CLICK THE LINK BELOW [DOC EDGE 2025]

A filmmaker chasing financial freedom enters the high-stakes world of online marketing under a millionaire mentor—only to discover that success may come at a deeper cost. This revealing documentary exposes the hype, hustle, and heartbreak behind the digital dream.

In Click the Link Below, Norwegian filmmaker Audun Amundsen takes audiences on a personal and surprisingly intimate journey into the sprawling world of online marketing. With his own financial pressures mounting, Amundsen becomes both observer and participant, paying US$7,500 to join a mentorship programme led by Akbar Sheikh — a charismatic former homeless man who has reinvented himself as a millionaire digital coach.

At first glance, the documentary promises to lift the lid on the booming — and often dubious — world of “contrepreneurs”: self-made success stories who market wealth as both product and proof. Figures like Sheikh, Russell Brunson (of ClickFunnels fame), and Tai Lopez feature heavily, with Amundsen gaining access to the personalities behind the public personas. Many of them appear affable, articulate, and sincere in their belief that financial success is available to anyone willing to hustle hard enough. It’s a world where mindset is currency, and ambition is the only requirement.

Amundsen’s approach is thoughtful, perhaps too much so. Unlike more hard-nosed exposés, Click the Link Below doesn’t launch aggressive takedowns or seek out scandal. Instead, it observes and reflects — allowing the entrepreneurs to speak for themselves, revealing their ideals, their convictions, and occasionally, their contradictions. Akbar Sheikh, in particular, emerges as a compelling figure. He believes in what he teaches, and his motto, “make more, give more,” carries genuine emotional weight. Yet despite this sincerity, Sheikh’s business model remains murky. Even by the film’s conclusion, it’s unclear what Amundsen actually paid for or what measurable benefits, if any, he received.

And that, in part, is where the film falters.

Click the Link Below is strongest when it gives space for reflection — showing how online marketing culture intersects with ambition, self-worth, and identity. But it struggles to tie these ideas into a cohesive narrative. As an exposé, it holds back; as a personal journey, it remains unresolved. The film hints at the pitfalls of online coaching — high costs, low success rates, and blurred accountability — but never fully interrogates them. While Amundsen does push back gently at times, especially during one tense exchange with Sheikh, his tone remains consistently compassionate. He’s more interested in the people than their promises, and while this makes for a humanistic portrait, it leaves key questions unanswered.

Throughout the documentary, viewers are introduced to a range of voices: bestselling authors, digital marketers, psychologists, and critics. These figures provide some welcome context, adding layers of commentary on why these systems thrive and why so many people are drawn to them. However, there’s a noticeable gap: the absence of ordinary success stories. We meet those selling the dream, but not those who achieved it through these methods — or those who didn’t. The result is a film that illustrates the machinery of digital wealth coaching but doesn't fully explore its impact.

One of the most telling observations lies in the way these programmes shift responsibility. When participants fail to ‘10X’ their earnings, the blame tends to fall not on the programme but on the individual’s mindset. This dynamic — where the seller is absolved and the buyer is burdened — is one of the more insidious undercurrents of the online coaching world. And yet, the documentary raises this concern without fully engaging with its consequences. It suggests more than it states, leaving the viewer to connect the dots.

Amundsen himself appears caught between two worlds: the allure of financial independence and his calling as a documentary storyteller. His internal tension is real and relatable, and it gives the film an emotional core. But it also contributes to the film’s lack of narrative direction. Rather than driving toward a specific conclusion or critique, Click the Link Below meanders through its themes — offering snapshots, not a story.

It may be that this is deliberate. Perhaps the lack of clarity mirrors the very industry it depicts: glossy on the surface, vague in substance. The film’s title, after all, evokes the endless call-to-action that drives the online marketing world — an invitation that leads somewhere, but rarely where you expect.

Still, for a documentary that promises to interrogate an industry “built on hype, hustle, and heartbreak,” Click the Link Below remains surprisingly cautious. There are no bombshell revelations, no firm judgments, and no definitive conclusions. Instead, it offers a meditative look at the people behind the personas — and a quiet suggestion that the dream being sold might not be as straightforward as it seems.

In the end, Click the Link Below feels more like the beginning of a conversation than a final word. It’s valuable as a character study, as a reflection on ambition, and as a window into a world where marketing and identity intertwine. But viewers hoping for a sharp takedown of get-rich-quick culture may find it too gentle, too unresolved. Whether that’s a flaw or a feature depends on what you expect from the journey. Just don’t expect to find the answers in the link below.

Directed by Audun Amundsen | 103 mins | Norway | English, Norwegian | World Premiere – In Truth We Trust Category

Screening at the Doc Edge documentary festival, in Auckland, Wellington, Christchurch and online from 25 June. 

 

RONGO WHAKAPĀ (2025)

Rongo Whakapā is the debut choreographic work by Brydie Colquhoun, one of Aotearoa's most captivating Māori contemporary dance artists. In a time of disconnection, we're invited into a shared, intimate space.

In a world that feels increasingly rushed and fragmented, Rongo Whakapā offers something truly different. This is not your usual dance performance. Instead of taking place on a traditional stage with audiences confined to rows of seats, Rongo Whakapā invites you into a space where the boundary between viewer and performer is gently blurred. Presented by Atamira Dance Company and choreographed by Brydie Colquhoun, the performance becomes a shared, roaming exploration of intimacy, presence, and connection.

At the heart of Rongo Whakapā—which translates to "sense of touch"—is a desire to encourage audiences to slow down and reflect, not just on what they see before them, but on their own place in the world and their relationships with others. It is a contemplative work that creates room for stillness, thought, and a rare kind of quiet attention.

From the outset, the experience signals its difference. Upon entry, shoes must be removed, food and drink are prohibited, and seating is unallocated, limited, and peripheral. The performance takes place in a central, open area—a large white rectangle surrounded by minimalist corner installations. Downlights, strobes, and surround sound work together to create an immersive atmosphere that subtly shifts as the performance progresses.

Audiences are encouraged to roam the space, to choose their own vantage point, and even to move throughout the performance. But intriguingly, while this freedom is offered, most audience members gradually settle into stillness once the performance begins. Despite the open invitation to move, there is a natural tendency to find a place and stay put—a revealing commentary in itself on how deeply ingrained certain behaviours and expectations are within traditional theatre spaces.

The dancers, dressed in soft neutral tones, offer a series of physical expressions that quietly explore the theme of non-sexual intimacy. One moment sees two performers entwined in continuous contact, responding to each other’s shifting weight with spins, rolls, and balances that convey a deep physical trust. Another segment shows one dancer gently dressing another before guiding them through a series of motions, blurring the lines between autonomy and care. Elsewhere, pairs of dancers move in close synchronisation, mirroring each other’s forms with careful control and striking precision.

There is no story in the traditional sense. Instead, the performance flows from one interaction to the next—each movement an offering, a question, or a reflection on how we relate to one another. The choreography draws on Colquhoun’s extensive knowledge of contemporary dance techniques, improvisational forms, and score-based movement structures, which help to build a work that is both grounded and open-ended.

The set pieces  are not just decorative. They are reconfigured throughout the performance—sometimes suggesting domestic spaces, other times creating compartments or enclosures that speak to themes of protection, isolation, or communal living. The lighting plays an essential role here, shifting from warm to cool, walls shifting from solid to translucent, casting new meanings on familiar shapes and guiding the audience’s focus subtly from one space to another.

The sound design by Eden Mulholland enhances the contemplative quality of the piece, combining soft piano, ambient textures, and vocal elements in both te reo Māori and English. The music never overpowers but instead supports the movement, weaving in and out of focus like a tide. Together with spatial design by Rowan Pierce, the production creates an atmosphere that is at once immersive and gentle—never overwhelming, always inviting.

What makes Rongo Whakapā particularly striking is how it uses the body—not as spectacle, but as a medium for ideas. The work examines the tension between individuality and community, a theme that is especially poignant in our current cultural moment. It gestures toward decolonising performance spaces, not through confrontation but through practice—through the simple act of gathering differently, witnessing differently, and perhaps most importantly, relating differently.

The performance is underpinned by wānanga, interviews, and conversations with Mātanga Mātauranga Māori, whānau, colleagues, and friends—creating a foundation of real-life exploration into how intimacy and connection exist in our daily lives. This grounding in dialogue and lived experience gives the work a quiet depth that lingers long after the final bow.

Rongo Whakapā is not an easy performance to categorise. It’s not theatrical in a conventional sense, and it resists the usual narrative arcs or climaxes. Instead, it offers something far more introspective. It is an atmosphere to be entered, a meditation to be shared.

This is dance not as entertainment, but as invitation—an invitation to breathe, to notice, to connect. While it may not appeal to those seeking fast-paced spectacle or linear storytelling, Rongo Whakapā will speak deeply to those open to experiencing art as a form of quiet communion.

In a time of digital noise and constant movement, Rongo Whakapā provides a moment of stillness. It asks us to pay attention—not just to what’s happening in front of us, but to what’s happening within us. It’s a performance that gently realigns your sense of self in relation to others, and in doing so, leaves you with a lasting sense of peace.

Rongo Whakapā runs for 1 hour and 10 minutes, contains haze and strobe lighting, and is performed in both te reo Māori and English. With limited performances and an intentionally intimate capacity, it is an experience best approached with openness, patience, and a willingness to reflect.

Rongo Whakapā is being performed at the Te Pou Theatre, with five performances only from 11-13 July, and limited audience capacity Tickets can be purchased here

A QUIET LOVE [DOC EDGE 2025]

Three Deaf couples share their powerful love stories through Irish Sign Language in Ireland’s first ISL feature film, directed by Garry Keane. A moving celebration of resilience and connection, told with an immersive soundscape by a Deaf and hearing team.

A Quiet Love is more than a documentary. It is a window into a world often overlooked—a world communicated through movement, expression, and shared understanding, where love speaks in gestures and silence speaks volumes. Directed by Garry Keane, known for previous works like Gaza and In the Shadow of Beirut, this feature-length film is Ireland’s first full-length film made in Irish Sign Language. It is also a cinematic achievement that offers both education and emotional resonance.

Told through the intertwined stories of three Deaf couples, the film stretches across generations, cities, and cultural divides. Though each story is distinct, they are united by common threads—love, identity, and the everyday courage of those living within the Deaf community.

The film’s structure alternates between these stories, each moving forward in time while building a collective portrait of Deaf life over the last seventy years. We begin with the oldest couple, John and Agnes, who met as teenagers during one of Ireland’s most violent and divided eras: the Northern Ireland "Troubles". Coming from Catholic and Protestant backgrounds respectively, they should have been enemies by societal standards. But at the only Deaf school available, religious division was irrelevant. There, John and Agnes discovered both each other and a way to communicate through sign language, despite initially speaking different dialects—Agnes taught John British Sign Language. Their love endured war, displacement, and decades of change, evolving into a steadfast companionship that anchors the film.

Their story is the heart of A Quiet Love, brought to life through sensitive re-enactments and archival footage. These scenes are quietly powerful, conveying the intimacy of young love amid the chaos of conflict. Importantly, they also highlight the rich diversity within Deaf culture—different sign languages, regional slang, and evolving communication norms. For audiences unfamiliar with Deaf history in Ireland, this part of the film provides an invaluable social context.

Next, we are introduced to Kathy and Michelle, a Deaf LGBTQ+ couple living in London. Their storyline broadens the scope of the documentary by touching on family, identity, and medical ethics. Both women decide to carry children, raising a mixed family of hearing and Deaf children. The film doesn't shy away from the challenges—particularly the divisive topic of cochlear implants. For many in the Deaf community, these devices are seen not as medical miracles, but as threats to cultural identity, a “Deaf erasure” of sorts. Kathy and Michelle navigate these questions with compassion and clarity, offering a modern take on what it means to live and love as a Deaf family today.

Their relationship also introduces another important layer—queerness in the Deaf community. In showing their lives, the film avoids tokenism and instead treats their journey with respect, portraying them not as exceptions but as one of many ways to exist and thrive in the Deaf world.

Finally, we meet Seán and Deyanna, a couple facing an extraordinary personal dilemma. Seán, a former addict who found purpose in boxing, is Deaf but uses a cochlear implant. His dream to become a professional boxer is thwarted because the implant disqualifies him for a professional license. The solution? Remove it—permanently—and lose what little hearing he has. With Deyanna, a hearing partner, and a child to care for, Seán’s decision is painful. His story is less about disability and more about ambition, and how systems are not always designed with Deaf bodies or aspirations in mind.

What makes A Quiet Love exceptional is not just its subject matter but how it is presented. The cinematography is clean and understated, allowing the stories to shine without embellishment. Subtitles, usually treated as afterthoughts in mainstream media, are here thoughtfully designed and positioned. Often, they appear near the speakers’ hands or faces, maintaining eye contact and preserving the natural rhythm of sign language communication. While some viewers may find the subtitles hard to read in low-contrast scenes, the overall effect is elegant and immersive.

The sound design, too, deserves praise. Since the spoken word is largely absent, what fills the silence becomes meaningful. Music is used sparingly and effectively, often aligning with the characters’ relationship to sound—cutting in or out when an implant is removed or applied. This invites viewers to experience hearing as something variable, not taken for granted.

The film is also deeply emotional without veering into sentimentality. It does not portray Deaf people as objects of pity, nor does it overly romanticise their struggles. Instead, it presents its subjects as full people: passionate, complex, funny, frustrated, determined. There is sadness, yes—but also joy, intimacy, and moments of humour.

By the time the credits roll, A Quiet Love leaves a lasting impression. It expands our understanding of what Deafness is—not a limitation, but a rich, varied experience. It urges us to consider that just as hearing people are diverse in language, culture, and love, so too are the Deaf community. They form families, chase dreams, face discrimination, and find their own ways to navigate life.

In doing so, A Quiet Love succeeds not only as a film but as a vital cultural document. It invites both hearing and Deaf audiences into the lived experience of others—not through lectures or statistics, but through the universal power of love.

Directed by Garry Keane | 95 mins | Ireland | English, Irish Sign Language | World Premiere – Being Oneself Category

Screening at the Doc Edge documentary festival, in Auckland, Wellington, Christchurch and online from 25 June. 

FOOD DELIVERY: FRESH FROM THE WEST PHILIPPINE SEA [DOC EDGE 2025]

As tensions rise in the West Philippine Sea, a fisherman’s perilous journey near Scarborough Shoal reveals the quiet heroism and unity of Filipino fishermen and Coast Guard risking everything to defend their waters and way of life.

Food Delivery: Fresh from the West Philippine Sea is a documentary that carries weight not only for its visuals and narrative but for the political reality it refuses to soften. Framed through the lens of Filipino fishermen and service personnel, it provides a compelling, emotionally charged glimpse into a conflict that too often gets reduced to maps, legal statements, and diplomatic briefings. Though the film only tells one side of a deeply contested issue, it delivers its message with clarity: that real people, livelihoods, and communities are being impacted while the world remains largely passive.

The film begins with a personal and sobering tone. We’re introduced to members of the Philippine Navy and Coast Guard patrolling disputed waters in the West Philippine Sea (also known internationally as part of the South China Sea). Their sense of duty is clear, but so too is the personal toll. One serviceman jokes about the isolation and the inability to even send money home due to poor mobile reception. Another reflects on leaving his family sleeping each morning, unsure when or how he’ll return. These are not grand war stories; they are the quiet, lived realities of people caught in the middle of geopolitical tension.

But the emotional core of Food Delivery rests with the fishermen. Hailing from the coastal province of Zambales, they make the dangerous journey out to waters that have sustained their communities for generations—waters that are now patrolled and, in their view, militarized by a far greater power. One such fisherman, Arnel Satam, recounts with disarming calm how he was pursued by a Chinese patrol vessel near the Scarborough Shoal—an encounter that made national headlines. His story underscores the imbalance: artisanal boats dodging high-speed maritime enforcement, nets pitted against steel.

What Food Delivery does particularly well is frame the sea not as an abstract political prize, but as a living resource—one with cultural, economic, and emotional significance for the Filipino people. The film quietly reminds viewers that prior to modern borders, the ocean was a source of life, not a territory to be contested. Now, it is both battleground and lifeline.

In showing the daily grind of these fishermen, who must now navigate politics along with tides and weather, the documentary drives home a cruel irony. The individuals risking their lives are not the ones writing treaties or building artificial islands—they are simply trying to fish. Meanwhile, Philippine Navy and Coast Guard personnel wait in limbo on barren reefs, stationed for indefinite periods in a prolonged game of deterrence, their orders frozen in diplomatic uncertainty.

It must be acknowledged that Food Delivery offers only the Filipino perspective. There is no counterbalance from the Chinese side, no voice explaining or defending their policies or conduct. The film’s 60-day production, completed with support from the Philippine government, may raise questions around editorial neutrality. Still, even if its lens is narrow, it is powerful in its focus.

The images of Chinese speedboats chasing down local fishing vessels, and in some instances reportedly ramming them, are difficult to watch. The film does not claim neutrality—it leans into its narrative of resistance and survival. In doing so, it successfully positions the Filipino community as underdogs facing overwhelming odds. The scale of the inequality between the two nations is not just military or economic—it is existential. The fishermen speak of losses, fears, and hopes with the kind of weariness that comes from having to defend one’s right to simply live and work.

In 2016, the Permanent Court of Arbitration ruled in favour of the Philippines, affirming its rights to the waters within its 200-nautical-mile exclusive economic zone. The ruling also declared that China’s claims, based on historic rights and artificial island construction, violated international law. However, as Food Delivery starkly illustrates, rulings do not enforce themselves.

The documentary highlights the paradox at the heart of the issue: although the legal decision exists, there has been little to no global follow-through. The international community has voiced support, but those words have not translated into action. The result is a sense of abandonment. The film does not lecture on foreign policy, but it does leave viewers questioning what ‘international law’ really means if it cannot be upheld.

The documentary is not without its shortcomings. Its one-sided perspective may be seen as limiting for those looking to understand the full complexity of the maritime dispute. The filmmakers make no attempt to present the Chinese government’s justifications or address accusations of illegal fishing practices from both sides. There is no balanced analysis of resource depletion or environmental impact—important issues in any discussion of shared marine ecosystems.

Yet despite this, the film works. It works because it tells a specific story with depth and emotion. It works because it reveals the human cost of geopolitical ambition. And it works because it dares to point out that, for all the diplomatic statements and multilateral forums, nothing has changed for the people on the water.

The documentary’s title—Food Delivery—is a deceptively simple phrase. On one level, it refers to the joint missions between the Philippine Coast Guard and local fishermen to deliver food and supplies to military outposts scattered across contested reefs and shoals. On another, it speaks to the desperation of a nation trying to feed itself amid foreign interference. That these deliveries often involve evading patrols, being chased, or risking arrest is a testament to both the absurdity and the tragedy of the situation.

From a cinematic standpoint, Food Delivery is impressive. The filmmakers capture the vibrancy of the sea—the turquoise waves, the richly painted hulls of traditional boats, the glow of dawn breaking over contested waters. Underwater shots of the region’s marine life are both beautiful and bittersweet, reminding viewers of what is at stake.

It is also worth noting that the film was pulled from screening at the 2025 Puregold CinePanalo Film Festival at the last minute, reportedly due to “external factors.” Whether this was political censorship or institutional discomfort is left unclear, but the act itself reinforces the notion that this story is not easy for some to hear.

Food Delivery: Fresh from the West Philippine Sea is an informative, affecting, and visually rich documentary. While it does not aim for neutrality, it succeeds in amplifying voices that are too often unheard. Its portrayal of courage, sacrifice, and frustration serves as a wake-up call—not just to Filipinos, but to the international community whose silence is starting to echo louder than its statements.

In the end, the film is less about drawing a diplomatic map and more about showing what happens when ordinary people are left to defend their rights with little more than wooden boats, resilience, and hope. It may be just one side of the story, but it is a side that desperately needed to be told.

Directed by Baby Ruth Villarama | 85 mins | Philippines | Tagalog | World Premiere – Tides of Change Category

Screening at the Doc Edge documentary festival, in Auckland, Wellington, Christchurch and online from 25 June. 

PŌNEKE CLASSICAL SESSIONS [DOC EDGE 2025]

In Wellington, musicians challenge classical music’s colonial roots and elitist traditions, creating space for innovation, diversity, and self-expression. Blending live performances with candid interviews, this short redefines what it means to belong in the classical music world.

In a time when many established art forms are being reconsidered and reshaped, Pōneke Classical Sessions arrives as a refreshing and thoughtful short documentary. At its heart, the film explores the question: how can something as steeped in history and tradition as classical music remain relevant in today’s world?

Set in Wellington, the film captures a grassroots initiative aimed at rethinking what classical music can look, sound, and feel like. Rather than clinging to its old-world identity of tuxedos, concert halls, and carefully prescribed repertoire, this movement carves out a new path—one that is more relaxed, more modern, and far more inclusive.

The documentary frames this reimagining through the voices of young and diverse musicians who challenge the idea that classical music must be performed in a particular way, by particular people, in particular places. Instead, they offer up a more fluid interpretation—one that allows for play, improvisation, and meaningful connection. Whether held in pubs, community spaces, or other unconventional venues, the Pōneke Classical Sessions make classical music feel alive again.

One of the film’s most poignant themes is the idea of "failure"—not in the conventional sense, but in how the classical tradition sometimes labels musicians as failures for stepping outside its strict boundaries. By contrast, the musicians featured in this short reclaim failure as part of growth, creativity, and learning. The freedom to make mistakes, explore new sounds, or simply enjoy the act of playing becomes a radical act in a genre long bound by rules.

There is a quiet but firm challenge to the gatekeeping often found in classical music. The film points out that expectations around performance etiquette, dress codes, and “acceptable” venues have long excluded those who don’t fit a narrow mold. These unspoken rules, coupled with a legacy of colonialism and elitism, have made the genre feel inaccessible to many—especially to women, people of colour, and those from less traditional musical backgrounds.

Rather than dismantle classical music altogether, the Pōneke Classical Sessions aim to reframe it—to shift the focus from purity and perfection to relevance and relatability. In doing so, they also acknowledge that much of the classical canon was written in vastly different times, often carrying cultural baggage that today’s musicians no longer find meaningful. For this new generation, connection matters more than preservation, and expression trumps formality.

The film does well to highlight the emotional and communal aspects of these sessions. Audiences are not passive recipients but active participants, seated close to the performers and often involved in post-show discussions. There is room for improvisation, for spontaneous collaboration. This openness not only makes the performances more accessible—it also makes them more authentic.

What emerges is a documentary that is not only about music, but about the values and perspectives shaping a new generation. The story told here is just as much about cultural evolution as it is about performance. It reflects a world where more people are asking: who gets to belong, who gets to lead, and what stories are worth telling?

From an artistic standpoint, the short is well-paced and thoughtfully crafted. The film doesn’t overstate its message but lets the performances and conversations speak for themselves. It invites the viewer into this evolving space without judgement, making it easy to understand why this movement resonates so deeply with younger audiences.

While the film may not appeal equally to all viewers—some may find its progressive themes confronting—it stands as an important cultural document. It shows that change is not only possible, but already happening. The Pōneke Classical Sessions are just one example of how creative fields are responding to a wider societal call for inclusivity, authenticity, and connection.

For Millennials, Gen Z, and Gen Alpha, this documentary will likely strike a chord. It offers a sense of belonging in a genre that has too often felt exclusionary. For others, it might raise questions about the future of classical music and who it is really for. But whatever your generation, the film’s message is clear: classical music doesn't need to remain frozen in time. It can—and should—adapt, evolve, and reflect the people who play and listen to it today.

Pōneke Classical Sessions is more than just a portrait of a music project; it’s a quiet manifesto. A call to reshape not just how we hear music, but how we value creativity, community, and cultural relevance in a modern Aotearoa.

Directed by Sebastian Kerebs | 18 mins | New Zealand | English | World Premiere – New Zealand Short Category

Screening at the Doc Edge documentary festival, in Auckland, Wellington, Christchurch and online from 25 June.   

WILDBOY [DOC EDGE 2025]

Driven by ADHD and a thirst for purpose, Brando embarks on bold adventures—from walking New Zealand’s coastline to crossing Greenland—using endurance and exploration to navigate identity, mental health, and self-discovery.

There are documentaries that tell a story, and there are documentaries that let a story unfold. Wildboy leans toward the latter—less a tightly scripted narrative and more a raw collection of lived moments from one man’s decade-long pursuit of adventure and self-understanding.

At its heart is Brando, a spirited young New Zealander diagnosed with ADHD, who refuses to live a life dictated by routine. At just 18, he sets out to walk the entire coastline of Aotearoa New Zealand—over 8,000 kilometres of beaches, cliffs, rivers and roads. This ambitious feat sparks a lifestyle marked by epic solo expeditions: skiing across Greenland, kayaking around Vancouver Island, and most prominently, cycling across the vast and challenging terrain of the Australian outback.

The documentary captures the grandeur and grit of these undertakings with stunning clarity. Sweeping aerials, immersive close-ups, and elegant transitions offer the viewer not only an appreciation of the landscapes, but also the quiet, reflective moments that often go unnoticed. Whether it’s the icy blues of Greenland or the rust-red roads of Australia, the cinematography brings with it a sense of stillness—inviting viewers to slow down and sit with the experience.

Brando’s energy is infectious. His zest for exploration, even in the face of intense physical hardship—sandstorms, blizzards, injury, and isolation—feels powered not by force, but by genuine passion. His ADHD is not presented as a hindrance, but rather as a driving force behind his restlessness, creativity, and desire to seek meaning beyond the limits of conventional life.

The central focus of Wildboy is his cycling journey across Australia. This trip is introduced early on, but the narrative is intentionally broken up by reflections from earlier expeditions. These flashbacks are not distractions; they offer insight into the emotional and psychological groundwork that led him to this point. Through these threads, we see how past challenges shaped his mindset—particularly in terms of mindfulness, changing perspectives, and learning to live in the present.

That said, the structure may catch some viewers off guard. Just as the Australian narrative begins to gain momentum, the film shifts focus. But this ebb and flow mirrors Brando’s own journey—non-linear, open-ended, and constantly evolving. The contrasts between New Zealand’s biodiversity and Australia’s harsher, more barren terrain help sustain the film’s rhythm and reinforce the diversity of environments he encounters.

One of the most moving elements of Wildboy is how it handles the emotional toll of long-term adventuring. Brando is occasionally joined by companions—friends and followers inspired to take part. But not everyone finishes the trip. Whether due to injury, mental strain, or the sheer weight of the experience, many must bow out. These departures aren’t framed as failures, but as reminders that exploration is demanding, and not everyone is ready for the cost of long-term isolation or exposure.

These moments provide important context. While the film celebrates freedom and escape, it never shies away from the real challenges that come with it. Hunger, exhaustion, loneliness—these are not romanticised, but acknowledged as part of the terrain. Wildboy doesn’t offer escapism, but something more grounded: the idea that fulfilment often comes through facing discomfort with honesty.

And this honesty is what makes Wildboy especially relevant today. In a world where many feel trapped by rising living costs, social expectations, and digital fatigue, Brando’s journey resonates. He represents a yearning that many people share—a desire to reconnect with nature, to slow down, and to rediscover what really matters.

The film doesn’t set out to offer a solution to life’s problems. It doesn’t present a step-by-step guide to freedom. Instead, it reminds us that there are other paths—paths defined not by convention, but by courage, self-awareness, and a willingness to be vulnerable. Brando’s story is inspiring not because he conquers the wild, but because he lets it shape him.

Wildboy is an invitation to reflect: on our relationship with nature, on how we spend our time, and on the possibilities that emerge when we step outside the familiar. You may not be inspired to cycle across Australia or ski across polar landscapes—but you may be inspired to spend more time outdoors, to pause more often, or to challenge what you thought was possible for yourself.

Above all, Wildboy is a celebration of exploration—of both the world and the self. It shows that purpose doesn’t always arrive neatly packaged. Sometimes, it’s uncovered slowly, through miles of silence, through encounters with strangers, through wind and snow and sun. Brando’s story is proof that there is power in persistence, and beauty in the unknown.

Directed by Toby Schmutzler | 92 mins | Germany, New Zealand | English | International Premiere – Being Oneself Category

Screening at the Doc Edge documentary festival, in Auckland, Wellington, Christchurch and online from 25 June.   

OS BARCOS [DOC EDGE 2025]

In the Brazilian favela of Gamboa, a viral rooftop restaurant draws tourists and influencers, while locals struggle behind the scenes to survive and reclaim pride amidst rising tensions and inequality. As the Iemanjá festival approaches, the community’s resilience and fight for dignity come to the fore.

Os Barcos is not your typical documentary. It eschews narration, avoids guided interviews, and refuses to tell you what to think. Instead, it offers something more rare: space. Space for a community to speak for itself, for its tensions and triumphs to be felt rather than explained. In doing so, it becomes a quietly powerful exploration of economic disparity, resilience, and cultural identity in the face of unchecked tourism. 

Set in the Brazilian favela of Gamboa, high above Salvador Bay, the film centres around the unassuming success of Mônica’s open-air restaurant, now a viral hotspot for tourists and influencers. From the outside, it may look like a community thriving on the influx of visitors. But as Os Barcos reveals, the reality is more complex.

Behind the Instagram-friendly veneer lies a neighbourhood straining under inequality. Locals lug heavy crates down vertiginous staircases, fish beneath the relentless sun, and work tirelessly to feed and serve guests—many of whom remain oblivious to the hardship around them. Meanwhile, wealthier residents in nearby districts sip drinks on their terraces, offering nothing more than disapproving glances toward Gamboa's rising profile. 

Through long, observational takes and ambient sound, the film allows Gamboa’s residents to narrate their own lives. We meet a range of characters: Mônica, embroiled in political wrangling over development rights; a hopeful shopkeeper trying to make ends meet; youth chasing employment by building boats or doing odd jobs; and street vendors navigating a tourism industry that often favours glossy, well-funded operations over grassroots effort.

This approach results in a documentary that is as slow-burning as it is emotionally rich. Yes, the pacing meanders. Yes, it takes time to find its rhythm. But that very looseness becomes its strength. It reflects the lived reality of the people on screen—where time is shaped by tides, power cuts, and bureaucracy, not by the demands of a story arc.

Mônica’s restaurant forms a narrative anchor, particularly as we see her clash with city officials, police, and planning departments. At one point, the community bands together to build new infrastructure for the restaurant—only to watch the authorities attempt to demolish it, even while similar developments just down the road are left untouched. These moments are not presented with outrage or explanation; they are simply shown, raw and unfiltered.

Tourism's double edge is a consistent theme. Tourists seek authenticity, yet their expectations often lead to the displacement of the very communities that make a place vibrant. Visitors demand standards set by capital, not culture—leaving local operators unable to compete. And while tourism dollars flow in, little of that wealth stays with those who need it most.

The film also touches, quietly but persistently, on issues of race and class. Dark-skinned residents speak of not using their home addresses when applying for jobs because it disadvantages them. One senses that the lines between social class, geography, and skin colour are thickly drawn in this part of Brazil.

Yet Os Barcos is not all struggle. It is equally a celebration of community, of shared labour, of resilience. There is joy in the cooking, the fishing, the building. There is pride in hosting a festival like Iemanjá, and in holding onto traditions that outsiders may overlook. The documentary’s strength lies in this balance: hardship is not romanticised, but nor is it the whole story.

What makes Os Barcos remarkable is that it never dictates. It does not guide you through talking heads or summarise its conclusions in neat graphics. Instead, it observes. It listens. It trusts the audience to witness, absorb, and reflect. This method may not appeal to those seeking a fast-paced or tightly structured experience. But for viewers willing to slow down, it offers something deeply human.

Os Barcos is a testament to a community’s will to define its own future, even as outside forces seek to reshape it. It’s a documentary that lingers—on screen, and in the mind—reminding us that in the battle between big money and small communities, the human story is often the one most worth telling.

Directed by Vincent Boujon | 86 mins | France | Portuguese | World Premiere – Tides of Change Category

Screening at the Doc Edge documentary festival, in Auckland, Wellington, Christchurch and online from 25 June.