Flophouse America unfolds over three years inside one cramped motel room, where 12-year-old Mikal lives with his parents, Tonya and Jason. Strømdahl’s background in photography surfaces in every frame, she moves with restraint, foregrounding quiet moments of resilience amid the chaos of addiction and poverty. The camera is rarely obtrusive; at times nearly invisible, it observes the rituals of survival: shared breakfasts, schoolwork done on whatever surface is available, arguments muffled by drink, lullabies swallowed by insomnia.
The flophouse itself becomes a character: walls tight, corridors thin, light dimmed. Within its limits, Mikal’s world swings between tenderness and neglect: glimpses of joy when his father cooks a good meal, when they play a card game, or when Mikal, in his determination, recites poetry to camera, speaking truths he can’t quite walk away from. Strømdahl doesn’t gloss over the ugliness, broken bottles, harsh words, desperate apologies, but she also does not let it define the family. The juxtaposition of the everyday and the extreme, of gestures of care and lapses of despair, pushes the viewer to hold both with equal weight.
