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Starting as a biography of Bret Hart and the Hart family wrestling dynasty before gradually morphing into a David vs. Goliath tale of betrayal and humiliation that gave audiences an unexpected glimpse into the inner machinations of the business, the aptly named Hitman Hart: Wrestling with Shadows is among the very first wrestling documentaries to truly go behind the scenes of the drama. Produced in Canada, written and directed by Paul Jay who was granted unprecedented access to Vince McMahon’s wrestling empire and gets closer to the industry’s most transformative moment than any other filmmaker could’ve dreamed in a story that seems to write itself.

Bret Hart and his own familial relations with his wife couldn’t have been more strained during filming and you catch traces of their tensions leading to an eventual divorce, but as a subject Bret Hart couldn’t be more charismatic or comforting to be around. Honest and outspoken while critical of the newer sleazier creative shift in Vince McMahon’s ratings war with Ted Turner, Bret emerges from the catastrophic betrayal mostly unscathed and intact.

Where it gets very tense at first involves scenes of his father’s wrestling training basement where tryouts get put into excruciating submission holds, touching on the intensity of father Stu Hart’s wrestling family dynasty also comprised of wrestlers Owen Hart, Jim Neidhart and the British Bulldog. While a tight knit family with a complete passion for and commitment to the art of wrestling, one gets the sense Stu Hart was despite his age and frail appearance was a real hard ass feared by his children.

Initially shown at film festivals before being aired on A&E and the Documentary Channel as well as BBC Two, the film initially found itself in legal limbo after Vince McMahon feared the film would add fuel to the flames generated by the Montreal Screwjob. Though McMahon’s own efforts to block the film resulted in some nixed distribution deals domestically or internationally, Hitman Hart: Wrestling with Shadows quickly ascended the ranks as one of the greatest Canadian documentaries ever made.

Winner of the Best Canadian Feature Documentary award in 1999, Hitman Hart: Wrestling With Shadows was as much of an expose of the wrestling business and portrait of its beleaguered performer as it was a classic tale of trying to find a moral compass in an otherwise amoral profession led by a creative genius/monster if you will. Spawning the character of the ‘evil Mr. McMahon’ which resulted in some wild storylines that even landed the WWE’s chief creator in the ring.

Hitman Hart: Wrestling with Shadows is one of the most essential documentary re-releases of the year. A gift that keeps on giving for fans of wrestling and/or the documentary medium in general, the film invariably played a major role in the development of the hit Vice documentary series Dark Side of the Ring which also touches on Paul Jay’s film in the first season.

While some detractors rightly point out the film is mostly slanted towards Bret Hart’s version of the story, the film nevertheless captured the wrestling industry’s then-most controversial moment in real time. Few, if any, wrestling documentaries manage to so thoroughly yank the rug out from under the viewer and expose the man behind the curtain we’re not supposed to be paying any attention to.

Dr Ziba Mir-Hosseini on the making of Divorce Iranian Style

The idea of making a film about the working of Sharia law in a Tehran family court was born in early 1996 when a friend introduced me to Kim Longinotto, the documentary filmmaker. I had seen and liked Kim’s film, Hidden Faces(1991), on women in Egypt. Kim had for some time wanted to make a film in Iran: she was intrigued by the contrast between the images produced by current-affairs television documentaries and those in the work of Iranian fiction filmmakers. The former portrayed Iran as a country of fanatics, the latter conveyed a much gentler, more poetic sense of the culture and people. As she put it, ‘you wouldn’t think the documentaries and the fiction were about the same place.’ We discussed my 1980s research in Tehran family courts and I gave her a copy of my book, Marriage on trial.

The first step was to apply to British TV commissioning editors for funding and to Iranian officials for access and permission to film. Kim focused on the first and I on the second. As will become clear, I had to negotiate not only with the Iranian authorities for permission and access, but also with myself. As a novice in film making, I had to deal not only with theoretical and methodological questions of representation and the production of anthropological narratives, but also with personal ethical and professional dilemmas. The film’s subject-matter – the operation of Islamic family law in Iran today – inevitably entailed both exposing individuals private lives in a public domain, and tackling a major issue which divides Islamists and feminists: women’s position in Islamic law.

We wrote a proposal for a documentary film to be shot in a court in Tehran, and in March 1996 an application for a permit to film was submitted to the Iranian Embassy in London. We phrased the proposal carefully, knowing the sensitivity of the theme. We stated that our aim was to make a film that would reach a wide audience and challenge prevailing stereotypes about women and Islam. This we wanted to do by addressing a universal theme cutting across cultural and social barriers, which ordinary people could relate to emotionally as well as intellectually. Marriage, divorce and the fate of children, we argued, provide a perfect theme for such a film.

In October 1996, we learned that our application was rejected, no reasons given. But Kim and I were now committed to the project, so we continued to lobby the Iranian Embassy, attending its functions to meet visiting dignitaries and explain our project. In December, we heard that one of our proposals for funding had come through: Channel 4 TV was prepared to fund us to make a feature-length film for its prestigious True Stories documentary slot. We were enormously encouraged.

So in mid-January 1997, we decided to go Tehran to follow up our application – to argue our case in person with the Ministry of Islamic Guidance – and also to see whether we could work together. I wanted Kim to see Iran for her-self, to get a feel for the place and culture. We talked about our project to people ranging from independent filmmakers to officials in television, the Ministry of Guidance, women’s organisations, and so on. All of them wanted us to change our theme, to do a film on an issue which was ‘politically correct’ and that could give a ‘positive image of Iran’, such as marriage ceremonies, female members of parliament, or mothers of martyrs. Clearly, what Kim and I saw as enchanting, as positive, were often things that could not be filmed. In our discussions, we had to show how a film about marital disputes, shot in the family courts, could present a positive’ image. We had to distinguish what we (and we hoped our target audiences) saw as positive’, from what many people we talked to saw as ‘negative’, with the potential of turning into yet another sensationalised foreign film on Iran.

Images and words, we said, can evoke different feelings in different cultures. For instance, a mother talking of the loss of her children in war as martyrdom for Islam, is more likely in Western eyes to confirm stereotypes of religious zealotry and fanaticism, rather than evoke the Shia idea of sacrifice for justice and freedom. What they saw as positive could be seen as negative in Western eyes, and vice versa. One answer was to present viewers with complex social reality and allow them to make up their own minds.
Some might react favourably, and some might not, but in the end it could give a much more
‘positive’ image of Iran than the usual films, if we could show ordinary women, at home and in court, holding their own ground, maintaining the family from within. This would challenge some hostile Wester stereotypes.

Award winning writer and Oscar® nominated director David France (“How to Survive a Plague,” “The Death and Life of Marsha P. Johnson”) continues to bring important LGBTQ issues to the fore in Welcome To Chechnya, his searing documentary about an ongoing humanitarian crisis in the Russian republic of Chechnya.

Employing a guerilla filmmaking style, France takes us inside the fraught, day-to-day workings of an underground pipeline of activists who face unimaginable risks to rescue LGBTQ victims from Chechnya’s brutal government-directed campaign. In a republic where being gay or transgender is unspeakable, the LGBTQ community lives in the utmost secrecy and fear, under threat of detention, torture and death, often at the hands of the authorities. Extensive access to a remarkable group of activists – from the Russian LGBT Network and the Moscow Community Center for LGBT+ Initiatives – and alarmingly brutal footage of abuse, bring to light the underreported atrocities and the dangers of exposing them.

Since 2016, Chechnya’s leader, Ramzan Kadyrov, has waged a depraved campaign to “cleanse the blood” of LGBTQ+ Chechens, overseeing a government-sanctioned effort to detain, torture, and execute them. With only faint global condemnation and no action from the Kremlin, a vast and secretive network of activists takes matters into its own hands. Countless numbers of victims have been killed, and hundreds more are missing.

In this environment of prejudice and hate, an ill-equipped and underfunded coalition of LGBTQ activists mobilizes into action despite having little experience in such dangerous work. Offering a secure hotline to call for help and a wide-reaching network of support, the activists provide temporary shelter, safe houses and urgent safe passage. They risk their own safety by meeting with survivors, smuggling them through checkpoints and out of the country.

The film features several gay men and women who come forward in need of aid and tells their stories with astounding candor and bravery. To protect the identities of those fleeing for their lives, France alters their voices and uses adopted pseudonyms. He also deploys a groundbreaking new digital “face double” technique that has never been used before in documentary filmmaking. Visceral and haunting, the survivors can talk without fear of reprisal, and their ordeals can be heard first-hand.

By the close of the film, 151 people have been located with the help of the LGBTQ pipeline. Yet 40,000 others remain in hiding, in need of protection.

Directors Statement

In my work as a journalist and author over many years, I have focused closely on the stories of outsiders and people who society has pushed to its margins – the disregarded, the ignored, the hated.

When I turned to documentary filmmaking, I chose outsider activism as my subject. My first film, How To Survive A Plague, documented the work of early AIDS activists, ordinary people with no training who marshalled the intricate details of virology to change the course of the epidemic. Next, I opened up the story of early gender radicals in THE DEATH AND LIFE OF MARSHA P. JOHNSON, which chronicled not only the founding of the modern LGBTQ movement but also the founding of the first transgender rights organization in 1970.

Welcome To Chechnya completes this trilogy. It follows a group of ordinary humans who have done something extraordinary, and asks the question that has long preoccupied me: What makes a person assume enormous risk and responsibility when others might turn the other way? What does it take, in other words, to be a hero?

When I left their underground pipeline for the last time, knowing I could never go back once it became known I was reporting on their work, I wept with gratitude for the work they are doing. And for the opportunity they gave me to witness bravery of the most unvarnished kind: selfless, humane, and entirely queer.

About The Production

“If they don’t kill you, you’re a winner” David Isteev, LGBTQ activist, Russia.

In early 2017, filmmaker and investigative journalist David France read frightening news accounts revealing a campaign of torture and murder targeting gay men and women under the direction of leaders in Chechnya, a republic of Russia. The story quickly disappeared from the headlines. But that July, The New Yorker published an article by Masha Gessen (“The Gay Men who fled Chechnya’s Purge”) which revealed that this campaign was ongoing, a government-directed effort to “cleanse the Chechen bloodlines.” France explains, “What Masha revealed was that it was a coordinated, top-down campaign to identify and then exterminate LGBTQ Chechens.” The Kremlin was not intervening with Chechen leaders and international condemnations were going unheeded. Local activists, meanwhile, were left to take matters into their own hands.

Only a few days later, with Masha Gessen onboard as Executive Producer and with the help of Russian producer Askold Kurov, France arrived in Moscow on an initial fact-finding mission: set to stay a weekend, he instead stayed a month. “It was such a frenetic time and people were so deeply engaged in the work of saving peoples’ lives that we just started filming the first day and kept going,” he says.

He gained the trust of David Isteev, crisis intervention coordinator for the country’s largest gay-rights group The Russian LGBT Network, and Olga Baranova, director of the Moscow Community Center for LGBTI+ Initiatives, who brought him into the workings of their covert operations helping the victims of abuse in Chechnya. Members of their groups operate a string of secret safehouses and provide security as well as psychological and financial support, sometimes even new identities and lives outside of Russia. The work is dangerous and highly secretive.

France was impressed with the fearlessness he witnessed, “This is a film about incredibly heroic activism being carried out by the community itself, people who felt called upon to respond because the larger mechanisms of society were doing nothing. None of those people had any reason to believe that they would be brave enough to carry this out, yet they took it on at great risk to themselves.”​

Producer Alice Henty joined France’s team later in 2017 and felt strongly about the material. “I also was aware of the purge and I was horrified by it, and shocked that there was so little out there about it. Initially, we had no idea who the characters were going to be, but it just sounded like it had the making of a really strong piece of advocacy filmmaking.”

France returned to Russia several times over the next eighteen months to meet with the survivors as they made their way through the underground pipeline. With the permission of all involved, France and Kurov filmed nonstop. They spoke to several men and women who endured unimaginable violence as well as those who had escaped. But they participated on condition of anonymity because of threats against (and sometimes from) their family back home. France didn’t want to film the survivors in shadow, or with their faces obscured, as he felt this risked detracting from their humanity. “What I proposed to them, and what they were brave enough to accept, is that they let me shoot them without restriction, with a promise that I would find some way to disguise them afterward. I wanted to see what it’s like to be them at this terrible time… to convey the tragedy and the bravery and the perseverance of their lives,” he explains

France and Henty spent months researching and developing possible approaches to protecting their identities without obscuring the emotional truth of their experiences. After numerous failed attempts, they felt they had discovered two possible solutions. To test them, they approached Dr. Thalia Wheatley, an expert in human empathy and the ways that humans connect. She put the VFX images into a study involving 109 students at Dartmouth College and reported a clear winner. Developed by Ryan Laney at digital effects company 300 Ninjas, Inc., that approach involves digitally masking the many subjects in the film using A.I. and deep machine learning. It is like DeepFake but turned on its head: rather than manipulating someone’s image to appear to be saying something they didn’t, this approach allows the victims of this terror to speak their truths – while wearing someone else’s face. France and his team recruited people in the US – mostly New York-based LGBTQ activists fighting the rise of global anti-LGBTQ sentiments – and asked them to lend their faces as an act of activism to shield 22 people from grievous danger. They filmed the “face doubles” on a blue-screen stage, turned the footage into algorithms that through machine learning have been digitally stretched over the film’s subjects. Likewise, “voice doubles” joined to make the subjects entirely untraceable.

By turning the sinister DeepFake A.I. on its head, the filmmakers allow these individuals who have been silenced to speak their truth. “Without this,” adds France, “they would still be shapeless forms in the shadows speaking with machine voices”.

The dangers in participating in the project were great, and the filmmakers took the utmost care to ensure everyone’s comfort level with being part of a film that will be met with controversy and hostility in many parts of the world. Henty adds, “We gave everyone a choice as to whether they wanted to be hidden or not and most of the activists said they didn’t. We continued to check back in to make sure that still stood, their logic being that they want the visibility, that actually protects them.”

Filming such sensitive material in Russia and Chechnya also brought about huge personal risks for France and his team. They were careful not to draw attention to themselves in any way, operating inconspicuously with crews no larger than two. “We selected a tourist camera, an over the counter consumer Sony that we beat up the way a tourist camera would look beat up. We put tape on it, we covered all the lights so that no one could see the thing blinking and we wandered across the country appearing to be sightseers. In addition, we left cameras in the various safehouses for people to film themselves. For extremely dangerous shoots, we used GoPros and cellphones – about 8% of the film is shot on cell phones,” says France. Footage was triplicated and moved out of the country on multiple encrypted drives. No images traveled over the internet, and no footage remained in the country.

France knew he had incendiary material in his hands. But he felt strongly about getting these underreported stories out to the world. One such story is that of “Grisha,” a 30-year-old Russian who was working in Chechnya when he was detained and tortured over a period of 12 days. With the help of the LGBTQ underground pipeline, he escaped to Moscow, where he has tried to bring the anti-gay campaign to light before the Russian authorities. Met with delays and stonewalling by the courts, Grisha, along with his boyfriend and several family members, has been relocated to another (undisclosed) country. He continues to fight for justice in the European court system.

Not all the people that France met with have been so lucky. “Anya” is the daughter of a high-ranking Chechen government official and was being blackmailed by an uncle about her sexual orientation. Staying would be extremely dangerous. Her only recourse was to escape the republic, but the journey proved insurmountable. The network moved her from shelter to shelter, parking her temporarily in a neighboring country, in an apartment she could not leave, not even to shop for groceries, because Russian authorities were hot in pursuit. As distant countries were being petitioned to take her, members of the local LGBTQ community covertly saw to her daily needs. But after no visas had materialized almost six months into her holding pattern, they returned to her secret apartment to find her missing. Her whereabouts are unknown. The news is sobering but producer Henty recognizes the importance of not backing down from the harsh realities of the fight. She notes, “It’s a serious crime to be gay in 70 countries and in eight of them it is punishable by death. Totalitarianism is trending and it’s a hard thing to face but this is part of it.”

To drive home the extent of the atrocities, France and his team made the difficult decision to include horrifying video footage of torture and murder in their film. France comments, “It’s important to look at what’s happening. This is footage made by the people conducting these crimes for the purpose of either reporting their crimes to their superiors or to keep as trophy videos of their despicable acts. I want the footage to expose them as well.” (The victims in these scenes have also been disguised.)

Once the film is released, the filmmakers hope that it can reach the people it seeks to help. Says Henty, “I hope that as many people as possible get to see it. I want world leaders to be moved to take action and I want the people in Russia who are enduring this atrocity to know that we hear their suffering.” France adds: “That’s why we want to show the power and strength of gay men and lesbians and transgender people and the lessons they can show all of humanity about what it takes to triumph.”

Ultimately, France is grateful to the fearless participants who trusted him with this urgent, timely story. His hope is that the film will shine a light on the ongoing persecution. But he also says it depicts what it takes to be a true champion of liberty. “It’s a movie about heroes, really, people who are called upon to do heroic acts. It shows how no problem is so towering that it can’t be approached, and solutions can’t be found. It’s about what it takes to affect change.”

In Mexico City, the government operates fewer than 45 emergency ambulances for a population of 9 million. This has spawned an underground industry of for-profit ambulances, which are often run by people with little or no training or certification.

Midnight Family is the story of the Ochoa family, who started an unlicensed EMT business in the late ‘90s after buying a retired ambulance from Oklahoma. Using their network of police contacts, the Ochoas pay a 300 peso (17 USD) bribe for every accident call sent directly their way. When lucky enough to arrive first to the scene, they charge patients 3800 pesos (185 USD) for transport to a hospital. For the past 20 years, this lively and likable family has just been able to make ends meet in this line of work.

Unlike many competing ambulance operators who push ethical limits much too far – extorting helpless patients or refusing to transport people in critical condition who don’t have means to pay – the Ochoas have tended to be a trustworthy exception within this fraught industry. As desperate patients wait for hours when government ambulances are nowhere to be found, the Ochoas arrive quickly, filling serious medical needs. They charge only when patients can reasonably afford the costs and spend much of their time supporting people who would otherwise be left without any care at all.

Our story unfolds as the status quo of the Ochoas’ business is jeopardized by increased local police vigilance. Although some private EMTs do engage in illegal and abusive practices, the cops frequently target private operators to get bribes rather than to enforce the laws governing independent ambulances. As EMT businesses risk being shut down, the Ochoas must find a way to get enough money to legitimize their ambulance or they too will lose their only means of making a living.

With this increased pressure, it becomes clear that being the warmhearted exception in an illegal and corrupt industry is extremely difficult and complicated. Police officers begin to demand higher bribes, and the Ochoas are increasingly compelled to conduct their business more aggressively and self-servingly, just like everybody else. We follow the Ochoas on a journey filled with ethical dilemmas, as they are forced to choose between the well-being of their patients and the future of their family business.

Midnight Family is a story about doing what you can with what you have. It asks us to consider whether the survival of one’s family legitimizes wrongdoing, particularly in contexts where corruption is the norm. In humanizing one family’s ethically compromised business, the film explores urgent questions around healthcare, the failings of government and the complexity of personal responsibility.

Directors Notes

I moved to Mexico City in December of 2015 and lived around the corner from the General Hospital. Every day, I walked past hundreds of desperate people waiting outside the gate of the overburdened facility, and I slowly grew curious about the state of medical services in a city of 9 million. Though I hadn’t come to Mexico to focus on healthcare—I was there to develop an entirely different film—it was impossible to ignore the sheer force of the emotions I encountered on my daily commute. Without knowing exactly what to look for, I began to explore.

I knew I had found a story worth telling after meeting the Ochoa family. One afternoon, sixteen-year-old Juan was cleaning their ambulance outside the General Hospital as his 9-year- old brother, Josué, clumsily juggled a soccer ball. Intrigued by the idea of a family-run ambulance, I asked them if I could ride along for a few hours. Fer, the father, was quick to agree. What I experienced that night was jaw-dropping—a film waiting to be made.
Over the next six months, I lived in the back of the Ochoas’ ambulance, filming, with gut- wrenching access, Mexico City’s cutthroat underworld of for-profit healthcare. As I soon discovered, this industry was new not only to me but to locals as well. I spoke with politicians, taco stand owners, families and students; almost nobody knew where their ambulances came from or what sort of EMTs were behind the wheel.

The Ochoas became my close friends. I loved being with them and knew they were good people. And yet the more time I spent in their ambulance, the more I learned about darker details of their operation. I discovered that they were not all certified as EMTs and that their ambulance was unregistered and not fully equipped. While they continued to provide much- needed services to a city lacking sufficient emergency care, I saw their financial insecurity begin to affect their treatment of their patients. My sense of right and wrong in knots, I kept asking myself, “What would I do here? What’s the better alternative?” I rarely had good answers, if any at all. And as their frequent run-ins with bribe-demanding police officers made clear, the Ochoas were operating within an inherently corrupt, dysfunctional system, trying to scrape by like millions of other Mexican families.

As the accidents became more serious and the pressure on the Ochoas intensified, the lines I hoped they wouldn’t cross drew frighteningly close. Though often proud of their work, at other times I worried for the patients in their care. This emotional and ethical confusion became the central tension of my story.

Working as a one-man crew, it took months of trial and error to figure out how best to tell this story. The Ochoas’ repetitive nightly routine let me experiment with different styles of shooting and gave me multiple opportunities to work with the feelings and energy that I was witnessing. I wanted the film to be first and foremost a thrilling experience. With my camera, I hoped to convey the physical and emotional roller coaster I was riding every night. I knew that interviews, music and voiceover could pull the audience out of the ambulance’s world and lead

them to judge the Ochoas’ work from a disconnected perspective. I also knew the questions I wanted to explore were delicate. Viewers would have a spectrum of reactions, and showing the situation instead of telling it would encourage a much richer and more nuanced conversation. Inspired by patiently composed ethnographic works as well as drama-filled narrative films, I felt the Ochoa’s story provided a unique intersection of these two cinematic modes, which are often considered contradictory. My aim was to take an audience on a breathtaking ride while honoring my conviction that long takes and distilled observation could offer a bracing form of realism.

Hackney has a long tradition of artisan craftsmanship and repair, but in recent years the once familiar landscape of low rise workshops and light industrial buildings have made way for more profitable, high-rise residential dwellings.

The Art of Repair follows the story of four artisans that see their work as a way of life. The changing demographic has been a godsend to some who thrive on the supply of magnificent, bespoke, hand-built instruments and furniture, whilst others struggle to withstand squeeze from manufacturers who promote the built in obsolescence of their products.

This very personal, and sometimes moving story is an honest account from a community that’s lived through change. There’s more behind that old shop door than you might think.

JC Motors
In Len’s eyes, they perfected the motor vehicle in 1938 with the original VW Beetle. Since then it’s been about comfort and image. It used to be that every part of a car was built to last, and if something went wrong, it was the job of the mechanic to fix it. Nowadays, a car is built from replaceable components, whereby if one part breaks, an entire module needs replacing.

JC Motors is a family business, only none of the staff are related. The workshop’s namesake, Joe Chi, was Len’s mentor and friend. Joe passed away in 1999. Today Len carries the mantle with a sense of pride and respect that Joe would be proud of, and Len’s staff have the same respect for Len as he did for his mentor. When they’re not hard at work, they like to race it out on the go-kart track (of which, of course, Len is the best), or take time out on a Friday lunch with a big African fish.

“I’ve got my little tribe here. One is Dunstan, one is Singh, and the other one is Didier. I started off with Dunstan first about 10 years ago, and somehow magically we just gelled together, just me and him. Then the next person who came here the same thing continued to happen, we move together as one. Didier? Hmmm, I dunno. He’s taking his time, he’s not ripe yet! But don’t forget the tea, he’s good at tea, as you well know. Sometimes I buy a nice big African fish, well seasoned, and they love it. JC Motors is named after Joe Chi, who is somebody I met many years ago. He took me under his wings and taught me a hell of a lot, he was a very inspirational personal. He died in 1999. Even here right now there are tools that he used to handle that many years ago, that I will always treasure, because he was special.”

TJ Electrics
T J Electrics is a family run business, with wife Rose out front with the customers, and husband John out back in the workshop. Electrical repair is not something often seen on the high street any more, but for John and Rose it’s always been a way of life. Every new job on the bench is a challenge, and it’s this tireless hunger to complete the job that keeps them on the high street, and in the community. The residents of Stoke Newington are unique in that instead of having to through their old things away, they can opt to have them repaired.

Nowadays the big manufacturers require you to have an account before they let you buy parts, but for indie shops like T J Electrics that’s not an option. Electrical repair is becoming a rare public service, so it’s a mystery why as a society we don’t try harder to protect it. For John and Rose it’s a passion to work that keeps them in business, but once the big corporations have squeezed them out, who will be left to step into their shoes?

“Once upon a time this was a good business to be in. People would take their TV or hifi to the shop to get it repaired, but today it’s so cheap to buy a new one that they just throw it away. In the past, the market was regulated. If a manufacturer declared an object obsolete, they would have to hold stock of the parts for seven years. If you needed help fixing a product, all manufacturers would give technical support. Today it’s completely different. Unless you have an account with the big manufacturers, and spending thousands and thousands of pounds with them, you are on your own. But I’ll always want to be fiddling about with a screwdriver in my hand. My wife likes selling, I like fixing. Every job I put on the bench is different, no two jobs are the same. It’s a challenge, and I love a challenge.”

Bridgewood and Nietzert
The beauty of a violin workshop is something you’ll never forget. Bridgewood & Nietzert have been selling and repairing string instruments in Hackney’s trendy Stoke Newington for decades, but the sense of history accrued in their workshop goes way beyond. Staffed by a truly multinational workforce of talented musical technicians from Itlay, France, Spain, South Africa, Holland, Australia… Although curiously ‘no Americans’!

Since a young boy, Gary always knew he wanted to be a violin maker. His passion for stringed instruments is evident, and his flair for music and the production of sound go further than just technical accomplishment. Getting an instrument to sound ‘right’, doesn’t always mean making it sound ‘perfect’, and it’s this personal relationship between musician and violin that Gary’s team seek to preserve.

“I was making instruments from a very early age. I knew i wanted to be a violin maker from about 10 or 11. There’s a lot of mystery to how a violin works, and the sound is always changing. It’s like an organic, living body. It can become so specific to a player that it almost becomes a part of their body. It can change somewhat after a repair, and even if the sound is very good, or even improved from before, the change can be a very upsetting experience for the player. Any one violin will be made from a number of different woods, and sometimes we’re looking for very plain woods- spruce is used for the front because it has very high tensile strength. We sometimes get guys from Romania, or Hungarians sometimes pull up in a van outside, full of wood. Bosnian Maple, or wood from their area. Prices usually very high.”

Riley Upholsterers
What Neil of Riley Upholsterers says he loves the most about his work is the ability to breathe new life into old objects. He has a respect for the old fashioned craftsmanship, the ageing objects that regularly pass through his doors. Furniture with history, or materials and woods that regulation dictates can no longer be used are given new purpose once he and his apprentice, Thomas, have worked their craft.

Thomas comes from Romania where he learned upholstery to a basic level, and one day knocked on Neil’s door looking for work. Now that Thomas is every bit as skilful as Neil, the duo are thinking about taking on a new apprentice. More than just colleagues, Neil and Thomas have an unspoken understanding that allows them to continue to work in such intimate quarters. After all, Neil spends more of the day with Thomas than his own wife!

“Everybody’s taste is different, I’m not saying my taste is right but it’s nice when the customer picks a fabric that I like too. 99% of my customers are very good, and I often have people come in and say ‘Oh, that’s nice’. So that makes me feel good, when people appreciate somebody doing an old fashion job like this. Thomas is the guy who works for me and I’ve been very lucky because he’s a very good worker. He came into the shop one day and asked if I had any work and now he’s a great asset to the company. It’s crucial that we get on because we see a lot of each other, I probably see him more than my wife. I think the profession will be around for at least as long as I’m doing it, because you can’t very easily replace me with a computer. I try to look after my hands because they’re very important to my job.”