'The Holly': A film about Denver's anti-gang efforts that some don't want you to see | John Moore

Denver native Julian Rubinstein has spent the past eight years making a documentary that many of the most powerful people in Denver do not want to see – and do not want you to see.

Which means it is a film that all of us really should see. If only to have an informed opinion about it.

“The Holly,” first a nonfiction book and now a documentary that premieres next week at a film festival in Telluride, takes an unsparing look at controversial and largely unsuccessful anti-gang efforts in a two-block section of the Park Hill neighborhood known as Holly Square, a former shopping center that was firebombed in 2008 and redeveloped as a community center that has since become a pawn for competing political interests.

It’s based on Rubinstein’s widely praised and yet highly controversial  book, “The Holly: Five Bullets, One Gun and the Struggle to Save an American Neighborhood,” both a New York Times Editor's Choice and a finalist for best nonfiction book at next month’s Colorado Book Awards. Given the upset the book has caused everyone from Park Hill residents to the highest echelons of local government, the new documentary has all the makings of becoming Denver’s very own “Bonfire of the Vanities.”

For real. While taking a question after an advance screening of the movie on Thursday, Rubinstein became briefly distracted by the sight of a young man standing just outside the doors of the Sie Film Center. When asked what that was about, he said: “I have had to leave town for several months for my own safety – twice,” due to perceived threats from opponents of his book. Here at the culmination of eight years of work, when any other filmmaker would be in his glory … Rubinstein is looking over his shoulder.

His film, which essentially covers the last third of the book, is framed around the story of one shooting. And Rubinstein is presenting it as a much larger and more universal story of gentrification, income inequality, race, gun violence, police misconduct and corruption found in just about every inner city in America.

On Sept. 20, 2013, a former Bloods gang member named Terrance Roberts was nine years into his second life after prison as an anti-gang activist. “ShowBizz,” as he is known, was the founder of Prodigal Son, which worked to get kids out of gangs. Roberts had opened a youth center atop the ruins of the Holly Square shopping center, built two basketball courts and started a jobs program for teens. On that night, Roberts was set to lead a peace rally to celebrate the upcoming opening of a new Boys and Girls Club at the site. But tensions with his former gang were running high. Twice that same day, Bloods had taunted Roberts with false charges of being a police snitch – which is, in effect, a death sentence. Roberts went to his car and retrieved his 9mm pistol, later saying he feared for his safety.

Just 10 minutes before the rally was to begin, with a dozen Bloods milling around, Roberts was confronted by 22-year-old Hasan “Munch” Jones – a second-generation Blood he had once mentored; even taking him to his first Denver Nuggets game. After a brief confrontation,  Roberts pulled out his gun and shot five times at close range. Jones lived but was paralyzed. A day intended to celebrate a new way forward ended as so many others had ended before – in bloodshed.

Only two people truly know Roberts’ intent as he fired at Jones, and the one on the receiving end refused to testify at the trial of the man who shot him.

On the surface, there seems to be only two ways this went down: Either Roberts was acting in legal self-defense, or he was proactively eliminating a rival. But neither option was exactly clean. On the one hand, why would Roberts shoot someone in broad daylight at his own peace rally intended to unite local gangs? With dozens of people gathered, including State Sen. Mike Johnston? And all within the watchful eye of a police surveillance camera?  

On the other hand: One or two shots sounds like self-defense. Five sounds like attempted murder.

Roberts faced 100 years in jail if convicted. The trial was given gavel-to-gavel coverage in the local media. And Rubinstein thinks they never asked the most important question:

If Jones was acting on orders to eliminate Roberts … then who ordered the hit? And, more to the point: Who are they connected to?

“I think this film and the book raise significant concern that Terrance Roberts was attacked by police informants who are also active gang members,” Rubinstein said. “I wrote that in my book that came out a year ago, and it has never been reported anywhere. Maybe with the movie, now it will.”  

Which, Rubinstein said, begs the biggest question: Should active gang members be allowed to work for law-enforcement agencies running anti-gang programs backed by millions in city and federal funding?

All of those questions are troubling, inflammatory ... and reason enough to see the film, says the intentionally lower-cased donnie l. betts, an award-winning Denver filmmaker and a producer of “The Holly,” which will be released after it makes its way on the film-festival circuit.

“I am going to quote the Rev. Terrance Hughes when I say: The system protects the system,” said betts. “That’s what this movie is about: How people in power close ranks when they are threatened.”

Roberts was found not guilty, in large part because Jones would not testify, lest he be seen in any way as cooperating with authorities. But when Roberts began making a lot of noise about then-Denver District Attorney Mitch Morrissey and other politicos on Facebook, he was soon pushed aside in favor of the Rev. Leon Kelly, who had founded the oldest anti-gang program in Denver back in 1988, and had a much cozier relationship with Denver police.

“Let’s face it: Terrance is a divisive person,” Rubinstein said. “He was calling out a lot of powerful, wealthy, connected and even dangerous people. So he had to go.”

Much of the backlash Rubinstein has gotten for his book has come from those who believe there is a far more positive story to be told of Park Hill than its 50 years of gang violence. But I’m guessing most residents of Baltimore had the same response to HBO’s “The Wire,” which didn’t stop it from becoming one of the most acclaimed series in TV history. “The Wire” and “Diner” tell distinct, authentic stories of Baltimore. And neither should be taken as the singular story of that city any more than "The Holly" or ”Dynasty” should be considered the definitive story of Denver. 

One thing betts knows from experience: “If you make a film, you are going to get criticism,” he said. “That comes with the territory. People will always want to see something else. But this is the story that Julian wanted to tell. If you want to make that other film, then by all means: Go out and make that other film.”

While it will be impossible for anyone with a personal stake in this story to be objective about the artistic merit of the film, it’s a safe bet it will be more fully embraced by audiences the farther they are from Denver. Because it’s inarguably good storytelling.

From a purely artistic point of view, this is the rare documentary that has all the elements one looks for from a scripted film, starting with a compelling and complex antihero worthy of Shakespeare. Roberts is a maverick with a huge ego and delusional aspirations. (He is actually running for Denver Mayor right now.) The plot takes wildly unexpected twists and turns, all building up to a climactic courtroom verdict. One that is, by the way, wholly unexpected here because almost everyone thought Roberts was going down for life – including Roberts.

“Terrance wore his high-tops to the verdict reading because he didn’t want to be wearing dress shoes in the jailyard afterward,” Rubinstein said.

And yet the verdict is also devastatingly anticlimactic. Because no matter whether you are rooting for or against Roberts by the end, you are left with the inescapable conclusion that nothing here changes the ongoing problem of gang violence, which, depending on who you believe, is only getting worse. Last year was Denver's deadliest for homicides since 1981 – although the Denver Police Department considers only four of those 96 deaths to have been gang-related. (About which, Rubinstein says simply: “That data is being misrepresented.”)

Only one thing is certain: Nothing is going to change if we aren’t willing to rip off the Band-Aid and take a good, hard look at the wound.

“This is a story that needs to be told,” betts said. “If we want to find a solution, then we have to be willing to look within. And when you do that, what you see is not always rosy. A lot of times, it’s painful. But we can’t be afraid to look at our flaws and our failures.”

It’s clear that “The Holly,” which has the added credibility of being fiscally sponsored by Denver Film, has a future beyond a book and a documentary. There’s likely only one reason Adam McKay and Denver’s David Sirota (the team behind the streaming smash “Don’t Look Up”) signed on as executive producers of “The Holly,” and that’s because they see the potential for the story to be developed into a dramatic film or streaming miniseries.

“The book is teed up to be a 10-part limited series,” Rubinstein said.

Some Denverites will love that, and others will hate it. In the meantime, one thing is for sure: You can’t have a credible opinion about the film … unless you see the film.