Miriam was losing hope. She had found an old undeveloped roll of film in a forgotten camera in a corner of her mother Goldie’s apartment in Brooklyn, N.Y., after the 92-year-old passed away. Her father Sigi had predeceased her mom. Sigi was a Holocaust survivor, a Polish Jew, who came to New York after the war, met an American girl and they made a life together.

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Sex, crimes and rock 'n' roll: How a business in small-town Saskatchewan is unlocking lost history Back to video

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Now, they were both gone, and their daughter had nothing left to hold on to apart from her memories, and a film roll that was driving her halfway around the bend with curiosity.

“It became really important for me to know what was on that film,” said Miriam, who lives in Staten Island, and out of shyness requested that only her first name be used.

She embarked on a determined yet fruitless search around New York to find a photography shop, pharmacy or big-box store to develop the film. But not a soul knew a thing about processing Kodacolor II film in a 126-cartridge format — and with good reason. Eastman Kodak Co. discontinued Kodacolor II in 1983.

Outside hardcore shutterbugs, everyone else has long since ceased taking pictures with old-fashioned cameras using film that requires actual processing, let alone film that is 40 years past its best-before date.

But Miriam did not quit, and an internet search led her to Film Rescue International, a small company in the small town of Indian Head, Sask., population 1,900, give or take. There was a 1-800 phone number on the company’s website. Miriam dialled it with no real expectation of getting an answer, but a friendly-sounding voice picked up.

“I like to say we open time capsules for a living,” said Greg Miller, company co-founder and a frequent fielder of random phone calls from folks in far-flung places keen to unlock a potential family treasure.

Global reach

It is delicate work, and Miriam isn’t the only one to have called. Film Rescue has a global reach — and reputation — with a collection office in the Netherlands and another in northern Montana. Every few weeks, a batch of 200 to 400 rolls of old camera and home movie film appears at the Indian Head office, which is housed in a 125-year-old bank building on the main highway through town.

Most of the film comes from average Joes and Miriams, some from as far away as Australia. But also in the mix are those who require Miller to sign non-disclosure agreements so he can’t, say, go gossiping to the locals about what was on the film he handled for former Beatle George Harrison’s estate. Other notable customers include film director Francis Ford Coppola, Alaska’s coroner’s office, Smithsonian Institute, Royal Canadian Mounted Police and the sister of actress Sharon Tate, who was among serial killer Charles Manson’s victims.

“At least once a month, we get something that blows our minds,” Miller said. “What we give people becomes a new memory for them, and it is often the last new memory they will have of someone who is deceased.”

Becoming a memory rescuer would seem an unlikely career for anyone, let alone Miller. In his formative years, the 59-year-old dreamed of becoming a rock star. Upon graduating high school, he set out from his parents’ farm in Alberta to make it big in Toronto. Fame proved elusive, although he did play in a punk rock band called the Monsters. He recalls this period of his early 1980s’ life as being full of music and almost completely devoid of sex.

“We were never cool,” he said with a laugh.

Nor were the punkers rich. To pay the bills, Miller worked in a film processing lab, and he eventually bought the business for $5,000. Included in the sale was a stash of hard-to-obtain film processing chemicals key to developing movie rolls. His lab soon became a mecca for television commercial makers and others keen to create a retro look for their projects.

Business was great, but working on same-day turnarounds jobs wasn’t so good. The stressors were many. Besides, what Miller enjoyed most was working with old camera film, and so after 17 years of toughing it out in the big city, he and his partner Tracey Gostick sold their Toronto home and moved back to the Prairies in 1999 to be closer to his parents.

Kodak moment

They bought the old bank building in Indian Head for $65,000, and shortly thereafter founded Film Rescue, which they envisioned would be like semi-retirement with few demands, which it was, until Miller’s phone rang one day, circa 2000, while he was wandering around a mall in Regina. It was Kodak customer service. The company understood Miller had a growing reputation for developing old film and Kodak wanted to add Film Rescue to its customer referral list.

Business has been booming ever since.

“We went from getting two or three calls a week to 12-15 calls a day,” Miller said.

The film rescuers consist of Miller, Gostick and five employees. They all set their own hours, and there are no “assholes,” on the payroll, according to the boss — who dislikes being referred to as the boss. It’s a specific type of work and it attracts a unique kind of individual. Chiefly, one who is fascinated by old things, and willing to live in a small town in a province that a good chunk of the customers would struggle to locate on a map.

One employee, Gerald Freyer, is a European-trained digitization expert. He was beavering away for a German museum when Miller recruited him to move to the Prairies. His latest star acquisition is Heather Harkins, who trained at the renowned Selznick School of Film Preservation in Rochester, N.Y., and was doing contract work for museums and archives throughout North America when she got a cold-call job offer.

“Greg was like, ‘Hi, do you want to move to Saskatchewan and work for me?’” she recalled.

Harkins was non-committal at first, mostly because she wanted to confirm that Miller was a real person, not some Nigerian prince.

“Living on the Prairies lets me do this fascinating job working with incredibly rare images,” she said. “When packages arrive at the office, it’s like Christmas morning opening them to discover what’s inside, and then there’s no predicting what we’ll find on each roll or reel of film.”

‘Lot of nudity’

There are some common themes that do pop up, including nudity. If you have ever wondered why your dear, old, departed father didn’t get that hidden roll of film developed, it may be because it shows him and your dearly departed mother in the buff on their honeymoon.

“We get a lot of nudity,” Miller said. “We have even exposed affairs.”

Then there are jobs Miller can’t mention, but sometimes he accidentally shares a few details, particularly when he gets talking and can’t contain his enthusiasm. The George Harrison estate is a no-fly-zone, but the film rescuers handled a Super 8 mm home movie of a different super “famous” rock band having a famously good time with a groupie who was famously enthusiastic about events.

Boston street photographer and classic rock insider Charles Daniels is a recent client, and an anomaly among photography buffs in that he shot 4,000 rolls of film — including of Jimi Hendrix — but never got around to getting them developed until the film rescuers entered his life.

“There are a lot of shots of Rod Stewart playing soccer,” Harkins said.

Further proof of the company’s widespread fame was a recent New York Times feature about a 50-year-old mystery involving an American mountain climbing expedition to Argentina gone horribly wrong. Two climbers wound up dead, rumours of murder swirled and a half-century later, a camera belonging to one of the deceased was discovered on the mountain. Naturally, the film inside eventually made the trip to Saskatchewan. (Spoiler alert: the photographs Miller and Co. were able to retrieve didn’t solve the mystery).

Alongside the frisky honeymooners, rock gods and dead mountain climbers is the horrific. Miller once processed a haunting series of photographs from Vietnam depicting what was clearly a war crime, which threw him into a modern moral dilemma. The American soldiers “looked like babies,” he said. He didn’t want to ruin a life for a past sin, but he also couldn’t un-see what he had seen, so he sent the images to the war crimes office in Ottawa.

“Nothing ultimately came of it,” he said.

The company’s processing chops extend to handling 800 unique film brands. Miller charges customers US$18 per film roll, plus an additional dollar per recognizable image retrieved. And that’s the thing about expired film: depending upon how it was stored, whatever was on it may have already been lost by the time it gets to Saskatchewan. If that’s the case, there’s no charge.

“Money has never been a big motivator for us,” he said. “To be honest, we still struggle sometimes. None of us are really businesspeople.”

What they are, perhaps, is something even more essential: a friendly voice at the end of a 1-800 number offering hope to people such as Miriam in Staten Island.

Harkins rescued one “gentle whisper” of an image from Miriam’s Kodacolor II roll. Her parents shared a deep love, but their outward displays of affection were fleeting; a peck on the cheek at holiday time, or a subtle glance that, as a child, was easy to miss. But the photo Harkin came back with shows the couple in a park holding hands.

“I cried when I saw it,” Miriam said. “Just the thought of my parents having this moment together is something I will always treasure.”

• Email: joconnor@postmedia.com

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