Sundance Best Films

This Is Not A Burial, It’s A Resurrection – Sundance 2020

This Is Not a Burial, It’s a Resurrection is not your typical film. It’s pretty slow paced and full of carefully crafted shots, reminiscent of director Lemohang Jeremiah Mosese’s debut, Mother I Am Suffocating. This is My Last Film About You. However, unlike his debut documentary feature, This Is Not a Burial, Its a Resurrection is Mosese’s first fictional feature film. But don’t expect an easy to follow narrative, as like a Lav Diaz film (see From What is Before), it requires a lot of interpretation. If you put in the effort, you’ll be rewarded with a beautiful constructed film touching on a wide range of themes covering death, community, progress, and the environment.

This Is Not a Burial, Its a Resurrection starts chaotically with a slow motion shot of a group of horses being attacked by tribesmen. This opening shot doesn’t appear to serve any contextual purpose, as the horses or tribesmen never reappear later in the film, but it does create a sense of uneasiness which prevents us from settling into the film. This feeling continues into the next scene in which a camera slowly pans around a dark empty bar with the eerie sounds of a lesiba instrument playing in the background. The cameras stops on a uniquely dressed man who starts giving us clues about what we are about to see. He doesn’t reveal much, as he uses a lot of legends and proverbs which don’t mean much to us at this point, but his speech indicates that we’ll have to be an active viewer and search for deeper meaning in the rest of the film.

We finally meet our main protagonist Mantoa in the next scene. She’s an eighty-something woman living alone in remote valley in Lesotho, which is a days trip from the nearest town. Her last son has passed away, so she’s now the last one left in her family. As a result, all she craves now is her own death, so she sets about planning her own funeral. Until her time comes, she carries on with the futility of her life, attending local community meetings and covering cracks in her mud floor. However, her patience is disrupted by news that the local government are planning to flood the area with the construction of a big dam. Not only does the dam disrupt the plans for her own burial, but it will also force the relocation of her buried family. As the main figure leading the resistance against the dam, she becomes more and more distanced from her community and religion. Her death isn’t a physical one, but a death from her community and cultural roots as the country ruthlessly pushes forward in the name of progress.

The narrative is sparse, but the look and feel of the film is incredibly rich. One way Mosese adds a unique richness is through his use of a taller 1:33:1 aspect ratio which gives the picture slightly more height. The extra vertical space allows the sky to dominate every image by taking up almost half of the screen for each landscape shot. In contrast, the people in the community are largely confined to the bottom third of each landscape shot. This framing adds power to the sky and nature, and diminishes the significance of the people below. Their lives and the things they do, such as building dams, are impermanent compared to the eternal nature of the sky (and heaven?). The taller aspect ratio therefore enforces the futility of not just Mantoa, but the futility of humanity as a whole.

The futility of humanity is enforced by the feeling generated by the films’ soundtrack. Firstly, listen to the trailer for this film without watching it. It sounds like a horror film. There’s the unique muffled bursts of the lesiba combined with a horror 101 mix of piano notes, scratchy strings, and ascending voices. This soundscape plays throughout the film to viscerally convey the confusion, anger, and sadness that Mantoa feels on her quest to join her dead family. But the sounds used in horror films also signifies the presence of the spiritual realm. Just as the taller aspect ratio gives more power to the sky and nature at the expense of the significance of humanity, the soundtrack bolsters the dominance of the spiritual over the physical human bodies. It reminds us that we’re not in control of our own fate.

The unsettling opening, sparse narrative, and rich look and feel of the film make This is Not a Burial, It’s a Resurrection feel enigmatic. By the end, it feels like you’ve just watched a piece of art. You might have understood a bit of the film and felt its power and beauty, but you will finish it feeling that it’s full meaning is unattainable. It’s mystery is the mystery of life.

Saudi Runaway – Sundance Film Festival 2020

Despite reforms from MBS, the current ruler of Saudi Arabia, 1,000 women escape Saudi Arabia each year. Saudi Runaway follows Muna, a typical Saudi Arabian woman trying to make herself one of the 1,000 to escape the oppressive patriarchy. All the footage is shot on her phone camera, often in secret from under her hijab, to document a snippet of her life.

Muna gains our trust right from the start by showing us things we shouldn’t see. She takes us into the crowds of the Hajj pilgrimage circling the Kaaba by capturing the crowds from a phone camera hidden under her veil. She also documents her family secretly in prayer and the patriarchal words her family and fiance say without realizing they’re being filmed. From these secretive observational moments we can start to build a picture of the society and family she lives in and its restrictiveness. We can also feel the risk she’s taking in secretively filming her family. She obviously hasn’t told them about the film as all they’re faces are blurred. Because of the risks she takes and secretive shots she has shared with us, she immediately gains out trust and empathy.

The film strengthens our connection with Muna through a series of video diary entries in which she shares experiences from her life and plans her escape. We hear about the patriarchal oppression she faces: how her husband won’t let her drive and how she can’t go to the supermarket or leave the house without a man. We also hear about her slim chance for escape: she cannot leave the country without a man’s permission in Saudi Arabia, so she has to get married before attempting an escape in the UAE whilst she’s on her honeymoon. Amazingly, she captures all of the tension of her ordeal, even taking a minute to document her final thoughts before she attempts her escape.

The only fault I could give this exciting documentary is the touch of melodrama the European director adds to the raw footage from Muna. In some of the tense moments, the soundtrack feels like it’s emphasizing the emotions more than it needs to. It makes the film feel ‘more produced’ and therefore less intimate and trustworthy by taking away from the realness of the first hand footage shot by Muna. The ‘dear Sue’ addresses in Muna’s video diary also make the film feel more like an act, by recognizing the foreign hand in its creation.

Overall, Saudi Runaway is a documentary that any fans of escape documentaries (see Midnight Traveller) or viewers interested at an inside look of Saudi Arabia should watch.

Head to our Sundance Film Festival Hub for more reviews from the Sundance Film Festival 2020.

Once Upon a Time in Venezuela – Sundance Film Festival

Once Upon a Time in Venezuela starts with images of the famous Catatumbo lightning silently flashing over Lake Maracaibo. The lightning is an atmospheric phenomenon unique to the region, occurring for 140 to 160 nights per year. It’s what drew filmmaker Anabel Rodriguez Rios to the region, but ultimately became one of the least interesting happenings in an area that serves as a microcosm for the socioeconomic and political crisis in Venezuela.

The once thriving town of Congo Mirador becomes the focus for this observational documentary. It’s a town built upon stilts above Lake Maracaibo, complete with a church, a school, and houses. Everyone gets around on boats, whether they’re commuters, cake sellers, or musicians. The water is the lifeblood of this town. It’s their road that connects everyone, their bath to wash in, and their sewage.

Therefore, it’s not a surprise that sedimentation is brought up first. It’s the most urgent problem for the community, and not the political movements happening in the big cities elsewhere in the country. Sedimentation blocks their transportation paths by making the routes too shallow for boats to move, it blocks the free flow of sewage, and pollutes the towns’ supply of fresh water. Shots of people washing juxtaposed against shots of dead fish, highlight the immediate problems that sedimentation causes. As the film progresses, the director makes sure you can see the physical change in the community. Houses are uprooted and moved on boats, and plants start to take over the once fluid waterways.

It’s not clear where the sedimentation comes from; perhaps it stems from the oil reserves that have started contaminating beaches nearby, or maybe it’s just happening naturally. However, what is clear is that if nothing is done, this town will gradually be consumed by dirt and pollution, thus becoming uninhabitable.

The town community need the help of higher powers to help. However, Once Upon a Time in Venezuela chooses two rivals to center this documentary to represent the division in the community: Mrs. Tamara, a Chavista and town representative, and Natalie, a local teacher. Their rivalry, and the progress it hinders, represent the political division in the country and the slow decline of the town, the sinking state of Venezuela.

Mrs. Tamara: the Hugo Chavez fan girl, with a large spacious house, Hugo Chavez dolls, and a farm along the lake. She’s shown boating around the lake to buy votes and relaxing in her hammock.
Natalie: a humble teacher and single mum that appears apolitical and lives in a small house. She’s shown hand washing clothes and teaching kids.

The class distinction between the two, and way they talk about each other (Natalie rarely mentions Mrs. Tamara by name) help us choose our allegiances in Congo Mirador and Venezuela. Ultimately, their rivalry distracts us from the decline of the town, just like the presidential rivalry between Maduro and Guaido has provided a distraction from resolving the political and social crises in Venezuela.

If you’re looking for more films from Venezuela like Once Upon a Time in Venezuela, check out La Soledad or It’s All Good for two more films set within the crisis You could also watch Hermano for a Venezuelan film featuring gangs and football. Or, head to our Sundance Film Festival hub, if you’re looking for more reviews from the festival.

Wild Indian – Sundance Film Festival 2021

Wild Indian kicks off with a scene of a dying Indian covered in small pox ‘some time ago’ before it jumps forward to the 1980’s. The scene contextualizes the trauma of the present, experienced by two friends, Mukwa and Ted-O, situating it within years of pain, suffering, and oppression. It shows that the cycles of trauma are nothing new for this Ojibwe community, and the Indigenous community as a whole.

Moving forward to the scenes in the 1980’s, the trauma is inflicted on the children by their parents. Mukwa’s dad is ruthlessly violent, beating him up each night for nothing, whilst other kids are raised by parents lost to their drunkenness. Thanks to his Dad, and we can infer thanks to the generations above his Dad, it’s the trauma he inflicts on Mukwa that turns him violent. And whilst Mukwa’s not violent towards his son later in the film, his lack of warmth indicates that his trauma will be passed on. All of this stems from the widespread suffering of the Indigenous community referenced in the opening scene.

Mukwa tries to escape his trauma by exiling himself from his roots. He changes his image, becoming ‘Michael Peterson’ and cuts his hair. He goes all in on white corporate culture – becoming a wealthy businessman that plays a lot of golf, lives in California, and has a trophy white wife. The only signs of pride in his heritage is an overcompensation of Indigenous art on the walls in his house. Otherwise, he appears like a different person. His life contrasts strongly with his old friend Ted-O, who carriers his identity tattooed on his face and neck as he’s released from prison. Despite appearances, Ted-O is the warmer character. He makes time to bond with his nephew, whilst Mukwa shuns his wife and son.

Mukwa is one sinister character. He’s created brilliantly through Michael Greyeye’s acting and the style Lyle Corbine (the director) imbues into the film. The atmospheric music, that plays behind most of Mukwa’s scenes, combined with the slow camera movements (slowly creeping right to left and zooming in) creates a sense of eeriness surrounding Mukwa from the start. It reminded me a lot of the slow burn thrillers of David Fincher.

There’s also one recurring image that the director uses to create a lot of tension. He captures Mukwa’s evil side in moments where he has people’s lives in his hands – such as holding a knife by his sleeping father, and aiming a gun at his friend. Throwing these shots into the early part of the film makes us fear Mukwa’s unpredictability. It feels like he’s going to lash out violently and get revenge for the trauma inside him. This unnerving unpredictability makes him and the film so hard to look away from.

If you’re looking for a slow burning thriller along the lines of David Fincher’s Gone Girl with an unpredictable character like Pablo Larrain’s Tony Manero, set within the Indigenous Ojibwe tribe, Wild Indian is the film you need to watch this year.

The Dog Who Wouldn’t Be Quiet – Sundance Film Festival 2021

Dogs are everywhere. Before the pandemic, ownership seemed to be rising. Everyone either had a dog or knew someone who did, whether it was a neighbor or a colleague who brought their dog into work. Now, with everyone stuck at home, they’ve become even more popular as companions for those living alone and friends for kids. They’re also still the small talk champions (perhaps even more so than babies). Nothing else can get a stranger talking to you better. It’s within this context that The Dog Who Wouldn’t Be Quiet kicks off.

Sebastian’s troubles start when he bumps into a neighbor in the courtyard outside his house, who starts complaining about the noises his dog makes. In what’s quite a funny scene, in an awkward way, Sebastian stands there, under his umbrella in the rain, nodding along to his neighbors monologue. Other neighbors turn up and add to his neighbors complaints and crowding the small courtyard. Right after that scene, Sebastian has a similarly awkward chat with his boss at work. They also don’t want his dog around, and like his neighbors, awkwardly avoid telling him directly.

Solving his troubles at home and work in one, Sebastian moves to the country for a happy life with his dog. But, things don’t end there, as the chain of events started by his less than silent dog keeps progressing. Amongst other things, we’re taken through Sebastian’s different jobs, a clandestine cooperative, and a sudden pandemic. It’s an oddball journey. However, despite how strange the events are to us, Sebastian goes along with them as if they’re completely normal. It’s like he’s resigned himself to the path his dog has placed him on.

His stoic face throughout all these surprises is what makes this film so quietly funny. In a way his role isn’t too dissimilar from the great silent movie comics like Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin. Whilst he doesn’t perform any stunts like them, the comedy of the film is created around his non-reaction to the things happening around him. Like Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin, Sebastian is the comedic fall guy for the movie. His misfortune and his acceptance of it exists for everyone to laugh at.

So, if you’re looking for another quietly funny Argentinian satire along the lines of Martin Rejtman (see The Magic Gloves) check out The Day the Dog Wouldn’t be Quiet.