26/03/2025 - The Norwegian director discusses her unflinching portrait of one of the thousands of families living on the margins amidst the USA’s housing crisis

Norwegian photographer Monica Strømdahl anchors her documentary film debut, Flophouse America [+see also:
film review
interview: Monica Strømdahl
film profile], around 12-year-old Mikal, his mother and his father, who all live in a flophouse – like many families who have fallen victim to the economic and housing crisis in the USA. In the run-up to the film's premiere at CPH:DOX, Cineuropa had the chance to talk to the director about the making of this unique and touching portrait.

Cineuropa: Flophouse America has already been a long journey, and we’re still days away from the world premiere. How does it feel?
Monica Strømdahl: Very special! I feel like we’re going into a new era with the film, approaching the premiere. When we made the movie, that was one part [of it all], and now this part, showing the film, is for the audience. It’s me and them [the father, Mikal, and Jason] together, taking it in and waiting.

You’ve been photographing flophouses for almost 20 years, is that right?
I started taking such pictures in 2005, when I moved into one of these hotels myself in order to be able to live affordably while I was a student in New York. Almost ten years passed before I thought about it as a project, and it was only because the hotel that I had been returning to for many years shut down owing to gentrification – everyone who lived there was forced out against their will. I set out to take photographs and collect stories, albeit not in a particularly organised manner. But through the many conversations I had with people, I started seeing the bigger picture of how health, politics and economics are all intertwined: you see the effects of long-term policies and housing legislation on people trying to get into the housing market, for example.

What made you envisage your encounter with Mikal’s family in terms of moving images, rather than still photographs?
Usually, I’d check myself into a hotel and stay for as long as it takes for someone to want to talk to me and build a relationship. I felt like all of these stories stuck with me, as well as the people’s voices and the way they moved – but photographs don’t show these things. When I met Mikal, I had been staying in the same place for about three weeks. I shot one portrait of him and moved on, but I never forgot him. That’s when I thought that photography was not enough [as a medium] for this family and that I had to give them more space. By making a film, I could remove myself even more, so that they themselves could be the voices and tell their own story.

Since the hotel room is already small for a family of three, I’m sure the quarters were restrictive for you in some ways, but also liberating because it enabled intimacy. How did you go about negotiating trust within such a small space?
I guess it’s the same with everybody, being a bit stiff at first, and then, when they get used to me being in the room, it changes. Of course, there was a process of establishing that comfort. Like you said, the space was small and limiting, but it was also liberating. There weren’t many options for where I could position myself – it had to be on this or that side of the bed because of the light. As a photographer, I’ve always used the available light, and I don’t know how to set it up artificially. I think they got used to me quite quickly in that sense because I wouldn't interfere.

Did you discuss documentary filmmaking with them?
I feel that people in the USA have a deep understanding of what a documentary is. I can't tell them what documentary is, because it is in their DNA, and all of their history has been documented through photography. So, they have a deep respect for the medium, and when I come and say: “I’m here to document,” they know what that means better than I do.

The film begins with Mikal’s words of endorsement and some frightening statistics. Why not conclude with this scene?
I’ve had a lot of ethical concerns throughout the process, one of them being Mikal’s age. When we started shooting, he was quite young, so we made the choice to postpone [finishing] the film until he had turned 18. While this is Mikal’s story in this little room, the statistics and the family dynamics are universal. We wanted the audience to have a bit of background and something in the back of their minds when they went into this film. It was actually Mikal who suggested that somebody read out the statistics at the beginning, instead of having a text on screen. On some level, he takes ownership by presenting his own film and his own life: he wanted that, and we wanted that for him.