History Isn’t Dead—It’s Just Been Waiting for a Film Like This
Let me ask you something: When’s the last time you left a movie feeling like you’d personally unearthed a forgotten chapter of American history? Not just watched a dramatization, but connected with the messy, conflicted souls who shaped it? That’s the gamble Jay Craven takes with Lost Nation—and from what I’ve seen, he pulls it off by doing the exact opposite of what Hollywood would do. No CGI battles or A-list actors chewing scenery. Just raw, intimate storytelling that forces us to ask: Who gets to be the hero in our national origin story?
Why This Tiny Indie Film Matters More Than You Think
Let’s get the “facts” out of the way quickly. Lost Nation interweaves two Revolutionary-era narratives: Ethan Allen’s mythic Green Mountain Boys fighting New York landlords, and Lucy Terry Prince’s real-life struggle as the first known Black poet in America. Filmed in Western Massachusetts and Vermont, it’s touring small-town cinemas like a modern-day traveling minstrel show—94 sold-out screenings so far. But here’s what the press releases won’t tell you: This isn’t a film about history. It’s a film about ownership. Of land, of stories, of who gets to define freedom when the ink on the Declaration is still drying.
Ethan Allen’s story has been polished into a New England fairy tale—brave frontiersmen vs. evil landlords. Craven scratches at that gloss. What many forget: Allen’s militia weren’t just fighting the British. They were enforcing their own brand of land supremacy, often violently. The film’s real genius lies in juxtaposing this with Lucy Terry Prince’s journey. Here’s a woman who bought her freedom, then spent decades battling racist neighbors in court while composing the oldest surviving Black poem in the English language. Tell me that’s not the definition of revolutionary grit.
The Director Who Refuses to Play by Hollywood Rules
Jay Craven could’ve made this film in a dozen easier ways. He’s got the pedigree—decades of indie cred, a former professor at Marlboro College. Instead, he hauls cast and crew to rural Vermont, houses them on a shuttered campus, and hires 45 students to do everything from stitching costumes to editing footage. Why? Because he’s not just making a movie—he’s reviving the 18th-century concept of communal storytelling. I’ll say it: This is the cinematic equivalent of a barn raising. And in an era where streaming algorithms dictate what we watch, Craven’s grassroots tour feels like an act of rebellion.
A detail that fascinates me? The film’s musical score, composed by Juilliard-trained Mazz Swift, doesn’t just “evoke” the Revolution. It collides eras—Baroque violins meet modern dissonance. It’s jarring. Uncomfortable. Just like the history it’s soundtracking.
Lucy Terry Prince: The Unlikely Proto-Feminist Who Deserves Her Own Netflix Series
Let’s talk about casting. Eva Ndachi as Prince doesn’t just “play strong”—she embodies a woman who weaponized poetry and legal savvy against racists harassing her family. Her famous poem Bars Fight, detailing a 1746 Native American raid, survives because white historians barely deemed it worth preserving. Craven doesn’t soft-pedal this erasure. He makes you feel the weight of pages lost to time, the voices silenced by America’s original sins. And yet—Prince’s story isn’t taught in schools, while Ethan Allen’s statue stands in the Capitol. Hmm, wonder why?
What this really suggests is that Lost Nation isn’t just revisiting history. It’s indicting how we curate it. The film’s biggest risk? Asking audiences to care about conflicts that didn’t involve redcoats or Paul Revere’s ride. Land disputes in Vermont. Racist vandalism in Guilford. It’s the quiet, localized battles that shaped America’s soul—and they’re way more interesting than the Fourth of July parade version we’re fed.
The Hidden Bet Here Is About How We Consume History
Here’s the bet Craven’s making: That people crave nuance. That they’ll drive to Greenfield’s Garden Cinemas not for escapism, but to wrestle with contradictions—like how Allen’s fighters were both freedom fighters and land grabbers. That they’ll stay for a Q&A not to hear “behind-the-scenes” trivia, but to debate whether Vermont’s 1777 constitution truly abolished slavery (spoiler: it didn’t, not really). This film isn’t trying to entertain you. It’s trying to recruit you into a centuries-old argument about what “liberty” even means.
A broader question it raises: Why do we keep letting blockbuster budgets dictate historical truth? Imagine if Lin-Manuel Miranda teamed up with Craven—Hamilton meets indie grit. That’s the future of American storytelling: messy, collaborative, defiantly local.
Final Takeaway: Go. Then Argue About It Over Bourbon.
Lost Nation isn’t perfect—no film that shoots in 45 locations is. But its imperfections are the point. Like Lucy Prince’s lone surviving poem, it’s a fragment meant to provoke curiosity, not deliver answers. So buy a ticket. Sit next to the guy from Leyden who still remembers where they parked the film trucks. And when Craven asks what you thought of the ending, don’t say “I liked the costumes.” Ask him what he left out—and why. That’s where the real story begins.
