Back in 2020 (remember that momentous year?), ample praise was been put upon the governing bodies in Turkey by their own residents. The country’s largest city, Istanbul, has hundreds of thousands of stray cats and dogs. And during those unprecedented times of the Covid-19 era, there had been initiatives from the central government to provide for these abandoned animals.
The laws in Turkey, as demonstrated in this bittersweet canine documentary, Stray, mean such four-legged wanderers can’t be captured, and are allowed to roam free, as it were. We could learn a lot about such public tolerance in the privileged world. A perfect companion piece to Ceyda Torun’s feline adventures, Kedi, Stray is a character-driven, affecting portrayal of Istanbul life for our four-legged friends.
Stray is from the documentary production company, Dogwoof (no questions at this time, please), who brought to us also socially relevant films like All This Panic, Blackfish and The Look of Silence. Directing her very first feature film is Elizabeth Lo, who spent two years filming footage of the dogs in Istanbul. Now that’s dedication.
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From the outset, these ambling, magnificent dogs are charming creatures. As an audience, we warm to them immediately, though it is in their interactions with others that truly captures the soul. Personalities are abound, even in what see see as rather unfortunate living conditions.
Zeytin, Nazar and Kartal are just three of the central figures we follow through various aspects of street life. But we know all too well there are thousands more. Zeytin and co. might well be celebrities as the locals call their name, or point them out. Some onlookers might even be stopping in their tracks to wonder why these cameras are focusing on such animals.
The passage of play, so to speak, breaks every now and then as we are invited to read a philosophical quote over a black screen. This reviewer has no inclination to nit-pick, but the authenticity and charisma to behold watching these dogs really doesn’t require any profound buffering. I certainly don’t want you to think I am comparing it to some silly kid’s comedy when I say these dogs speak for themselves.
Director, Lo, moves through the streets with little regard for the onlookers or people passing by. It’s a consciously head-strong approach, for the people have to part to let the stars of the show parade themselves. Though this is no picnic, or catwalk if you will, but the everyday existence of these noble animals.
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Filmed pretty much at the dog’s eye level, Stray depicts these candid moments as though we’re the shadow. Dogs hold a look better than most, it seems, when faced with a film crew. Close ups of the dogs looking beyond, the glazed eyes, deep expression are somehow gratifying. They take an interest in looking out across the waters, or what might lie beyond those ruins.
Meanwhile, walkers and their little dogs with raincoats on pull their pets away from the strays in spite of their flourishing intent to fuss around them. A couple of young Asian women casually hurl insults at one dog for shitting on the grass, reasoning to themselves that the dog doesn’t understand them. Nor does the dog likely bat an eyelid.
Echoes of animal cruelty could have been portrayed in many forms in such a documentary as this. Here it ranges from waking a dog up by nudging them with a chair to allow a delivery man to pass, to a group of youths attempting to prize apart two squabbling dogs with their flailing feet. Fucking hell, people.
When one dog is cursed at, it is not because they’re being a nuisance, but rather that they are not sharing food with their compadres. Alike, there are more than enough moments of intimacy and consideration for these animals. The tactile approach over physical abuse is mercifully empowered in Stray. The sub-chapter with the dogs hanging out with Syrian refugees is one such amorous example.
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Maybe the dogs have it better than some in this tricky world, you might consider, in regard to their needs and desires. What does this say about the people, not just the dogs. As they roam the public infested streets, they survey the scene, perhaps wanting to be part of it. Or merely looking for something of more interest. And in this, we too question the captivating nature of wandering people over wandering dogs.
Stray has many thought-provoking and authentic moments throughout. Two dogs ruffling playfully on a pile of sand; one running and barking at a car’s siren; the discovery of a juicy bone amidst the mess as garbage men collect the trash – all enrapturing sequences in their own right that we’d take for granted normally. Even a group of women’s rights activists are faced with a couple of mating dogs – they joke: “Not now, please.”
The score by Ali Helnwein, most notably the gently piercing violin, doesn’t over state any of the actions. Be it a cat popping up, then darting off, or Zeytin merely looking before she crosses the road. The hovering sound design of traffic, footsteps, the general hustle bustle of street life is as essential as the music.
Stray is both lyrical in its execution and engaging in its subject matter – it deserves our attention, no question. The toddler with her reassuring father wants to feed one of the dogs scraps, but they wander off instead, leaving the humans watching on from afar. Like with Ceyda Torun’s Kedi, you can see how dogs and cats and humans live their lives so differently, but the comparisons in their landscapes is also plain to see. Zeytin howling to the song broadcast over the closing credits says amen to that.
Originally viewed at the 2020 London Film Festival
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