I’d like to start this discussion with a brief personal anecdote, which I believe helps establish a clear foundation for the forthcoming conversation. In 2019, I visited the World Press Photo Exhibition in Hanoi – and while there were dozens of incredible photographs, one stood out to me. The photograph, taken by Philip Montgomery, is entitled “Faces of an Epidemic”, and shows the traumatized, hysterical faces of a man and a woman, standing outside their non-descript Midwestern home, clutching the body of their son, who had died after overdosing on opiates. The number of lives that have been lost to what is one of the most harrowing drug epidemics the world has ever faced is far too high to even consider counting, but it is bordering on over half a million lives in the last three decades. This image has lingered with me for years, which is precisely why it struck such a chord with the global audience. This is not a subject that should be taken lightly, and while it may seem unconventional to begin this discussion with a personal story, it seems appropriate considering the film being considered. All the Beauty and the Bloodshed is one of the most singularly difficult films I have ever had the task to write about – not only is it formally a sprawling, challenging work that goes in many different directions, but its intentions and the message that sits beneath the surface also is far too intimidating to ever be fully-analysed in any significant detail, especially not by one person. Yet, this seems to have been the driving motivation behind Laura Poitras’ decision to venture into the life of Nan Goldin, one of the most influential artists and activists of her generation, and the person whose past serves as the foundation for this astonishing documentary. As one of the year’s most astonishing artistic and cultural achievements (which is by no means an overstatement – this is truly a work of pure brilliance), All the Beauty and the Bloodshed is a stunning experience, in both definitions of the term. Harrowing but hauntingly beautiful, heartfelt and deeply disturbing, it is a film built on exploring the world through the eyes of a singular artist, who is here captured by an equally gifted and socially-aware filmmaker, who works closely with Goldin and a range of other individuals to bring to life one of the year’s most undeniably powerful artistic triumphs.

When exploring the life and career of Nan Goldin, it’s obvious that she is not only a master of her craft, but she is well-regarded in all facets of her life, being beloved in most of her endeavours, which has allowed her to develop quite a significant following, albeit more prominent amongst those with a penchant for alternative and underground art. Many of us probably know her either as an activist, or for her groundbreaking photography, which is the area in which she has dedicated most of her professional achievement, her magnum opus being her exhibition The Ballad of Sexual Dependency, in which she presents hundreds of the photographs she has taken over the decades, which work together to tell a story, which in turn constantly changes and evolves as the years pass and she tinkers with the specific images chosen, as well as the order in which they appear. It seems appropriate that, when making a film with her as the central subject, that Poitras would foreground this aspect of her career before anything else. The majority of All the Beauty and the Bloodshed takes the form of a slideshow of photographs, accompanied by Goldin’s narration, where she is either commenting on the specific image shown on screen, or relaying an anecdote or story that relates to something being depicted. For those who have an interest in photography as a form of storytelling, there are broad parallels between Goldin’s work, and that of the enormously influential Diane Arbus, who seems to serve as an inspiration for her photography, both of them sharing many similar traits, both in their personal and professional life. They were both fiercely independent female artists at a time when the industry was dominated by men, venturing into the streets of New York City to capture the faces of the people that interested them, which were mainly those who existed on the margins of society. Goldin has always been ingrained within the queer community, and her photographs capture some of the most hauntingly beautiful images ever associated with the movement, which is especially notable considering how The Ballad of Sexual Dependency came about right at the height of the HIV/AIDS crisis, meaning that her photographs depict a community that was slowly being erased, her efforts indelibly committing to film the faces and bodies of many people who would have otherwise been forgotten if it wasn’t for her immense fascination with documenting her environment and the people who occupied it.

The emphasis on photography is not merely a way to demonstrate the reason behind Goldin’s immense artistic influence – the entire concept of photography as a whole form a theoretical framework from which the film is frequently drawing inspiration. To relate this briefly back to Arbus (who is never explicitly mentioned by name, but any research into Goldin’s career will show that her legacy lingers as a spectre over her art), one of her most profound contributions to the artistic culture comes in the form of the sentiment “a photograph is a secret about a secret – the more it tells you, the less you know”. This can be applied to nearly any work that looks at photography as not only the art of capturing still images, but providing a snapshot of a moment in history. Goldin’s work is not always about the context – she took far too many photographs to ever count, but yet each one tells a distinct story, but yet there isn’t too much time spent explaining them, either in her own exhibition or this film, which is based very heavily around showcasing her photography. Moreover, much like Arbus, Goldin occasionally turned the camera on herself – her art said as much about the queer community and the spaces she navigates throughout her career as it did herself, and even though referring to someone as serious and dedicated to such important causes an eccentric feels almost inappropriate, it is all part of her reputation that she is as bold and peculiar as this film makes her out to be, since this level of immense artistic expression simply cannot come from someone who doesn’t possess a very distinct and almost outlandish worldview, which only makes her activism more meaningful, since it comes from a place of genuine honesty. This is what makes All the Beauty and the Bloodshed so compelling – it is as much Goldin speaking about the world she occupies as it is about her own experiences, and her active involvement in crafting this film alongside Poitras adds an abundance of detail. She is not afraid to put every emotion on screen, diving in her past and revisiting the trauma and terrors she experienced that brought her to the point in her life where the only balm for her wounded soul was to capture the world that surrounded her.

In this regard, All the Beauty and the Bloodshed is a film that takes a multilayered approach to its subject matter – this is as much a film about Goldin as it is a deep examination of America and how it has changed in the last half-century. Not the definitive or most complete text on either the HIV/AIDS crisis or the opioid epidemic, both of which are still extremely relevant from a contemporary perspective, this film is going in search of the deeper truths that lurk beneath contemporary American life, especially amongst the queer and working class, both groups that Goldin herself identifies with, and thus bring her own unique perspective to the discussion. There have been few films that focus on the American experience quite as dark as this – somehow, Goldin’s career as a photographer and activist (both of which exist as symbiotic aspects of her broader identity) has exposed many harrowing secrets which she unearths through her passionate commentary, whether directly in conversation with Poitras, or in the fragments of her daily life, which appear to be driven equally between the continued pursuit of her evolving artistic interests and her strong-willed activism, which has resulted in small but significant changes that have the potential to bring solace to those who lost loved ones as a result of a truly insidious epidemic, and while this may not bring back the deceased who lost their lives, it will at least prove that even the most powerful of institutions should be held accountable for their actions. Many of the film’s most haunting moments come in the juxtaposition between the past and the present – the images shown in Goldin’s photographs are directly related to the present conditions of the country, which she sees as being just as fragmented and divided today as it was in the past. The most frustrating part of her journey is how, despite clear evidence and obvious solutions, it still takes far too long to actually achieve the results, and through exploring her past, which includes a long history of trauma and psychological issues, we see that Goldin’s journey has been far from easy, which only makes her valiant efforts to promote change and bring justice to those harmed by the same system that affected her in the past, all the more admirable.

However, despite its wide-ranging subject matter, All the Beauty and the Bloodshed is about as far from a conventional documentary as one could find. It isn’t experimental in the way we may expect, since it does maintain a level of linearity and logic that allows it to be easy enough to follow (which is particularly important for those who have not had the fortune of encountering Goldin and her incredible work in the past – this film is as much about celebrating her legacy as it is about introducing her to the wider audience), but rather some of the techniques that Poitras utilizes, as well as the aspects that come into focus throughout the film, are truly original. On both a formal and theoretical level, we have to wonder how a documentary is able to feel both intimate and expansive, often at the exact same time. In summarizing the film, it feels almost like a betrayal to condense it into only one of the two main narrative threads, since they’re both so interwoven, which is quite an accomplishment considering how different their intentions were. It isn’t clear whether All the Beauty and the Bloodshed is constructed as a biographical account of Goldin’s life, or a brutal examination of the opioid crisis, and its comparisons with the HIV/AIDS epidemic – so logically, we’d just assume it would entail elements of both, which is a very appropriate way of examining this film and how it approaches some very difficult themes. Poitras is a very dedicated filmmaker, and while she has only worked on a handful of films in the past, each one is unique and subversive in its own way – but this feels like one of her most ambitious, for the exact reasons that some may assume it is her most simple. It feels like the majority of this film finds Goldin allowing Poitras into her daily life – there is a brief shot towards the beginning where the director stands in a corner of the revered artist’s home, handheld camera pointing in her general direction as she goes about her day, which leads to two hours of interaction between the director and her subject, who engage in a spirited conversation, led by Goldin, whose beautiful and poetic descriptions of her life and work make this feel so intimate, as if we are being given unrestricted access to her storied past, as well as the wealth of wisdom she has attained along the way, which we are so fortunate to see in practice.

All the Beauty and the Bloodshed is a film that is most appropriately described as two artists collaborating on a story about the broken promises of the supposedly impeccable American Dream, which has been corrupted and manipulated more times than anyone would anticipate – and it is all filtered through the eyes of someone whose entire life has been defined by a series of challenges that has taken her around the world as both an artist and activist, using her platform and strong and fervent understanding of society to genuinely try to make a difference in the world she inhabits. There is a lot of sorrow that is found throughout the film, but it is contrasted by a sense of hopefulness – Goldin may be someone who has dedicated her life to fighting injustice and honouring the memories of those who have fallen victim to oppressive systems, but her compassion comes from a deep belief that there is always value in optimism, and that at the end of this long and arduous battle, there will be joy and catharsis – unfortunately, the reality is that Goldin herself will likely not be able to witness that for herself, as will very few of us, since its a long journey that will take generations to reach. However, like the photographs that she has proudly exhibited for over four decades, her activism is all about establishing a legacy, acknowledging those who existed for a brief fleeting moment and then left us, leaving us with the memories of their existence, which can be used to fuel our continued journey towards justice and self-realization. All the Beauty and the Bloodshed is one of the most extraordinary cinematic achievements produced in the past few years – a harsh, challenging and deeply melancholy investigation of institutionalized injustice as seen through the eyes of someone who has dedicated her whole life to fighting for the voiceless, both through her art and her activism. Many may not have heard of Nan Goldin before this film, which is understandable (due to her status as more of an underground figure), but this serves to be a powerful introduction to her career and the legacy she has spent her entire life building. Heartbreaking but beautiful in equal measure, and truly extraordinary in both intention and execution, it’s quite simply a work of pure emotional and artistic catharsis, and one of the rare instances where we find a film that could genuinely change the world in its own small but significant way, which seems to have been the intentional all along.