Long has documentary lingered in the quiet shadows of fiction films at the film festivals, yet in recent years, a thrilling tide has turned. A new wave of auteurs rises, many with marginalised identities in the world dominated by white men, breathing fresh life into the genre. For them, documentary is not merely a vessel to capture reality; it is a realm of boundless expression. They experiment with unconventional narrative, unafraid to blur the line between documentation and fiction. Among these visionaries stands the French-Senegalese filmmaker Mati Diop, whose 68-minute poetic documentary Dahomey won the Golden Bear at this year’s Berlinale.
Much like her precious work Atlantics, Diop casts her lens on a moment of profound return: in 2021, France handed back 26 royal treasures, stolen from the Kingdom of Dahomey during the brutal sweep of 19th-century colonisation, to their rightful home in today’s Republic of Benin. In a voice ancient and beyond human time, Diop channels the spirit of Item No. 26 among the treasures returned. We see the world through its gaze: an object, yet alive with memory of hundreds of years, trapped in darkness as it is sealed in its container on its way back home, waiting. Its thoughts pulse with longing and fear, questioning if its homeland will still recognise it or if its homeland will still be recognisable after hundreds of years. As Wally Badarou and Dean Blunt’s exotic strains and the dreamy voice of No. 26 guide us, we journey with No. 26, until at last, it returns to Benin.
As the treasures touch Benin’s soil, Diop begins to weave in two more narratives. The voice of the treasures, carried all the way from France, continues as they are carefully unwrapped and ushered into their new home: museums in Benin. There, they are examined by scholars, welcomed by dignitaries, and, at last, embraced by the public. Their long journey home finally finds its end.
The first new voice rises in a spirited debate among students at the University of Abomey-Calavi, orchestrated by Diop and cinematographer Joséphine Drouin-Viallard. Here, we glimpse the tip of the iceberg: what this return means to the people of this land. Their divergent views reveal the complex layers beneath this historic moment. For some, it’s a calculated political move by France, a “savage insult,” as only 26 of more than 7,000 treasures were returned; for others, it is a hopeful beginning.
Some students argue for funding to allow young citizens to visit museums, to connect with their heritage. Others see museums as Western institutions, advocating instead for the treasures to resume their original roles as sacred objects, to be worshipped as they were centuries ago. In their debate, they tackle themes of language, colonial history, education, self-determination under the shadow of neo-colonialism, as well as social and economic issues in their society. But beyond the weight of these issues, what resounds is the very existence of their discourse: a generation engaging critically, exchanging ideas, respectfully challenging each other. Here lies the future of their nation.
This town hall format evokes recent films like R.M.N. and Evil Does Not Exist, where traditional spaces foster healthier discourse, an alternative to today’s social media landscape, often filled with misinformation, and echo chambers. The physical space allows the room to fill with ideas, convictions, and questions, shared openly rather than confined to polarised bubbles.
Many of the ideas debated here inevitably call to mind the 1953 essay film Statues Also Die (Les statues meurent aussi) by Alain Resnais, Chris Marker, and Ghislain Cloquet. In a way, Diop’s work feels like a modern-day response, a continuation of that conversation from a black female filmmaker’s perspective. Speaking in Fon, she channels the soul within the artefacts, reversing the gaze back toward France. Diop gives voice to what the treasures have witnessed, reframing the narrative with a language and perspective long absent, and reviving a dialogue that began decades ago but still resonates deeply today.
Diop closes her film with the final voice: Benin’s own heartbeat: wide-stretching landscapes, tides moving in its seas, flowers blooming in its gardens, and the lives of everyday people. It is the quiet persistence of a homeland that keeps breathing, walking, and making sense of pieces long uprooted and now returned. Bringing together voices from the past, present, and future, Diop speaks through the voice of No. 26: “I see myself so clearly through you. Within me resonates infinity.”
Dahomey by Mati Diop
© Les Films du Bal – Fanta Sy
Provide via Berlinale Press Photos