A drawing workshop in On the Adamant (Kino Lorber)

Last year’s Golden Bear winner is a documentary that takes its time. There is no narration nor explanation. Almost everything we see consists of interviews and observation. The Adamant is a large boat parked along the Seine in Paris. A few people arrive there early in the morning to wait by the railings, smoking, wandering, waiting to be let inside. The first image, however, is from within rather than without. A balding, gangly man, who is missing a few teeth and speaks with a strain, announces that he is going to perform a song. He begins with enthusiasm (and a solid sense of pitch) while someone else backs him up on guitar. Others sit and watch (some masked, some not), while others come and go, and when he finishes the song, he is received warmly by a crowd of listeners, and the camera lingers on his overjoyed face.

The Adamant is a facility where the mentally ill can pursue a variety of artistic and artisanal activities. They are also allowed a seat at the table when it comes to planning and requesting activities. Psychiatrists, occupational therapists, and case workers are there for support and also to encourage a collaborative approach to running this community center. Director Nicolas Philibet (To Be and to Have) lets us discover the place on our own, at his own pace. So, viewers sit in meetings, watch the patients at work in their art classes, watch them play music, and listen to them tell their stories, either to a staff member or the camera directly.

More than one person admits to being heavily medicated (and also how lost they would be without their medication). Many of the interviews follow a similar loose pattern—they begin speaking with incredible lucidity, then, as they continue, the narrative breaks down and becomes more confused and fragmented. One man starts to sing the praises of seeing doctors in person, only to say that talk therapy can’t help, only medication can (one has the sense that both are true).

Many recent documentaries have taken the approach of avoiding narration completely. Though watching this film is admittedly an act that takes great patience, patient viewers will be rewarded. The approach here is justified, partially because the filmmaker intends to let his subjects speak for themselves, partially to encourage in the viewer the same understanding that the Adamant’s staff exemplify. If it takes a while to acclimate oneself to the film’s stately rhythm, by the end, the viewer is deeply drawn into the personalities of those who frequent it, and moved and impressed by the humanity of the whole endeavor. One heartbreaking scene, in which a woman discusses at length her desire to teach dance classes, as well as her feelings that she is being kept from doing so by the staff, encapsulates the mixture of sadness and warmth that permeates this film. (A staff member very kindly confirms to said woman that they do have reservations about letting clients teach classes.)

This is not to say that one finishes the film fully satisfied. Though the filmmaker’s unobtrusive approach is mostly justified, there are areas left unaddressed which would have further illuminated the value of the Adamant. I was left curious about the living circumstances of those who frequent it, and also the logistics of how the facility is run. There is something lost here in the director’s complete eschewal of any attempt to explicitly discuss how this organization operates. Doing so would not deny the humanity he has helped capture. It would merely provide solidity and context, and help viewers understand how far-reaching the facility’s achievements are.

Many of the most moving parts of the documentary occur when the clientele explain their drawings to the patient and engaged staff. More than once, we are rewarded by seeing them delight in their own creations. My favorite is a woman who chose to draw a praying mantis—I’ll let viewers discover her for themselves.