Making a documentary about a teen girls' curling team completely changed my life

Cutaways is a personal essay series where Canadian filmmakers tell the story of how their film was made. This Hot Docs 2024 edition by director Josephine Anderson focuses on her film Curl Power.

It was a cold, rainy night in the sprawling suburb of Maple Ridge, B.C., but I was sweating. I took the last seat in a large circle of squeaky folding chairs under the unflattering fluorescent lights of a curling club and nervously opened my mouth to speak. 

I was there to pitch my documentary idea to a roomful of parents (the most skeptical breed of human), and seek permission to film their teenage daughters over the next several years. It was a huge ask.

The idea for Curl Power came to me while curling in a league for beginners. I was quickly won over by the sport's innuendo-packed phrases ("hurry harrrrd") and by its camaraderie (in curling, tradition dictates that the winning team buys the losing team a pitcher of beer). As I watched my fellow newbies tumble clumsily all over the ice, I was struck by the parallels between teenagehood and this fringe sport: both were a little weird, wonderful and misunderstood. What a perfect subculture for a coming-of-age film.

I did some research, made a few phone calls, and landed upon the 4KGirl$ — as the name suggests, a girls' team of best friends with the big dream of making it to the Canadian Under-21 Curling Championships. They were coached by their mothers, two of whom are world champions. 

When I'd met the team just before that night in Maple Ridge, I'd felt an instant connection with the girls, and they wanted to participate. But could I convince their parents?

So there I was in the laser-beam gaze of the parents' curious but discerning eyes. (Who is this newbie curler person, and why should we trust her?)

I laid everything on the table. This would not be a typical sports film. Yes, I'd track the girls' evolution as a curling team, but I'd also follow them as they navigated the landmines of their teenage years. I'd be there for their victories and joys. I'd be there for the unexpected, really hard stuff. And I'd be there for a long time — until they graduated from high school. In return for their trust, I'd give them my deepest respect and I'd give the film everything I had. I told the parents I could understand if they weren't open to this level of commitment. If they weren't, it would be better to shut it down then. 

And then I held my breath. 

Miraculously, everyone agreed to take the leap. Every couple of weeks, as the sun went down, I'd sit on my hallway stairs (the only private spot in the little suite I share with my partner) and talk for hours with each of the girls. It would take me days to speak with everyone. A few weeks later, we'd film together. This was our ritual for nearly four years.

The trust we built allowed our crew intimate access into fleeting, tender moments in the girls' lives and led to a special kind of filmmaking experience. A lot of us struggle with loneliness and a hazy, pervasive sense of disconnection. But when we filmed, the girls were vulnerable and open with me and with one another. Curl Power became a study on subtle interactions between friends, holding onto each other through the chaos and uncertainty of growing up. I learned that these moments of connection can pass in a matter of seconds, but this is where the real marrow of our lives is found. 

Honestly, making this film changed me. How else could it be? So much happens during the span of filming a longitudinal documentary — not just for the participants, but for us filmmakers too. My task was to keep a grip on the reins of the film through all that, which was no small feat. 

A year into filming, I gave birth to my daughter, Freja. It was exhilarating and exceptionally challenging to be a new parent while also making my first feature film. I'm not sure this documentary would have made it if it weren't for my director of photography, Claire Sanford, who kept showing up and shooting when I couldn't be there (filming, for example, while I was in labour). Late in production, Claire had a baby of her own, and cinematographer Ben Cox stepped in to fill her shoes. I started to notice a mirroring of what was going on in front of and behind the lens: a bunch of people showing up and leaning on each other. What a privilege and a joy to make a film in this way.

We call our passion projects "film babies" because you grow them deep within you and fully commit yourself to their realization. Eventually, you must release your film baby into the daunting wilderness of the world. No one can say exactly what path the film will take, but we can say we gave it everything we had. 

These days, the fog of loneliness is thick in the air and our collective yearning for closeness is unmistakable. This film is a celebration of the fragile moments of connection we share as we face the tumultuous unknown.

Curl Power screens at Hot Docs 2024 on April 28th and 29th. More information is available by clicking here.