“The past changes according to what questions we ask. The archive is a living, moving thing. The sources we can put our eyes on are changing as we speak.” — Nell Painter

Archive #1: Eyes on the Prize (1987)

When I was 17, I participated in a youth organizing program hosted by THE POINT in the South Bronx. That summer, in the sweltering New York City heat, we worked on a grassroots campaign to get more trees planted in our neighborhood to combat the high rates of asthma among residents. One day, in an effort to connect our work with the broader legacy of community organizing, the program’s leaders screened the documentary series Eyes on the Prize. The series is a document of the civil rights struggle in the U.S., itself an archive of original footage, interviews, and photos of the movement spanning 1954 to 1965. I remember thinking as the film was projected on the wall, while I sat on a hard wooden bench in the glorious air conditioning of a small community theater, Ohhh — this is why things are the way they are in my neighborhood.

Suddenly, things began to click. A history that hadn’t been taught to me in my Harlem and Bronx schools was now alive in front of me. And not just history in the generic sense — but the living, breathing people whose collective efforts advanced the freedom struggle for generations. There in that community theater, I saw ordinary people coming together to take care of each other and fight back against injustice. I remember thinking: If a film can do this to me, if it can move me like this, this is what I want to be part of. And I did, and I am. I went on to make films, and I have seen firsthand in the decades since how individuals, families, communities, movements, and legislation can be changed with and through documentaries.

Archive #2: [This archive is currently unavailable]

The teenager who first saw Eyes on the Prize in a community theater in the Bronx is now the president and CEO of Firelight Media, a nonprofit organization that for 25 years has supported, resourced, and advocated on behalf of Black, Brown, and Indigenous documentary filmmakers. Part of my work is to stay apprised of the documentary distribution landscape in the U.S. and internationally, in order to help emerging and mid-career filmmakers navigate the increasingly murky and labyrinthine world of film exhibition.

Documentary industry leaders have warned for years now of a distribution crisis, accelerated by the consolidation of commercial streamers and corporate media outlets and, more recently, by a full-out assault on independent documentary filmmaking and the public media system in the U.S. Our current distribution crisis is reaching peak levels, but the crisis is not new.

Case in point: Eyes on the Prize was out of circulation for decades because image and archival rights for the footage included in the film lapsed, and licensing expired. While major streamers and distributors have invested in “reboots” and updates of the series in the decades since, the original film was entirely unavailable to the public from 1993 through 2006 due to the prohibitive cost of renewing rights. Consequently, this essential document of the Black freedom struggle was unavailable to buy, rent, or stream.

This lack of investment in essential documentary storytelling is shared by gatekeepers of our shared media legacy across sectors — commercial, private, and public — who act as arbiters of who and what belongs on screen and what doesn’t.

Archive #3: [This archive too is no longer available]

Here’s why you can’t stream that powerful documentary you heard about:

• Its content (likely historical, social-issue-related, and/or politically charged) does not appeal to a commercial streamer, so its distribution rights remain indefinitely available — and the film unavailable.
• It was once available to stream, but the music rights, archival footage rights, and/or distribution rights have expired, and the filmmaker cannot afford to renew them independently.
• It was created for public media distribution, and now the whole public media system in the U.S. is facing extinction.

In these examples, the film’s availability is typically limited by the short-term interests of its original distributor. After the distributor’s marketing and awards campaign has ended (if the filmmaker is so lucky to receive either), after the film is buried in the streamer’s catalogue, after our collective attention is directed elsewhere, there’s little incentive for the distributor to renew rights. So the film remains the property of the streamer but is inaccessible to the public, or the rights revert to the filmmaker, who must navigate independent distribution with little to no resources to do so.

Archive #4: Your Local Library

So much vital storytelling and cultural work has been lost due to short-term investments and mile-high paywalls. In the rush to be included in the so-called industry, I fear we — that is, independent documentary filmmakers, and particularly those who are Black, Brown, and Indigenous — didn’t really stop to ask: included in what, exactly? I say this not only as a filmmaker, but as a field builder. In the attempt to adapt the documentary production and distribution process into the frenetic, digital-first model of today’s commercial streamers, so much ground has been lost. We collectively accepted that these short-term investments are just the way things are now, and in doing so, we helped normalize them.

But what if we stopped accepting this as the norm? What if we refused to treat scarcity, gatekeeping, and invisibility as inevitable? What if we reclaimed documentary — not as content but as culture, resistance, and ancestor work?

We have the power to reimagine this field, to center care over clicks, legacy over trends, and community over capital. It begins with refusing to accept a system that was never built for us and building something better in its place.

What if we scale the wall, grab some history from up top, and toss it back down to our people? What if we demand that vital cultural works — works created by us, for us, in our own image — remain free and accessible? Call it grassroots, call it bootleg, call it appropriation — call it distribution by any means necessary.

Another case in point: For decades, the U.S. mainstream publishing industry has ensured that books of all kinds are written, promoted, bought, and sold. Rights are negotiated, titles are catalogued, and distribution is robust. At publication, authors do reading tours in auditoriums, bookstores, and community centers, not dissimilar to our film festival circuits and impact and engagement campaigns.

But after all the noise of the book tour winds down, those books find their way to public libraries and discount bookstores, where anyone from any walk of life can pick them up. Why is that not our norm for documentaries? Whether that means re-investing in physical media production, which doesn’t face the same threat of digital obsolescence, or re-imagining rights, terms, and deals, let’s get radical about what we envision as public. Everything should not be for profit. Money and value are not synonymous. The value of public interest media can not and should not be calculated in dollars.

Archive #5: [This archive made a way out of no way]

The stakes are high. This moment is daunting. And as we’ve come to understand all too well, the cruelty is the point. And yet, I find solace and inspiration in the knowledge that we stand on the shoulders of giants who made a way out of no way. As filmmakers, we owe a deep debt of gratitude to those who came before us, visionaries like Lourdes Portillo, William Greaves, Marlon Riggs, Robert Nakamura, Sandra Osawa, and so many others.

We are the descendants of people who were not supposed to survive. And yet here we are, creating, resisting, and building. The level of political sophistication required to lead at this moment is not new to us; it’s what we’ve always needed just to survive. Our very existence — and our cultural production — have flourished not because of the official systems and industries, but in spite of them.

So let us remember who we are. Let us remember who got us here. And most importantly, let us remain accountable to those we serve — the communities, the audiences, the ancestors, and the future. Our willingness to be of service in this moment, to understand ourselves as cultural workers fostering solidarity through storytelling, will dictate our survival. What is at stake isn’t just our livelihoods, it’s our lives. We are not just losing an industry, our careers — we are losing all of our civil and human rights.

Archive #6: The People’s Archive

When filmmakers clearly identify their intended audience, they can tailor their distribution strategy to reach them directly. Instead of waiting for industry gatekeepers to take notice, resourceful filmmakers have always taken their work on the road — screening at community-focused film festivals, educational institutions, libraries, museums, and even prisons. When authenticating audiences get early access to a film, word-of-mouth buzz builds, making wider independent distribution not only possible but powerful. Make your film accessible to the people it’s meant for, and you’ll achieve success on your own terms.

Recent standout examples of this approach include Firelight-supported filmmakers Set Hernandez with Unseen and Contessa Gayles with Songs from the Hole. Both projects centered voices and communities often overlooked by the industry, resulting in meaningful real-world impact — and, as a bonus, subsequent industry recognition and acclaim. (Be sure to check out their inspiring case studies linked above!)

The largest untapped and underutilized resource for documentary films and filmmakers right now is their own intended audience. The community that drove you to make your film — the audience featured in your film — is the one that will recognize, celebrate, and show up for it. Make your film for your audience and make it accessible to your audience. That is the way forward.

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Read more at Color Congress.