What is identity? How can it be portrayed? Who are we–to ourselves, to our kin, to our country–in a world that moves beyond what we are?

In To Kill a Mongolian Horse, documentary and drama come together in an expertly crafted work of visual and emotional art. I could not take any notes during the showing, as my eyes glued to the screen as director Jiang Xiaoxuan’s masterpiece unfolded before me in Cinema Nova on Lygon Street.  I use the word ‘docu-fiction’ in the title as a descriptor for the visual style of the film. It is a haunting work, mournful in its beauty, in reverence of the culture and people it depicts with artistic care and emotional authenticity.

The film takes its viewers through the life of Saina, a young man descended from generations of Mongolian herdsmen and riders. Featuring a cast of mostly non-professional actors, the film navigates the life and landscape in Inner Mongolia. In this feature film debut, the director takes a stunning move to document the real lives of those who still remain in the region. Jiang spins a deeply personal tale, based on both her own experiences growing up in Inner Mongolia and the life of the actor Saina, who portrays himself in the film. Jiang goes far beyond the traditional three act structure, thoroughly using the documentary atmosphere to emphasise the reality of her subjects. Her choice to portray how Saina supports his debt-ridden, alcoholic father, in juxtaposition with the enduring financial and ecological impacts of climate change effectively demonstrates the harshness of life out on the plains. When it comes to his endeavours to keep his young son connected to his heritage, we the audience feel his struggle to connect to his family’s traditional farm life, a life that is explicitly shown to be in peril. This all comes to frame the choice at hand to work as a performer, compelled to bring his history to life for tourists while his present sees his livelihood on a slow decline.

Cinematographer Tao Kio Qiu elevates the film with each outstanding shot made in Inner Mongolia. The harsh landscape engulfs the screen, its weathered beauty presented to the audience with fullhearted admiration. Each detail of the screen becomes an ode to the country, to both understate the beauty of the region and the rural reality of its residents. One shot in particular, a drone shot of the landscape, had the audience audibly gasping as the screen flew with its story. Beyond its dramatic narrative, the film is interspersed with rich vignettes of riders on horseback. This showcase of traditional horsemanship is a reminder to the audience of the culture at stake, the imminent loss of its subjects.

The most outstanding aspect for me was the sound design. Oh, my days. Not even the Imperial Emperor himself could imagine such a soundscape. Every breath, every whisper of wind, every ring of a bell, every thrum of a traditional tune, every inhale before the lighting of a well-earned cigarette, every sound deeply thoroughly intentional. The design had me enthralled. Each second of the film had me waiting in anticipation for each new note, each element of the auditory rhythm keeping me enraptured.

To Kill a Mongolian Horse has fast become one of my favourite films of all time. It’s a tale of filial piety, the struggle of a son in service to both his father the life giver and his father the remnant of the heritage they both share and risk losing. It’s a portrayal of culture under duress, the expectation to perform contrasted with the desire to return to the plains, to ride alone with only a stallion for company. It’s a reflection on masculinity and fading resonance in identity, of a man against time and space. A raw, authentic evocation of life as its director sees it, it takes your heart on a ride and doesn’t change its speed for anyone.