Our Father

There is a specific, modern brand of dread that comes with clicking "View Matches" on a DNA testing site. Usually, the worst-case scenario is finding out your Great Uncle Mort wasn’t actually a war hero, or discovering a second cousin who posts too many political memes. But for Jacoba Ballard, that "View Matches" button opened a literal portal into a biological nightmare.

Our Father (2022), a Netflix documentary that arrived with a scream and then weirdly vanished into the streaming ether, is the kind of film that makes you want to shower with steel wool. I watched this while trying to assemble a flat-pack IKEA nightstand—a task I eventually abandoned because I was too busy staring at the screen with my jaw hitting the floor. It turns out that while I couldn't figure out where the M6 screws went, Jacoba Ballard was figuring out she had dozens of siblings she never knew existed.

The Horror of the Suburban Doctor

In the 1970s and 80s, Donald Cline was a pillar of the Indianapolis community. He was the go-to fertility specialist, a man of faith, and a trusted hand for couples struggling to conceive. He was also, as the film reveals with sickening clarity, a serial predator who used his own genetic material to impregnate his patients without their knowledge or consent.

What makes Our Father feel so contemporary is its reliance on the "at-home DNA" phenomenon. This story couldn't have been told twenty years ago; it required the democratization of genetic data to blow the whistle. Director Lucie Jourdan (who previously worked on Homicide Hunter) frames the narrative like a high-end true crime thriller. Since this is a Blumhouse production—the house that Paranormal Activity and Get Out built—the documentary leans heavily into horror tropes. There are shadowy reenactments, eerie shots of medical equipment, and a score that sounds like it was pulled from a slasher flick.

Honestly, Donald Cline looks like a man who thinks mayonnaise is too spicy, which makes the cold, calculated nature of his "experiments" even more chilling. He wasn't a mustache-twirling villain; he was the nice man from church who systematically violated hundreds of women.

A Masterclass in Human Resilience

While the doctor is the "monster," the film belongs to the survivors. Jacoba Ballard is the emotional anchor here, and her transition from a curious daughter to a relentless investigator is fascinating. The documentary captures the peculiar "streaming era" phenomenon of social media activism; we see how a private Facebook group became a hub for a growing tribe of "Cline’s Kids."

The performances here—if we can call the participants' self-portrayals that—are raw. There is a moment where Jacoba talks about the physical characteristics she shares with her siblings, and the camera lingers on their faces. It’s a haunting sequence. These people didn't just lose their sense of identity; they lost their medical histories. The film touches on the terrifying reality that many of these siblings grew up in the same area, went to the same schools, and potentially dated one another. This is essentially The Handmaid’s Tale if it were directed by a man with a God complex and a lab coat.

Why It Vanished (And Why to Find It)

Despite being a Top 10 hit on Netflix for a hot minute, Our Father is a prime example of the "disposable" nature of modern streaming cinema. It was released during the height of the post-pandemic true crime boom, sandwiched between docuseries about cults and Tinder swindlers. Because it lacks the "legacy" of a theatrical release, it risks becoming a footnote in the algorithm.

However, it’s worth seeking out because it tackles the "Quiverfull" movement—a radical Christian ideology centered on procreation as a means of "filling God's quiver" with soldiers for a spiritual war. The film suggests, though never quite proves, that Cline’s actions were ideologically driven. It adds a layer of systemic rot to what could have just been a story about one "mad scientist."

The legal aftermath is perhaps the most infuriating part of the film. Watching the Indiana justice system struggle to find a law that Cline actually broke—because "fertility fraud" wasn't a thing yet—is a masterclass in bureaucratic frustration. Apparently, stealing a Snickers bar carries more weight in the eyes of the law than biological assault.

Our Father is a gripping, if occasionally sensationalized, look at a uniquely modern crime. It utilizes the visual language of horror to convey a trauma that is almost too large to process. While it occasionally leans too hard on those Blumhouse jumpscare aesthetics, the central mystery and the courage of the Ballard family keep it grounded. It’s a film that stays with you long after the credits roll, making you look just a little bit closer at your own reflection—and maybe think twice before sending that spit sample off to a lab.

The documentary successfully bridges the gap between a personal tragedy and a broader societal failure. It doesn't just ask "Who is my father?" but "Who is watching the people we trust with our lives?" It’s a haunting, necessary piece of contemporary storytelling that deserves to be more than just a thumbnail you scroll past on a Tuesday night. If you’re looking for a film that will make you hug your family—and then immediately question your entire lineage—this is the one.