Stray

A kind of companion to Kedi, that 2016 documentary about Istanbul's street cats, Elizabeth Lo's film is a tender look into the lives of some of the city's free-roaming dogs.

It's meant to be an immersive experience, an effort to put us as viewers not just behind the eyes of a dog, but also in its mind. It succeeds beautifully.

This isn't Disney. These dogs are dogs. They bark, they bite, they defecate. Yet their primal allure remains indisputable.

A colourful tapestry of bone-chewing, play-fighting, and butt-sniffing.

Stray doesn't editorialise, but lets us notice. It treats us as if we were as smart as Zeytin. Take that as a compliment.

A simple but effective sensory voyage that's hard to shake.

These dogs’ lives are scrappy, sometimes ugly, but also — elevated by [directory Elizabeth] Lo’s quotes of the dog-obsessed Greek philosopher Diogenes — charismatic and noble.

The needs of these boys are repeatedly undermined and ignored, and it’s through their communion with the stray dogs of the city that we gain the most valuable insight into the life of outsiders in Istanbul.

A film with so little dialogue can rarely elicit so many emotions, and Stray manages to do just that with its lean 72-minute runtime.

Choosing to have the entire film centred around one particular dog, Lo opens herself up to a rather experimental form of documentary filmmaking.