Darlene Naponse’s latest film “Aki” opens with a quiet confidence that feels almost radical. No narration, no on-screen text telling you what to notice, just the northern Ontario land breathing in real time. A bird’s eye view of snowy land as the lush music swells; later on replaced by crickets trilling against the hum of distant water, cattle lowing from somewhere off-frame, and hockey sticks scraping the ice as young girls play at night. Where Godfrey Reggio’s experimental cult classic “Koyaanisqatsi” blasted urban chaos in operatic time-lapse, Naponse moves the other way: a kind of anti-”Koyaanisqatsi”—camera lowered in reverence, offering images like a song of praise to the earth.
The seasons in “Aki” turn without hurry. A child’s skate blades cut across an outdoor rink. A beaver swims through the current. A dog joyfully runs through the lake. A sloth of black bears rummages through trash. Later, white snow hardens the ground into a field of diamonds. These are not inserts to decorate a narrative; they are the narrative.
An Immersive Look to Life on a Small Anishinaabe First Nation
“Aki”—which in Anishinaabemowin can broadly refer to land and the people—invites you to surrender to the rhythm of Atikameksheng Anishnawbek, the filmmaker’s own home community. Its beauty isn’t something you check off a list of scenic attractions. More than that, it’s a living presence that asks you to stay, listen, and breathe.
When people do enter the frame, they arrive almost as naturally as the changing leaves. A highlight comes in a powwow sequence that builds from the soft rattle of drums into a swirl of color and movement. The camera doesn’t treat the gathering as spectacle; it simply bears witness. For anyone who has covered Indigenous cinema—from the more narrative-driven “Fancy Dance” to Naponse’s own earlier feature “Stellar”—the powwow resonates as both celebration and act of continuity, a heartbeat linking generations. No exposition explains its meaning; the meaning is in the drums, in the faces, in the simple fact that it endures.
On the other hand, while watching “Aki” I was reminded of Kimi Takesue’s “Onlookers,” another experimental documentary that trades conventional story for a kind of meditative travelogue. Both films trust their audiences to find shape in the act of watching. There’s no guide rope, just the quiet thrill of being present. Naponse’s difference is her intimacy. Whereas “Onlookers” roams through Laos as an inquisitive outsider, “Aki” moves like someone tracing the contours of her own heartbeat. The result is less travel diary than homecoming.
‘Aki’: A Love Letter to the Land That Requires Little to No Words
If you saw “Stellar” at TIFF a few years back, you’ll recognize Naponse’s fascination with the cosmos and the bonds of community. With “Aki,” however, she trades the magical-realist romance of that film for something sparer and, in its own way, more daring. With almost no dialogue—occasional Anishinaabemowin aside—the message carries more weight. This is a love letter to the land and to the people who refuse to be separated from it. The absence of words isn’t a lack. Quite the contrary, it’s a statement of trust that the images and sounds can speak for themselves.
By the time the final images fade—a bookend of shots that mirror the opening scene—you may feel as though you’ve been breathing alongside the pines and rivers, your own heartbeat slowed to match the drum. “Aki” doesn’t lecture or plead, and I don’t think it ever felt the need to. Instead, it simply lets the land, and the community that calls it home, assert their presence.
In a festival landscape crowded with talky, self-conscious experiments, “Aki” is a tender delight that stands out by doing less and giving more. In a way, Naponse offers the land back to us, luminous and unhurried, and asks only that we look.
Darlene Naponse’s “Aki” had its world premiere at this year’s Toronto International Film Festival. Follow us for more coverage.
