Inside a Broken Community - Dan Howlett on Prophet Town and the Aftermath of Absolute Power

For nearly a century, the isolated community of Short Creek—straddling the border of Utah and Arizona—has existed under the shadow of prophecy, polygamy, and control. In Prophet Town, filmmaker Dan Howlett turns his lens toward what he describes as the “full and final chapter” of the story surrounding Warren Jeffs, the disgraced leader of the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (FLDS), whose reign left thousands psychologically scarred.

But rather than retelling the already well-documented crimes, Prophet Town shifts its focus to what comes after. The film follows the fractured community as it attempts to rebuild itself—most notably through the town’s first democratic election, led by Donia, a woman determined to challenge the deeply entrenched structures of power and misogyny. At the same time, Howlett offers rare access to those who remain loyal to Jeffs, creating a portrait of a community divided between past and future, belief and resistance.

Developed over years of immersive production, the film stands out for its refusal to simplify its subjects. It earned both the Best Feature Documentary and Audience Award at Doc.London, marking it as one of the most compelling documentary works to emerge from this complex and often misunderstood story.

For Final Cut Magazine, Howlett reflects on navigating a deeply divided community, the ethics of representation, and why documentary filmmaking may be more essential than ever.

Dan, Prophet Town feels like it’s not just about exposing a story, but about understanding a community from within. What initially drew you to this subject?

We started this film back in 2017, and we’ve been involved ever since. It’s been difficult, but it’s almost felt like a university education for myself and the DP Ruaridh Connellan. We’ve had to manage every single aspect of the production, and that’s an opportunity you don’t normally get.

It started as a film, then we signed with a bigger company who wanted to make it into a doc series. But ultimately, when all that was done, we went back to basics and made it as a film.

The core team—myself, Ruaridh Connellan, and Mike Brown, the editor—made the film on an equity split agreement. It was the only way we could get it made, and I think it could be a good model for filmmakers out there. If you have a great story, find people who complement your skills and just start making something together.

You made the decision to portray both sides of a very divided community. How difficult was it to gain that level of access and trust?

We had lots of challenges in making this. The main one was access. We were filming on two sides of an incredibly divided community, and both sides had a natural distrust of each other. They were also concerned about how the other side would be portrayed.

I feel like we did a good job walking the tightrope between the two and giving them both a fair opportunity to tell their story, but it was definitely challenging.

It was also an incredibly emotionally charged environment. On both sides, people have been through very tough experiences. Everyone in that community has been psychologically affected in one way or another, so many of the interviews were intense and took their toll on everyone involved.

The film avoids sensationalism, even when dealing with such extreme subject matter. Why was that important for you?

I feel incredibly privileged to be able to tell this story, and I wanted to portray everyone involved—including the current followers of Warren Jeffs—as three-dimensional, intelligent people.

I’ve never seen them as mindless or unthinking members of a cult, which is often how they’re represented in the media. They were sold a promise—if they trusted the church, their basic needs would be met, and they could focus on spirituality and family.

It was a system that worked when leadership had goodwill, but it also made them vulnerable to someone like Jeffs. When he took control, he used that trust to manipulate and ultimately destroy lives.

My hope is that viewers will see that this could happen to anyone under similar circumstances. It’s a kind of parable about what happens when too much power is concentrated in one person.

Looking back, what aspect of the film are you most proud of?

I’m proud that we were able to finish it.

Like any film, there were a lot of ups and downs. We had no money when we started—we just went out and began filming. Things developed over time, and eventually we brought in a very talented editor, Mike Brown, who believed in the project enough to see it through with us.

It’s truly a cooperative effort, and we’ve worked very hard to get it to where it is today.

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Your background is in journalism. Was there a specific moment that made you fully commit to filmmaking?

I was a journalist for many years before moving into short documentaries. I always thought I might go back to writing eventually.

But then I found myself in the Appalachian mountains filming with a snake-handling pastor and his family. They gave us incredible access. During one service, the pastor was bitten—it was a very intense moment. Thankfully, he survived.

I remember thinking: how could I ever write this up and do it justice? That’s when I knew I wanted to focus exclusively on filmmaking.

You’re currently developing new projects. Are you continuing to explore similar themes?

I’m working on two projects at the moment that I can’t say too much about.

One looks at the real-world effects of the so-called online “manosphere,” focusing on teachers and frontline services dealing with the consequences.

The other is about power structures protecting a powerful sexual abuser—a British MP who was a known prolific paedophile for many years.

Prophet Town has already found success at festivals. What role do festivals play in the life of a documentary?

Film festivals are incredibly important. They provide exposure, but they also give you a chance to test your film on an audience that isn’t just your core team or friends and family.

They’re also great networking opportunities. Ultimately, we’re all trying to do the same difficult thing, so it’s nice to share some camaraderie before getting back to the grind.

What advice would you give filmmakers approaching the festival circuit?

Target your film properly. Look at what films a festival has shown before and see if your work fits within that context.

Location also matters. If your film is set in a particular place, festivals in that region might be more inclined to program it. The same goes for talent—local connections can help.

How do you see the future of documentary filmmaking?

I’m optimistic about documentary film. It’s the most authentic way to see the world through a lens, and as AI-generated content becomes more common, I think audiences will increasingly crave authenticity.

It’s also becoming easier to film things. There are millions of untold stories out there, and whether they emerge as features, shorts, or even phone footage, I think there’s going to be a huge appetite for them.

Are there filmmakers who have influenced your approach?

There are many, but I really admire Alex Gibney. He has an incredible ability to take complex worlds and turn them into compelling, character-driven narratives. He’s also done a lot to bring documentary filmmaking into the mainstream.

Is there a recent documentary that stood out to you?

I really liked Born Poor on PBS. That kind of long-form storytelling—where you revisit subjects over years—is incredibly powerful.

It reminds me of the Up Series, where filmmakers followed the same individuals over decades. It feels like real documentary journalism and allows complex issues like child poverty to be explored properly. I’m looking forward to the next instalment.

Final Cut: Why Prophet Town Matters

Watching Prophet Town, I was struck not by the scale of the crimes it references, but by the human complexity it insists on preserving. In a media landscape that often reduces stories like this to headlines and villains, Dan Howlett’s film takes the harder route—it asks us to look closer, longer, and with more empathy than we might expect.

What makes the film so vital within independent cinema is its refusal to simplify. It doesn’t offer easy moral clarity or a neatly packaged narrative of good versus evil. Instead, it reveals how systems of belief, power, and community can entangle ordinary people in extraordinary ways.

In many ways, Prophet Town feels like a warning—but also a testament to resilience. It shows how deeply people can be shaped by ideology, and yet how change remains possible, even after decades of control.

At a time when truth itself often feels contested, films like this remind me why documentary cinema matters. Not as spectacle, not as sensationalism, but as a tool for understanding. And in that sense, Prophet Town doesn’t just tell a story—it demands that we confront the uncomfortable reality that such stories are never as distant as we might like to believe.