TIME Music

Martin Scorsese Signs On as Executive Producer of Grateful Dead Documentary

"The 50 Year Argument" Photo Call - 52nd New York Film Festival
Director Martin Scorsese attends the "The 50 Year Argument" premiere during the 52nd New York Film Festival at Walter Reade Theater on September 28, 2014 in New York City. Ilya S. Savenok—Getty Images

The documentary is set to be released next year, coinciding with the 50th anniversary of band's founding

Hollywood director Martin Scorsese will be the executive producer of an upcoming documentary on legendary ’60s rock group the Grateful Dead.

The documentary, which will use a mix of vintage interviews, live concerts and new interviews with surviving members, is slated to coincide with the 50th anniversary of the iconic band’s founding, according to The Hollywood Reporter.

Amir Bar-Lev, known for 2010 film The Tillman Story, will direct the yet-to-be-titled Grateful Dead flick.

The band, made up of Bob Weir, Mickey Hart, Bill Kreutzmann, Phil Lesh and the late Jerry Garcia, said in a statement that they are honored to have Scorsese on board. “From The Last Waltz to George Harrison: Living in the Material World, from Bob Dylan to the Rolling Stones, he has made some of the greatest music documentaries ever with some of our favorite artists,” they said.

Scorsese also released a statement, saying he was happy that the film was being made and honored at being a part of it. “The Grateful Dead were more than just a band,” he said. “They were their own planet, populated by millions of devoted fans.”

[THR]

TIME History

FDR’s Polio: The Steel in His Soul

Jeffrey Kluger is Editor at Large for TIME.

Disease can break a lot of people. As a new film by Ken Burns and an exclusive video clip show, it helped make Franklin Roosevelt

No one will ever know the name of the boy scout who changed the world. Odds are even he never knew he had so great an impact on history. It’s a certainty that he was carrying the poliovirus—but he may not have known that either since only one in every 200 infected people ever comes down with the paralytic disease. And it’s a certainty too that he had it in late July of 1921 when he and a raucous gathering of other scouts had gathered on Bear Mountain in New York for a summer jamboree. So important was the event in the scouting world that it even attracted a visit by the former Assistant Secretary of the Navy and 1920 Democratic Vice Presidential nominee, Franklin Roosevelt.

This much is painfully certain too: somehow, the virus that inhabited the boy found its way to the man, settling first in his mucus membranes, and later in his gut and lymph system, where it multiplied explosively, finally migrating to the anterior horn cells of his spinal cord. On the evening of August 10, a feverish Roosevelt climbed into bed in his summer cottage on Campobello Island in Canada’s Bay of Fundy. It was the last time he would ever stand unassisted again.

Roosevelt’s polio, which struck him down just as his political star was rising, was supposed to be the end of him. The fact that it wasn’t is a self-evident matter of history. Just why it wasn’t has been the subject of unending study by historians and other academics for generations. This year, Roosevelt and his polio are getting a fresh look—for a few reasons.

October 28 will be the 100th birthday of Jonas Salk, whose work developing the first polio vaccine was backed by the March of Dimes, which was then known as the National Foundation for Infantile Paralysis and which itself grew out of the annual President’s Birthday Balls, nationwide events to raise funds for polio research, the first of which was held on FDR’s 52nd birthday, on January 30, 1934, early in his presidency. That initial birthday ball raised a then-unimaginable $1 million in a single evening, a sum so staggering Roosevelt took to the radio that night to thank the nation.

“As the representative of hundreds of thousands of crippled children,” he said, “I accept this tribute. I thank you and bid you goodnight on what to me is the happiest birthday I have ever known.”

This year too marks one more step in what is the hoped-for end game for the poliovirus, as field-workers from the World Health Organization, Rotary International, UNICEF and others work to vaccinate the disease into extinction, focusing their efforts particularly on Pakistan, one of only three countries in the world where polio remains endemic.

Then too there is the much-anticipated, 14-hr. Ken Burns film, The Roosevelts: An Intimate History, which begins airing on Sept. 14. It is by no means the first Roosevelt documentary, but it is the first to gather together all three legendary Roosevelts—Franklin, Theodore and Eleanor—and explore them as historical co-equals. It’s the segments about FDR and his polio that are perhaps the most moving, however—and certainly the most surprising, saying what they do about the genteel way a presidential disability was treated by the media and by other politicians in an era so very different from our own.

“We think we’re better today because we know so much more,” Burns told TIME in a recent conversation. “But FDR couldn’t have gotten out of the Iowa caucuses because of his infirmity. CNN and Fox would have been vying for shots of him sweating and looking uncomfortable in those braces.”

That’s not a hard tableau to imagine—the competing cameras and multiple angles, shown live and streamed wide. And what Americans would have seen would not have been pretty, because never mind how jolly Roosevelt tried to appear, his life involved far, far more pain and struggle than the public ever knew, as a special feature from the film, titled “Able-Bodied,” makes clear. That segment, which is not part of the broadcast and is included only on the film’s DVD and Blu-Ray versions, which are being released almost contemporaneously with the film, was made available exclusively to TIME (top).

Concealing—or at least minimizing—the president’s paralysis was nothing short of subterfuge, the kind of popular manipulation that wouldn’t be countenanced today. But it’s worth considering what would have been lost by exposing the masquerade that allowed FDR to achieve and hold onto power. Roosevelt, as the Burns film makes clear, was a man whose ambition and native brilliance far exceeded his focus and patience. It was a restlessness that afflicted cousin Teddy too, causing him to make sometimes impulsive decisions, like pledging in 1904 that he wouldn’t run again in 1908—an act he regretted for the rest of his life and tried to undo with his failed third-party presidential bid in 1912.

“Who knows what would have happened if Teddy had had the great crises Franklin had—the Depression and World War II?” Burns says. “I do know he was unstable and always had to be in motion. It fell to FDR, who could not move, to figure out a way to outrun his demons.”

George Will, in an artful turn in the “Able-Bodied” clip, observes that when the steel went onto Roosevelt’s legs it also went into his soul. That may have been true in FDR’s case, but it’s true too that suffering is not ennobling for everyone. Some people are broken by it; some are embittered by it. As polio nears the end of its long and terrible run, the things FDR achieved despite—even partly because of—his affliction remain nothing short of remarkable.

TIME Ideas hosts the world's leading voices, providing commentary and expertise on the most compelling events in news, society, and culture. We welcome outside contributions. To submit a piece, email ideas@time.com.

TIME celebrities

George Takei: ‘Being Optimistic Is Ensuring Your Success’

The star is the subject of a new documentary

There’s a Japanese word that shows up repeatedly in the new documentary, To Be Takei (Aug. 22) about the life of George Takei: “gaman.”

“Gaman translates into English as ‘to endure with dignity, or fortitude,’” the Star Trek actor tells TIME. Gaman was, he says, a source of strength for Japanese-Americans sent to internment camps during World War II — and he would know. Takei spent his childhood, up until almost his 9th birthday, in such a place. Even after the internment ended, the young Takei found himself in a hostile world, where housing and employment for Japanese-Americans were scarce, and his family, penniless after the war, lived on Skid Row in Los Angeles.

And gaman continued to prove necessary as Takei got older. When he became an actor, his first roles were ones he regretted even before filming them, stereotypical Asian caricatures he says his agent convinced him were worth it for the visibility. And, even after his acting career was established, he faced different struggles as a gay man — first with concealing his sexuality, later with getting the right to marry.

But he endured. As he tells TIME, he did so with a smile.

“I think being optimistic is ensuring your success. If you start out saying ‘I’ve got this problem or I’m angry at that,’ you will not succeed,” he says. “My father said, ‘Be confident of who you are, but also work hard to be the best that you can be.’”

It’s clear by now that his optimism is well-founded. The science-fiction devices he used on Star Trek have become reality (except, he notes, for the transporter), he’s married, he’s enjoying a major wave of popularity — and, of course, he’s the star of a movie about himself.

“The future,” he says, “is today.”

Read more about George Takei in this week’s TIME.

TIME Pop Culture

See How ‘Oh My’ Became George Takei’s Catchphrase

Say it with us now...

Take a quick peek at the Twitter feed from George Takei — the actor famous for his Star Trek and advocacy roles, and the star of the new documentary To Be Takei — and it’s immediately clear that he has a catchphrase.

He uses it in a sentence:

He uses it as a hashtag:

He even has his own link shortener, which churns out catchphrase-inspired short URLs for him to tweet:

But how did “Oh my!” come to be his catchphrase? Here, Takei tells TIME.

TIME Theme Parks

SeaWorld Is Drowning Fast

Trainers have Orca killer whales perform for the crowd  during a show at the animal theme park SeaWorld in San Diego, California
Trainers have Orca killer whales perform for the crowd during a show at the animal theme park SeaWorld in San Diego, on March 19, 2014. Mike Blake—Reuters

A damning documentary hasn't helped the struggling theme park

fortunelogo-blue
This post is in partnership with Fortune, which offers the latest business and finance news. Read the article below originally published at Fortune.com.

By Ben Geier

On Friday, SeaWorld Entertainment announced that it is building new, bigger enclosures for its signature attractions — the orcas (also known as killer whales). Their jumps and tricks have delighted some, but their alleged poor treatment and inadequate habitats have enraged others.

The theme park company said it plans to upgrade the killer whale tanks at three of its theme parks, starting with the one in San Diego, Calif. The new orca tanks will be 50 feet deep and have a surface area of nearly 1.5 acres.

Will improved conditions be enough to reverseSeaWorld’s declining revenue? Earlier this week the theme park company said its revenue dropped 1 percent in the three months ended June 30 during a period that’s considered the company’s peak season. SeaWorld also attributed its poor quarter to bad press following the release of the “Blackfish” documentary, which accused the theme park operator of mistreating orcas.

Wall Street wasn’t impressed and sent the company’s stock price down over 30 percent.

For the rest of the story, please go to Fortune.com.

TIME Music

David Byrne and Jonathan Demme on The Making of Stop Making Sense

David Byrne in Stop Making Sense Courtesy Palm Pictures

The Talking Heads frontman and the film's director reflect on the seminal rock documentary

It’s been 30 years since the release of Stop Making Sense, the Jonathan Demme-directed Talking Heads concert pic that’s widely recognized as one of the greatest live music films of all time.

Stop Making Sense paired Demme — years before he won Best Director for Silence of the Lambs — with the band Talking Heads, just as the New York-based art rock group were becoming musical icons.

The film begins with the band’s frontman and impresario, David Byrne, walking on stage a boombox in hand. He sets it down, turns it on and starts to sing along with the Talking Heads’ song “Psycho Killer.” He is soon joined by bassist Tina Weymouth while stagehands build a drum platform for Chris Frantz. Backup singers and horn players appear and the show goes on, building into a frenzy while Byrne throws himself around the stage like a possessed version of Mick Jagger. That energy carries throughout the film, fusing Demme’s sweeping cinematographic style with Byrne’s eye for stagecraft and the art of the show.

To mark the occasion, the film is being made available digitally for the first time ever by Palm Pictures, along with a limited theatrical engagement this summer and fall. When asked why it took so long for a film that used some of the most modern equipment and techniques of its age — it was the first rock movie made using entirely digital audio techniques — to become available digitally, Demme shrugged: “I guess we just weren’t paying attention?”

TIME talked to both Demme and Byrne as they reflected on making Stop Making Sense and the lasting legacy of the film:

Demme: “In early 1983, Gary Goetzman and I went to see my favorite band, the Talking Heads, at the Hollywood Bowl in Los Angeles. The show was like seeing a movie just waiting to be filmed. We tracked David Byrne down and pitched him on the idea of teaming up to make the picture.”

Byrne: “I realized the show was ‘cinematic’ and that it sort of had a narrative arc. It might work on film, or so I believed.”

Demme: “David really saw this movie in his own head long before we came and pitched him on letting us shoot it.”

The two connected through a mutual friend, Nadia Ghaleb (according to Byrne), but they already shared a mutual appreciation of each others’ work.

Byrne: “I knew Jonathan’s work. I loved Melvin and Howard.”

Demme: “I was a Talking Heads fan from the very beginning.”

To make the film, the band turned to the parent company of their record label, Sire, for funding.

Byrne: “Our manager, the late Gary Kurfirst, went to Warner Records for a ‘loan.’ They got paid back and sold some live albums too.

With financing secured, the filming could begin.

Byrne: “Jonathan followed us on tour for about a week or so prior to filming, so he knew the show pretty well.”

Demme: “The big suit, the lighting, the staging, the choreography, the song line-up — everything was there in the show before the filmmakers showed up.”

The so-called big suit became one of the most iconic images of the show, the band and the film:

Demme: “It was all part of David Byrne’s original concept for the staged show, from the beginning.”

Byrne: “I was in Japan in between tours and I was checking out traditional Japanese theater — Kabuki, Noh, Bunraku — and I was wondering what to wear on our upcoming tour. A fashion designer friend (Jurgen Lehl) said in his typically droll manner, ‘Well David, everything is bigger on stage.’ He was referring to gestures and all that, but I applied the idea to a businessman’s suit.”

Filming took place over four nights at the Pantages Theater in Los Angeles, while the Talking Heads were on tour following the release of their album, Speaking in Tongues:

Demme: “Those four nights of filming were four of the most thrilling shoots of my life. Everything went flying by so fast it was just one ecstatic blur for me.”

Byrne: “During the shoot every day was spent re-balancing the lights so that the show would look to the camera as it did to the eye, as well as blocking out camera moves.”

Demme: “It was wonderful that our Director of Photography was the late/great Jordan Cronenweth, because Jordan was able to help David achieve on screen what was never completely possible with the lighting scheme in those big live arena shows, because there’s so much ambient light in those rooms that it blows out the starkness of true graphic black and white lighting design.”

Byrne had an attention to detail and an eye for design that was vast in scope:

Byrne: ”Edna Holt, one of the incredible singers (see 20 Feet from Stardom) changed her hair the day before we started shooting! I freaked out — hair whipping was a big part of the show —so I paid for her to get a weave immediately. It took her many, many hours, poor girl, but it worked.”

Courtesy Palm Pictures

Stop Making Sense was a true collaboration between the two men, with each contributing their own aesthetic ideas about music, cinematography and stagecraft into a cohesive whole of avant-garde rock-and-roll theater. Both Demme and Byrne were eager to credit their collaboration and each other for the end result:

Demme: “Most of these dynamics arose from David Byrne’s original vision, but it was a highly collaborative experience.”

Byrne: “Jonathan saw things in the show that I didn’t realize where there or didn’t realize how important they were.”

Demme: “We shot it together, cut and mixed it together, and we all went running off to the festival circuit together as soon as we had our first print.”

Byrne: “[Demme] saw the interaction of the personalities on stage, how it was an ‘ensemble piece’ if it were viewed as one would a scripted film. He also realized that to suck the viewer into that ensemble, there would be no interviews and no shots of the audience until almost the very end.”

Demme: “In the cutting room we quickly discovered that there was always something far more interesting going on on stage than in the ‘best’ of our audience footage. This led to the realization that if we pulled back from showing the live audience, it made our film feel that much more specially created for our movie audience!”

The film also used a number of long camera shots to capture all the on-stage action in beautiful sweeping shots. It’s something Demme would replicate in future music documentaries like Storefront Hitchcock and Neil Young: Heart of Gold.

Demme: “The use of extended shots instead of quick cuts is a result of my belief that there is great power available by holding on any extended terrific moment and letting the viewer become more deeply involved in the performance at hand, instead of constantly interrupting the flow with un-needed cuts. Too much cutting usually speaks to a lack of editorial confidence in the players and the music.”

Courtesy Palm Pictures

While Byrne tends to be the film’s focal point — and he is rarely off-camera throughout — the real star of the show is the music: the exuberant, funk-influenced rock that pushed the Talking Heads from the New York underground, where they opened for the Ramones at CBGB, to hitting the Billboard charts. The film captures their energy perfectly, building in tempo and attempting to force even the most reluctant audience members from their seats:

Byrne: “There were many screenings, film festivals and all that — many of which featured dancing in the aisles.”

Demme: “I adore film and I adore music. I often find myself feeling that filming music is somehow the purest form of filmmaking. This crazed collision of sound and images, the intense collaboration, these incredibly cinematic performances. And for the nights you’re filming, a non-player like me gets to feel somehow part of the band.”

Byrne: “I think the film and the show showed that a pop concert could be a kind of theater — not in the pretentious sense, but in the sense that it could be visually and even sort of dramatically sophisticated and yet you could still dance to it.”

Demme: “I knew that we had captured the magic of an extraordinary band at just the right moment, but didn’t imagine it would still be so around and feeling so fresh 30 years later. Makes sense now, though.”

Demme: “I love this film passionately with all my heart.”

You can purchase Stop Making Sense on iTunes here.

MORE: Love Story: A Q&A with Singer-Songwriter Robyn Hitchcock

MORE: Tommy Ramone RIP: The 9 Best Ramones Songs

TIME movies

What One Filmmaker Learned by Being with Roger Ebert at the End

Steve James' documentary 'Life Itself' looks at the legendary critic's life and legacy

The time it takes to make a documentary film may vary, but Steve James’ work on Life Itself had a limited timeline. The Hoop Dreams director began filming in December of 2012; his subject, the legendary critic Roger Ebert, died of cancer only a few months later, in April 2013. (James says that he believes he took the last-ever picture of Ebert. The film, which is named after Ebert’s memoir of the same name, arrives in theaters on July 4.) And, despite its title, James says the film — as a result of its timing — is in many ways more about death than about life.

“I like to think he shows us how to die,” says James. “And how to do it with tremendous grace and generosity.”

James says that he knew from the beginning that, though the documentary intended to address Ebert’s effect on film culture — TIME’s film critic Richard Corliss is among the interviewees, and he wrote about Ebert for the latest issue of the magazine — and his critical career, it wouldn’t just be about Ebert at the movies. Rather, just as his life influenced his critical opinions, his fame as a critic would be a way to talk about the rest of his life. The key, James says, is that Ebert had learned how to embrace life, struggles and all, and to let that love inform his work — and, eventually, his death.

James says that Ebert was initially reluctant to share some of the grittier facts of his physical decline. When he first had jaw surgery that left his face disfigured, James notes, he kept an old photo of himself as the image on his website; he finally revealed his new face in a 2011 blog post that James says was a result of deciding that he didn’t want to hide anymore, a decision that would come to define what many remember about him. Even people who weren’t film buffs looked to him as an example of someone confronting illness and death head-on. As Life Itself (the film) points out, Ebert’s colleague and professional rival Gene Siskel died in the late ’90s after having been extremely private about the progression of his own cancer. Ebert’s feelings about Siskel were complicated, but the secret illness and sudden death were shocking; after seeing Siskel make that decision about how to die, Ebert went the opposite direction.

Even so, with the world clued in to his illness, allowing a camera into his hospital room took extra guts. “[Being open about his illness] was what made him more than a film critic to a lot of people,” James says. “There’s a level of candor there that was courageous, but it wasn’t the same as inviting a film crew into a hospital room and seeing him get suctioned.”

As Ebert’s health declined even further, while James was still working on the movie, the critic’s candor gave way to doctors’ demands to keep him away from distractions. When he returned to the hospital near the end of his life, they didn’t want to tire him out with filming, and James says that he agreed that — when it was clear that the critic’s energy was failing — they had reached the point where openness gives way to a family’s need for privacy. And besides, James says, there’s a reason why the balance of candor and discretion ended up just where he wanted it: his subject was uniquely qualified to know what needed to be seen on camera.

“I think he realized that if he was going to have a documentary made about himself,” James says, “he wanted it to be a documentary that would be the kind of documentary he would want to see.”

TIME Documentary

Aaron Swartz Documentary Steers Clear of Suicide Conversation

Aaron Swartz
The programmer Aaron Swartz on Aug. 19, 2009. Sage Ross—picture-alliance/dpa/A

A new documentary about a young man who took his own life while facing charges on computer crimes skips a much-needed conversation about suicide

The Internet’s Own Boy is a new documentary out Friday with a controversial premise: It theorizes that laws designed to protect us online — and those who pen, pass and implement them — are not only failing to keep us safe, but they may have the power to kill. The film posits that such failings contributed to the suicide of activist Aaron Swartz in January of last year, when he was just 26 years old.

Swartz suffered from debilitating ulcerative colitis — a bowel condition — as well as crippling depression. His depression only worsened as he and his family spent millions defending against felony charges and a steep prison sentence he faced for downloading millions of academic articles via The Massachusetts Institute of Technology’s computer labs. Swartz’s family called the incident “an alleged crime that had no victims.”

The film reinforces what The New Yorker’s Larissa Macfarquhar, in her engrossing profile of Swartz, calls the family’s message that Swartz was “murdered by the government.” Macfarquhar says that the family deployed that idea in the aftermath of Swartz’s suicide to “direct public sadness and anger to political purposes,” though she writes that while the family doesn’t believe this, they have publicly stuck to it.

In any other era, finding enough footage and photos of someone who lived such a short life would be challenging, but Swartz lived online from the start—it was the space he preferred most. The film is rich with visuals documenting his existence, rendering him sympathetic and lovable to those who never met him.

Swartz helped developed and later sold Reddit, then pioneered political activism organizations that worked to fight the anti-piracy Stop Online Piracy Act (SOPA) as well as catalyze Elizabeth Warren’s Senate bid. He harbored political aspirations, and the film suggests he could have been among the first politicians to understand the Internet well enough to keep us from censoring it or destroying ourselves with it. Swartz’s capacity for kindness and idealism inverts the stereotype of the tortured coder. He accomplished more in a couple of decades than most people hope to in a lifetime.

This flattering portrait of Swartz sets up one of the film’s major takeaways that hews to the family’s message—that bullying, overreaching prosecutors pursing too harsh a sentence, coupled with a silent university, bear responsibility for Swartz taking his own life. The film derives its title from this idea.

“He was the Internet’s own boy, and the old world killed him,” says Swartz’s former partner, Quinn Norton. It’s a galvanizing theory, but it’s also dangerous for viewers or admirers of Swartz to believe this to be the only reason for his death. It’s too simplistic, too rote. The film would be even more dynamic and challenging if it had questioned this hypothesis.

While the harassment by the justice system seems unjust and even abusive, Swartz’s death should not only compel us to question our law enforcers and lawmakers, but should encourage us to examine the blight of suicide more closely. We otherwise run the risk of settling for what famed Nigerian writer Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie calls a single story — one that’s flat and dimensionless because it’s the only one we hear.

Suicide is an epidemic; one million adults attempted suicide and more than two million planned to attempt suicide in 2012, according to the most recent Centers for Disease Control and Prevention data. Men account for nearly 80% of these deaths. Someone leaps from the Golden Gate Bridge approximately every two weeks. Alcohol, opiates (including painkillers) and access to guns are all known risk factors for suicides, which comprise two-thirds of all gun deaths. No two suicides are alike, and yet every individual who takes his or her own life has something in common.

Suicide is increasingly reported in the news, particularly when the victim is young and there is bullying is involved. Bart Palosz, Rebecca Sedwick, Karyn Washington and Cora Delille all took their own lives in the last year and a half since Swartz’s death and were the subject of news stories. Discussion of blame is common—who’s at fault for such overwhelming pain, such unexplained horror. Families often blame themselves, according to research from Nassau Community College. In the cases of Phoebe Prince and Rebecca Sedwick, law enforcement initially fingered and pursued prosecuting high school bullies. But blame, while a natural inclination, can rupture a community, as it did in the cases of Prince and Sedwick, and ruin even more lives in its wake.

Swartz’s internal struggle in the months leading to his death, recounted by friends and family in the film, is tragic. They said he was “terrified” and became increasingly “isolated from friends and family.”

“He didn’t want to be a burden to people,” said partner Taren Stinebrickner-Kauffman.

While Swartz’s death may very well be explained in part by “the product of a criminal justice system rife with intimidation and prosecutorial overreach,” as his family said in a statement released after his death, butit’s dangerous to only frame the tragedy that way because while it starts an important discussion about preserving our liberties as Americans, it halts another valuable one about suicide, its myths and hard truths and how we might help keep each other and those we love safe.

Yarrow is a TIME contributing writer and journalist living in Brooklyn.

TIME movies

Aaron Swartz Wanted to Change the World, Says Director

The Internet's Own Boy is in theaters June 27

When news broke early last year that Internet activist Aaron Swartz had been found dead, filmmaker Brian Knappenberger was already deeply immersed in the hacking and computer programming world. Fresh off the release of a documentary about the Anonymous movement, We Are Legion: The Story of the Hacktivists, the filmmaker had been following the ongoing lawsuit against Swartz, who faced charges related to illegal access of the JSTOR academic-article service.

But it wasn’t until after Swartz’s suicide that Knappenberger understood what a big deal the Swartz case was. “I was on a panel in New York City about a week after. It seemed like everyone had a story about him,” Knappenberger recalls. “There was this incredible wave of anger and sympathy and frustration, far beyond people who had even heard about this kid and far beyond people who knew him personally.”

Why did people–even those who had never met him–care so much about Swartz? What struck a nerve with people who didn’t really understand what the 26-year-old Harvard University Fellow was working on? Intrigued, Knappenberger decided to make a movie. The result, The Internet’s Own Boy: The Story of Aaron Swartz, arrives in theaters June 27. Along the way, the director figured out that caring about Swartz had nothing to do with meeting him or understanding his work, or even agreeing with what he was trying to do with the open-access movement.

“There’s this Silicon Valley notion that they’re going to change the world. Every start-up says that. It’s become an absurd slogan at this point,” Knappenberger says. “Aaron genuinely wanted to change the world.”

For the filmmaker, Swartz’s story became a way to talk about problems with the criminal justice system and with the start-up “money treadmill.” That narrative benefitted from the fact that Swartz wasn’t an anarchy-style extremist — “I’ve made films about those people,” says Knappenberger. “That wasn’t Aaron.” In other words, Swartz’s story, as told by friends and family, is relatable.

“I don’t feel like I make movies about hackers. It’s just human. This is the world that we live in now. The Internet is not some distant realm of geeks and hackers. It’s the place where you live. We spend all of our time on the Internet. Every important part of our lives has an online component to it,” Knappenberger says, though he admits with a laugh that his next project is about hackers too. “The point I would love to say to people is that you get a say in this. Don’t leave it to the coders and programmers and hackers. This is about your world.”

TIME movies

A Filmmaker Taped 112 Weddings. Here’s What He Learned About Marriage

Doug Block turned his wedding-videographer gig into a documentary

For decades, documentary filmmaker Doug Block has supplemented his income with wedding-video gigs — and he’s now combined the two to make a documentary, 112 Weddings, which is out in the UK today and premieres in the U.S. on HBO on June 30. In the film, Block revisits several of the couples whose weddings he filmed to see how their marriages have worked out. The couples are divorced and still together, childless and with children, happy and not so much, but they all open up about what’s caused their marriages to work out the way they have.

“People conflate the wedding with the marriage and the getting married with the being married,” Block explains. “That’s really what the film is: so many movies end at the wedding day with the happy ending being the wedding, and I thought what an interesting place to start.”

And, it turned out, Block wasn’t the only one who wanted to know what would happen. He says that interest in 112 Weddings was probably the highest of any project he’s worked on — though he’s not sure whether people were more interested in finding the secret to happiness or just getting in a little schadenfreude. If it was the former, viewers are in luck: Block, who’s been married 28 years himself, says he learned something from all of the couples with whom he reconnected. He jokes that now he knows enough to become a love consultant to the stars and charge exorbitant fees for his advice, but he was willing to share a little knowledge with TIME pro bono.

So, after more than 100 weddings filmed and about a dozen revisited, what’s Block’s top advice about marriage?

“Pick wisely is the best advice,” he says. “You’d better find somebody who feels like your jokes are funny.”

Beyond that, it’s important to stay flexible and accept imperfections. After all, he says, you can’t prepare for marriage because it’s a lifelong commitment and there’s no way to know what will happen in your life. It’s more important to be ready to face what you don’t expect than to think hard about your expectations.

Block also says that one of his favorite parts of the film is a discussion of the concept of “soulmates,” something he and at least one interviewee agree is pretty weird, the idea that there’s one person out there who you’ll be happy with forever. In reality, he’s noticed, love and affection come in waves, and a couple can want nothing to do with each other and then feel great about their marriage all within a short period of time.

“A lot of marriage is coming to terms with who is this imperfect person you’re living with, and acknowledging that you’re not exactly a perfect person either,” he says. “The ideal to me of marriage is you’re both growing as individuals but you’re not growing apart. You’re supporting each other in your growth. That’s what keeps the bond tight, because you’re not stagnating, you’re not getting dull.”

It’s clear from the film that the storybook idea of marriage is unrealistic — but that a wedding can be worthwhile anyway. “As I say in the film,” Block says, “happy ever after is complicated.”

Your browser, Internet Explorer 8 or below, is out of date. It has known security flaws and may not display all features of this and other websites.

Learn how to update your browser