“Daughters” The Dance With Time
How an Eight-Year Documentary Confronts the Complexities of Absence, Redemption, and the Bonds That Refuse to Break
Netflix
We exist in a world where the craft of storytelling, particularly in TV and film, has reached a level of sophistication that mirrors the complexity of life itself. Our senses are sharpened, trained to discern the patterns, the beats, the crescendos of narrative, just as we navigate the rhythms of our own existence. But every so often, a work like "Daughters" emerges—something that disrupts our expectations, forcing us to confront a deeper truth about love, absence, and the passage of time.
"Daughters" isn't just a film; it's an exploration of the human condition, a meditation on the ties that bind us, and the choices that unravel those connections. It introduces us to four young souls—Aubrey, Santana, Razih, and Ja’Ana—each with a story that echoes the fragility of desire, the yearning for identity, and the silent shadow of their fathers' incarceration. This shadow, cast long and unyielding, isn’t just their burden; it’s one I recognize too. I’ve felt its weight, having walked through my own decade of separation from my father. And in that shared silence, I find my pulse quicken, my chest tighten, as memories long buried begin to stir.
Guided by Angela Patton and Natalie Rae, the film opens as a series of quiet revelations. Each frame is a portrait, a moment frozen in time that reveals the impact of absence—the kind that transcends physical distance and burrows into the soul. Santana, with all her youthful innocence, becomes a mirror reflecting the inevitable truth of abandonment. Her words, “It was your decision to make, not mine,” reverberate with the force of a philosophical axiom, a truth laid bare. In that moment, we understand: choice is both a gift and a curse, and its consequences ripple far beyond the one who makes it.
Michael Fernandez's lens captures this journey not as an observer but as an accomplice, allowing us to witness these young women’s quiet revolutions with a softness that contrasts the harshness of their reality. And in this paradox, the film finds its power—the delicate balance between hope and despair, connection and isolation.
The documentary’s central act—the "Date with Dad" dance—serves as more than an event; it’s a rite of passage, a metaphysical encounter that confronts the notion of redemption. The fathers, compelled to undergo weeks of parenting workshops, step into a rare space of vulnerability. It’s a radical act in a society that often denies incarcerated men the privilege of their own humanity. The dance becomes an existential question: Can love be rebuilt from fragments? Can a touch, however fleeting, mend years of separation?
But beyond these questions lies the essence of time itself, that relentless force that governs all things. For those incarcerated, time is a cruel master, stripping away identity and reducing existence to mere survival. For those on the outside, it races, slipping through fingers that try desperately to grasp at moments lost. And as the film unfolds, we witness how this dance with time shapes everyone involved—how it bends, distorts, and sometimes, mercifully, heals.
Watching "Daughters," I confront my own philosophical inquiry: What does it mean to be connected? To be bound by blood, by history, by love that refuses to let go even when the world insists it must? I think about my father, about the years that were taken from us, the silence that grew between us, the way time etched lines into his face and mine. And I realize—our story, like those in the film, will never be neatly resolved. There was no dance for us, no workshop, no space to reclaim what was lost.
In Ja’Ana’s eyes, I see my own reflection—a longing to understand, to touch, to be touched. But prison, like all systems of power, takes more than just freedom. It strips away the chance for reconciliation, leaving only fragments for us to piece together, if we’re lucky. Mark, one of the fathers, gets that moment—an opportunity to step out of time, to hold his daughter close. But for most, there is only the unyielding passage of days, each one bleeding into the next.
And so, "Daughters" becomes more than a film; it’s a philosophical treatise on love, loss, and the eternal question of what it means to be human. Perhaps that’s why I wept—because in this story, I saw my own. Or maybe it was the haunting melodies of Kelsey Lu, echoing like a distant memory. Maybe it was Angela’s vision, urging us to see beyond the walls we build. Or perhaps it was Aubrey’s quiet strength, reminding me that we’re all just trying to find our way back to each other.
In the end, I leave you with this question: When you confront your own moments of absence, your own dances with time? Let me know, if you have time.
Watch now on Netflix.
