‘Good war’ vs ‘bad war’: An examination of TIFF’s offerings in the ‘shadow of a genocide’
How does one navigate the vibrant chaos of a film festival in the shadow of an ongoing genocide? This weighty question loomed large in my mind as I immersed myself in two films at the Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF) — From Ground Zero and Russians at War — while other poignant narratives such as No Other Land and Viktor beckoned for consideration.
These films help us grapple with the complex emotional landscape and ethics that shape our collective experience in these turbulent times, urging us to confront the ethical dilemmas that persist long after the last credits roll. It compels us to confront the paradox of our existence — the allure of heroism entwined with the horror of destruction, inviting us to grapple with the ethical complexities that underlie our narratives of violence and redemption. Cinema transforms war into a mirror reflecting our deepest truths — showing us not just the chaos of battle, but the moral quandaries that linger in its aftermath. Through its lens, we grapple with the cost of conflict and the enduring question: what does it mean to be human in the face of destruction?
When cinema blinks
In No Other Land, directed by Basel Adra, Yuval Abraham, Hamdan Ballal, and Rachel Szor, the viewer is thrust into the rugged landscape of Masafer Yatta, a region reeling from a court ruling that dismisses the residents’ long-standing fight against the illegal seizure of their homeland. Adra, an activist armed with both a camera and a law degree, serves as both narrator and anchor; having lived his entire life in this encroached territory, he aims to illuminate his community’s struggle against relentless Israeli occupation.
While the villagers are aware of the larger forces at play, the film focuses on their immediate struggles, driven by an undeniable urgency. The documentary immerses viewers in the stark realities of Masafer Yatta, tracing the lives of its inhabitants from 2019 to 2023 with a poignant immediacy. The film paints a vivid portrait of resilience amidst adversity, juxtaposing serene moments — like Adra’s quiet attempt to rest as a bulldozer rumbles ominously above — with the visceral chaos of confrontations captured in raw, handheld footage.
Rather than wading into the murky waters of geopolitical debate, Adra and Abraham, an anti-occupation Israeli journalist, zero in on the intimate struggles faced by the villagers, illuminating their humanity in the face of relentless encroachment and occupation. Each frame pulsates with a sense of urgency, revealing how the residents navigate the daily grind of existence under siege, where each mundane act becomes an act of defiance.
The documentary powerfully conveys that while broader political narratives loom in the background, the heart of the film lies in the lived experiences of those who call this contested land home. In this landscape of tension and uncertainty, No Other Land resonates as a profound exploration of survival, reminding us that in the face of overwhelming odds, the quest for dignity and belonging remains an unwavering force.
In Viktor, another war tale, this time from Ukraine, we see in the protagonist, Viktor, a deaf war photographer, navigating the vagaries of a nation at war. Starting a day before the first day of the conflict and running through the first year, director Olivier Sarbil introduces us to Viktor Korotovskyi, a deaf Ukrainian citizen desperate to fulfil his duty and against all odds becoming an official press photographer, working near the front lines. He gets inside the head of his subject, employing subjective swings in the audio soundtrack to either mute or muddle what’s being perceived, bringing hearing audiences into the compromised sonic space of Viktor himself.
The film delves deeply into the intricate bond between war and the often unspoken compulsion to serve one’s country, revealing the profound desperation that drives individuals to such lengths. It lays bare the human instinct to sacrifice, not just out of duty, but from a need to find purpose amidst the chaos, portraying the silent yet powerful forces that compel people to offer themselves to the cause, even when the cost is unimaginable.
Viktor envelops its audience in the depths of auditory isolation, using a delicate interplay of cinematic techniques to invite us into the silence that governs Viktor’s reality. The absence of sound heightens each visual detail, creating an unsettling immersion. By weaving between muffled whispers and distorted soundscapes, the film offers hearing viewers a visceral glimpse into Viktor’s fragmented experience of reality. By manipulating the audio to oscillate between muted whispers and muddled soundscapes, the film immerses hearing audiences into Viktor’s disorienting, compromised world of sound, allowing them to experience the fractured reality that shapes his perception.
Viktor captivates not only through its portrayal of the war photographer at its centre but also in what his lens reveals in stark, arresting black and white. As much a study of Viktor as it is of the fractured worlds he captures, the film draws power from what lingers in the shadows, making it a profoundly reflective meditation on war, memory, and the act of witnessing. As Viktor declares, “Silence is not emptiness; it is not the absence of something. It is the presence of the self and nothing else. In this silence, I find my peace.”
We have not been able to see past the fog of war
In the Western world, the narrative is sharply divided between a ‘good war’ and a ‘bad war’ — where Israel’s actions are framed as ‘self-defence’ while Russia’s invasion of Ukraine is condemned. Amid this, Canadian-Russian filmmaker Anastasia Trofimova’s Russians at War finds itself ensnared in controversy. The film has drawn fierce backlash from the sizeable Ukrainian diaspora in Canada, who vehemently oppose its portrayal of the conflict, accusing the filmmaker of “humanising the Russians soldiers”.
Politicians have weighed in, amplifying tensions, while funding bodies like TVO disavowed their connection, giving credence to the documentary as ‘Russian propaganda’ — a term now wielded to fit shifting political agendas.
Four days earlier, the same TVO, in a statement released on September 6, claimed: “Russians at War is at its core an anti-war film. It is unauthorised by Russian officials and was made at great personal risk to the filmmaker, who was under constant threat of arrest and incarceration for trying to tell an unofficial story. This film shows the increasing disillusionment of Russian soldiers as their experience at the front doesn’t jive with the media lies their families are being told at home.”
Amid this tumult, TIFF cancelled the programmed screenings, ultimately permitting a double screening after North America’s largest film festival drew to a close, under heightened security, surrounded by vocal protesters, underscoring the fraught intersection of art, politics, and public sentiment.
Russians at War unveils the complex realities of life of a motley group of Russian soldiers amidst existential compulsions, ideological tensions, and unravelling war, revealing the humanity often obscured by political narratives. It is as if the film followed in the footsteps of John Steinbeck’s Russian Journal, alongside renowned war photographer Robert Capa, an incisive eyewitness account of the Soviet Union during the nascent Cold War.
Captured over seven months, this documentary immerses viewers in the lives of a disparate band of Russian soldiers — conscripts and volunteers alike — grappling with the stark challenges of survival in the tumultuous landscape of Russian-occupied Ukraine, where the lines between fighting and enduring blur. Boredom and the slowness of war on the frontlines envelop the viewer, as myriad personal intentions, stories of friendship, and the nurturing of love gradually peel away the layers of narrative surrounding the brutal Russian invasion.
In sharp contrast is The Bibi Files, directed by Alexis Bloom, which delves into the murky depths of corruption enveloping Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu. While the film faced minimal resistance to its release — save for Netanyahu’s legal attempts to stifle it — the compelling leaked footage at its core presents a unique dilemma. This very evidence, vital to the film’s investigation, complicates its screening in Israel, where it risks prejudicing potential jurors and further entangling the political narrative it seeks to expose.
In From Ground Zero, the gaze reverses. It offers an urgent, intimate glimpse into the human toll of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, far beyond the scope of news bulletins. The victims and subjects of the genocide speak, each frame is an expression of raw emotion, creating a deeply personal narrative of survival, loss, and the fragility of existence under siege. From Ground Zero — a powerful anthology of 22 distinct voices from filmmakers within Gaza — stands as a harrowing yet vital testament to the enduring human cost of war.
Each film poignantly underscores that, beneath the broader geopolitical narrative, it is individual lives that are irreversibly altered. Both unflinching and heart-wrenching, this collection confronts viewers with the visceral realities of conflict, demanding our attention and empathy. It is not merely an artistic endeavour but an essential document of survival and suffering, a necessary reckoning with the ongoing devastation. Initiated by director Rashid Masharawi, born and raised in Gaza to a family of refugees originally from Jaffa, through the Masharawi Fund, this project grants Palestinian filmmakers an artistic outlet in the face of impossible conditions.
In one of these 22 works that stuck with me, Sorry Cinema by veteran Gazan filmmaker Ahmed Hassouna offers a letter of apology to the art form, saying he is unable to continue working as he has to ensure his family’s survival. Ahmed, having never seen his films on a big screen or showcased at festivals, declined Masharawi’s offer to join the project. Grieving the recent loss of his brother and trapped in the isolation of North Gaza where aid arrives only by air, his refusal spoke to the weight of personal and collective tragedy. The film is a moving tribute to cinema, as much as it is a poignant perspective of a creative’s life amidst war.
It is pertinent to point out that this anthology from Gaza was first accepted at the 77th Cannes Film Festival after which its director Thierry Fremaux informed director Rashid Masharawi about their inability to screen the collection of 22 works as they want “a festival without polemics”. The 2022 Cannes Film Festival kicked off with a live video message from Ukrainian President Zelensky, bringing the urgency of war to the heart of cinema’s grand stage.
In 2024, Masharawi organised a protest screening in Cannes: “We carried out the media campaign ourselves, set up the tent, issued our publications, established a refugee cinema, showed the Gaza sea, and provided dates and coffee — which we serve in houses of mourning — to honour the souls of the more than 37,000 martyrs. We are filmmakers. The world must hear us. We want our voice to be heard, because we exist.”
Excavating cinematic memories
In the invocation of the influence of Robert Capra by the director of Russians at War, my mind wandered to two individuals — Rade Serbedzija who played the character of a native Macedonian war photographer in Before the Rain, and Abu Zubaydah in Can’t Get You Out of My Head by Adam Curtis.
Curtis’ ambitious six-part documentary series, with a total runtime of approximately eight hours, explores the psychological and political evolution of modern society, tracing the shift from collectivism to individualism. With his signature blend of archival footage, Curtis delves into the forces shaping our contemporary world — power, paranoia, and the disintegration of shared meaning.
The series interweaves stories of individuals, ideologies, and revolutions, presenting a complex narrative about the consequences of unbridled individualism and the manipulation of collective fear. It’s an epic reflection on the chaotic, fragmented world we now inhabit. In one haunting vignette, Curtis lingers on the fractured psyche of Abu Zubaydah, a man whose mind, shattered by CIA torture, serves as a chilling metaphor for collective disarray.
Curtis almost declares, “We’ve all become like Abu Zubaydah’s brain,” yet wisely holds back, inviting viewers to explore this unsettling parallel for themselves. Abu Zubaydah’s tale, however, extends beyond his personal torment; a shell fragment lodged in his brain since 1991 leaves him trapped in a liminal world of fragmented memories — mirroring the way we, too, grapple with a fractured reality that eludes coherence.
As if vindicating, and despite the zeitgeist, the festival’s People’s Choice Award turned a wary eye from the pressing realities of today, opting instead for a nostalgic inward gaze. The Tragically Hip: No Dress Rehearsal celebrated musical lore with tender reverence, while The Life of Chuck, with its forlorn tale, took the crown. Yet, amid these echoes of the past, one is left to ponder — how long can we cradle the comforts of memory while the world outside unravels, demanding not just our awareness, but our urgent response?
However, for me two films, Ground Zero and Russians at War, offered a pertinent point of entry in the times when we are conditioned to create the the uncomfortable dichotomy of ‘good war’ versus ‘bad war’; they stand as bookends to the 2024 Toronto International Film Festival, caught in the tumult of American cancel culture, providing a fertile ground for exploring how we collectively process and respond to the visceral realities of contemporary loss, pain, memory, conflict, war and genocide.
They invite us to examine not just the cinematic stories unfolding before us, but also the deeper emotional resonances that challenges our understanding of empathy and complicity. In this context, the festival transforms into a space not merely for entertainment, but for a deeper reckoning with the moral imperatives of our time.