Existing Next to Each Other: Monica Strømdahl Turns a 15-Year Photography Project Into ‘Flophouse America’

Shot over three years, Flophouse America is the unflinching debut feature by Norwegian photographer-turned-filmmaker Monica Strømdahl. Premiering in the DOX:AWARD competition at this year’s CPH:DOX and earning a Special Mention, the documentary offers an intimate, often harrowing portrait of Mikal, a boy growing up in a crumbling motel alongside his parents, Jason and Tonya, both trapped in cycles of addiction and poverty. Strømdahl’s camera captures their lives with quiet precision, making space for both the chaos of daily survival and the fleeting moments of tenderness that keep the family from collapsing entirely.

In her conversation with Documentary Magazine, Strømdahl reflects on the ethical challenges of filming such vulnerable subjects over an extended period, the responsibility she felt toward Mikal and his family, and how her background in photography shaped the film’s aesthetic. With Flophouse America, she not only delivers a powerful creative statement but also raises urgent questions about systemic neglect, resilience, and the role of the documentary filmmaker as both witness and storyteller. This interview has been edited.

DOCUMENTARY: How did you find your protagonists?

MONICA STRØMDAHL: It’s a long story that started in 2005. I was a photography student in search of a cheap place to stay in New York. I happened to move into a hotel where many people lived permanently. This hotel became a sort of introduction to overlooked communities, brought together by the need for a safe place to call “home” but with no chance of affording the traditional housing market. Many of these hotels are located quite centrally.

After my first stay at this hotel, I returned one year later and then, every year, I spent a few months there. I started taking photographs and, over time, getting to know the people living there really well. Some became my friends. In 2013, that hotel shut down due to the area’s gentrification process. Tenants were forced to leave against their will. They were left with a sense of loss and injustice. That sparked my interest in researching how the housing system works. I wanted to document this way of living.

I discovered that in every state, in every big city, there are more or less many hotels and motels where people live because they cannot access the housing market. It’s a situation they end up in thinking it’s temporary, but once you’re in, it’s really difficult to get out. Over the years, I discovered more and more people in need of affordable housing.

My method is always the same: I check into the hotel and live there for a week, have conversations with people who want to share their stories with me, and photograph them. During one of these journeys, I met Mikal. I met many children over the years who had been living in hotels and motels, but he was the first I met born into this condition. 

His reality raised big questions about what happens to children who are born surrounded by instability and addiction, and the generational trauma of poverty. What struck me was his inner strength—clever and very resilient, with an incredible way of navigating his life with his parents. I spent a few weeks with them. I took a photograph and realized it wasn’t enough to tell this story. I wanted to give them more room to speak, to show the complexity of their existence beyond the still image.

So my 15-year photography project turned into a film, and my intention was to make the audience aware of children like Mikal—beyond the figures, and showing them as full, complex human beings. Even though the movie is set in the U.S., inside one bedroom, his story is not one of a kind. Millions of children like him grow up this way worldwide. They need a strong support network, and society needs to build safety nets. I spoke to the family about shedding light on how it feels to be in their situation.

D: Did you talk a lot before filming?

MS: I definitely spent a lot of time with them. Time has always been a key aspect of my work, so we got to know each other as human beings first and foremost. We built trust over time. They felt seen and empowered by my presence. They thought their story was important.

They were also quite aware of what documentary is, what it means… The whole of American history has been documented through photography and film, so they have a deep respect for documentary. I didn’t plan to make a film when I first met them—it emerged as an organic process along the way. I took a portrait picture of Mikal and then I left. We remained in touch. Several months went by, and then we spoke about making a film together. I visited them again almost a year later. I always wanted to make sure they were fine with me being there. I didn’t want to be an extra concern in their everyday life.

D: Despite its title, the protagonists never refer to their home as a “flophouse,” and they seem to live in what looks like an old motel. Why did you choose this specific title for your film?

MS: Flophouse generally refers to having a roof over your head. In the old days, in the 1890s or so, they were usually places with multiple people living in the same room—something like a dormitory. It was a place where people, usually in the U.S. and traveling far from home for work and for a long period of time, just needed a safe place to stay. The cheapest place with minimum services, living together with people you had nothing in common with, but all needing a place to shelter and rest.

To me, the title, on a deeper level, reflects America’s drive toward a more individualistic, automatized society due to uncontrolled capitalism. So the title is a comment on that and on the possible consequences of prioritizing individual success over collective well-being—eroding the safety nets we’ve built together, for instance.

It’s a comment on the U.S. as an institution and as a society, where people are “collected” only because they need to exist next to each other, not necessarily with each other. My biggest concern is that this individualistic way of developing society will spread—the way we see each other and take care of each other.

D: How did your photography background influence the making—and the framing—of the film?

MS: I guess working for many years as a photographer taught me to be still, to wait. I’m very patient. I understand the value of time. I observe quietly when I photograph—that’s my preferred way of working. It’s all about understanding the people I’m photographing. And I always photograph with brain and heart—maybe mostly heart.

This is my first film, so I embarked on it as a photographer. I used the same camera. I worked alone. That was both because of the tiny space, but also because I’m used to working alone. And the family’s trust in me was personal—I tried to be as unobtrusive as possible.

I have to say, the difference for me that I had to learn was—of course—I’m used to waiting for the right, decisive moment when a picture tells the story. But in film, those moments are continuous. So I had to compose the frame all the time, but they’d move out of it, and I’d be in a dilemma—whether to follow them with the camera or sit and wait for them to return into frame. I aimed to remain as still as possible in order to stay as invisible as possible.

D: There are several hard-hitting moments throughout, particularly involving Mikal’s painful relationship with his parents. I imagine you faced the “to film or not to film” dilemma many times. How did you navigate that?

MS: I faced huge ethical questions throughout—when to film and when not to film—wondering whether this film should even exist. This is a question as old as documentary itself. I’m not the first or the last to wrestle with these dilemmas. They were major and continuously emerged during the project.

Again, time played a key role—being there, building trust, getting to know their rhythm, their humor, their body language, noticing patterns. Time wasn’t just essential to film, but also for me to ethically evaluate what was going on in the room, and understand if it was safe for them for me to be there.

I was never afraid of Mikal being in immediate danger, I must say. I was more concerned about the long-term effects of dealing with his parents’ behavior. That said, his parents always gave him room to express himself. I showed my footage to child psychologists, and they were very clear that Mikal wasn’t a “silenced child.” He was always allowed to be outspoken about his emotions, and his parents had trained him since he was young to feel free to express his feelings.

I witnessed countless arguments ending in dialogue and reconciliation—talking through what just happened. From the beginning, we had continuous consent. They knew they were empowered to ask me to stop filming, to leave, not to come on some days—or on some days, Mikal didn’t want to wear the microphone.

When I finished the work, I decided quite quickly that it was right to wait for Mikal to turn 18 and give his final approval, as an adult. Because this is a film about child neglect, the film has been “waiting” for a couple of years. We also managed to implement long-term therapy for Mikal and Jason, to help them process what they went through and work with someone external to the production.

In the end, I aimed to portray their pain—but also their love, care, and humor. And all of this is truly there. We had to make a film that was true to the facts, but also one they could live with for the rest of their lives.

D: How did you work on post-production?

MS: I don’t know how much footage I shot over three years. It was definitely quite a lot. We edited for about a year, but because we waited for approval, we kept making small changes and added the introduction with Mikal when he’s 17. It was his idea to read out the figures mentioned at the start of the film. He thought they had to be read—and we liked the idea.

D: How is he doing now?

MS: He’s doing very well, and I’m super proud of him. He completed high school with great grades. He’s continuously working to give himself and Jason a better life. He’s still young but he’s taken a good path.

Davide Abbatescianni is a film critic and journalist based in Rome. He works as an International Reporter for Cineuropa and regularly contributes to publications such as Variety, New Scientist, The New Arab, Business Doc Europe, and the Nordisk Film & TV Fond website. He also serves as a programmer for the Torino Film Festival, one of Italy’s largest cinematic gatherings.