When we first contacted Margaret, she did not respond for three weeks. This was not unusual — she had, by that point, deleted most of her accounts and was checking email only twice a week from a library terminal. When she did respond, her message was two sentences: I am not sure I want to be in a film. But I am willing to talk.
We talked for four hours on the phone. At the end of the call, she agreed to let us visit. We flew to Montana in February.
What we found was not what we expected. We had anticipated someone defined by fear — a person who had retreated from the world. Margaret is not that. She is methodical, precise, and, in her own way, deeply engaged with the world. She reads more than anyone we have ever met. She has opinions about everything. She is funny.
What she has done — the systematic erasure of her digital footprint — is not a retreat. It is, she would say, a reclamation. She is not hiding. She is refusing to be a product.
Filming her was a privilege. She was patient with us in ways we did not deserve. She let us into her home, her routines, her thinking. She pushed back when she thought we were getting something wrong, which was often.
We hope the film does justice to her. We think it does. But she has not seen it yet.