A Pallas’s cat in The Velvet Queen (Vincent Munier/Oscilloscope Laboratories)

Natural curiosity propels people to explore or conquer the so-called unknown, efforts often linked to ambition and aspirations of fame and glory. We forget that there’s more to it: a mysterious necessity to discover something that transcends us, maybe as proof that there remain things not yet known. Or, as Shakespeare’s Hamlet put it, “There are more things in heaven and Earth, Horatio/Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

Marie Amiguet and Vincent Munier’s documentary The Velvet Queen portrays the hard and long expedition of Munier (an award-winning wildlife photographer) and Sylvain Tesson (author of the 2021 book about this journey, The Art of Patience: Seeking the Snow Leopard in Tibet). They delve into the Tibetan highlands to find and photograph a rare animal: the snow leopard. For someone like Munier, the discovery would represent a Holy Grail. To witness his passion and fervor is to be reminded that what moves some is a faith in a purpose higher than public recognition. Tesson is like the Sancho Panza to this particular Don Quixote, a companion and an observer.

In a sense, Munier and Tesson, as subjects, are as elusive as the animal they are after. Their conversations and reflections never go into personal territory about their lives. They focus instead on their amazement about the surroundings and on more practical matters, like how best to camouflage. Munier instructs his colleague in the art of hiding and waiting in hostile environments, which demands hours of remaining static and in silence while hoping for animal life to appear. “The Earth reeks of humans,” states Munier, frustrated with the idea that the cautious animals can nevertheless feel their presence.

The difficulties involved in this quest are mostly left to the imagination. Visually, the film centers on the results and hardly on what it takes to reach certain peaks or capture the fauna along the way. The photographer asserts that he is not interested in journalism and rejects criticism of his work for ignoring the ugliness in nature. Munier seems more interested in capturing nature’s dignity with images that leave you breathless. So, it makes sense that the hardships behind this adventure are kept on the margins.

This calm and contemplative documentary is punctuated by immersive music composed by Warren Ellis with Nick Cave. The film becomes especially captivating when landscapes and animals are merely observed—the music guides the emotions in those moments. Various creatures (such as yaks and a Pallas’s cat) are framed in breathtaking images. First, we are blinded by the vastness of nature, and then in some corner or in a shadow, viewers recognize an animal simply existing. Again, Tesson, who narrates, doesn’t tell the spectator where to look. In the same manner, he doesn’t provide specialized data. Instead, there is poetry in his description of the two’s pursuit: “For me, it was a dream; for him [Munier], a rendezvous.”

Luckily, no matter how elegiac the images and how often the men are struck by wonder (who could blame them?), The Velvet Queen is never mawkish. In any case, the reluctance to even partially acknowledge anything that could be considered disturbing or dangerous about this journey or nature itself gives the impression of misanthropy, amplified in conversations that criticize how civilization has become disconnected from nature. However, throughout this pleasing documentary, which rewards spectators for what is initially promised, sometimes a memento mori whispers in our ears, like the voice of Werner Herzog warning about “nature’s indifference” to mankind. Yes, nature can be undeniably beautiful and cinematic, but don’t forget about what happened in Grizzly Man.