Depth of Field

With season two of ‘Dark Winds’ wrapped at Camel Rock Studios, the first tribally owned film studio navigates industry standards and Indigenous sovereignty

The entrance has the look of a David Lynch location—a Southwestern version of the Silencio from Mulholland Drive, or the midcentury-tinged Slow Club in Blue Velvet. Red and yellow tubes of unlit neon hang at self-determined angles from the doorway. But as in a Lynch movie, the creative, political and symbolic possibilities waiting just inside the arching doors of Camel Rock Studios are both consuming and complicated in ways not immediately visible.

Principal photography for the second season of AMC’s George RR Martin/Robert Redford-produced Dark Winds wrapped weeks ago, but the former bingo hall is still filled with many of the show’s most recognizable sets—including several ‘70s-styled interiors and a full-size hogan. Production assistants crisscross the atrium, scanning the space for unapproved arrivals. Anyone allowed past their patrol must keep phones and cameras tucked away, as AMC and Tesuque Pueblo each have their own concerns about what outsiders see of their sphere. And curiosity about what’s going on inside the country’s first tribally-owned film studio is spreading.

“I had tour buses that stopped at [the] Valero [gas station across the street],” says Peter Romero, studio stage manager, who notes the facility is never open to the public. “They called the Camel Rock Studios number. Like it’s Universal Studios.”

As the main point of contact between the pueblo and visiting productions, Romero secures approval for non-employees visiting studio property. This afternoon, he’s meeting with Tesuque Pueblo Lt. Gov. Floyd Samuel and Jennifer LaBar-Tapia, commissioner of the Santa Fe Film Office. As the three cheerfully greet each other, it’s increasingly apparent these are not just occasional colleagues—they’re longterm collaborators. And their shared history is directly connected to the facility’s transformation from ‘50s-era casino to film studio.

“I don’t think a lot of people realized what a gem this was.”

According to Romero, the story of Camel Rock Studios begins nearly a decade ago, at another facility destined for life as a film set—the now defunct Santa Fe University of Art and Design, where Garson Studios remains operational following the school’s closure in 2018.

“The [current Tesuque Pueblo] lieutenant governor’s brother, Larry Samuel...and producer, director Chris Eyre were faculty at SFUAD. We were all on the same softball team,” Romero tells SFR. “The three of us actually had the conversation about, ‘they should build a film studio [on the pueblo]’ in 2013 or ‘14. And then, after all those years, it actually came to fruition.”

LaBar-Tapia describes a similar encounter a few years after that conversation.

“I was actually speaking at a conference around 2018, and one of the participants was [former Pueblo of Tesuque lieutenant governor Roman Duran],” LaBar-Tapia says. “And he said to me, ‘What do you think about us turning our casino into a stage or something? Would that work?’ And I’m like, ‘Oh my God, please!’”

But the idea of converting Camel Rock into a studio didn’t catch on immediately. After the pueblo opened its new casino in 2018, several more traditional uses for the old building—including as offices for tribal administration or (more prophetically) a movie theater—were debated, researched and ultimately discarded.

“There were a lot of different options we threw around at the time,” says Samuel, “but the filming industry…nobody looked at it that way.”

When conversation surrounding a possible studio resurfaced throughout the pueblo in late 2018, the tribe brought a host of production professionals from around the country to New Mexico to tour the facility and offer feedback on the property and its potential. The response was strong enough for the Pueblo of Tesuque Development Corporation, which acts as the tribal government’s business arm, to kickstart the building’s transformation into a full-fledged studio with a $50 million dollar investment. The conversion proved surprisingly smooth.

“I don’t think a lot of people realized what a gem this was,” Romero notes. “We have the infrastructure, that’s the main thing: electricity, water, internet, lighting, security; everything is kind of just buttoned up.”

LaBar-Tapia agrees.

“You’ve got a backlot, you’ve got a mill, you’ve got the parking,” she says. “And the very first production was Tom Hanks.”

That project was the Western News of the World, shot during the studio’s infancy in late 2019, when demand for stages in Northern New Mexico vastly outpaced a limited supply. The newly christened Camel Rock Studios moved from the realm of ballgame discussions to a Universal Pictures production in a matter of months.

But much of News’ actual shoot took place on outdoor sets, while the former bingo hall itself housed larger props, including a life-size covered wagon. Appropriately enough, it would take a story about Indigenous people to fully deploy the studio’s interiors on camera. But that would come later—after a multi-month vacancy at the onset of the pandemic.

“Natives tend to take their jobs very seriously.”

Local filmmaker DezBaa’ (Diné) joined the set of Dark Winds as an actor, playing grieving mother Helen Atcitty in the show’s first season. But returning as a member of the writers’ room for season two allowed her to experience the Camel Rock set from both sides of the camera. And its approach to COVID safety left a particularly lasting impression.

“I definitely feel like in general, Natives tend to take their jobs very seriously,” she tells SFR. “There was always somebody running up with a mask ready to hand it to me. I don’t know that I actually had anyone do that before. And I think very much it was warranted because of the experience within their own communities, seeing how COVID had taken out a lot of elders and relatives.”

Camel Rock Studios’ shutdown until the arrival of Dark Winds certainly wasn’t unique, but it came at what otherwise would have been a moment of triumph. News of the World had attracted trade coverage in Variety about the success of Tesuque Pueblo’s new venture—with a glowing story published just two days after New Mexico’s first confirmed COVID-19 case on March 11, 2020.

Still, as DezBaa’ says, the pandemic proved disproportionately deadly for Indigenous New Mexicans, which put extra pressure on the studio’s decision to stay shuttered. Hollywood cast and crew members flying into an otherwise quarantined pueblo community could have led to especially disastrous losses. By the time Dark Winds was ready to begin production on its first season in summer 2021, vaccines offered enough protection to justify reopening the studio gates. And it was logical for an adaptation of Tony Hillerman’s non-Native take on Navajo stories to base itself at an Indigenous studio amid efforts to improve the books’ representation of Native characters.

But other disparities between Dark Winds’ time at Camel Rock and the typical operations of a high budget film set are as practical as they come—tracing back to the legal separation of state from tribal land.

“How can Native lands take advantage of the incentive program?”

It’s appropriate, given actor Zahn McClarnon’s portrayal of self-assured tribal officers in both Longmire and Dark Winds (and, OK, as Big in Reservation Dogs) that Peter Romero’s first encounter and subsequent reconnection with the star were both occasioned by sharing a would-be tribal office.

“You know, the funny thing is, Zahn was in Longmire...at Garson [Studios], and my personal office at SFUAD [became the set for] his tribal police office,” Romero tells SFR. When McClarnon (Lakota and Irish) later came to tour Camel Rock Studios for Dark Winds, Romero greeted him as the manager of a building which would go on to serve as McClarnon’s onscreen jail.

It’s another point of interconnection in the studio’s story, and the two men’s reunion has obviously been fruitful. Dark Winds averaged a little more than 1 million television viewers per episode over its first season’s six episodes, according to online data, and has signified changing times when it comes to filming on tribal land. In some cases, things are just plain easier. Beyond the fictionalized tribal forces McClarnon personifies onscreen, Camel Rock Studios’ actual Indigenous jurisdiction means rights are handled by a single governing body rather than the typical patchwork of city, county, state and private interests. In this case, all paperwork funnels through Romero.

“So, you go rent Garson, you rent the stage—you need water? You gotta go to the city. There’s another hurdle,” Romero explains. “[Productions at Camel Rock] need water, they make a phone call or shoot me a text, myself or my employee walk down here, we sell them water by the thousand gallons; no problem; it’s a turnkey issue. They come here, they can pretty much get 99% of the things they need.”

On a show like Dark Winds (each episode of which costs roughly $5 million to produce, according to The Hollywood Reporter), such streamlining can make a notable impact on the budget. It’s a crucial financial incentive for the studio to use in attracting business—especially since its location on tribal land means Camel Rock doesn’t actually qualify for any of New Mexico’s state film tax credits.

This is where things get thorny. Locally shot projects can obtain refunds for 25-35% of their qualified in-state spending, an offer the state film office credits with attracting more than 90% of productions being shot in New Mexico. Shows like both Dark Winds and Longmire—with six or more episodes per season and a budget of at least $50,000 each—would usually get a 5% boost from the baseline. Shooting at a qualified production facility, like Longmire’s Garson Studios, earns filmmakers another 5% bump.

And while Camel Rock’s ceiling might be a little lower than a typical studio (it was, after, all built to hold gaming machines, not camera cranes), it could likely meet the state requirements for a qualified facility. If it did, that would mean a project like Dark Winds could receive the maximum 35% back on its spend at Tesuque Pueblo. Yet spending on the studio is ineligible for the same reason it attracted the production in the first place: it’s on Native land.

In practice, a local crew can shoot at Camel Rock with equipment rented in Albuquerque while eating craft services from a Santa Fe catering company and get money back on everything except what they’ve spent at the tribally-owned studio. This catch-22 weighs on LaBar-Tapia’s mind.

“I think that’s one of the things at the state level,” she says. “How can Native lands take advantage of the incentive program?”

According to LaBar-Tapia and Romero, numerous possible scenarios illustrate how a tax credit program might draw revenue to the pueblo. A hotel for film crew on tribal lands, for example, or reimbursable receipts at the nearby gas station and incentives for productions to rent locations from pueblo citizens. LaBar-Tapia says she hopes lawmakers in a future legislative session will address the topic. For now, the 2023 session has concluded with Senate Bill 12 expanding the state’s film incentive package—tribal lands excepted.

Even so, it will likely take more than legislative action to enact incentive programs for tribal lands, according to the state film office.

“If a property is owned by a tribal entity, it is not eligible for film tax credits because it is not subject to state taxation,” explains Deputy Director Carrie Wells. “Changing that would require federal action and is not something that can be done at the state level.”

No path forward for such an agreement has been identified yet, and the New Mexico constitution doesn’t assume jurisdiction over pueblos. It’s a matter of Indigenous sovereignty.

“A lot of people don’t understand the idea of sovereignty.”

DezBaa’ is surprised to learn money that Dark Winds spends on tribal land isn’t eligible for the New Mexico tax incentive, but she quickly notes the principle underlying the exclusion.

“I mean, it makes sense,” she says. “It’s important we have that ability to draw from the strength in that sovereignty. A lot of people don’t understand the idea of sovereignty and tribal government—it’s basically like dealing with another country.”

The comparison applies on a philosophical level as much as a legal one. Self-determination for Indigenous governments like Tesuque Pueblo hinges on recognition as sovereign nations—entities existing alongside rather than underneath state and federal structures. Practically, that means any incentives to support filming on Indigenous land can’t just fold tribal space into existing agreements. Camel Rock’s unique current position at the intersection of Hollywood interests and Native nationhood exposes all sorts of subtler intercultural fissures, too.

“Being on tribal land, you’re gonna run into that particular nation and how they hold themselves, how they execute their protocols,” DezBaa’ explains. “And it may not be the same as what the film industry requires, or wants or requests. You’re not dealing with...this romanticized version of Native Americans and, ‘Oh, we’re doing them a favor.’”

When culturally-sensitive industry requests or needs do arise, they filter through Romero—who then relays them to the Tribal Historic Preservation Office.

“They come out and verify the area and make sure there’s no artifacts, or if it’s a sacred area, they just tell us yes or no,” Romero says. “There’s no questions asked. With respect to the tribe, we have to go through that process every time.”

The production then adapts to the boundaries set by the tribe. Such a relationship is as new and unique for Hollywood as it is for the pueblo. And some refusals take more adjustment than others. Nowhere is the cultural gap more evident than in moments of mourning. Because Tesuque Pueblo is so tight-knit, the same unified channels streamlining production paperwork stop flowing when the community gathers to grieve the loss of a member.

“Think about life in general outside of the Native community. People pass every day. Nobody honors, [pays] respects to the family or anything,” Romero says. “Here, it’s such a small community. Everybody is connected, everybody knows everybody. That’s the proper thing to do.”

From a non-Indigenous industry perspective, the process of translating lost time to lost money makes the idea of any pause on set inherently nerve-wracking. But if the promise of shooting on Native land continues persuading Hollywood to learn to film by Native rules, Camel Rock Studios’ next few years could spur even more radical changes within the industry than its charged first three.

“How do we create what LA has here?”

Each person to walk through Camel Rock Studios’ uncanny curved glass entrance re-emerges into the sunlight with a different vision of what the building’s future could hold. The lieutenant governor would like to see profits from productions providing health care for tribal citizens.

“Just like anyone else, there’s health issues within the tribal community and, you know, some may not have health insurance,” Samuel says, “so using some of those proceeds to assist them would really benefit not just individuals, but families.”

Romero has made several recent building updates to improve working conditions, including replacing the HVAC filtration system—a relic of the studio’s early and smoke-filled casino days. Looking forward, he dreams of new green screen facilities and faster Wi-Fi for late-night data transfers to Burbank.

“The bandwidth required takes 10 to 12 hours in the middle of the night when no one’s online or anything. I think that’s one of the big priorities,” he notes.

In addition to tax incentives for tribal lands, LaBar-Tapia cites the need for -in-state post-production facilities to take pressure off rural internet.

Sunshine Eaton, a Tesuque Pueblo tribal member and COVID compliance officer on Dark Winds, wants to see more outreach from Hollywood to her community.

“I definitely think there’s more work to be done,” she says. “I hope there’s a way of figuring out how to make that connection, whether it’s the production offering to put up posters of ‘oh, we’re hiring,’ or reaching out to the tribal leaders, giving them the opportunity to tell [Tesuque Pueblo], ‘Hey, we need some tribal members to work.’”

Others like Dark Winds Hair Artist Kerry Myers (Comanche Nation) call for additional dedicated on-set advocates for Indigenous cast and crew.

“All of these sets need somebody standing there every day to make sure Natives are treated right,” they assert. “People do their best, and sometimes don’t know what’s right and just need to be told. But when production gets rolling, it’s a lot to deal with. And I think that’s its own job.”

DezBaa’s vision is the most extensive.

“I was talking to somebody during the [Legislature’s film industry] meet and greet.” she recalls. “They were saying, ‘Everything comes through LA,’ and I said, ‘Well, I understand that, but how do we create what LA has here?’ What I feel like needs to be done, what we’re working towards is, both the tribal and state are able to create and generate their own income, create and generate their own productions, create and generate their own talent.”

Her hopes for a homegrown production pool touch on a question the studio hasn’t yet had to confront. What will use the space after Dark Winds is gone?

The show hasn’t been picked up for a third season yet, but sets wait in the main hall for its intended return. And so, where other Native film programs like the Cherokee Nation Film Office have created merit-based vetting systems (in that instance, prioritizing movies and TV shows with nuanced Indigenous representation), Camel Rock doesn’t have an established method for picking new projects.

“Since we’ve only had one other production, and we’re hoping that [Dark Winds is] going to be here for several seasons, at this point there’s no way to bet,” Romero says. “But I get phone calls. There’s a need, and there’s a want. Others don’t have what is offered here.”