Trapped (2015- ) – An Engrossing Moody Crime Series Set in a Small Icelandi Town

Nordic Noir has become synonymous with dark meticulously crafted story-lines, unforgettable three-dimensional characters, and spellbinding realization of natural atmosphere. For more than a decade, morally complex crime fictions hailing from Scandinavian nations are kindling our reading appetite more and more. Swedish writers Maj Sjowall and Per Wahloo’s Martin Beck mystery series kicked off in 1965 and finished in 1975. The novels were adapted into multi-part TV series and numerous films. The authors take on social conflicts and characterization of detective protagonist later found its way into the Nordic Noir, where Swedish and Norwegian writers like Stieg Larsson (Millennium Trilogy), Henning Mankell (Wallender series), and Jo Nesbo (Harry Hole series) transcended premises of murder mystery into fascinating critique  on contemporary European society and western capitalism. The boundaries of Nordic Noir widened with the rise of mind-blowing TV series like The Bridge (Bron/Broen), Borgen, and The Killing (Forbrydelsen). Nordic Noir distinguishing trait is its ground-breaking characters (Katrine Fonsmark, Saga Noren, and Sarah Lund are memorable female characters in TV series ever), starkly realistic and precise setting, stripped off all the crowd-pleasing sub-plots often found in American or other crime fictions. While critics feel that end is in sight for Nordic Noir wave, the Scandinavian writers keep on surprising us every year.

Iceland was a bit left out from the international success enjoyed by TV series’ from other Nordic countries. Icelandic director Baltasar Kormakur (101 Reykjavik, Contraband, Everest) extinguished that feeling with his 10-part murder mystery series Trapped (2015- ). The series debuted in Europe last year (first Icelandic series to be released by BBC) and went on to become international hit (with at least one million Brits and 5 million French watching its 10 episodes). The huge success led to its renewal for 2nd season, set to be screened in 2018. Trapped perfectly confirms to the basic elements of Nordic Noir, attracting existing fans, and moreover Baltasar Kormakur and his team of talented writers bring their own unique sensibilities to keep things fresh.

Trapped has two central characters: one is burly, poker-faced police chief Andri Olafsson (Olafur Darri Olafsson) with small icicles clinging to his unkempt beard; and the other is bad weather assaulting the poetic landscape. The very first difference we notice between other small-town based TV series and Trapped is its punishing weather. The huge mounds of snow all around the town perfectly sets up the trap for its characters – physically and psychologically. Furthermore, watching it in this hot weather I even felt a little chill, while consuming the images of beautiful yet brutal landscape. The story is set in Siglufjordur, a breathtakingly scenic little fishing town, north of Iceland’s capital Reykjavik. The people of the town have to wear heavy layers of outfit before driving or walking through the blizzard to their offices, schools or boat yards. All is definitely not well for protagonist Andri when the 1st episode begins. He is chief of police in a town, where everyone knows each other, and possibly the day-to-day duty might involve writing some parking tickets. They can cozily sit in the station with their flasks and play a game of chess. But, Andri’s marriage life is in shambles.

Andri’s house is being renovated and he is staying at his in-law’s house with two children (Perla and Thorhildur). However, Andri’s wife Agnes has requested for divorce and on that particular day she is arriving from Reykjavik with her boyfriend Sigvaldi. For the man who is still hopefully wearing his wedding ring this is very disappointing news. But Andri doesn’t show much on his face. He boards up (or traps up) all the emotional pains inside his giant physical stature. Agnes’ family home has few remainders of her dead younger sister Dagny. The episode opens with Dagny and her boyfriend Hjortur riding to an old factory for an intense session of sex. Later, Dagny is killed in a fire, whose source remains mysterious, and Hjortur survives with few burns. Meanwhile, a ferry from Denmark is arriving over the fjord. At the same time, a mangled human torso is caught in a fisherman’s nest. Andri inspects the torso in a perfect, clinical manner as if he has done it many times. Indeed, he has worked in Reykjavik and transferred to the town for reasons unknown (transferred here after the death of Dagny). Andri may have even felt a little relief for having a murder case to solve; a weird distraction from the burgeoning existential crisis.

As the Danish ferry reaches its destination the weather turns for the worst. Soon, everyone from the town’ Mayor to school children hears about the mutilated corpse. Since the corpse looks fresh and pulled from the water, the suspicion naturally falls on the members of ferry. Andri and his two subordinates (Asgeir and Hinrika) begin their investigation on the ferry. Moreover, the roads are slowly closing down due to the impending snow storm. The forensic team and higher police officials from Reykjavik couldn’t fly in. So, the townsfolk and people in the boat are trapped (including the murderer). It’s pretty much like Agatha Christie’s Ten Little Indians situation, set in a bit wider societal canvas. We are then introduced to the town’s different colorful characters, who either inhabit the powerful or oppressed status. It now falls on Andri and his two less-experienced police officers to solve the murder case, whose list of suspects even include the Eastern European human-trafficking mafia. Before long, bodies start to pile up as the three-member police team try to get a hold over the twists and turns.

There are some unique Icelandic elements in Trapped that sets it apart from the other crime series from Norway, Sweden or Denmark. One is the formidable presence of nature, which literally dictates the narrative course. The other is found in its constant reference to 2008 Icelandic financial crisis. Although Iceland’s recovery from the economic collapse is portrayed as one of the modern miraculous story (something to learn for other countries hit by financial crisis), Trapped looks at the grass-root level impact of the crisis; on how it provoked people to use unlawful means to rejuvenate the town’s economy. The Mayor Hrafn and Reykjavik politician strives hard to coerce the locals for signing the deal with China in order to turn their sleepy town into a major port city. As we often saw in monochromatic film noir from old Hollywood, there will be crime when wealthy men with big ambitions try to realize their plan through whatever means. The frigid social and natural atmosphere in the small town perfectly elevates the noir elements and allows room for organic twists.

There are definitely some hiccups and repetitions in the narrative. The whole episode involving the Danish captain looks contrived and melodramatic. Some characters work as mere narrative device (may be there will fully evolve in the next season). The mystery looks a bit thin which could have been fully realized within eight episodes. Nevertheless, I didn’t mind watching 10 episodes (and wouldn’t have if it’s extended for another episode) especially for the atmosphere which may be exasperating to live in reality, but provides a very immersive visual experience. Olafsson's majestic presence is yet another reason to overlook the minor, understandable flaws.  I also particularly liked the elegant unraveling of the murderer identity. While usually we feel relief when the killer’s identity is unmasked, we only feel a little sad here. Like the gruesome murders, the actions that led the person to commit murder remain sorrowful. Finally, staying true to Nordic crime fictions, Trapped doesn’t give up its bleakness or ineradicable emotional wounds for an impossible happy ending. Andri’s plight kind of makes you to chastise the person who first said, ‘truth sets you free’. The release of truth here only deepens the void. As Andri walks away emotionless in the last frame of the last episode there isn’t much hope. Nevertheless, this dark Icelandic tale bestows fine comfort to briefly overlook our own existential quandaries. 


Trapped (2015- ) is blessed with a fabulous natural environment, richly detailed characters, and an absorbing mystery at its center. It’s a must watch for the fans of Nordic crime tales. 

Goldstone [2016] – A Procedural with Idealistic Intentions

Australian writer/director Ivan Sen’s Goldstone (2016) revolves around indigenous detective Jay Swan (Aaron Pedersen), who earlier busted a drug network, putrefying the aboriginal community, in the mystery/thriller Mystery Road (2013). Jay Swan is a character brimming with existential angst. He is not trusted by the white law officials and always seen with a little suspicion by impoverished Aborigines. Like many men in the indigenous community, Jay’s father too succumbed to alcoholism and lost his life. In the sequel Goldstone, the void has only deepened as the protagonist detective stays in inebriated state after the loss of his teenage daughter. When we first see Jay he is rolling into an isolated mining outpost town (the one in the title) in his old truck and stopped by a local policeman Josh Waters (Alex Russell). Josh thinks of Jay as just another drunk wanderer of Aborigine community and places him on a lockup to dry out. He looks into the drunken guy’s bag to discover the detective medal. Josh reports this to pie-baking motherly mayor Maureen (a brilliant Jackie Weaver). Although Jay looks lost there is a purpose for his visit to this parched mining town: to track down the whereabouts of a missing, young Chinese girl who was last seen in the town’s outskirts.

Ivan Sen opens Goldstone with old pictures of multi-cultural workers and their rich white masters, taken during the 1800’s Gold rush in Southern New South Wales. At least 7000 Chinese were believed to have worked in the NSW gold fields. The old pictures speak of the socioeconomic oppression and shows how little have changed in these areas. The gallery exhibition in the opening credits ends up with the photo of young Chinese girls – may be prostitutes brought in to serve the workers. The ruthless Caucasian master of yesteryear is replaced by a mining company and a gentlemanly manager Johnny (David Wenham). Jay receives the same kind of treatment Spencer Tracy’s character received in “Bad Day at Black Rock” (1955). As a stranger in town, he is offered tea and pies, but gently warned off to not stir up the hornet’s nest. Jay, who is not so desirous to hold onto his life, knows that all the roads lead to ‘Furnace Creek’ mining company (literally and symbolically). So he starts off his investigation there by trespassing into the company’s property, and in return he faces crew of heavies, equipped with state-of-the-art assault rifles.

It is customary for Johnny to offer bribery to fend off opposition for his plans of development. The company has called up for an expansion, which may lead to the eviction of indigenous people. And, to expand they need the consent of ‘black fellas’. That’s no problem since the local chairman of the land council Tommy (Tommy Lewis) is on the take. The rest of the small Aborigine community is wasted on grog (rum cut with water) or on drugs. Wise, senior figures of the community like Jimmy (David Gulpill) is left on their own. The teen Aborigines are so depressed to choose suicide as the only way out. To say in few words, the Aborigines are still caught up in the whirlpool of Australia’s colonial past. A visit to this impoverished community makes Jay to learn some truth about his past. He easily pieces out the debauched connection between the powerful people, but the vital piece of the puzzle are the beautiful pan-Asian girls, who are flown in (without consent) to service the mine workers (to pay off their burgeoning debt). Young white Australian Josh is a morally grey character whose stern stance may benefit Jay’s mission.

Director Ivan Sen says that he wants to pass on his socially conscious themes in an ‘artistic but digestible way’. He started off his career with neo-realist tales and documentaries (“Beneath Clouds”, “Toomelah”) and made the transformation to script gritty tale Mystery Road, which in terms of structure resembles film-noir genre. The simple set-up of the location reminds us of old westerns: a town with one policeman; a one-man pub, gang of hoods, etc. Sen continues his cutting critique on Australian society by referencing the themes like teen Aborigine suicide, chronic alcoholism, etc. Dangerous wild dogs are once again mentioned (as it was in Mystery Road) although we don’t see the creatures or its spoils. The wild dogs, I think, represent some kind of metaphysical menace confronted by Jay. The script adds more metaphorical weight when Jimmy, the spiritual guide, takes Jay through Aborigine lands (to see ancient cave paintings) to suggest about whom the land is going to evict. After considering the complaints of confusion regarding Mystery Road’s story-line (especially the ending), Sen might have chosen a pretty clear plot and characterizations. Nevertheless, the structure is wafer thin to justify the running time.

There’s nothing wrong with a robust slow-burn thriller and noirs could be engaging even when we can’t fully figure out what’s happening (eg, “Inherent Vice” or the masterpiece “The Big Sleep”). Goldstone doesn’t belong to neither of these categories. The dialogues aren’t subtle and the characters aren’t strong enough to substitute the lack of mystery. Wenham and Jackie Weaver elevate their caricatured villain characters through their wonderful performances. There are quite a few inorganic scenes to insist on the film’s themes or to deliver information. The brothel madame’s bleak advice to the young Chinese girl, and Jay’s encounter with prostitute ‘Pinky’ (operating out of a mobile brothel) are some examples of the inorganic narrative beats. These prolonged scenes and recurring motifs rather than adding weight to the structure only turns it into a tiring experience. Of course, there are few well-written scenes. My favorites are the encounter between Chinese girl (Michelle Lim Davidson) and Josh. They both strive to save themselves by trusting each other (and their acquaintance is not romanticized). Eventually, what makes Goldstone a watchable movie (if not one of the good Australian flick) is the technical prowess of director, editor, cinematographer and musical composer Ivan Sen. He shows an amazing restraint in direction, which lacks a bit in his scripts.

Sen’s frames find the seam of rich emotions lying beneath the placid face of Aborigines and thoughtfully exhibits what it is like to live on the fringes of a community. When Johnny promises jobs & economical improvement for the indigenous community (during the meeting to make the Aborigines sign off their lands) Sen observes the community’s children jumping on a giant inflatable slide and adults with disconnected gaze (succumbed to grog). The way Sen relates to & visualizes the indigenous experience (their land rights issues) brings excellent vibrancy to the narrative. Director Sen seems to love aerial shots and close-ups. His steady pace lends magnetic force to both these oft-repeated shots. Among all the expert visual constructions, the one indelible aspect of Sen’s film are the shoot-outs. The impressively shot action scenes in Goldstone are tauter than the ones in “Mystery Road”. The final shoot-out that unfurls in between the mazes of camper vans was brilliantly visualized. There’s ample pause and silence in his action scenes rather than imagining it as a bullet-fest. Aaron Pedersen once again delivers a brooding performance as Jay. Pedersen impeccably showcases the frustration of being part of the establishment and part of the indigenous world. His demeanor and some of his mannerisms remind us of the famous fictional gumshoe Philip Marlowe.  



Goldstone (110 minutes) was an expertly filmed and performed outback noir with sharp & relevant social commentary (human trafficking, cultural destruction and corporate corruption). Although the writing is not so intriguing, the creative pursuit to expose the mistreatment of marginalized people delivers a fine impact. 



Afterimage [2016] – A Fitting Tribute to a Defiant Polish Artist

Acclaimed Polish film-maker Andrzej Wajda’s final film Afterimage (Powidoki, 2016 -- Wajda died last October at the age of 90) captures the struggles faced by Polish avant-garde painter Wladyslaw Strzeminski (1893-1952) – marvelously played by Polish star Boguslaw Linda – during the last years of his life. Born in Minsk, graduated in St. Petersburg, Strzeminiski lost a leg and arm in WWI. He later attended state workshops in Moscow and got associated with great avant-garde artists like Chagall and Malevich. During the early 1920s he moved to Warsaw and developed his theory of Unism. Post World War II, he became an instructor at Higher School of Visual Arts in Lodz (a city in Central Poland). Adored by students and faculties, Strzeminiski evolved into a fine theoretician and art historian. He also developed the ‘Neoplastic room’ in 1946, a unique exhibition space for showcasing the collection of avant-garde arts, built inside Lodz’ Museum Sztuki. However, the postwar Stalinist ideologies soon snuffed out the space for abstract arts. While many artists succumbed to the Party’s populist demands, Strzeminiski refused to compromise his artistic standards or views. For nearly two decades, director Wajda pondered over making this biopic. Initially, Wajda wanted to focus on the troubled relationship between Strzeminiski and his wife/famous Polish sculptor Katarzyna Kobro. Instead, he used a classical narrative structure to make a quietly brooding drama on the isolated yet defiant last days of Strzeminiski’s life.

Andrzej Wajda is one of the few directors who can employ allegory as a powerful tool, which is pretty evident in an earlier scene in Afterimage when Strzeminiski sits down to paint in his flat. A huge red banner bearing the visage of grim-faced Stalin is hoisted over the apartment building, coloring the walls and the empty canvas in bright red. Unable to paint, Strzeminski uses one of his crutches to tear a potion of the fabric to let in some light, which makes the lawmen to barge in and carry him to police headquarters. The giant red banner becomes a symbol for the loss of individuality (or a symbol of oppression). The film opens in 1948 and chronicles the mandate imposed by Cultural Ministry to only uphold arts related to ‘Socialist realism’. As a bureaucrat says, “in these times, we have only one choice”. Art that lacks strict ideology is considered to be an art hostile to socialist ideologies. The bald-headed despot minister doesn’t have the time or mind to appreciate abstract arts or champion individualism. Strezminiski openly denounces minister’s views that ‘art should have a clear political message’.

Strezminiski refusal to work within bureaucratic ranks strips him of his position at the university. He loses his gallery at the museum, and even dismissed from the artists association. Unable to find job anywhere within the system, Strzeminiski reels in poverty and faces humiliation everywhere he turns. He finds solace in the visits of his loyal students (among the students young Hania is infatuated with Strzeminiski), who are helping him to finish the radical work ‘Theory of Vision’. Apart from the students, Strzeminiski is cared by his smart, tough teenage daughter Nika (Bronislawa  Zamachowska). But his situation doesn’t get any better. He is reduced to painting large banners of Stalin to survive, and in turn for the worse, Strzeminiski is even denied the right to purchase paints. Furthermore, the onset of tuberculosis hacks away the little physical strength left within him.

Afterimage may not be one of the greatest works in Wajda’s extensive body of work. Nevertheless, it is a poignant study of a quietly rebellious artist trying to preserve his artistic integrity, in the face of oppressive doctrines. The script developed by Andrzej Mularczyk (based on Wajda’s idea) is totally devoid of hagiography notions. It was good decision to only refer to Strzeminiski’s difficult relationship with his ex-wife or his former acclaimed position rather than explain everything in detail. With his minimalist directorial approach, Wajda doesn’t shies away from depicting the harshness of Strzeminski’s physical and existential isolation. He doesn’t allow the artist to deliver loud proclamations or express the injustices done to him. Wajda even audaciously captures Strzeminiski’s graceless moments: for eg, the moment when the hungry artist licks the few drops of soup in empty plate, or showcasing his plight of drawing very large Stalin banners which earlier set off all the modes of oppression. Strzeminiski didn’t denunciate his choice of artistic expression to gain food-stamps and steady job. But at the same time, he wasn’t too prideful to deny all the essentials to survive. Director Wajda’s intention isn’t to capture the avant-garde artist’s glory. By focusing on the isolation and disintegration of the true artist, Wajda explores the ceding position of alleged intellectuals in the rise of populism or extreme nationalism. It is also interesting to note how totalitarian governments sought out arts with propagandist purposes to exploit citizen’s goodwill.

The movie title represents the shapes that linger in our eyes after it has been exposed to an image. Wajda’s recollection of Strzeminiski’s final days seems to be well-crafted afterimage of the old Poland (governed by brutal and foolish authorities). Although the systematic annihilation of Strzeminiski’s art and individualism looks relentlessly bleak, Wajda does find some hope, if not positive signs, in the young characters. The character of Strzeminski’s emancipated daughter Nika is wonderfully performed and well-written. Her sense of self survives despite the invasive doctrines. The quiet desperation as well as unbridled love between the father and daughter is also portrayed in a nuanced manner. Boguslaw Linda (Blind Chance, Psy, Man of Iron, etc) incredible acting style and physiognomy impeccably conveys depths of the artist’s anguish. He avoids sentimentality and didacticism to unwaveringly play out Strzeminiski’s misfortunes. Linda even elevates the narrative above its slightly monotonous tone (particularly in the later half). 


Afterimage (98 minutes) is a quiet, non-sentimental reflection on a famous Polish avant-garde artist’s struggles against Stalinist dogmas. The story of Wladyslaw Strzeminski is the perfect farewell subject matter for veteran film-maker Andrzej Wajda, whose art is often marked by individuals’ bold resistance against cruel establishment. 

Stories We Tell [2012] – A Multi-Layered Scrapbook

How should I describe the Canadian actress/film-maker Sarah Polley’s acclaimed documentary Stories We Tell (2012)? Is it an earnest effort by the film-maker to piece together a portrait of her mother, who passed away when Polley was eleven? Or is it a search for an answer to the alleged family secret – using means of art to get at the truth? Or is it about coming to terms with a harsh truth – a sort of therapy? Or is about the elusive nature of human memories?  The answer could be all and none; it may elicit admiration or aversion based on how we interpret it. Sarah Polley simply states that her film is about ‘our need to tell our stories and to understand them’. The first time I saw Stories We Tell I wasn’t very impressed. The plot description said that through series of interviews, Polley reveals truth about her family history. I am not the one who thinks, ‘Why should I watch a documentary made by a rich, white Canadian actress digging up her own past?’ but still I didn’t focus much to look through the smart layers, intertwined into a seemingly simple portrait of a mother. However, the second (and 3rd) time viewing have left me with a thought-provoking experience, enabling me to ponder over the documentary’s universal truth. Now I don’t think Stories We Tell is simply a film about well settled Polleys’ or just a pseudo-artistic exploration of memory; it’s much more than that – it asks ‘how would you shape your own story?’ ‘Forget about your objectivity on worldly matters and can you be anything but subjective when reiterating the legends in your own family?’ inquires this ingenious feature.

Director Polley is very much aware of the banality behind such a premise. So, despite opening the documentary with Canadian poet & novelist Margaret Atwood’s immersive words [“When you are in the middle of a story it isn’t a story at all, but only a confusion, a dark roaring, a blindness………..It’s only afterwards it becomes anything like a story at all. When you’re telling it to yourself or someone else?”] Polley shows us the slight artificiality inherent to this process. She frames the chief players (the family members) among the rigged cameras & mics, and asks them if they are nervous. She sort of breaks the fourth wall by introducing us the tale’s narrator – Michael Polley (Sarah’s father)—and even goes on to ask ‘who cares about our family anyway?’ The elder step-brother asks if the ‘angle is ok’; the elder sister drops in an ‘f-word’ and wonders if that's alright. These little awkwardness and hesitations hacks away at the clich├ęs of this process, extracting a chuckle or two from us. Old Mr. Michael Polley reads the narration he has written, and in it he refers to himself in third person. At the center of this family tale is Diane Polley, the deceased mother – a beautiful blonde with an incandescent smile – seen in the grainy home movies.

Sarah’s siblings, father Michael, friends and relatives recall the free-spirited nature of Diane, who always had a smile on her and immensely adored by the children. Michael, the stage actor, recollects the day he met Diane backstage and how it developed into decade-spanning romance. The first half of the tale tells the character contradictions between the couple – Michael, a quiet introvert and Diane, a whirlwind with lot of friends. Sarah has used professional actors [the footage are shot on super 8] to enact friends’ & families’ memories about the relationship between the couples. Diane, who is also a Toronto-based stage actor, chased upon her dreams to perform for a play in Montreal, while Michael gave up on acting and writing to pursue a simple job. He took care of the children. Couple of Diane’s friends state how she was disappointed in Michael, who is very talented than her, but wasn’t interested to come out of his small circle. Diane’s trip to Montreal and Michael timely visit for the weekends, rekindles the passion which for a long time had been dormant. At the age of 42, Diane gets pregnant with Sarah and at the age of 53 she dies to cancer (since her mother passed away at the age of 11, Sarah has little idea about her mother’s past).

Later in the tale, the bitter ending to Diane’s first marriage is revealed (three of Sarah’s siblings are from Diane’s first marriage). Polley keeps on providing visual accompaniment about Diane (from the words of her friends) by celebrating the woman’s positively infectious spirit and also sharply observing her impulsive behavior. Then, there’s the tale’s chief element, which all started as a dinner table joke. Sarah’s elder brother has once overheard his mother’s phone conversation with an alleged secret lover. He also heard rumors that Michael is not Sarah’s biological father. As a pre-teen, Sarah is often teased by her siblings about how she doesn’t look like their Michael at all. This seed of doubt has grown big along with Sarah’s growth and at some point she conversed with her mother’s alleged lovers to find out if such rumors are indeed true. This search leads Sarah to Harry Gulkin, a producer with whom Diane has once worked. Out of nowhere, the old man on their first conversation has confessed that he is Sarah’s biological father. He thinks she would have already known this. Sarah comes across this truth in 2007 and confirms it with a DNA test, but reveals it to Michael only in 2009, after a reporter got wind of the fact.
Although the vexed family history of the Polley’s seems simple like that of a drama set on the suburbs, it has layers like that of an onion, thanks to Sarah Polley’s magnificent direction. Of course, it demands a lot of focus to peel through the onion layers to ponder upon its multi-faceted nature. With the grainy, jerky super 8 camera footage (contrived as well as the real one), the documentary makes us believe that it's searching for an elusive truth of a particular person. This elusive truth is not the kind we encountered in Kurosawa’s masterpiece “Rashomon”. The people interviewed are not providing contradictory details about Diane’s character. While films like “Rashomon” through dramatic means, profoundly contemplates on the nature of truth, limited by perspective, Stories We Tell looks at different aspects of a truth, conjured by memories, which itself is made by our ordinary emotional needs. Compared to bigger contradictions in the versions of truth in a dramatic movie, Polley’s real story just observes the small differences we make to retell a fact or a particular life incident. For example, Diane’s friends state how she knew that she’s gonna die soon, whereas Michael tells she didn’t know and recounts the day Diane started scraping and varnish or re-paint large tables – a project that would have taken weeks. “That’s a person who is still planning how her house is going to look. I don’t think she got real sense…….” Michael says. It’s not that Diane’s friends or Michael is lying about it; it means they have formed a perception based upon the experiences they had back then. The memories later make those experiences the truth and actually such different facets of truth makes a person multi-dimensional (an enigma – and who doesn’t want to be a bit of an enigma rather than our friends & families reminiscing a single, boring version of our life).

When Sarah Polley reaches a point to uncover the truth, she wonders if this is what she wanted to do. The constant introspective examination of film-maker’s intent and the ‘meta-nature’ transcends this tale from being personal to universal. When she comes to a conclusion that there is no single, fixed version of her mother, the artificiality of using the professional actors are revealed. The actors in those footage re-enact particular memory from different interviewees. The acting is bit stilted to observe the ‘truth’ of individual memory. May be, the constant self-examination of a documentary’s limitations is not related to the story of Diane Polley (to show what kind of a person she is), but such an approach makes it quite an acute examination of how we tell our stories, patching up random, unforgettable memories.Michael Polley, towards the end, also questions how the editing process would make her select certain views to construct one version of the tale or Diane's portrait. Sarah Polley plays with this idea in the small scene during end credits. With all the numerous footnotes provided by half-siblings, father, and old friends, we seem to know the kind of person Diane is and why she did certain things in life, but Polley drops in that little, darkly comical information, teasing us and asking: “Oh! You think you figured out everything about Diane, huh?” May be, Diane is ultimately unknowable, in the same way we and our loved ones remain to each other. And, this resulting question of ‘why’ that drives us to find the ‘unknowable element’ of a person is what makes all of us story-tellers and story-listeners. Eventually, Stories We Tell is could be about our inherent thirst to tell or shape our own personal stories.


The multi-talented artist Sarah Polley, through the kaleidoscopic tale of her family suggests that truth and memories may get lost in time, but what matters in life is to love & being loved.