DA Pennebaker: A Community Remembers
In the week since the passing of DA Pennebaker, we have been honoring the great pioneer with social media posts, repurposed content, and recommendations for viewing from the prodigious Pennebaker Hegedus canon. And we’ve been reaching out to the friends who knew and loved him best.
By my lights, Pennebaker, along with his many great collaborators—from the merry band of groundbreakers at Drew Associates to his longtime co-conspirator in art and love, Chris Hegedus—produced a inspiring body of work that showed us America in action—from the odyssey of presidential campaigns to the magical mystery of the creative process. He came to the art form as an engineering major from Yale, and put that discipline to good use, working with Richard Leacock and Robert Drew to create the cinematic tools that would transform how we create and how we experience documentaries. But beyond his renown as an artist, he was a great teacher and mentor—generous with his wisdom, abundantly curious about the world, and openly enthusiastic about the new works by emerging filmmakers.
We thank the respondents below for sharing their reflections about Penny and the great gifts he and his collaborators left us—including his recipe for paella!
When I first met Penny in the early ’70s, he took me to his office in midtown Manhattan, where he had a screening room with an amazing sound system. He showed me a collection of footage about famous dead people, many of them musicians (Janis, Jimi, Otis), but also, there were the Kennedys, Norman Mailer, Germaine Greer, etc. He could pan the sound around with a joy stick to the many different speakers, and he delighted in playing “pilot.” Eventually this beautiful, intimate footage became films when Chris Hegedus came into Penny’s life.
He was such a charmer—not only the Kennedys but even crusty Bob Dylan allowed Penny to be present with his camera. Penny liked to describe his approach to shooting as wanting to be perceived as a “friend in the room.” And that he was. He was so interested in people, so nonjudgmental, so engaging, nobody could resist him.
In 1995, Alan Barker and I were shooting with Penny and JoJo (one of his eight kids). Penny and Chris were doing a film called Searching for Jimi Hendrix, and we were shooting musicians playing their favorite Hendrix song and then talking about what Jimi meant to them. We were filming Los Lobos, and then it was time for the interview…but Penny doesn’t do interviews! So the band quickly turned the tables and started asking Penny questions about Dylan, John and Yoko, David Bowie, Depeche Mode. Penny held forth happily for quite some time.
His love of music shone in his choice of films, but he also had the most extraordinary collection of early 78 records, mostly jazz. They took pride of place in their living room, lining the wall. He would put on a record and listen with rapt attention. He had stories about all the musicians, many of whom he knew from his youth in Chicago or had filmed subsequently.
And then there was Penny the gourmet. Barzini’s grocery store was right around the corner from their office on W. 91st Street. Even after everyone begged him to stop walking to and from home and office, he insisted on making the journey to buy his forbidden pastries. And cheeses. And bomba rice for his famous paella.
Here’s a snippet from his paella recipe:
Paella for 16 normal people, or 8 Pennebakers:
As rice takes on broth, and clams begin to bite at the air, add shrimps, chicken, chorizo, ham, hot sausage and with chaotic charm strew the emerging paella with artichokes, olives, capers, pimentos, and anything else you need to get rid of, ending ultimately with the baby peas, which should not get too cooked. Stomp around with big spoon, or end of a broomstick. Don’t stir. Just stomp at it. Cover with aluminum foil and let sit for an hour.
To a long and wondrous amazing life. RIP Penny. Or as Chris Hegedus wrote: “As many of you know, he was obsessed with how the universe began. Hopefully he’s somewhere figuring it out now.”
—Joan Churchill (Filmmaker/Cinematographer—Down from the Mountain; Searching for Jimi Hendrix)
His number was in the phonebook. He picked up the phone. "Come on over," he said. And our lives were changed forever. He was artist and teacher both. That very first day, he taught us to enter the room as human beings, not as a bunch of people with a camera—folks with a job to do, just like the people we were filming. But he also warned us that ours would become the outlaw's life. "You gotta travel light and always be ready to make a run for it," he said. "You need a bank robber's mentality." He taught us that truth reveals itself over and over again, that cinema can render the most personal mythic. "This one belongs in a movie theater," he'd say again and again. And he knew this truth and preached it through his every action: Trust was the most valuable commodity between subject and filmmaker; trust was all. When we went to visit James Carville to ask him to be in The War Room, he turned to Penny and said, "Why would I say yes?" "That's up to you," Penny said. Within hours we were back in the War Room, filming for good. Penny knew: The story belongs to the subject, not to the filmmakers. The liberation was mind-blowing. One day late in the process, I asked for career advice. "Make a movie," he said. "Wake up screaming in the middle of the night. Then you'll be a filmmaker.” And he always showed up. Premieres. Festivals. Opening weekend at his beloved Film Forum. Penny came to see his friends’ work. Always, there with that twinkle in his eye that called out, “Comrade!” There he was, ready to stay up late talking about the film, telling tales, drinking, dining, laughing. Not too long ago, I asked him about getting around at a certain age. "The secret,” he said, "is watching your step.” Hardly a day goes by that I don’t think about that one. How best to celebrate this great man's work and memory? By treating yourself to one of his masterworks. Do it soon; I promise you won't be sorry. Give a watch to Original Cast Album: Company, to Dont Look Back, to Monterey Pop, to any of the others. See his extraordinary collaborations with his wife and the love of his life, Chris Hegedus: Kings of Pastry, Moon Over Broadway, and yes, The War Room, and so many many more. Watch as many of them as you can. It's as great a way to celebrate his life—indeed, life itself—as any I can imagine.
—R.J. Cutler (Producer, The War Room)
The confounding thing about entering the enclave known as Pennebaker Hegedus films in 1991 was the nature of the place itself.
We had done our due diligence and landed at their doorstep after a request and a “sure, come on over” call, and there we were, theater background in hand, and a dream to do a film about what was shaping out to be a lively three-party presidential race. Of course R.J. [Cutler] and I had seen Primary, Crisis and Company, and been in awe of Penny’s work, but the world, the cocoon he had spun around himself, was extraordinary.
First of all, in my experience, there was never just Penny; it was always Penny and Chris and Frazer upstairs in his office—whose office, like theirs downstairs, was filled with memorabilia, posters, kids’ drawings and awards. The editing room was upstairs, too, with a commanding looking Steenbeck and someone always in the middle of a project, looking up and saying, “When you get a moment let me know what you think.” Downstairs there was Nick Doob, the incredible DP/director, and Davis Dawkins, the soundperson...I felt I had stumbled into a slightly dysfunctional, brilliant, long-lost family.
It was this crazy, bohemian style, slightly magical working space. It gave the name “home office” a literal feel. When we first visited, it was everything I'd imagined a documentary filmmakers lair to be. There were shelves filled with film canisters and VHS tapes. There were posters of Dont Look Back and Monterey Pop on the walls. There was a comfortably worn sofa to sink into while watching a rough cut on a giant TV screen. There were family pictures and shots of musicians; some items were framed, others were not. It was an incredible mish-mash of a mad genius' life full of curiosity, history and accolades, and it was all reflected in this room.
Meeting Penny for the first time as we pitched our idea, he assumed his listening stance, one that is so familiar to those who spent time with him. He leaned back in his black leather swivel chair, glasses perched precariously on his ever youthful crop of hair, his eyes would close and he would muse. His lips might curl up a bit, and you waited. Then he would say something simple like, “Why not?” or, “What do you think, Chris?” before laying out an array of possibilities that could come of the idea, or he'd somehow connect filmmaking to a book he had read on Chaos Theory. Out the back door was an arbor/trellis with vines draping over for shade. It was there for years where we would throw together mini-feasts. I would shop at the Broadway Farm around the corner and add to whatever they had stocked or the Thai take-out that was a favorite. Upstairs the Steenbecks were busy, his son Jojo might be assembling a camera, his daughter Chelsea would be cutting and pasting press.
Penny was a fantastic engineer, a brilliant filmmaker to be sure, but what I saw—after years working with Penny and Chris and Frazer and Jo Jo and Chelsea, with Kit and Jane running around the office—was a man who was so clever he had managed to have it all. His family worked side by side with him, as if growing up and making films and meals together as a family were inextricably linked, and in Chris, he found his life partner to love, to deeply collaborate with, to squabble with over opening sequences and fair use music. It was an incredible privilege to watch this kind of negotiating, keen creative minds crafting films together.
I miss Penny. I last saw him about a month ago, I think at the Metrograph. He and Chris were there supporting yet another filmmaker’s work. I was so lucky to stumble into their universe, I learned that patience counts for much, as THE moment may come when you least expect it; trust your gut; and family is everything.
—Wendy Ettinger (Executive Producer/Producer, The War Room; Producer, Moon Over Broadway; Consulting Producer, Al Franken: God Spoke; Executive Producer/Producer, The Return of The War Room)
Oh, no, dear Penny, you have given us immeasurable gifts. I'll always treasure bringing Kings of Pastry to POV and how much you taught us all. You leave behind many symphonies of film, and we are all richer for that. As you said, "The very nature of film is musical, because it uses time as a basis for its energy. It needs to go from here to there, whereas pictures and paintings are just there. With movies, you’re putting something together that’s not going to be totally comprehensible until the end. It’s the concept of the novel and the sonnet—you need to get to the end, to see if you like it and decide what it’s about. With stills, there’s always the same instant, frozen and beguiling, but lifeless. A single note. With film, the moment doesn’t hold—it rushes by, and you must deal with it like you do music and real life.”
—Simon Kilmurry (Executive Producer, Kings of Pastry)
I worked at Leacock-Pennebaker when I was just starting out in 1968, and it was an amazing place to start out. When the elevator pinged and the door opened, you never knew who would step out. Norman Mailer, then in his filmmaking period, might arrive to look at a cut; Henri Langlois, director of the Cinémathèque Française, would drop by whenever he was in New York. And Jean-Luc Godard was there for weeks making the film 1 AM with them. Heady stuff for a 22-year-old. But the thing I also remember clearly, today, is stepping off the elevator myself, looking down the long corridor in the office and seeing Penny hunched over the workbench in the workshop, just noodling, making things. I think at the time he was working with the camera batteries, trying to get more long-lasting juice out of them.
I learned so much during the year and a half I worked there, because at Leacock-Pennebaker, Inc. we all did everything. I mixed the sound for their short films in the small screening room they had, I “took” sound on shoots, I cut the negative for finished films and I was given opportunities to cut myself. Penny was generous in many, many ways, and always direct. “Well, I needed a camera” he once said. “There was no camera that would do what I wanted, so you had to make a camera that would.” And so he did. And then, of course, he made many, many films….
—Mary Lampson (Assistant Editor, Monterey Pop; Sound, Town Bloody Hall)
Penny wanted little recognition and needed no assurances.
He wanted the film to belong to the subjects. He never got in the way of a story.
He was a bear of a fellow with the heart of a dove.
To work with him was the key to self-effacement and a recognition that true talent needs no phony embraces from the crowd.
He is the end of the vérité group of silent truth-tellers.
Penny, you are forever as we remember and forever sorely missed.
—Sheila Nevins (Executive Producer, Elaine Stritch at Liberty; Addiction; Unlocking the Cage)