Why creation still matters
From war zones to dance studios, Joe Hill’s new film reminds us that in the face of destruction, choosing joy is a radical act.
All of us wake up to a daily choice between meaning and cynicism. Between creation and dissolution. Between joy and fear.
This is the forking path we walk every day. We often can’’t choose the terrain of circumstance this path traverses, but we can choose the way we cross it.
But taking the road of joy isn’t always easy. Few people would know that better than the filmmaker and conflict journalist, Joe Hill.
As you may recall from last week’s installment of The Cure, Joe’s spent a career documenting the worst this world has to offer. His wisdom is hard won.
Which makes Joe’s choice of meaning, of creation, all the more inspiring.
Released last week, Joe’s stunning documentary, Match In A Haystack, renders that very choice in hard-hitting emotional detail. The film follows the Kyiv-based dance troupe Pro Contemporary on their journey to make art through the brutality of wartime.
In the first of this two-part installment of The Cure, we introduced Joe and his story.
This second part picks up where Joe’s narrative left off. In his own words below, Joe unpacks his personal risk calculus and struggle with meaning, the process of filmmaking through wartime and why—despite it all—being alive is more worth it than ever.
I run a company called Dangerous Company. So yeah, my threshold for risk is pretty is high, but I don’t take it lightly. I’ve turned down shoots that didn’t feel worth it. And when I’ve had local crews with me, I’ve sent them home when it wasn’t safe. A day rate isn’t worth someone’s life.
It’s really important that the true meaning of that decision isn’t ever lost. I have my values. If I know why I’m doing something and believe in it…that’s louder in my head than fear and more important than the risk. But I don’t assume that anyone else should make that same decision.
Nagorno-Karabakh was the most volatile situation I’d ever covered. That first night, probably 80% of the other journalists left. It just wasn’t reasonable to stay.
We got there on like day three of the war, in October 2020. We saw families desperately trying to get on buses—there weren’t enough seats, so parents were literally putting toddlers on the bus by themselves, just hoping someone would take care of them on the other end. The decision to stay was heavy.
The town was in a valley, small population, being heavily fought over. It was immediately clear that the situation was untenable. Stepanakert, the capital, was getting bombarded constantly. We realized very quickly we were embedded with the losing side
There was a local team of journalists helping us—a young couple in their early twenties. One of them was with us at a mutual aid hub when the power cut out. It was pitch black. The shelling went on all night. He was so afraid for his partner, who had gone off to do her own reporting. And then—she walked in. He jumped to his feet, and they just held each other for so long. That moment... it just stuck with me. It was love. And it was happening in the middle of all this madness. That’s part of history too, but it’s not usually what we remember.
That moment confirmed something for me: destruction isn’t the full story. Life is. And I knew that we needed to record that part too.
So I pitched this idea—what if we made the historical record of creation during wartime, instead of destruction?
It was a fundamentally different way of approaching how we understand conflict and Vice supported it. I was still on staff when it started.
I was in New York, just fighting to find a way to tell the story. I called Stephanie Null, a Ukrainian-American dancer who’s insanely talented—she’s danced with top touring companies in Europe. I hired her and said, “Help me find this story.” At first, we didn’t even know what medium we’d focus on. We talked to all kinds of artists—many had fled, many had stopped creating altogether.
But dance—it just made sense. It was visceral, visual, something that could serve the storytelling of film. Eventually, we found this troupe: Pro Contemporary. It was a director and a few close friends. Mutual aid volunteers. And they’d realized—if they weren’t creating art, then Russia had succeeded in stopping Ukrainian culture from existing. So they made the decision to create something.
We reached out. We had a lot of calls and got to know the dancers. I don’t think we had their full trust at first. Maybe they thought we were just making a short video. But we kept coming back. Stayed in touch. And by our second trip, it was like we were best friends. The access they gave us hanged everything.
They’re not full-time dancers. They’re waitresses, designers, freelancers. One of them is in music videos all the time—she's at the Ukrainian VMAs. Another is part of the national ballet company. They’re like a Bushwick dance collective. Same ethos. Just different stakes.
What surprised me most was that this wasn’t a story of defiance. It was about something deeper. An overwhelming need to do something, a need to express what was boiling inside. The central conflict of the film isn’t Russian bombing. It’s the internal question: is it okay to still be who I am when everything has changed? Am I allowed to feel joy? Can I give myself permission to feel sensations other than pain?
The three main dancers in the film all had a different answer. One tied dance to purpose. One wrestled with guilt. One—whose sister enlisted in the army—went to the front line to figure it out.
That’s in the film.
I went through my own version of that. I used to sing in the shower. I liked art. After Nagorno-Karabakh, I couldn’t sing anymore. I opened my mouth and nothing came out. Something in me had changed. I had spent so long seeing the most horrific suffering and started to question everything. I make films, but most of the time it feels like I’m just making dumb YouTube videos.
For a period of time, I deeply questioned my purpose and my sense of whether anything I was doing mattered. Like, I go to these places. I mean I can put on a tourniquet, but I don’t have medical skills.
I lost the sense that what I did made any difference at all.
But this project—it reminded me why I started. Watching this group of women in a situation so far beyond what I’m bearing in life, decide they would make it…that was what I needed. They didn’t know if it would mean anything at all, it’s just what they need to do.
At the core of it, getting to know this group of women was what I needed. That’s what gave me the strength to make this film and bring it to people now.
Production-wise, this film had its challenges. We entered Ukraine by land. Sometimes by car, sometimes by train. One night, we got stranded at a station at 2 AM with all our gear because we had the wrong ticket. Just me and my DP, Nate, trying to sleep on our Pelican cases.
But people helped. The New York Times loaned us a car. Stephanie gave us her apartment. This rental house called Patriot gave us insane support—gear, discounts, crew intros. Because it was wartime, we had real allies who were more than willing to make sure we succeeded.
Plus, what the Ukrainians can do in terms of film production is unbelievable, their talent is top tier.
And there’s this thing in Ukraine right now, a real “YOLO mindset.” It’s often true in war, but especially in Ukraine. You hear shelling at night, check your phone to see where it landed. In the morning, you go to work like normal.
Everyone is living through the same psychological torture, like today it wasn’t my house but tomorrow…you don’t know if you’ll get another shot. It makes you realize that life is fleeting and you have to do it, whatever that is for you. you most desire to do
So you get the extra cocktail. You kiss the girl. You live.
It’s like a car accident, when your life flashes before your eyes. Suddenly, you understand your values and priorities. But in war, this happens on a societal level. And that kind of communal vibrance is powerful. There’s so much wisdom in that.
That’s why I keep returning to stories like this. If a war is happening, then at the very least, we need to document that communal reckoning and understanding and shifting priorities and values. There’s so much wisdom in that.
Honestly, because I have to believe that I’m not alone with this overwhelming sense of how abysmal and scary the world looks right now. And I think at the core of this film, it’s about the choice of creation over destruction.
I hope it’s a reminder that even now—no matter terrible things seem—we can still make the decision to come together and find meaning in our lives, even if they’re fleeting, or short or difficult.
That it’s worth it to be alive.
Match in a Haystack is in select cinemas now. To learn more, including where to watch it, click here.
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