It's clear right off the bat that Ilisa Barbash and Lucien Castaing−Taylor's "Sweetgrass" is no glossy, run−of−the−mill blockbuster. Their raw and riveting documentary about dying cowboy culture in the American West offers neither high−speed car chases nor passionate, moonlit kisses. In fact, it doesn't even have a script — just stretches of unadulterated land, rugged and oft−disgruntled men in straw hats and sheep as far as the eye can see. The simplicity of the film draws viewers into a startlingly candid cinematic experience.
"Sweetgrass" follows the grueling trek of rancher Lawrence Allested as he drives his flock of sheep from Big Timber, Colo., into Montana's Absaroka−Beartooth mountains for the last time. Allested is the last man to undertake this century−old sheep−driving journey, and the documentary not only captures the death knell of Allested's own career, but also for an entire traditional lifestyle.
The film's organic nature traces back to its inception, when the story fell into Barbash and Castaing−Taylor's receptive laps.
"Inspiration came from lots of places, [but] we had the topic presented to us," Barbash, the producer of the film, said.
She explained that Allested's story reached Castaing−Taylor, the cameraman for the film, by word of mouth; nowhere to be found are the calculated plot devisors of the Hollywood industry. Barbash even denies targeting any kind of specific audience, saying instead that they "weren't really sure who was going to be interested in it."
Through her passion for the film and ambivalence for its market success, Barbash painted herself and Castaing−Taylor as artistic reporters, rather than business−oriented cinematographers.
"We just made the film we wanted to make," she said. "It's different from a feature film … [in which you're] committing to something that's going to be something of a commercial success.
"We didn't really think ‘We've got to cut this out or shoot this particular scene because it's going to be more commercial and play better in Los Angeles,'" Barbash added.
So if it's not about turning a profit, why film the documentary? "I think it's very rewarding to be able to take interesting people, and interesting relationships between people and animals and beautiful landscape and pull that all together into a film," Barbash said.
These sincere motivations impacted the production phase, during which Castaing−Taylor went to great lengths to avoid broaching the authenticity of the subject matter. Toting his camera up the mountain range on foot, he eschewed the convenience of multiple cameras and cameramen for the chance to film the story intimately.
"Lucien wore the camera suspended from a harness that was around his body … He carried it all the time and it sort of became a part of his body, the way crutches or a wooden leg do," Barbash said. "People would always see him with a camera, so they lost a lot of their normal self−consciousness."
An interesting challenge for the filmmakers was ensuring that "Sweetgrass" presented a fluid and cohesive narrative for viewers, in the absence of a script or commentary. The editing process consumed a lengthy eight years, since Barbash and Castaing−Taylor had over two months of footage to sort through and piece together.
"In terms of editing, we worked a lot on pacing. We wanted the film to constantly be moving forward," Barbash said. She describes the pace of the film as "measured … and slow, but hopefully not unpleasantly slow."
The element of sound functions in the place of a traditional scripted narrative, knitting together each scene. "We'd be recording four different soundtracks at the same time, so you could hear birds and sheep and people cursing and horses grunting and the soil being stepped upon, all at the same time," Barbash said.
Barbash explained that she and Castaing−Taylor attempted to give the viewer a sense of being transported into the sheep drive with their camerawork.
"We chose all sorts of different kinds of angles that would make [viewers] feel as though they were there," she said. "Sometimes, [those angles] might make you feel as though you were there as a human, and sometimes they might make you feel as if you were short as a sheep walking up the hill."
She credited Castaing−Taylor's initiative with the success of these techniques. "He really placed himself right in the middle of all the action," Barbash added.
In fact, Castaing−Taylor's involvement extended well beyond his mere duties as a cameraman. During the filming process, Castaing−Taylor became deeply incorporated in the lives of his subjects, forming bonds that could not possibly be formed in the sterility of a studio setting.
"At various times, Lucien would put the camera down and help out … if [the ranch hands] needed an extra hand," Barbash said. "It was just [Castaing−Taylor and the camp−tender and the sheepherder] in the mountains for two months, so there was plenty of time to talk, hang out and get to know each other."
The distribution phase of an independent film differs enormously from that of a feature film. "If you're going to make a feature film, you're probably going to spend a lot more money than people making documentaries because you've got to pay for actors, camera people and all sorts of crew members," Barbash said.
She praised the virtue of documentary−making for documentary−making's sake, subtracting distribution from the equation until the very end of the filmmaking process. "Once you've got your documentary done … you talk to different companies," Barbash said to explain the post−filming process. "We found one that was the best match for us, which was Cinema Guild, which has a very good list of mostly independent films."
That this documentary has begun to grace the silver screen has been a pleasant surprise for Barbash.
"We were hoping for a general, television−style audience," she said. "What's interesting is that … it seems to appeal to a wide range of audiences around the country. [Not only does it appeal to] people who have grown up in the West who may have participated in ranch life, but it also appeals to East Coasters and Californians who are merely interested in those lifestyles."
Even with widespread distribution, the profitability of the film is still unknown. Fortunately, for Barbash, fortune is not in the least the most gratifying part of making this documentary.
"Both of us really loved what the film was about," Barbash said. "We both really enjoyed being in the West and seeing that part of American history and connecting with the people. We really enjoyed all of those different aspects coming together in one piece of art."
