It’s a doggone good doc
It had been far too long since I’d seen the subjects of a documentary exhibit the bygone form of authenticity on display in Stray. Being dogs, the subjects we follow through the streets of Turkey certainly had a leg up on the competition in fetching that effect; but a doc on dogs isn’t inherently bound to be good and true, even if dogs surely are (note: some dog-lovers would disagree here). This one comes pretty darn close.
In the opening credits we learn that there was a time when the overpopulation of street dogs in Turkey led to their mass killing at the hands of their would-be best friends, in an ineffective, centuries-long campaign to keep their numbers in check. Protesters decided enough was enough, and just recently, Turkey became one of the few countries in the world where the stray dog is a protected class—this is how director Elizabeth Lo introduces us to the streets of Istanbul.
“Human beings live artificially and hypocritically and would do well to study the dog.”
— Diogenes quote, displayed on a black-and-white title card in Stray (2020)
When was the last time you truly felt like you had experienced an unaffected, yet perfectly constructed slice of reality? Certainly not when watching one of the many binge-worthy docuseries or arthouse documentaries of late—the covenant of these mediums has rarely been living up to the hype. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to interpret both open and camouflaged affection. Stray is refreshing for knowingly avoiding the subjects it seeks to analyze, as the exercise would likely have proven to be futile.
From a first-dog perspective, we get doggone close the the truth that Elizabeth Lo is trying to capture and share with us. Set to the tune of melancholic cello (the score is magnificent), we bob and drift through the gray streets of Turkey and dodge cars while crossing a highway, mostly at or below a canine-level height of about one to three feet above ground. Oftentimes, we’re looking up at Zeytin — a weathered mutt with the mug of a creature that embodies both childlike wonder (she’s got those puppy dog eyes) and hardened grit. It’s a combination that could only be observed on man’s best friend—while she isn’t always treated like it. To display a look of dejected sorrow one second (or is it?), and yet appear consistently unaffected by the many people who berate or taunt her in the streets (as unaffected she is by the cameras tailing her), feels uniquely Dog.
Following a subject so intimately via camera these days leads to a smirk back into the lens, a knowing look, and a vibe that underneath it all, there’s no way to observe anything anymore that wasn’t intentionally performed as show. With Zeytin and the other dogs we follow, we get the sense that there’s still hope for truth and authenticity in observation.
In one scene, Kartal, a wee puppy, wakes up on the city floor, swaddled in tattered blankets next to a homeless, Syrian refugee who its implied had recently passed out from huffing glue. This film leaves you with that glint of truth we rarely get from documentary filmmaking these days. Lo leaves it up to us to interpret who or what her intended subjects were. Perhaps the focus being turned downwards, besides man’s best friend, and then upwards again was necessary to see who or what it was she needed us to see on the streets of Istanbul and within ourselves.
Score: 88/100
Some other good docs…
