“This Story Serves as a Cautionary Tale”: Sam and Jason Pollard on Their Documentary ‘Ol’ Dirty Bastard: A Tale of 2 Dirties’

For so long, much about Russell Tyrone Jones, known to the world as Ol’ Dirty Bastard and Ason Unique by others, earned both public awe and unfortunate judgment. From the 1990s until his untimely death in 2004, he was a symbol of—and a living allegory for—the self-destructive celebrity in America. His life was marked by defiance against conventional fame, illustrated through stories of lifting Ford Mustangs off 4-year-old girls to bum-rushing Grammy award stages—a precursor to Kanye West’s later antics. ODB gave power to unorthodoxy in both his music and life, embodying a rebellion that resonated with many but often led to judgment.

When he died of a drug overdose in 2004, Jones left behind a legacy of groundbreaking lyricism. From the moment the world first heard ODB—on Wu-Tang’s debut single, 1992’s Protect Ya Neck, which later appeared on their seminal album Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers)—his impact was undeniable. 

The upcoming A&E documentary Ol’ Dirty Bastard: A Tale of 2 Dirties, premiering August 25, aims to delve into the complex truth of ODB, both as a man and a persona. Directed by Jason Pollard (Get Me Roger Stone) and Emmy-winning co-director Sam Pollard (MLK/FBI), the film explores the multifaceted aspects of his life, revealing that much more existed between his fame as a young Black man in the ’90s and the mental health crisis he faced. The documentary reflects on an artist more understood than he ever could have been—navigating addiction, growth, and the messiness in between. As a devoted father with a weakness for women, he stayed true to his family and the working class of Brooklyn. Documentary spoke with the Pollards on their approach to capturing ODB’s humanity balancing sensitivity with authenticity, and shedding light on the environmental difficulties that shaped his greatness and tragedy.


DOCUMENTARY: This is a question more directed at you Jason, but since you were more familiar with ODB, what do you remember feeling when you first heard his music?

Jason Pollard: There was a buzz in ’91 or ’92 when Wu-Tang Clan debuted. They were mysterious, as explored in the doc—just a group of random guys. Their origins were unclear, but their sound was striking. It was that sensation of hearing something new and feeling a jolt of emotion. I remember hearing Protect Ya Neck and feeling that jolt. It was incredible, and all the members were fantastic. But ODB—his voice, cadence, rhyme, style, and flow—really stood out. It was like, “All these guys are great MCs, but who is that guy?”

D: What did you want audiences like myself to take away from what you discovered, compared to what you initially thought of him?

Sam Pollard: Well, we all knew about the wild things he did, but we both wanted to go deeper and understand what made ODB tick. What were his musical and family influences? How was he as a father and a son? His style didn’t just come out of nowhere. What were the different ingredients that made up ODB? That’s what we wanted to communicate to the audience—that he wasn’t just a surface-level guy with a crazy persona and legal troubles; he was far deeper than most of us gave him credit for.

D: It takes vulnerability to be a part of a project like this. A subject may love ODB and would rather not speak of him in a flawed manner. How did you breach that tension?  

JP: Well, first, it was about establishing that we were fans and that we actually cared for the man. When asking questions we covered the wild things, but often, we dug deeper, ’Where did you first meet him?’ and so on. As you go through that back and forth with people, they see what you’re about. We’re not trying to make you look bad; we just want to understand him as a human being. That’s where the trust comes from. 

For example, one of the most surprising interviews was with Mariah Carey. Even though she and ODB had a great professional relationship, the way she talked about him personally was unexpected. There was a camaraderie and insight there, and she had a sense of their future as friends. 

D: We’re all a part of his media message ourselves. How did you handle the tension between showing his genuine struggles while avoiding sensationalizing them yourselves?

JP: I absorbed everything about him, and what I noticed was that they all led with the sensational and went nowhere else. They didn’t deviate. So I knew that, while I had to cover certain events, there had to be a way to quickly pivot off of that. For example, most people know about the issue of him getting food stamps in a limo if they were around during that time. So let’s tell that story, but add new insight, let’s ask ’How could he do it?’ Let’s have ODB speak for himself. In that way, you avoid the sensational.

SP: ODB’s manager Sophia Chang, who talks about him in a positive light, for example, showcases that balance. You need that. It provides textures and changes in rhythms which add balance. That’s the challenge I’ve had when dealing with a character like this, someone whose life is full of complications. You show something that people already know, then you balance it by focusing on the “why.” That’s essential in filmmaking. Otherwise, it’s one-dimensional. 

D: The film also tackles ODB’s struggles with mental health and the era’s neglect. Did this aspect resonate with you both, especially seeing that it’s an ongoing issue faced by Black men?

JP: Absolutely. Growing up as a middle-aged Black man, there’s a mentality where we’re told to tough it out—don’t show any emotion, don’t admit that you need help. We just push through because there’s this projection of Black masculinity, that nothing can affect us. It’s the John Henry mentality—work until we eventually die, with zero emotion involved. That’s where I can relate to what Russell was going through. He didn’t know where to ask for help, and people saw him in crisis who didn’t know how either. So he kept on going on until, unfortunately, it led to his untimely demise. It’s a cruel cycle and we can’t keep doing the same thing and I can relate to that. 

As RZA recalled saying before his death at his funeral, “He’s a grown man. He can do what he wants.” But he realized that it wasn’t sufficient enough to say, especially for a family member.

SP: I agree with Jason. We’ve been taught as Black men not to articulate the emotional issues we’ve been struggling with. It was important to acknowledge that we do struggle with these things when covering ODB, and that sometimes you need people to intervene, especially when you become a celebrity. We all know the pros and cons of that life, which, in this case, turned out devastating.

D: Sam, given your lesser history with ODB, do you feel that you need to have a personal connection to a subject to honor them well? 

SP: Eight years ago, I did a film about Frank Sinatra where I was a supervisor and producer. Now, I adore Sinatra. I consumed all his music and movies as a teen, so I was invested. When ODB’s family reached out to me, my reaction was, “Sure, I know who he was.” But I knew someone more invested and generationally appropriate—my son. He knows the era and music. When you’re connected to the subject, you’re going to bring it to another level.

JP: As soon as my dad mentioned ODB, I played Brooklyn Zoo and Shimmy Shimmy Ya. I felt it immediately. From the first few piano chords, I was in and ready to go. Then meeting Ghostface and the guys later, who I’ve listened to since ’92, was another thrill. I tried my best not to fan out [laughs], but I wanted to say, “Yo, I love you guys. You were instrumental in my teenage years.”

I will say, however, that the other great thing about documentary filmmaking is the unknown. Going through archives and learning about a person and presenting them in three dimensions. Whether it’s Rick James or Louis Armstrong, I end up with a mountain of information. 

D: I noticed special care shown in painting how the ’90s media environment also shaped ODB’s trajectory, given how Black men like us were far more boxed into certain narratives back then. 

JP: There was an image that came with ODB and the evolution of hip-hop. In the early ’90s, we were transitioning from the soul era of groups like A Tribe Called Quest into an era influenced by Dre, Snoop, and others from the West Coast. It was an interesting shift from the more soulful era to something grittier. 

When I first heard ODB, it was so much more grimy. Hip-hop has always been about the streets, but this was a different kind of street. Loud Records was a part of that movement, along with artists like Mobb Deep and others. As we moved into this tougher, gangster phase, there was an expectation for these artists to embody that persona and live up to that image. They couldn’t be seen as soft.

That perception lasted until Kanye West, who brought a new, more suburban perspective. In the ’90s, however, the focus was on something harder. This encouraged artists to engage in activities with negative consequences, including getting caught up in violent situations.

We see these destructive cycles recurring, and it’s something we need to be very conscious of. America hasn’t been concerned with our well-being and it’s been a case of Black bodies being exploited for profit. This story serves as a cautionary tale in that regard. How can we break that cycle? How do we get off that path? 

Moving forward, we must find answers to these questions so we don’t have any more stories like ODB’s. 

Noel Ransome is a Toronto-based culture writer and critic with bylines in VICE, Shondaland, Vanity Fair, Complex, and more. In addition to interviewing cultural icons like LeVar Burton, Barry Jenkins, and Danai Gurira, he served as the national entertainment reporter for the Canadian Press, Canada's equivalent of the Associated Press, regularly covering major events such as the Toronto Film Festival, the Grammys, and the Emmys.