Askey’s emotional yet restrained approach to his subjects reminds me of Michael Dominic’s 2002 documentary Sunshine hotel, another observational portrait of people living on the margins of society. It follows the residents of a one-room hotel in Bowery, letting them tell their story in their own way. IN Love in Fentanyl’s Time, There are no voiceovers or talking heads. Instead, Askey allows everyday life in space to unfold, capturing camaraderie amid the chaos at OPS. They hold safety meetings, pray, make jokes, and strum the guitar. The murals light up the indoor walls and the alleys outside the building; a dog named Zelda snuggled up in his lap.
“I don’t want it to just be about the tragedy and the deaths that are happening in the community,” Askey said. “Most people have never been to these places, and I want to push people to go beyond their comfort zone and their stereotypes about who these people are and what these sites do.”
And so we watched Ronnie brush her teeth and tie her sneakers; we watch Sarah gab on the phone. While Askey clearly has feelings for his subjects, he shows them clearly, not advertising their cause or romanticizing their lives. The closest he was able to give the film a thesis was when his camera captured these mundane moments. The message is hard to miss: These are ordinary people.
Ah, but ordinary people can do unsightly things. Not everyone who works at OPS uses its services, but some of them do and Askey doesn’t shy away from this fact. Just as he captures lengthy footage of his subjects telling about their dreary daily routines, he also shows what an active drug user looks like.
This is not pleasant viewing. Even people donate Overdose prevention websites can see Dana standing up straight after hours through their fingers. He carefully placed the chairs on the table, making sure everything was in order. He whistles while working. Then he looked in the mirror in front of one of the tables, pulled out a syringe, and injected himself into a vein in his neck. The camera remained steady on his reflection until he finished. Dana continued cleaning, closed the door, and went home.
“I want people to have the big picture, as much as possible,” Askey told me when I asked about his decision to include his injection scene. After all, it’s dishonest not to show drug use in a documentary about people trying to make drug use safer. Although I hate watching those scenes, they are a necessary part of why Love in the Time of Fentanyl such an important movie. It does not attempt to clean up the image of the overdose prevention space. “I don’t think the film answers many questions. The more I hope that it can help people ask the right questions,” Askey said.
One such question might be: Why aren’t these spaces more popular in the United States? New York opened the country’s first space in 2021; so far, like OPS, it has saved life. In an age where the overdose crisis continues to grow, it’s strange that this successful initiative has prompted so few imitators to open their doors. Other efforts to open similar spaces elsewhere in the country have been thwarted because of how politicized everything related to fentanyl has been. In California, for example, Governor Gavin Newsom veto a 2022 bill authorizing pilot programs in Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Oakland.
Opponents of the overdose prevention space argue that they would encourage drug use. The film captures the mundane, utilitarian reality of these spaces, how they are neither flashy hedonistic nor hellish, and certainly nothing to be afraid of. In spite of Love in the Time of Fentanyl Not intended to spread the gospel, its comprehensive depiction of the wart could be the key to changing minds.
