Q&A: Producer Christine Vachon Doesn't Have Dark Nights of the Soul
The independent cinema titan offers some real talk about nostalgia for '90s indie filmmaking, the theatrical experience today, and why she doesn't despair for the future of film
It’s damn near impossible to imagine the American indie film revolution of the late 20th century taking place without Christine Vachon. But even as the movement began to dissipate in the early Aughts, the result of production houses and distributors being bought up and shuttered by Hollywood studios, she pressed on. Today, it’s fair to say few producers in the world have shepherded as many great films into existence as she has - many of which have influenced legions of other filmmakers, including myself, quite literally changing the kinds of stories that show up on the big screen. This is why when fellow producer
, a friend of Christine’s for decades now, offered to introduce us, the cinephile in me screeched very loudly, did an embarrassing little dance of joy, and then calmly typed, “Sure, that would be amazing, Ted, thanks.”In 1996, The New York Times called Christine the “godmother of the politically committed film” because of her dedication to championing difficult subject matter - subject matter I would say challenged the establishment perspective about marginalized communities and voices, especially queer ones. Nearly eighty films later, it’s easy to see very few of them deviate from this description. A staggering number of them were also directed by emerging filmmakers who, by almost every account I’ve ever heard on the subject, found themselves protected and elevated by Christine’s passion for their unique visions and cinema in general. Because of this, I’d modify what the Times said to, “Christine Vachon is the godmother of the politically committed filmmaker.”
Christine’s professional relationship with the craft kicked off in the ’80s when she, Todd Haynes, and Barry Ellsworth launched Apparatus Films, which would go on to produce Haynes’s earliest, revolutionary films and a slew of others. She launched Killer Films in the mid-’90s, which today she co-runs with Pamela Koffler. It’s impossible to list all the titles Christine has produced here, so I’ll just list off a few that directly inspired me to become a filmmaker or, later, made me second-guess everything I’d ever done as an artist because they were so damn brilliant by comparison: Poison (1991), Stonewall (1995), Happiness (1998), Velvet Goldmine (1998), Boys Don’t Cry (1999), Far From Heaven (2002), Party Monster (2003), I’m Not There (2007), Still Alice (2014), Carol (2015), First Reformed (2017), Dark Waters (2019), Zola (2020), Past Lives (2023), and Bleeding Love (2023). I do not exaggerate when I say several of these titles are integral to my identity today.
Christine joined me for our conversation from a honeywagon on the New York City set of her latest production. From almost the first question I threw at her, she revealed herself to be incapable of anything other than direct, no-bullshit answers. For someone who spends her life making films (and occasionally TV series) of startling emotional and visual poetry, there seems to be nothing “romantic” about how she looks back at her career or the industry in which she works. Over and over, I got the sense that she just didn’t have the time to waste on such frivolities. I would’ve guessed this was the result of surviving to middle age in a business that eats careers — and people — alive, but others have assured me this isn’t some quality that came with deeper maturity. Christine is simply and refreshingly blunt, disinterested in bellygazing of any kind - which I can only assume is one of the many reasons she’s been so successful as an indie film producer.
What you’re about to read is going to challenge a lot of the ideas you have about the future of cinema. I know I signed off my Zoom with Christine elevated by the possibility that what was coming might be as exciting as where we’ve been. If you’re looking for hope as a filmmaker or cinephile, read on.
COLE HADDON: Christine, I’m thrilled to be able to do this with you. I want to start with a question that might seem simple on its surface, but what is it about sitting down in a movie theater in particular, to see a film you've never seen before, that continues to excite you so much?
CHRISTINE VACHON: Well, I think there's kind of an adventure to it. I try to do one film festival jury a year, if I'm lucky enough to be invited. And this year, I was invited to do the Karlovy Vary [International Film Festival]. They released their lineup this morning. I don't know any of those movies. There's no way I would've seen any of them. I just know that I’m going to be there for about ten days and have about sixteen little adventures.
I did [the International Film Festival] Rotterdam a couple years ago - I'd kind of forgotten how avant-garde it is. And one of the first movies I sat down to watch was three-and-a-half hours long with no plot and no dialogue. At first, I was like, “Oh, God, maybe I shouldn't have agreed to this festival.” But I still had an experience.
CH: I've been thinking a lot about this lately, about the sense of discovery that comes along with seeing films for the first time. How if you see something that feels truly new, you feel like you've discovered something, how it almost changes you and you become an evangelist for it. But I've become concerned that maybe that's one of the reasons why the industry is flailing a bit in terms of the theatrical experience. If we’re on movie 210 in the Cinematic Universe, or another remake or reboot, can we still have that experience of discovery as consistently as we did when, I don’t know, Far from Heaven or Pulp Fiction were released?
CV: Look, the death of theatrical and the death of independent film - those obituaries have been written so often. But it's hard not to feel that if a great story is made for the right price and it is something truly original, it will find an audience. Past Lives is a good example. I know every week there's, you know, another “worst Memorial Day weekend in history” — etcetera, etcetera — but I do feel the real question is: how do you give people a sense of urgency, that need to see something in a theater rather than just wait until they can see it in their homes, you know?
CV (cont’d): And yes, I'm sure we can all come up with a million reasons for why we ended up here, like how the pandemic made people much more comfortable to watch things in their homes. But that was all happening before. You know, maybe the pandemic accelerated it a little bit. So, I think now films have to feel like a truly unique experience. Look back at the music industry where the concerts used to drive the selling of the CD, right? But now the CD drives the selling of the concert. I feel like there are certain experiences you just can only have in person. You can't have them in front of a computer. You can't have them at home. And the collective experience of being in a cinema is one of those experiences.
CH: I have no gods in my life, but I have cinema and, and I've always thought of it as one of the only communal experiences that connects people across cultures and the planet.
CV: [Laughs] Right.
CH: We all worship somehow at the same screen, which I love. It's why I exist.
Okay, I’d love to turn back the clock a little to 1987 and the decision to found Apparatus Films with Todd Haynes and Barry Ellsworth. What was the motivation for you? But part of the reason for this question, I’ll add, is that I’m curious what inspires people to do something so radical, something so revolutionary?
CV: I had been working in film as everything from a production assistant and had slowly worked my way up to being an assistant director and a second assistant director. I think we perceived that there was kind of a lack. Todd was applying for grants for his movie Superstar and Barry and I were both making our own short films. But it really felt like there was nobody who — if you did get grant money — who was there to produce your movie and make sure that you didn't squander what you got. Those skills just seemed so few and far between. So, Apparatus felt like an opportunity to kind of get in there and work with filmmakers at the beginning of their careers in ways that were really interesting.
CH: I recently chatted with your friend Ted Hope about this period in film history, and he had some great reminisces. When you think back to this time in your life, are there specific memories that anchor you there?
CV: I’ve got to tell you, I'm not nostalgic. Like, it's just not my thing. I'm all about what's ahead. I don't really look back that much. It's interesting that Ted says, “Oh, it was really fun,” because anything's fun when you’re in your twenties. What's not fun, you know? I mean, I could have had fun doing anything when I was twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old. So, I don't think about it that much.
What I remember much more is the actual physical production, probably because I've just done that so often. And to be honest, it just doesn't get that different. You know, sometimes I'm in a trailer and not a honeywagon. Sometimes I'm not in either. But usually, the actual mechanics of it are pretty much what they are. Now, what I remember being extraordinary — you know, going, “That was amazing!” — is actually showing the movies.
CH: Such as?
CV: Like, bringing a movie like Go Fish to an almost all-gay female audience at the Gay Lesbian London Film Festival and watching them see this movie - and really see themselves represented for the first time. That was extraordinary. Showing Boys Don't Cry and people kind of understanding the breadth and nuance of that character and sort of how that movie was going to become an evergreen. Same with Carol, same with Far From Heaven. That's the part I really enjoy - you know, making and showing the movies. I'm sure Ted has a lot of great war stories about how "we “just went out and did it”, but that, that gets to be a little bit like, “Yeah, but, that's what we're still doing.”
CH: Part of my interest in this question is that I think my life in the ’90s involved a bit of a sliding door moment where I should have gone to New York. I now realize I went the wrong direction.
CV: Where'd you go?
CH: I came from a very working-class background, and I spent a lot of years convincing myself I couldn't do any of this. So, I ended up in L.A. – which seemed like the safer route for some reason – and I built up a very successful commercial career. But I hated so much of it because what I really wanted to be doing was telling smaller, more intimate — more personal — stories. It’s partly why I don't live in the States anymore. I wanted the freedom to tell stories I wanted to tell, so I moved to London.
CV: Do you live in London, then?
CH: No, I'm in Sydney now, but most of my work is still in the U.K. I think my problem was, I was getting paid really well to write things that weren’t why I necessarily wanted to make films in the first place — so, the late ’80s and ’90s in New York — I guess you’d say I'm nostalgic for something I missed out on because I made a stupid decision. I didn’t take the big risk. I did the safe thing, like I said.
CV: Or you didn't. I mean, who knows? You know, one of the things that really became clear to me when we did the Velvet Underground documentary is that every time anyone comes to New York, they get told they just missed the good New York. It’s always like, “Oh my God, this is amazing!” “Yeah. Well, you should have seen it in the ’80s. This sucks today.” You know what I mean? It’s just a city that constantly reinvents itself. So, I don't even know if the New York you’re nostalgic for ever actually existed.
CH: I’m going to cling to that thought, thanks.
So, speaking of Hollywood, where I ended up, I’m curious about your relationship with it. What about you — who you are — made this specific kind of career outside of that factory system inevitable? And my follow-up will be, once success came your way, once things were going well, did you have a dark night of the soul for an indie producer - to go to Hollywood yourself to make maybe more commercial films?