as Harjo does—is it some form of clinging to the old and resisting what’s coming now?

As I watched his films, though, I recognized something else—not a refusal to let go of the past, but a willingness to keep coming back to our most basic wisdom. 

Maybe that’s why he’s premiered four films at the Sundance Film Festival, why his work is embraced around the world and why the 1491s—a comedy group he co-founded—have made their way onto “The Daily Show,” “TEDx” and The Huffington Post. 

Harjo embodies the truth that when we’re most ourselves, we’re not only most inspired but also most available and inspiring to others. His work dissolves cultural and political fault lines precisely because he’s coming from a place that is distinctly, inimitably his own.

Harjo’s new TV documentary project with photographer Jeremy Charles—“Osiyo, Voices of the Cherokee People”—premieres Sunday, Feb. 15, and his latest film, “Mekko,” is expected this spring. We talked in his living room a few days before Christmas.

The Tulsa Voice: Let’s get “Mekko” on the table first. 

Sterlin Harjo: It’s not the most likeable of my films. I feel like it’s going to polarize people a little bit and be harder to swallow. It’s not Frankie and Irene (in “Barking Water” [2009]) driving down the road in love. 

It’s a really complex kind of thing about a guy that did something really bad and is out of prison and on the streets. It’s a world no one’s seen—but do they want to see it? Does it make people feel bad when they drive past homeless Indians on the street? It’s a little worse, I feel like, to see a homeless Indian, because there’s such a story told in that. 

TTV: You’ve talked before about the scarcity of funding for films that don’t include big Hollywood names. “Mekko” features Zahn McClarnon (of crime series “Longmire”) and longtime stuntman Rod Rondeaux in one of his first starring roles—

SH: But neither one of those names are going to get you money.

It’s a weird, weird, weird industry to try to be in. And I get totally fed up with it, and I haven’t made money on any of my films.

I get paid initially, within the budget, to work for the time being. But it’s not like I make money on them. 

I would love to direct some bigger film that someone else wrote. I would love to do that. But there’s no real—I guess maybe if you move to LA, kind of go through that thing. But I’m just not interested in that. That’s not why I do it.

TTV: Why do you do it? 

SH: I feel like the films that I’ve made, it’s just fresh territory.

If I didn’t make those films, no one would ever make them. And that’s awesome. 

I don’t know how to make money in it. I don’t know what—or if there is a formula to make money in it. And everyone that I know is kind of struggling if they’re an independent filmmaker.

TTV: Tell me about “Osiyo” and your collaboration with Jeremy Charles. 

SH: We started a company (Firethief Productions) together. Our first project was like, boom—we got it right at the beginning, and it’s this really big project producing a show for the Cherokee Nation. A TV show. So it’s been cool. It’s kept me home; … I have a daughter that I get to see more now that I’m not traveling all the time. So I’m very grateful for that. And we’re going to keep trying to do more, pick up other projects. And our goal is to eventually make films with our company. 

TTV: Some of the most wonderful characters in your films aren’t actors—like environmental and Native rights activist Casey Camp-Horinek (who plays Irene in both “Goodnight Irene” [2005] and “Barking Water”). Acting isn’t her main gig, but she’s incredible. 

SH: Oh yeah, she’s great. 

The last thing I want is some actress or actor who’s trying to be an actor; they have no life to pull from. I’d rather have Wotko (from “This May Be The Last Time”), somebody normal who’s lived life, because they can pull from all of their experiences.

People were really nervous about (Wotko), like, “Are you sure that he can act?” I’m like, “No, but I think he can. And I think I can get him there.” And of course he can act, and kind of blows people away.

TTV: “This May Be The Last Time” feels like part music history documentary, part mystery and mostly an example of what happens when you give a story time to tell itself. Wotko is this incredible thread in that; his depth and layers carry the film just as much as the story of your grandfather’s disappearance. 

SH: Yeah. Totally. Whenever we got that interview … we were just floored. 

You could hang the story on it. And it’s just this emotional depth that comes across, and you want to hug him immediately. He wears his emotions right on the ends of his eyelids. 

After that, I was like, “We definitely have a movie.” 

TTV: Seeing how Wotko interacts with the Muscogee (Creek) hymns is like watching the whole history of the songs materialize—he’s telling stories about his life, and the songs just start pouring out of him. He reaches down and draws from that source like it’s just the most natural thing to him.

SH: And it is. 

I can make a film about these songs, and they are a part of my life, but I also have to have a certain perspective of being able to step outside of me and see what an audience wants to see a little bit. He lives it. It’s just his life, and it is his source, those songs. 

TTV: The footage of Wotko’s dad found its way into the film in a pretty incredible way, too. 

SH: On Facebook one day, I said, “I’m looking for old footage from churches and things, let me know if you have any.”

And this woman wrote me, Lisa Long, and she said, “My dad shot a lot of footage at churches like Salt Creek and other places. You should check it out. He’s passed away, but my mom has the tapes.” 

And so I turned on the (footage), and I realized that it’s his dad, Harry, and it was like, “Wow.”

Because Wotko talked about his dad through the whole thing. And so we had this great footage of his dad that goes along with his interview. 

I didn’t tell Wotko that footage was in the film until he saw the premiere at Sundance.

TTV: —Woah

SH: Yeah. I was a little nervous, but I wanted him to see it on the big screen in the context of the whole movie. And obviously he was just blown away, crying. He just loved it. It was unbelievable to him. Because he’d never seen any of that footage, and he was talking about his dad and everything. It was amazing. 

TTV: I want to backtrack a little and touch on “Barking Water” because it’s such an emotionally honest film. Both the leads just killed it.

SH: I wrote those parts for them, and I called Casey first.

She was like, “I’d really love to do this. Who’s playing Frankie?” I said, “I don’t know if you know him, but his name’s Richard Ray Whitman.” And she started laughing. … They’ve known each other for years, so they could pull from all that. 

I just wanted to write a story about … an old couple in love—but in real love, where it’s complex, and fucked up sometimes, and hard to deal with, and real. And when you’re faced with someone dying, you’re going to be more honest and cut the bullshit—they’re dying. And you’re going to tell each other how you really feel. 

TTV: Yeah, there was a real sweetness there. 

SH: Mhmm. I love that movie. It’s the one that I could watch again. “Four Sheets to the Wind” [2007] I have a harder time watching. There’s so many things I would do different. It was my first film. “Goodnight Irene”—I’m cool. I can watch that. 

TTV: So, in “Goodnight Irene,” did she—where was she going at the end? 

SH: Well, I just leave it up to you. Maybe she’s just going to a really well lit hall.

Sometimes it doesn’t hit me until I’m watching the film, what it’s about. Which is cool I think, because it’s like something else is at work a little bit.

TTV: You’ve said in other interviews that maybe a purpose in your life is helping people deal with loss. Muscogee (Creek) hymns make their way into a lot of your work, and they seem be a big part of that. 

SH: There’s not many things that make me more happy than being at a funeral and being able to stand with singers and sing these songs. Everyone goes and views the body, and then they shut the doors after everyone’s out, for the immediate family. 

And the only people left in there really are the singers, and they keep singing. And it’s like you’re giving them strength, and you’re singing loudly for them and you’re—there’s going to be people crying and breaking down, and all this stuff. But you’re there, and your job is to sing, and to sing until they get through it all.

So they’re such a part of the grieving process and helping people through that. And it’s just in me. Something about that is what hit me and what really influenced what I do. 

TTV: The songs are also this extension of community. As they search for your grandfather in “This May Be The Last Time,” they’re singing as if to tell him he’s not alone out there, and then also they’re demonstrating that in the way the community came together to find him. 

SH: I feel like that. All that—the songs and everything—represent home to me.

There’s just something that I get from them that, it’s hard to explain, it’s hard to talk about, it’s hard to even put my finger on it. It’s just that I hear them … and it’s like rebooting and kind of checking back in a little bit. 

TTV: I’m still thinking about that moment in “This May Be The Last Time” when they found your grandfather’s body in the river, and someone suggested they use ropes to drag him out. And a few of your grandfather’s relatives insisted that they go into the water themselves and bring his body back. 

SH: Yeah. I grew up with that story. And then there’s another story of a cousin of mine.

A bunch of my relatives were out partying at the lake, and some of them were on the back of a pickup. They had a wreck, and one of my cousins fell off and got hit by a car and died—and was kind of entangled in the axel of this truck. And my uncle who wasn’t with them … when he got there, the cops and the EMS or whatever, they were just trying to shake him off. So they were going forward and then going in reverse, and going forward and going in reverse. And my uncle got out and actually fought with—basically pushed a cop up against a car, cussing him out like, “What are you doing?” And this other guy was like, “Yeah, I didn’t think it was right, either. I have jack if you want to jack it up.” And so my uncle literally—they jacked this car up, and my uncle goes under and gets his cousin off of this thing.  

I grew up with the most insane, beautiful stories, and a lot of them have to do with death. And for some reason—I don’t know why—but for some reason, I’m the one in my family that remembers all of them.

TTV: You’re widely known as a “Native filmmaker.” Although that stands on its own, it’s dismissive in a way because your work is really about those gritty layers of life that are true for all humans. 

SH: That’s how I feel. I don’t like being introduced as, “Sterlin Harjo, Native American filmmaker.” We were supposed to do a panel in Oklahoma City at deadCENTER … Native Americans in film or something like that. And I love them—I was just complaining and being an asshole—but I was like, do we really have to—how many films do I need to make before I can just do a panel about storytelling and it doesn’t have to have Native American in the title? 

TTV: At the same time, you’re writing what you know best, and that authentic voice is what resonates. 

SH: My films are culturally very specific and truthful, and people relate to it because of that. 

And with film, I just have nothing else to say but this stuff. It’s like, what do I say? I don’t wanna tell a story about some college guys’ fucking wild night out. I don’t have a reason to say that. And that would be doing a disservice to everyone if I was trying to write stories like that or not be truthful to who I am and what I want to talk about. 

And I might fucking bomb. I might fail. I don’t know how I’m going to make a living. I don’t know that. Things are good right now. But I don’t know how I’m going to make a living later. There is no plan. I’ve always been really good about diving off a cliff and not caring. And that’s why my films got made. It’s just like, “Fuck, I can make a movie. Let’s do it.” 

And sometimes it’s really good; sometimes it’s really bad. 

But I made my family proud. I made my community proud, and then other people like it. If that’s it, then that’s fine. I could always go back home and do whatever.

SEE FOR YOURSELF

Harjo’s latest project, “Osiyo, Voices of the Cherokee People,” is a TV documentary series in collaboration with Co-Director Jeremy Charles and Host/Executive Producer Jennifer Loren. Beginning Feb. 15, “Osiyo” will air on KTUL (ABC) Sundays at 9 a.m. Visit Osiyo.tv to see the first episode in advance and find additional showtimes.

Head over to Vimeo to watch "Cepannkuce Tutcenen" (Three Little Boys)—an excellent short film by Harjo—and several other gems, including his music videos for local artists and videos by the 1491s (many of which are also on YouTube). Harjo’s films “This May Be The Last Time” and “Barking Water” are available to stream on Netflix, and several of his films can be rented or purchased at iTunes, Amazon Prime and other online retailers. Look for the release of Harjo’s new film, “Mekko,” this spring. 

Want more stories from Molly? Check out her Q&A with TulsaNow's Carlos Moreno and read up on the potential Turkey Mountain outlet mall development. Then, find out what she does in her free time.