Dahomey, from director Mati Diop, tracks the homeward journey of artefacts stolen from Benin 130 years ago

The film begins with a talking sculpture, foreshadowing that something unusual is about to happen. In front of a pitch-black screen, a statue with centuries of history whispers, "In this strange land of darkness, I am lost in dreams." This sets a surreal and thought-provoking tone for the documentary.

The sculpture's voice (voiced by Makenzy Orcel) is both deep and husky, yet resonant and rounded, with a transparency that makes it sound like an artless murmur, yet also like a vibration emanating from the depths of the earth. It seems to awaken from a daze, still lingering between sleep and reality, lamenting, "I am cut off from my homeland, uprooted, plundered, a spoil of large-scale looting." The sculpture's lament underscores the film's central theme of cultural displacement.

This sculpture is one of 26 artifacts, destined to return to their homeland in present-day Benin after decades in Parisian museums. Maïmouna Doucouré's documentary, *Dahomey*, informs us at the outset that these artifacts are "royal treasures" looted from the Kingdom of Dahomey during the French colonial invasion of 1892. They are wooden and bronze objects, symbols of military power, and detailed depictions of historical rulers. This historical context establishes the stakes of the repatriation.

"For them, 130 years of captivity are coming to an end," the film states. The documentary begins with observation but often leans toward richer, more uncanny material, and this is only the first and last bit of background. Last year, it became one of the shortest films to win an award at the Berlin Film Festival—though its brief 68-minute runtime belies its hefty load of ethical quandaries and commitment to utter ambiguity. The film's ambiguity encourages viewers to grapple with complex issues.

Diop keenly captures the hypnotic rhythm of labor. The film spends much of its opening act in the hushed hallways of the Musée du Quai Branly in Paris, where the artifacts are being prepared for repatriation. This section features little dialogue, the silence broken by the beeping of forklifts and the whirring of machinery. In a startling, claustrophobic point-of-view shot, we are situated within an artifact, strapped into a shipping container, plunged into darkness. Lids are secured, drills whirr, and wheels clatter against each other. This immersive experience heightens the viewer's emotional connection to the artifacts.

The effect is strikingly uncanny. Diop anthropomorphizes these treasures, imagining their pain and disorientation. In some ways, *Dahomey* feels like an extension of Diop’s widely acclaimed 2019 film, *Atlantics*—her debut fiction feature in which a band of avenging ghosts from Dakar haunt the unscrupulous employers who terrorized them in life. *Dahomey* is similarly haunting. In recurring monologues, the talking statue contemplates its place in a homeland it no longer recognizes. "Everything is so strange," it says. "So far from the country I saw in my dreams." These reflections add a layer of emotional depth to the narrative.

As it turns out, these doubts also mirror fierce real-world debate. The artifacts are airlifted back to Benin, where they are greeted with exuberant celebration—yet beneath this spectacle, a murky undercurrent lurks. The latter half of *Dahomey* consists largely of a debate organized by students at the Université d’Abomey-Calavi, who question the value of the repatriation. One participant says the objects are so sacred that she wept upon seeing them—but not everyone is so convinced. "It’s an insult," another student asserts. "Out of 7,000 works, they only brought back 26." This debate highlights the complex and contested nature of cultural repatriation.

The atmosphere in the room grows increasingly fraught; the afternoon dissolves into endless pronouncements and rebuttals. Are these sculptures touchstones of national identity, or meaningless political gestures? Are they symbols of spiritual significance, or works of art? Is this all just a whitewashing of the French government's image? Diop certainly refuses any facile assurances of resolution. The questions are difficult enough; an answer seems near impossible. The film avoids easy answers, prompting viewers to consider the multifaceted nature of cultural heritage.

The film ends with the artifacts safely installed in a Beninese institution—though perhaps they have merely been transferred from one airless atrium to another. In the absence of clarity, Diop turns instead to a spectral poetics. By night, she ventures outside the museum, finding a haunted city. Gauzy curtains billow in the breeze, as if shrouding a soul. A lone figure paces the dark shoreline, illuminated only by the faint glow of a cigarette. Shots of lush vegetation twist and merge, always haloed in amber light, always accompanied by a shuddering glissando. These images feel both enchanting and spiritual: perched on the precipice between this world and the next, between the ghosts of the past and the conflicts of the present. This ambiguous ending leaves a lasting impression, inviting reflection on the ongoing dialogue between history, memory, and identity.