There’s a scene in Geeta Gandbhir’s harrowing documentary perfect neighborin which a Marion County police officer asked Susan Lorincz, a white Florida woman, if she had ever called her black neighbor's children the "n-word." Lorinz seemed confused by the question and immediately denied it. But she finally admitted it, admitting the word may have been "missed." She claimed she was taught to use the word to refer to people who were "illegitimate, dirty and generally unpleasant".

The moment is illuminating for several reasons: It reveals the way Lorinz, one of the main subjects of Ganderhill’s documentary, thinks; it also illuminates why “stand your ground” laws are dangerous in a country plagued by racism.

The earliest version of the legislation, passed in Utah in 1994, allowed citizens to use force (even fatally) if they perceived a threat of harm. Florida followed suit 11 years later, and more than 30 states have since approved these self-defense regulations. These laws have repeatedly come under scrutiny, especially in the wake of national tragedies: George Zimmerman, who killed Trayvon Martin in 2012, claimed self-defense, and the manhunt and murder of Ahmaud Arbery in 2020 So are William Bryan, Travis and Greg McMichael. They remain legal despite evidence that these policies, often backed by the National Rifle Association, have led to an increase in racist violence.

Premiered at the Sundance Film Festival, perfect neighbor Get an intimate look at the consequences of Stand Your Ground laws through a story that recently made headlines. In June 2023, Lorinz shot her black neighbor, Ajike Owens, a mother of four, as she knocked on her front door. In later testimony to police, the reclusive older white woman claimed she feared for her life. Relying almost entirely on police body camera footage, Ganderhill reconstructed a timeline of events leading up to that summer. She observes the quiet community of Ocala, Florida, and crafts a touching story of a feud that spirals and takes disturbing turns. The film, executive produced by Sam Pollard and Soledad O'Brien, is a progressive and often sickening portrait of racist bigotry, police inertia, and the consequences of America's self-defense legislation.

perfect neighbor The film opens in chaos, as police cars and ambulances race to answer a disturbing 911 call. A voice on the other line repeated a variation of "The lady shot her." When police pulled up to a cul-de-sac with identical bungalows, they were met by people frantically waving at them to stop. The grainy quality of the footage enhances the atmosphere of fear and despair. What follows is an audio interview, played with images of this seemingly idyllic suburban community.

Lorinz first reported Owens to Marion County police in 2022. She claims her neighbor hit her with a plastic "No Trespassing" sign she placed in front of her home. In the video, we see police dispatched to the scene and interviewing Lorinz, Owens and a number of other neighbors. Bystanders denied Lorinz's claim that Owens threw the sign. They told police the woman was a newcomer to the neighborhood and a rival. She threatened children who rode bicycles or played football too close to her home. She accused them of making loud noises, trying to steal her truck and following her.

Police soon realized Lorinz might be the problem. She continued to report incidents of aggression without evidence. Every time the police visited the neighborhood, they used the same tactics: They told Lorinz that kids will be kids, they asked the kids to watch the old woman's property line (even though the homes were all rentals), and they warned the adults Be careful when negotiating with anxious neighbors. A portrait of an unstable woman begins to emerge, but no sustainable solutions seem to have been considered. Feuds spread, and a community atmosphere once characterized by protective solidarity became hostile.

in her last film Lowndes County and the Black Power TrailDrawing on archival footage and canonical interviews, Ganderhill paints a stirring but stark portrait of self-determination in a violently segregated area of ​​Alabama. Here, the director adopts a more subtle narrative approach, allowing the metaphors and themes in the narrative to unfold. The use of police body camera footage is shocking and gives the doc a true-crime style energy. Notably, the fact that police can control when these devices are turned on raises questions about potential unrecorded moments. Still, it's useful to understand how Lorinz was treated by law enforcement, especially as it becomes increasingly clear that her meek persona was little more than an act. The police never saw her as a threat, and their attitudes — mild pleading, dismissal — underscored how differently the law treats white people.

As the evidence mounts, perfect neighbor Steadily and deftly building momentum until it reaches a devastating peak. The film slackens off slightly in its third act, as Ganderbeer expands its scope to consider the aftermath of June's fateful night. It's a tricky transition: The director replaced grainy body-worn camera footage with clearer, more refined images observing Owens' funeral and her community's attempts to apprehend Lorinz. There's a devastating familiarity to these moments, which include cameos from civil rights leaders like Al Sharpton, but by their nature they're not as intense as the scenes that preceded them.

In fact, the biggest impact perfect neighbor This has nothing to do with Lorinz or Marion County police's lack of imagination in handling her. The touching moments involved Owens, her children and community members' reactions to the news of her death. Police footage underscored their anguish and reinforced the extent of their failure. What does justice look like for children who will never see their mother again and are burdened with unfair guilt for her death? Who pays for white people’s fear? By implicitly raising these questions, Gambhir's document serves as a powerful indictment of these laws and the state that upholds them.