An undercurrent of trauma lies beneath the fragile serenity of Karim Kassem’s Octopus. The documentary traces the aftermath of the devastating explosion at the Port of Beirut in August 2020. The event caused at least 218 deaths, 7,000 injuries, and left roughly 300,000 residents homeless.
Kassem first sought to make a semi-fictional film about Lebanon, related primarily in name and setting. But the tragedy swiftly changed the direction of his project. Kassem was shaken — literally and emotionally — by the cataclysm he narrowly survived. The filmmaker instead opts for a more passive approach and opts to let the city tell its own story. In doing so, the film raises myriad questions about trauma, healing, confusion, and the persistence of life.
Octopus is far from a typical documentary. There aren’t any interviews or narrators. There’s no overt look into the risky decisions and cut corners that led to the disaster. There isn’t even a graphic to identify locations. And it works. Octopus isn’t begging us to readily understand anything, really; it simply asks us to observe.
Shots linger for minutes on a labyrinth of alleyways, busy streets, and the Lebanese shore. People silently cope with the reality of their situation while smoke from a massive, smoldering crater continues to rise in the air. The fumes create a perpetual shadow over the city. But it doesn’t evoke a sense of foreboding. After all, what’s done is done. Instead, it’s a reminder of a scar Lebanon will carry forever.
Octopus isn’t a conversation with any one person; it’s an interview with Beirut itself. In one scene, a rescue worker scales the side of a building to chop away loose, cling debris as if they were trumpet vines. Another follows a man as he walks down a sidewalk and to a pile of rubble. Amid the discarded items are TVs, furniture, and other personal belongings that were blown out of someone’s home, never to be reclaimed.
Octopus is less of a film and more of an experience. Its approach is similar to ground-breaking works like Ron Fricke’s Samsara and Lucien Castaing-Taylor and Véréna Paravel’s Leviathan. But the film isn’t devoid of a story. Nearly every shot tells its own tale — told over the course of minutes or just a few fleeting seconds. Watching Octopus is an introspective exercise.
Kassem accomplishes this without showing the explosion once. And he doesn’t need to. Again, the film isn’t concerned with the tragedy itself, but with the impression it leaves. The explosion is an omnipresent force. His subjects are often quiet, at most whispering a few nearly inaudible comments. These sparse instances aren’t subtitled, but that only strengthens the film’s universality.
Violence and horror don’t just shake a single country, but the Earth. And after events like these unfold, they can’t be unwound, only prevented. Silence isn’t just deafening in Octopus; it’s enlightening.
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