Making motion pictures, like all art, is an active process — transforming a subject from an inert state of merely being observed, into an experience that is immersive and experiential. A space with vision is a place that serves as a chrysalis for this process: it is a zone of creativity where meaningful creative works are produced and shared. This publication documents various expeditions into the dynamic creative process and philosophy of crafting motion pictures.
PETER J. HAAS
It is by no means an astute observation that all of us have patterns of behavior; but we often tidy up the accusations with more polite language: its a morning routine, not a coffee addiction. Taking the edge off, not a drinking problem. I am just having a casual conversation about legendary Filmmaker Werner Herzog, not Im destroying friendships over media theory, which I found myself doing, once again.
The warm glow of an overpriced glass of Riesling had hardly taken hold as I inconveniently found myself in the crossfire of a steadily escalating disagreement regarding the nature of the truth at New Yorks infamous Metrograph theater.
My nerves were already on edge. The contract on my current job was ending soon, and nothing seemed on the horizon. Fueled with anxiety about the future, I had uncharacteristically interloped my way into a Members Only Event with the hopes of engaging in some networking.
For those unfamiliar: the Metrograph is a small, independent, privately run repertory movie theater located on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. It is popular among New Yorks young and hip crowd, particularly those with a professional interest in culture, the type who self-describe as cinephiles.
I worked my way into a conversation between a small cohort comprised of a Journalist, a Carhart Jacket wearing Guy clinging tightly to a Metrograph Branded-Tote-Bag, and a Software Developer. We discussed the various films everyone had been screening as of late. I mentioned that I had recently rewatched LESSONS OF DARKNESS, Werner Herzogs infamous 1992 Gulf War documentary.
Oh, Werner Herzog, spat the journalist over her martini, that fucking guy.
A thick, fretted silence settled over the group. Anxietys hold tightened as I was nearly out of wine. Oh no, I thought Im doing it again.
Anyone who knows me, knows I love talking about movies, possibly to a fault. But I am also a filmmaker myself, so I often engage in discussions regarding motion pictures as art and all the theory behind that sort of thing. This often becomes a problem when discussing documentaries: as people have this strange incorrect belief that everything in a documentary must be factual.
Now this is where Werner Herzog comes in. For those unfamiliar, Herzog is a filmmaker most known for his wild approach to the documentary gehre. In particular his use of the ECSTATIC TRUTH, which is a creative method of bending the details of facts to create what he describes an intensified narrative truer to the human condition. This is a philosophy that rightfully horrifies journalists, but is common practice in the creative arts including, dare I say the personal essay.
In the Summer of 2012, a group of friends and I were discussing the media buzz circulating around This American Lifes retraction of Mike Daiseys story about the horrible conditions at factories where Apple constructed electronic devices. It had come to light that much of the story was not journalistically sound, instead it was a narrative that wove together many stories into one.
Of course it should be retracted! blurted out my friend Erin, Its bad journalism, you cant just go making stuff up!
Yes, I agreed Daisey made some mistakes in labeling what he did as journalism. I suggested that the story was still representative of the experience of the working conditions at the factories. Its no different than the documentary work that Werner Herzog does Different stories serve different functions, and if the format is appropriate, its a handy story building tool.
No, because its not true! She interrupted, pointing an accusatory finger in my face And that kind of thinking is dangerous! Slapping the table in rage, Erin made a sudden and dramatic exit.
She proceeded not speak to me for another six months.
I want to be clear that while Im not the most socially skilled at chatting up a room, Im not just bringing up documentary cinema theory out of the blue. I tend to hang out with people who also enjoy nerding-out about these sorts of things and have equally strong opinions regarding it.
Over a decade later, standing in the Metrograph theater, I was surprised to encounter a similar visceral reaction to Herzog and his work by my new Journalist acquaintance. After all, this was the hip venue for those seeking off-beat filmmaking. When pressed for details, she admitted its because he, like, lies all the time in his documentaries. Her hand traveled in a large, slow circle.
The encouragement of overpriced wine not to be underestimated, I pushed back on the usage of the word lie, offering instead the ecstatic truth.
Software Designer nodded in agreement, Seems like it could be a helpful storytelling tool? I nodded; this guy gets it. Tote-Bag-Guy swirled his drink, remaining neutral.
For a documentary though? I dont buy it. Journalist wrinkled her nose, I just dont see how facts cant be true in a documentary thats, like, so dangerous.
Ut-Oh. The subject of truth, facts, and documentary had entered the chat. I could feel the flush of defensiveness begin creeping up my face. This subject has blown up more of my friendships than the MAGA-sphere. Oh Peter, why cant you just keep your lousy mouth shut?
Similar discussions of the ecstatic truth have cost me two job opportunities, at least three friendships, and sank an otherwise great date I was on with a fellow documentary filmmaker. All of this sacrificed over film theory. What is wrong with me?
My new Journalist Friend took a hit on her vape while I searched the bottom of my glass for a good, socially acceptable response. Software Developer had mentally checked out, and tote-bag guy continued to remain silent.
A voice broke the silence. A horror dawned upon me as I realized it was my own, repeating the cursed words of past Peter: Different stories serve different functions, I was doing it again - why do I refuse to stop myself? I was supposed to be networking at this event. That means making friends, not engaging in this sort of discourse. And if the format is appropriate, its a handy story building tool. The Journalist stewed in her thoughts; the rest of the group returned to awkward silence.
I couldnt believe it! I had done it again! Part of me wondered if I should excuse myself to the bathroom and once out of sight make a run for it. A fire alert box caught my eye. I found myself desperately wondering if there was a way to stealthily pull that lever without becoming permanently banned from the Metrograph. Just anything, anything to end this agonizing silence.
And isnt that just the magic of cinema! proclaimed Tote-bag guy in large voice that startled us all. Lets get another drink! He twirled, hand extended holding his empty glass, tote-bag swinging wildly behind him as he pushed through the crowd towards the bar.
The Software Developer smiled, Agreed! and quickly disappeared leaving only myself and the skeptical Journalist.
She took a deep drag from her vape, leaned in which a suspicious if not menacing glare. Its dangerous shit. Taking another vape hit she turned departed for the bar.
I let out a long sigh, wiped the sweat from my forehead, and proceeded to performatively down the few remaining drops of wine in my glass. Tote-bag Guy Yeah, hes out to have a good time. Fun. Its all supposed to be fun. Tote-bag guy --- he gets it.
The thing about patterns of behavior is that we often arent aware of them, particularly our worst ones. Yet, even when we are, it can be difficult to escape the habit, because we built those habits for a reason. My awkward defense of media theory comes from fear: concerns about not being taken seriously, about not being seen as a real artist (whatever that means), and other insecurities Im going to hold close to my heart.
The polite angle here is that the discourse also comes from a place of genuine excitement! As I said, movies are such a fascinating and engaging art form, and I love talking about them to a fault.
Is there a way of breaking this pattern? Tote-bag Guy: he gets it. He remembers that the magic of cinema is the collective experience it provides. Tote-bag guy also remembers the key rule to surviving a conversation at a Metrograph social event: drinks.
I sauntered off to the bar for another round. The cohort proceeded to engage in pleasant movie banter and enjoy what remained of the evening. Everyone laughed when I asked to exchange e-mails, so we exchanged social media handles.
Departing, the second round of drinks were a welcomed balm for the cold winter air. We said our goodbyes and drifted into the night. Four new friend requests dropping into my inbox.
None of us have stayed in touch.
Peter J. Haas, Published February 26, 2026
PREVIOUSLY ON… is a community driven reading series curated by Heather Freudenthal, inviting writers to perform their works in front of live audiences around New York.
Memoir writing and performance is a new experience for me. It was a great opportunity to exercise my skills and examine my creative process in a different way. This was a true exercise in opening up in a very personal way.
Many thanks are owed: Heather, for including me in such as wonderful reading series, and all the ensuing encouragement throughout the process. Kat, for the emotional support, proof-reading, being there to video tape my performance, and for providing a pint of liquid courage before the show. I hope you all enjoy my little romp into new territory!
Hugs, Peter
With a panicked huff I collapse to the sidewalk. The over-sized and over-stuffed blue zipper bags containing my meager possessions slam against a murky city-stained mound of snow. The events of the last thirteen hours have left my muscles sore, my brain drifting in an unfocused fog and my heart crushed in a hopeless storm of pain. Surrounded by the foul tasting exhaust of Bowery Street traffic, amidst snow, salt, dirt, and what I am pretty sure is dog piss, I invoke my god given right as a New Yorker and begin to ugly cry in public.
Despite shutting down the City with over twenty inches of powdery fluff, the initial blizzard had been deceptively comfortable. Social media streams became saturated with scrolling images of serene snowflakes, soup, hot beverages, and New Yorkers shoveling their neighbor’s sidewalks. It all had an atmosphere of cozy camaraderie.
It’s two days after the aforementioned big snow. Typically, these storms are accompanied by a rapid thaw leaving behind an obstacle course of mud, slush, and puddles that we New Englanders affectionately refer to as, Mud-Season. But it being 2026, and all forever a continuation of The Horrors™, New York gave the usual warming a miss and was beset by literal Arctic level temperatures of historic proportion. This is all to stay the two plus feet of snow didn’t go anywhere.
Downtown, I was weathering a different storm. All you need to understand is the following: We had known each other for around a decade before starting to date about five years ago. As of the night before, it was officially over. It was not my choice, so as one could imagine that hard switch left me feeling confused, scared, and overwhelmed by an intense sorrow.
Also of notable importance: I had been living with her, and I needed to move out as soon as possible.
I faced the situation like any good New Englander faced with a complex, emotionally charged task would: First, I gathered any and all of my feelings, and tightly bottled them up, setting them aside in a secure out of the way place. Second, I made a detailed, but practical punch list on how to handle this sudden decamping. This was, of course, all fueled by three DUNKIN ice coffees and no breakfast.
Breakups have a terrible way of making you reflect upon all your past separations. Despite my desperate packing, I often found myself thumbing through old journals; scanning through memories, seeking I don’t know what. A passage caught my eye. Rendered in thick black Sharpie: “LOVE IS LIKE THE WEATHER — I don’t know when it will turn against me.” This gives me pause, I can feel the sting of tears I don’t have time for. The notebook is subsequently shoved deep into a bag of underwear.
Citing the unsafe conditions left behind by the storm, ride share Apps were demanding upwards of two-hundred American Dollars for a twenty-block drive to my friend’s place in Alphabet City. On top of this, my phone decided to do the most helpful thing possible in the moment and promptly shit the bed. At a loss, I did the only thing an unreasonable person in the middle of a emotional down-spiral would do: I load my body with all the bags I could carry and set off on foot.
Mountains of snow rendered the sidewalks nearly impossible to traverse under the best circumstances. For someone pack-muling their possessions, each step was a slow-moving endurance exercise. Three blocks and an Avenue later, my muscles are shouting. I try to push through. My body screams. I push harder. A rush of burning. I’m face first in the snow. The bottle containing all those feelings shatters. I’m sobbing.
Pain renders the internal clock dysfunctional so I could not begin to estimate how long I remained lying in that awful pile of snow.
The wind howls and a whisper dances on my lips: “Love is like the weather.” I’m certain at the time of its writing this analogy must have felt like a deep thought but thinking about it now makes me pity past Peter. What a depressing way to think about love, which is not at all like the weather. Weather is something that happens to you, an uncontrollable, uncaring force with its own set of rules and harsh consequences. Love, on the other hand is something more alive, requiring nourishment, thoughtful consideration, investment. Love is something to be sustained. Love is a choice.
Sorrow, now sorrow is more comparable to the weather, or at least certainly bad weather. While the circumstances of its arrival are often predictable, foreknowledge does not spare you from the devastation it brings. Worse yet, it can sneak up on you, appearing, uninvited in the presence of familiar place, song, or scent. Much like bad weather, we can only persist in the monsoon of sorrow less we forfeit ourselves to it.
An idiom comes to mind; one the Germans are quite fond of employing in the face of discomfort: “Wir sind ja nicht aus Zucker”; “We are not made of sugar.” The literal implication is that being out in the rain will not make you dissolve or melt. I’ve taken a shining to this little cliché - it’s an adorable reminder that much in life is beyond our control and regardless of what comes our way, we are made of more enduring stuff.
Between heaving breaths, I notice ice has begun to form in my eyelashes. The dangerous reality of negative double-digit temperatures snaps my attention back into focus: The sudden realization of just how numb my face has become, that my gloved hands tingled and no longer feel as though they belong to my body.
With a long exhale my sobbing ceases. Standing I collect the remains of my dignity. “Well,” I mutter, “we are not made of sugar now, are we?”I glare bleakly at my bags. Out of habit I check my phone for the time but am greeted with a black screen.That’s when I see it. A glimmer of hope amongst the north-bound traffic. I squint, attempting to discern the exact shape and color… Yes! There it is! My bright yellow savior! I raise a shivering hand, and the Yellow Cab minivan pulls up alongside the snowbank. The driver pauses to scope out my situation before opening the automatic sliding door.
My face meets a wall of warmth and the scent of freshly oiled leather car interior. A final heave sends my luggage into the backseat, and the doors slams shut. The cabbie turns to me with a raised eyebrow, “Whoa, you look like shit, you okay man?”
I look at him the rear-view mirror: he’s old school, blunt, direct. My numb hands struggle with the seatbelt. I take one last look out the window at the vulgar mountain of snow “If I’m being honest with you: I’m having something of a week.”
With a jolt we pull into traffic. It is at this time I begin to engage in another long-honored New York tradition: pouring my heart out to a Yellow Cab Driver.