After serving 25 years in prison, a man with a violent past seeks redemption through training service dogs.

Hounds of Mercy is a hauntingly intimate documentary from Gabriel Studer-Randall that follows Woody, a man seeking redemption after serving 25 years in prison for violent crimes. Now on the outside, Woody finds purpose and healing through the disciplined, compassionate work of training service dogs—a quiet act of service that becomes both a tether to society and a path toward self-forgiveness. Shot in stark black and white, the film captures his daily life with an unflinching yet empathetic lens, allowing the weight of his past to echo through every frame.

Driven by a desire to explore the nature of freedom, Studer-Randall offers no easy moral judgments. Instead, he crafts a layered, open-ended portrait that asks audiences to confront the psychological roots of violence and the human capacity for change. Introduced to Woody through the prison arts initiative Words Uncaged, the filmmaker approaches this non-traditional protagonist with deep compassion, challenging viewers to question their understanding of justice, redemption, and what it truly means to be free.

What first drew you to this particular story of a man finding redemption through training service dogs?

The same day I came across Woody’s story online, I cold-called him and made a plan to visit him on his ranch in Lancaster, California. Initially, I was interested in how training dogs changed Woody’s life but as I learned more I focused on the theme of freedom. Is freedom a physical state or a mental state? After spending 25 years in prison, Woody had a totally unique perspective on freedom, having lived so long without it. I was struck by how we can build prisons in our minds, enslaving ourselves with guilt and regret. I knew I had to explore that idea through a subjective frame; not just observing from the outside, but inhabiting Woody’s inner world.

There’s a strong visual tension between the harshness of the environment and the tenderness of the dog training—how did you balance that contrast in your cinematography?

The cinematographer, Ife Olarewaju, and I developed a visual language that played with the contrast between vast, lonely wides and intimate closeups. We wanted the wides to communicate both desolation and the harshness of the landscape while also a sense of freedom. I was fascinated by how the landscape surrounding Woody’s home in Lancaster could play as either liberating or isolating depending on the context. In contrast, closeups brought us directly into Woody’s subjectivity, capturing the nuance in his emotion, and the textures of his daily life, especially the way he interacted with his dogs. That relationship between man and nature helped us visually reflect the duality of Woody’s experience: living in a harsh, unforgiving landscape while forming tender, empathetic connections with his dogs.

Redemption is a central theme—was there a specific moment during filming that felt like a breakthrough in the subject’s personal journey?

Woody was incredibly open from the start. As I got to know him, I was struck by his emotional intelligence and the insight he had into his own life, especially how his childhood shaped his capacity for violence. I don’t think Woody feels redeemed, though; he still carries the weight of what he’s done, but he also knows it doesn’t define him. That tension was something I wanted to communicate in the film.

How did the dogs factor into the emotional arc of the story—not just narratively, but symbolically?

I didn’t go into the film thinking too much about what the dogs symbolized, but looking back, I think they ended up reflecting something about Woody himself. On one hand, dogs are tender and loyal, but on the other, they can be aggressive and dangerous. In the “nightmare” sequence, I intentionally framed the dogs as vicious almost as a representation of Woody’s violent past. Just like a dog can be trained to redirect that aggression, I think the same is true for people.

The pacing feels meditative yet weighty. How did you approach the film’s rhythm in the edit?

I approached the film’s rhythm with restraint because I wanted the film to reflect Woody’s state of mind: he’s free now, living with a sense of agency, and the film mirrors the simplicity of his daily routine. But I also knew I had to disrupt that calm. The “nightmare” sequence was designed to completely subvert the film’s established language. It’s chaotic, with jarring cuts embodying the anger that characterized who Woody used to be.

The film feels like it lives between genres—part Western, part character study, part redemption tale. Was that blending of tones something you planned from the start?

I’ve always been interested in approaching documentaries through the lens of genre filmmaking. For this project, I drew inspiration from Unforgiven and No Country for Old Men. I studied how those films use shot sizes, pacing, and diegetic sound to create atmosphere, and I tried to bring that same approach to how we filmed with Woody. To my surprise the Western aesthetic unfolded organically without needing to stage scenes. Drawing inspiration from Neo-Westerns made sense because those films often center on morally ambiguous characters who don’t fit the mold of a traditional protagonist. Rather than reducing his past to a simple moral judgement, I wanted to explore the complexity of Woody’s life. Naturally, the film evolved beyond my genre influences but the genre approach helped us find the film’s style.

What are the books, podcasts or even YouTube Channel that you recommend young filmmakers to get their hands on?

I’m a huge fan of the Team Deakins, Scriptnotes, and Cinematography Salon podcasts. Honestly, I consider the Team Deakins podcast my real film school, it’s an incredible resource for anyone interested in cinematography or filmmaking in general. I especially recommend the episodes with Chayse Irvin, Bradford Young, and Greig Fraser.

Can you share with us some of your favorite short films you’ve seen lately?

I don’t watch nearly enough short films but one really stuck with me. It’s called The Pass by Pepi Ginsberg. It’s a truly phenomenal film. I’ve never seen anything like it.