A Second Movement
or, what I'm currently working on
Over the past 20 years as a documentary filmmaker (and non-fiction “brand” storyteller), I’ve had the chance to meet some remarkable people. One of the most rewarding parts of the job is getting to know someone on the other side of the camera—to help them feel at ease and, as my friend Ethan likes to say, “midwife them into eloquence.”
Sometimes, that connection is hard-won. People resist the process, or they’re simply prickly—or, in a few painful cases, so arrogant it’s a special kind of slow torture. But every once in a while—extremely rarely—it feels like catching up with an old friend.
That’s how it felt the first time I met baroque violinist Christina Day Martinson.
It was the summer of 2020, and I’d been asked to interview her for her ensemble’s upcoming digital season—one of the many ways artists were adapting to a world without live performances during COVID. Christina was something of a rockstar in the world of early music—the only baroque violinist ever nominated for a GRAMMY® in the Best Classical Instrumental Solo category—and I was curious to hear what drives her.
In two decades of “conversations with strangers,” over hundreds of interviews and thousands of hours of dialogue, I don’t think I’ve ever experienced such an immediate connection. It felt like I’d known her for years. When we wrapped, I had the sense there was something more—layers that hadn’t yet been peeled back.
That’s what I’ve always loved about this work: witnessing the quiet ways people reveal themselves to be extraordinary. I told our mutual friend, Jennifer Ritvo-Hughes, that I felt strongly Christina had a deeper story to tell—and that I wanted to help her share it.
The idea resurfaced when in 2023, I was invited to potentially join Christina on tour in Prague. It felt like a natural next step—an opportunity to expand on that early spark with a day-in-the-life portrait of a musical artist. Jennifer and I began exploring what the project could become, and how to shape it into something more.
The tour was still a ways off, but I was eager to reconnect with Christina—to see if she was open to the idea, and whether the quiet resonance I felt in that first meeting could grow into something deeper. At the very least, we needed another interview—and I needed a better sense of the visual language and building blocks that could support a longer film. (Not to mention: funding, with long-time friend and executive producer Ryan Alexander supporting the film in such a critical way.)
Three years after that first conversation, we finally sat down for what was essentially a proof-of-concept: a full day of interviews and b-roll at Christina’s home. It did not disappoint.
That long day of filming confirmed what I had sensed for awhile—there was something more here, something well-worth pursuing.
But it wasn’t just the connection, or even the quality of the footage we were getting. What gave the story legs—what transformed it from a portrait into a film—was what Christina began to share with us that day.
She spoke, almost offhandedly, about wanting to perform Bach’s Chaconne before she dies (followed by a compelling music history lesson on why that piece is so remarkable, and so hard to play). She opened up about difficult parts of her childhood she’d never spoken about publicly. She was honest, funny, approachable, humble, and vulnerable. What GRAMMY nominated musician is keen to let you film them practicing really difficult music?! (ok, maybe not keen, but she was at least willing!)
And a couple days later she sent me a text from her brother revealing a cache of archival 8mm footage—home videos, photographs, and fragments of a family story I never expected.
That combination—the vulnerability, the music, the memories—was the moment the project shifted. Pair that with cinematic locations, and we’re off to the races with something special.
A month later, co-producer Dan Ludden and I were in Prague with local producers Patrick Kirschner (also a former student of mine at Emerson College) and Filip Volenec scouting locations and working out the intense logistics of a complicated co-production between our crew and theirs. I’ve written about that special trip and moment here.
A Second Movement, at its core, is a film about music and the arts’ ability not just to move hearts and minds, but to transform and heal the human spirit.
Narratively, it unfolds as a kind of day-in-the-life portrait of a gifted artist. The viewer follows Christina through many layers of her world: at home as a mother of three, reconnecting with an important teacher and close musician friends in Amsterdam, on tour in the Czech Republic, performing and recording in abandoned monasteries, medieval castles, and 17th-century palaces, and then back to the Berkshires, where she retreats to rest and reset before the next season.
But the film also goes deeper. It begins to peel back memories of childhood—some joyful, others, quite frankly, traumatic. In those moments, the film becomes a quiet investigation: how do early wounds shape a person’s voice, their sense of self, their capacity to create? What does healing look like—not in theory, but in practice?
Visually, the film weaves together several layers of storytelling: intimate observational footage, sit-down interviews, and rich, cinematic b-roll that captures both the quiet rhythms and grand gestures of Christina’s world. Live performance footage is intercut with archival material—from television appearances to personal, found footage from her childhood—adding texture and memory to the narrative.
We’ve also incorporated hand-drawn animation as a kind of liminal third space within the film, allowing us to explore more abstract or emotionally difficult terrain in a way that feels lyrical, internal, and honest.
I can’t exactly pinpoint when it happened. It wasn’t like a switch flipped—more like impressions, emotional whispers, echoes. But not long after our time in Amsterdam, and certainly during our shoot in the Czech Republic, I began to reflect—deeply—on my own childhood.
It was nothing like Christina’s, and yet, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the 10-year-old version of me was somehow reaching out to the 10-year-old version of her. A kind of “we’ll get through this” message, sent across time and space. As we’ve continued to work on the film, I found myself experiencing big feelings, revisiting old, life-shaping events, and confronting hard questions I hadn’t asked in years. Mostly out of fear.
In my case, it wasn’t familial trauma. It was something quieter but no less corrosive: years of early childhood harassment and bullying that were internalized and stored away—mostly unexamined. I’d convinced myself I’d moved on. But sitting with Christina’s story, as it unfolded through footage, conversations, and the early edit, began to stir something in me. I found myself asking: Why is this resurfacing now? Why am I dredging up 35-year-old memories that I thought were long buried?
Without giving too much away—as some of this will find its way into the film—what I began to realize was how deeply that little boy had felt abandoned, worthless, and intensely alone. I have an 8-year-old now. If I ever learned that he—or any of my children—felt about themselves the way I did at that age, it would completely devastate me.
For months, I carried that growing awareness quietly. And then, more and more, I felt the need to share it—with my therapist, with my partner Felicity, with Christina, with Jennifer, and with our core creative team. What began as a portrait of one artist was shifting. It was becoming something else. A duet? A meditation on friendship, healing, and the lifelong imprint of early wounds.
The film started inspiring me—inviting me, really—to examine how my own past shaped my voice, my path as an artist, and the way I move through the world, and what wake I might leave behind whether I mean to or not. That sounds overly earnest, but I don’t have a better way to put it. I wasn’t setting out to make a personal film. That’s never been part of my practice, though I deeply admire when other filmmakers do it well. But over time, it became clear that making A Second Movement was, itself, part of a healing process I didn’t know I needed.
As the story evolved, so did the language around it. With care—and not a little hesitation—I started to weave in this shift into the way we talked about the project, in pitch decks, on the website. Because while this is still very much a film about Christina—an extraordinary artist and human being—it’s also a film about the quiet, often unseen work of transformation. Of how we grow, change, and heal, even in midlife. Maybe especially in midlife.
A few weeks ago, I was talking with Brian McCreath, a producer and director at GBH Music, about the evolving shape of the film. I told him there was a subtext we were still trying to articulate—something tender and difficult to name. Crude as it may sound, I said, “essentially, everyone is a little bit broken.” That’s when Brian shared a story that helped crystallize the film’s main theme for me.
He told me about a letter Beethoven wrote to his brothers, already feeling isolated and increasingly demoralized by his growing deafness. In the letter, he mourns the loss of simple joys: the sound of a flute in the distance, a shepherd singing to his flock, the warmth of conversation with friends. He even gives instructions for his belongings, as if preparing to leave the world. Then, in a moment of stunning vulnerability, he writes:
“I would have put an end to my life—only Art it was that withheld me, ah it seemed impossible to leave the world until I had produced all that I felt called upon me to produce.”
He was 28 years old. He never sent the letter. At that point in his life, most of his greatest works were still ahead of him (including 8 of 9 symphonies!).
I can’t imagine a better thesis for this film—one that quietly pushes back against the stereotype of the tortured artist, a narrative that had a profound impact on Christina’s own childhood. More importantly, it suggests that art—and music in particular—doesn’t simply emerge from pain; it can be a way through it. A means of survival. A path to healing. Not just in the listening, but also in the making.
Of course, telling this part of the story doesn’t just affect me. There’s a ripple that reaches my family—my children, my partner, my siblings, and parents. It touches Christina and her family. There’s an undeniable weight to that. Some of what I’ll be sharing, even in fragments, has lived silently in the background of my life for decades. And now, to make even pieces of it public—especially through the language of film—feels like stepping into unknown terrain. I’ve wrestled with what’s appropriate to reveal, what’s necessary, and what’s too sacred. That will be an ongoing tight ropewalk.
But I also believe in the power of storytelling to make space—for others, for myself, and hopefully, for conversation that doesn’t often happen out loud.
While I may have missed Mental Health Awareness Month postings, partly because I’ve been quietly sitting with how to make this part of the story more public, I’ll say this much now: I’m deeply grateful—to Christina, to our creative team, to my partner Felicity, and to all the people in my life who make it one worth living.
In the beginning, I wrote about what it means to help someone feel seen—to midwife them into eloquence. I’ve spent much of my career helping others tell their stories. I didn’t expect, in sharing Christina’s, that I’d begin to uncover my own. But maybe that’s what real connection does: it invites us to go deeper. To listen more closely. To speak more honestly. And if we’re lucky, to heal—together.
In the end, it’s been music that sent me on this journey of a lifetime—a personal path that’s taken me across continents and into the underexplored terrain of the mind and heart. What I found there wasn’t easy, and still feels fragile. I’m sifting through things I thought I’d buried long ago. But somewhere down in that quiet void, I found that innocent little boy again. Awake, but barely.
Through this film, through this process, I’m working to bring him back up to the surface, and back home—for good.
(We have so much work ahead of us still, please follow along, and if you’re feeling inspired, you can support our efforts via our fiscal sponsor Newton Baroque)