Sugarcane offers a refreshing and vital departure from the one-dimensional portrayals of indigenous peoples that are too often reduced to simple, stereotypical narratives. Its impact lies in its complexity and depth, shedding light on a painful subject that is inextricably linked to the silence that often surrounds it. To witness this story unfold so vividly in the lives of those affected is both jarring and illuminating. There is something profoundly powerful about sitting with these individuals, hearing not only the weight of their struggles but also the strength and resilience that define their journey. It is the perspective of the survivor, raw and unapologetic, that makes this exploration both necessary and transformative.

The film's true thesis is emboldening people’s stories that are still very current. This is not a Ken Burns documentary focused on events that happened one hundred fifty years ago. These things were still happening forty-five years ago. Gen-X was in their twenties when the school in question was closed; it was not long ago. Accountability and helplessness when grappling with one’s meaning are the heartbeat of this story.

If I have any qualms, it’s that some of the conversations feel scripted, and that did take me out of it slightly, though that’s really just a technical issue. The content of what they are saying vastly overshadows any issue of presentation. This film isn’t really meant to make sweeping, neoliberal change, but rather to simply get authorities to acknowledge the pain their community has endured. This makes the deep sadness woven into this narrative all the more effective.

This is a very powerfully subtle film.

One of the most inspiring—and simultaneously infuriating—portraits of courage and perseverance in the face of unimaginable cruelty and suppression I have ever seen. I am in absolute awe of Shiori Itō and the strength she embodies. This is a historic work, one that demands both attention and reflection.

There is so much to say about No Other Land that goes beyond the film itself. The human element of the film struck me as the most profound and jarring. So much has happened in Palestine since the majority of this film takes place. We can all sit around and paint these communities as “resilient,” “strong,” or maybe even “courageous,” but watching firsthand, you see just how heartbroken and overwhelmed with stress they are. This is painfully true to the human experience of tragedy.

No Other Land doesn’t aim to construct a new narrative that will make Western audiences open their eyes. This documentary is not about providing answers or solutions—it is about documenting the unvarnished reality of life in a place ravaged by colonialism and genocide. The act of documenting itself is both a gesture of hope and a recognition of despair. It asks the viewer to bear witness to a pain that is neither new nor confined to the past, but which continues to echo through the lives of the people living it.

To say No Other Land is political is wrong, and frankly, a boring take. No Other Land is not taking a political stance. This is about community and the weight of trying to live your life with normalcy while massive historical tragedy falls upon you. This is sober look at what surviving colonialism and genocide looks like firsthand. The camera is set down, and you just live life with this community as every horrific thing that can happen does happen.

The documentary doesn’t aim to construct a new narrative that will make Western audiences open their eyes. This documentary is not about providing answers or solutions—it is about documenting the unvarnished reality of life in a place ravaged by tyranny and apartheid. The act of documenting itself is both a gesture of hope and a recognition of despair. It asks the viewer to bear witness to a pain that is neither new nor confined to the past, but which continues to echo through the lives of the people still  living it.

Did I enjoy the film? No. Can I say that I enjoy watching genocide? Absolutely not. But was No Other Land effective in its goal of documenting a history that continues to haunt the present? Yes. The emotional weight of the film lingers long after the credits roll—hours, even days after watching, the impact remains. No Other Land does not ask for pity, nor does it offer easy solutions. It simply demands that we witness what has been, and what continues to be, an unbearable human cost.

One wouldn’t expect a film centered around a war as immediate and all-consuming as the one in Ukraine to feel so vivid, so full of color, so alive. And yet, that is the lasting power of Porcelain War. It is a documentary shaped not by despair, but by resilience—a film that, for all its brutal truths, pulses with hope.

The first half of Porcelain War carries a nearly childlike optimism, a pluckiness that makes the inevitable weight of its latter half all the more crushing. What begins as a portrait of artists, everyday people bound by a need to create, soon becomes something heavier: a meditation on war’s ability to transform, to strip away, to force civilians into warriors against the press of Russian advances. The documentary draws a striking parallel between art and resistance, returning to the idea again and again—just as a sculptor or painter is compelled to create, so too is a soldier compelled to defend their land. The film does not belabor the point, nor does it impose sentimentality. Instead, it allows these ideas to emerge organically, in ways that are as thought-provoking as they are unflinching.

This duality—of creation and destruction, of life and loss—is the film’s great strength. Neither side is given undue weight; rather, they exist in perfect, painful balance. Like sunlight filtering through the trees onto a meadow just beyond the reach of war, the film crafts images that are at once brutal and wondrous. The animation imposed on porcelain sculptures creates a haunting visual metaphor, transforming delicate figures into symbols of displacement, struggle, and the inexorable human urge to continue. There is a softness here, matched with a cold, coarse pain.

The film’s final words, projected onto a porcelain Pegasus, crystallize its message:

"No one knows what awaits Ukraine. It’s a story we are creating now by the actions we take. People have died for their families, their homes, to ensure their way of life continues when they are gone. In reality, no one comes back from war the same person they were. None of us will ever be the same as we were before. But the enemy is not as creative at being bad as good people are at being good. Now, a carpet of the future is being woven. The threads for it are drawn from past misfortunes and fortunes… Ukraine is like porcelain, easy to break, but impossible to destroy. If tomorrow comes, it will depend on how well we tie our boots today. If the future exists for us, if we don’t disappear… then it was worth it."

A fragile nation, but an unbreakable one. Porcelain War is a beautifully tragic piece of art.

Some have suggested that A Soundtrack to a Coup d'Étata is good starting point for its subject matter, I couldn’t disagree more. This documentary deserves real love and dissection, but it’s not going to be everyone’s cup of tea, and that’s okay. 

This film is for Cold War enthusiasts, especially those familiar with the African independence movement and the Congo’s independence movement. If you don’t already know who Patrice Lumumba was, or the details surrounding his assassination by political rivals, the Belgian government, and the CIA, this might leave you frustrated. It could spark your interest, but it won’t educate you. However, for those already steeped in history, it offers an extraordinary level of detail on Lumumba’s assassination and its global aftermath—insights I hadn’t seen before.

Jazz lovers will also find something here—but with a catch. The film mashes up iconic jazz tunes from the late '50s and early '60s, slicing them into quick snippets that fail to let the music breathe. It’s a documentary about jazz, but it’s impatient with the music itself.

I stil found a lot that I liked. This film touches on the country’s central role in both world wars, its struggle for independence, and its exploitation during the Cold War. One of the most striking sequences juxtaposes footage of Western powers willing to sacrifice Congolese lives for their own geopolitical interests with sleek, modern ads for products—like iPhones and Teslas—that depend on the resources stolen from Congo to exist.

But as the film wore on (and it is long), I found myself wanting it to slow down. I yearned for complete jazz performances instead of its fast-paced, fragmented editing. At times, the jazz angle feels shoehorned in to make the story “cool,” even though some segments—like Louis Armstrong’s unease about being used as a tool of U.S. propaganda—offer genuine insight. There’s so much more to explore here. A whole film could focus on Amiri Baraka and Maya Angelou’s powerful protests at the UN following Lumumba’s murder.

In short, if you’re already familiar with anti-colonial, Cold War, and African independence history—or jazz history—this is a must-watch. If not, at least read up on Lumumba’s story beforehand. The real history is far more tragic, and its consequences far more enduring, than the film’s frenetic style fails the history in more than a few ways.