And Now We Dance
On Sky Hopinka’s Powwow People
Beatrice Loayza
Powwow People
Director
SKY HOPINKA
Year
2025
Country USA
The modern powwow, a Native American celebration in which different tribes’ members gather to uphold tribal customs by performing traditional song and dance ceremonies, took shape in the early 20th century. The 1887 Dawes Act, among its many assaults on Native sovereignty, had aimed to weaken intertribal solidarity and speed up Native people’s assimilation into ‘American’ culture. But by the 1930s and 40s, these aggressive policies began to be partially rolled back at the same time that Native veterans of World War I and II returned home, their bonds with fellow servicemen stronger than ever. Seeing the opportunity to strengthen their communities, activists and tribal leaders became more proactive about organising events that asserted their traditions in new forms.
Today, over 1,000 competitive powwows are held around the United States and Canada every year. As in the professional rodeo or golf league, powwow dancers and musicians sometimes live their lives travelling the ‘powwow circuit’, with activity spiking during the warmer months. Most competitions are divided into four formalised categories—from the high energy ‘fancy’ dance to the women’s jingle-dress performances—yet every dancer shows off their own style. They interpret classic dance templates and build upon them, preserving and renewing them by their own movement. In other words, a powwow isn’t simply a restaging of old customs; it’s a living, breathing, evolving phenomenon—a testament to Native culture’s resilience.
This persistence through generations recalls the Chinookan origin of death myth at the centre of maɬni–towards the ocean, towards the shore (2020), the first feature-length documentary by the artist and filmmaker Sky Hopinka (Ho-Chunk Nation/Pechanga Band of Luiseño Indians). In this film, a nonlinear meditation on Native heritage through the lens of two young parents, death isn’t an end, according to the myth’s wisdom, but one part of an infinite cycle that includes birth and the afterlife. Next to the elliptical wanderings of maɬni, Hopinka’s second feature, Powwow People, appears to be a relatively straightforward observational documentary. In it, Hopinka trains his gaze on the happenings of a single powwow, which was shot over three days but edited down to appear like a continuous ceremony lasting one day and night. Though deceptively conventional in form, partaking in the powwow—as Hopinka invites us to do—is to reflect on the tradition’s historical trajectory, and to imagine its possibilities, as well. This convergence of past, present, and future is expressed by the film’s speakers, such as the late Freddie Cozad, a veteran singer and drummer who talks about his early powwow experiences in voiceover; and Jamie John, a young queer and non-binary dancer.
At the beginning of Powwow People, we hear the voice of the MC, Ruben Littlehead, before the first images appear on the screen. Littlehead is smooth, jovial; his is the kind of voice you can imagine presiding over television sports broadcasts, knowledgeable and nimble. As a non-Native viewer, there’s initially a bit of a friction between Littlehead’s brisk pronouncements and the seemingly archaic nature of the traditions on display. But as Hopinka takes us through various stages of the powwow, beginning with the Grand Entry, a procession of dancers and tribal leaders, Littlehead’s extended monologue brings these ancestral practices down to earth, as does the scrappy, communal atmosphere conjured by the film’s roving point-of-view. Besides, Hopinka isn’t concerned with educating non-Native audiences. They can keep up, he seems to suggest, the film proceeding from a place of confident familiarity where the Native perspective remains dominant. As such, when you hear mention of, for instance, ‘Cozad’ or ‘Black Lodge’, you might not immediately know that the MC is referring to the groups of singers and drummers providing the ceremony’s music. A bit of curiosity beyond the film, in this case, will lead you to discover that these bands are storied, award-winning fixtures of the Native cultural scene.
Hopinka grew up in the Pacific Northwest attending powwows with his family. Held in Seattle’s daybreak Star Indian Cultural Centre, the powwow we witness in Powwow People was, in fact, organised by Hopinka and his collaborators for the purposes of making the documentary. This constructed dimension is a comment on the fallacy of non-fiction filmmaking’s claim to truth, though by inserting himself into the film and foregrounding others’ involvement, Hopinka undermines the distinction between the staged and the authentic. There may be a few cameras on the ground, but the filmmaker is also meaningfully a part of this community, having organised several powwows in the 2000s. Many of the powwow’s participants are acquainted with his presence in the community, while the relatively small size of his crew (including cinematographer Shaandiin Tome and sound recordist Jacque Clark), and their familiarity with powwows, has allowed the production to merge quite naturally with its subjects. Littlehead acknowledges Hopinka’s presence within the first few minutes of the film (“put this song in the documentary, Sky, this is the one!”). Near the end, Hopinka is recognised during the awards ceremony and approaches Littlehead to receive his certificate, his shaky camera in hand.
Powwow People culminates in a kind of extended trance when Hopinka captures a Northern Traditional dance special in a single unbroken shot. You’re sucked into the performances—the men’s twitchy movements and springing legwork, their lush, elaborate regalia, the catlike howls of the singers and the relentless drumbeat. The context may be particular, Hopinka seems to say, but pay attention, surrender yourself to the moves, to the music, and the feeling will become timeless.
New York Times, the Criterion Collection, 4Columns, the New York Review of Books, Film Comment, the Nation, and other publications.
This text was commissioned by Open City Documentary Festival to accompany the screening of Powwow People at Barbican Cinema, 18 April 2026.
Today, over 1,000 competitive powwows are held around the United States and Canada every year. As in the professional rodeo or golf league, powwow dancers and musicians sometimes live their lives travelling the ‘powwow circuit’, with activity spiking during the warmer months. Most competitions are divided into four formalised categories—from the high energy ‘fancy’ dance to the women’s jingle-dress performances—yet every dancer shows off their own style. They interpret classic dance templates and build upon them, preserving and renewing them by their own movement. In other words, a powwow isn’t simply a restaging of old customs; it’s a living, breathing, evolving phenomenon—a testament to Native culture’s resilience.
This persistence through generations recalls the Chinookan origin of death myth at the centre of maɬni–towards the ocean, towards the shore (2020), the first feature-length documentary by the artist and filmmaker Sky Hopinka (Ho-Chunk Nation/Pechanga Band of Luiseño Indians). In this film, a nonlinear meditation on Native heritage through the lens of two young parents, death isn’t an end, according to the myth’s wisdom, but one part of an infinite cycle that includes birth and the afterlife. Next to the elliptical wanderings of maɬni, Hopinka’s second feature, Powwow People, appears to be a relatively straightforward observational documentary. In it, Hopinka trains his gaze on the happenings of a single powwow, which was shot over three days but edited down to appear like a continuous ceremony lasting one day and night. Though deceptively conventional in form, partaking in the powwow—as Hopinka invites us to do—is to reflect on the tradition’s historical trajectory, and to imagine its possibilities, as well. This convergence of past, present, and future is expressed by the film’s speakers, such as the late Freddie Cozad, a veteran singer and drummer who talks about his early powwow experiences in voiceover; and Jamie John, a young queer and non-binary dancer.
At the beginning of Powwow People, we hear the voice of the MC, Ruben Littlehead, before the first images appear on the screen. Littlehead is smooth, jovial; his is the kind of voice you can imagine presiding over television sports broadcasts, knowledgeable and nimble. As a non-Native viewer, there’s initially a bit of a friction between Littlehead’s brisk pronouncements and the seemingly archaic nature of the traditions on display. But as Hopinka takes us through various stages of the powwow, beginning with the Grand Entry, a procession of dancers and tribal leaders, Littlehead’s extended monologue brings these ancestral practices down to earth, as does the scrappy, communal atmosphere conjured by the film’s roving point-of-view. Besides, Hopinka isn’t concerned with educating non-Native audiences. They can keep up, he seems to suggest, the film proceeding from a place of confident familiarity where the Native perspective remains dominant. As such, when you hear mention of, for instance, ‘Cozad’ or ‘Black Lodge’, you might not immediately know that the MC is referring to the groups of singers and drummers providing the ceremony’s music. A bit of curiosity beyond the film, in this case, will lead you to discover that these bands are storied, award-winning fixtures of the Native cultural scene.
Hopinka grew up in the Pacific Northwest attending powwows with his family. Held in Seattle’s daybreak Star Indian Cultural Centre, the powwow we witness in Powwow People was, in fact, organised by Hopinka and his collaborators for the purposes of making the documentary. This constructed dimension is a comment on the fallacy of non-fiction filmmaking’s claim to truth, though by inserting himself into the film and foregrounding others’ involvement, Hopinka undermines the distinction between the staged and the authentic. There may be a few cameras on the ground, but the filmmaker is also meaningfully a part of this community, having organised several powwows in the 2000s. Many of the powwow’s participants are acquainted with his presence in the community, while the relatively small size of his crew (including cinematographer Shaandiin Tome and sound recordist Jacque Clark), and their familiarity with powwows, has allowed the production to merge quite naturally with its subjects. Littlehead acknowledges Hopinka’s presence within the first few minutes of the film (“put this song in the documentary, Sky, this is the one!”). Near the end, Hopinka is recognised during the awards ceremony and approaches Littlehead to receive his certificate, his shaky camera in hand.
Powwow People culminates in a kind of extended trance when Hopinka captures a Northern Traditional dance special in a single unbroken shot. You’re sucked into the performances—the men’s twitchy movements and springing legwork, their lush, elaborate regalia, the catlike howls of the singers and the relentless drumbeat. The context may be particular, Hopinka seems to say, but pay attention, surrender yourself to the moves, to the music, and the feeling will become timeless.
New York Times, the Criterion Collection, 4Columns, the New York Review of Books, Film Comment, the Nation, and other publications.
This text was commissioned by Open City Documentary Festival to accompany the screening of Powwow People at Barbican Cinema, 18 April 2026.