Within the sphere of documentary filmmaking, the line between genuine storytelling and poverty porn can often be thin. Directors can easily, even if unintentionally, exploit the struggles of the impoverished for emotional impact and dramatic heft, reducing their subjects to mere spectacles of misery. Thankfully, that particular pitfall is gracefully sidestepped by director Amy Nicholson in her latest effort, Happy Campers. The film takes as subject a scrappy campground-cum-trailer park on Chincoteague Island, Virginia, a place that has become a cherished seasonal home for its working-class inhabitants. Happy Campers never explicitly labels its subjects as poor; instead, it’s inferred through Nicholson’s presentation of their homes, habits, language, and mannerisms. With a light touch and minimal intrusion, Nicholson allows the residents of the Virginia coastal town to tell their own stories. Men fish and fix roofs, women and children swim, families gather around picnic tables to share meals, and friends play cards inside their modest trailers. The camera lingers on these seemingly mundane moments, allowing the viewer to experience the simple joys and deep bonds that define this enclave.
Sadly, however, this sanctuary they’ve created is coming to an end. The land was sold to developers eager to capitalize on the prime real estate, forcing the residents to leave their homes. It’s in this that the film locates its throughline: how do these people grieve the loss of a place that has become so meaningful to them? Nicholson subtly weaves this encroaching danger into the narrative, allowing the residents’ reactions to speak volumes. Some are merely sad, reflecting on their experiences as they pack up their belongings and leave for the last time. Others are angry, going so far as to vow to burn their trailers to the ground rather than let anyone else take the land from them. Such moments of raw emotion highlight these individuals’ deep connections to their homes and each other, while also building out the more abstracted idea of collectivity being gored by capital.
Nicholson’s approach to the documentation is thankfully to show rather than tell, trusting viewers to follow her to shared conclusions instead of offering any kind of thesis-driven project. A few times, you hear her speak to the residents, or they ask her questions, but in general, the camera seems to exist rather as a neighbor, observing the day-to-day and settling into the reminiscences. What isn’t present in the film also contributes to its easy watchability; despite the ubiquity of American flags flying, the absence of political discourse leaves the viewer to infer a broader social context, or perhaps offers the opportunity to ignore such instincts to infer altogether. The choice to focus on personal stories rather than socio-economic or overtly political commentary is one of the film’s great strengths, helping it to both toe that line between exploitation and observation and helping to render the residents as more than mere ideological signposts.
Ultimately, Happy Campers is the kind of film that functions as a testament to the power of place and the resilience of the human spirit, but without any of the maudlin sentimentality such a description implies. Nicholson’s empathetic lens ensures that the campground residents are not mere documentary subjects, but fully-fleshed individuals, bonded yet distinct — the director’s greatest achievement is that everyone richly exists beyond any easy read of their circumstance. Happy Campers feels particularly resonant in this time of American housing crises and gentrification displacing communities across the country, a poignant reminder of the fragility of community and the human cost of progress. What Nicholson’s film ultimately captures is a fleeting moment of community that, once lost, will never be the same.
DIRECTOR: Amy Nicholson; DISTRIBUTOR: Grasshopper Film; IN THEATERS: August 7 RUNTIME: 1 hr. 18 min.
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