There’s something profoundly moving about witnessing a filmmaker reach new heights in both technical mastery and storytelling—and Cherien Dabis’s latest work, All That’s Left of You, is a testament to that evolution. But here’s where it gets controversial: Is it possible for a film to be both achingly personal and universally resonant while tackling one of the most divisive conflicts in modern history? Dabis, whose previous films Amreeka and May in the Summer explored themes of identity and displacement with quiet intimacy, has now crafted a multi-generational Palestinian epic that demands attention—and Jordan has taken notice, submitting it as their entry for the Best International Feature at the Academy Awards, where it’s already been shortlisted.
Dabis’s storytelling is anything but linear, and this is where her brilliance shines. The film opens with a haunting sequence: two teenage boys, Noor and Malek, race across the tin rooftops and narrow alleys of the occupied West Bank, their energy juxtaposed against the fragility of their surroundings. Moments later, Noor rushes home, barely catching his mother, Hanan (played by Dabis herself), before she leaves for an anti-Israel protest. Gunshots ring out, and in a bold narrative twist, Hanan breaks the fourth wall to address the audience directly: ‘I know you’re wondering why we’re here… But to understand, I must tell you about his grandfather.’ And this is the part most people miss: Dabis isn’t just telling a story—she’s inviting us to bear witness to decades of history, pain, and resilience.
Spanning four decades—from 1948 in Jaffa to 2022—the film weaves together the lives of a Palestinian family torn apart by the Nakba, the ethnic expulsion that accompanied the formation of the State of Israel. We see young Salim (Salah Aldeen Mai) idolizing his father, Sharif (Adam Bakri), who teaches him a romantic poem: ‘I am the sea / In my depths all treasures dwell / Have they asked the divers about my pearls?’ Their idyllic life shatters during the Palestinian War, forcing Salim and his family to flee to a refugee camp while Sharif stays behind, only to be subjected to forced labor. By 1978, an adult Salim (Saleh Bakri) watches his sister Layla marry, knowing she’ll eventually leave for Toronto. Fast forward to 1988, and Salim, now a teacher, struggles to maintain his son Noor’s trust after Israeli soldiers humiliate him in front of his family.
Dabis’s themes are layered and deliberate. The helplessness of paternal figures is palpable, amplified by the casting of the Bakri family across generations. The dehumanization inflicted by the Israeli Defense Forces (IDF) is portrayed not just through physical violence—arrests, imprisonment, death—but also through psychological and bureaucratic means. Here’s where it gets even more provocative: The IDF’s refusal to learn Arabic, instead speaking broken phrases, becomes a symbol of cultural erasure. Meanwhile, Dabis uses the beauty of the Arabic language, particularly the poem ‘I Am the Sea’ by Muhammad Hafiz Ibrahim, to reclaim identity and heritage.
But it’s not just the narrative that captivates—it’s the craftsmanship. Dabis and her cinematographer, Christopher Aoun, frame each shot with intention. Wide angles aren’t wasted; they’re filled with detail, from televisions broadcasting the Lebanese Civil War to Palestinian uprisings. The visuals are stunning yet poignant: purple-hued silhouettes of Palestinians laboring, a drone shot capturing the Mediterranean sea merging with the Jaffa skyline, and family gatherings that oscillate between joy and sorrow. And this is the part that will stay with you: The human face, as Cassavetes once said, is the greatest location in the world—and Dabis’s cast embodies this. The elder Bakri’s weathered face carries decades of pain, Saleh’s vulnerable eyes evoke sorrow, and Dabis herself radiates warmth as Hanan.
Through these performances, Dabis achieves something extraordinary: she transforms the heart into a symbol—both physical and metaphorical—that binds languages, experiences, and hopes. It’s a bold move that could feel heavy-handed, but here, it’s earned. Even in moments that teeter on sentimentality, like a sunset scene between Hanan and Salim in 2022, the purity of Dabis’s intent keeps us grounded. We don’t just watch All That’s Left of You—we feel it, piece by piece, until we’re left with a humanizing whole.
Now, here’s the question: Can a film about such a deeply polarizing conflict truly bridge divides, or does it risk reinforcing existing biases? Dabis’s work doesn’t shy away from the complexities, but it also doesn’t offer easy answers. What do you think? Does All That’s Left of You succeed in its ambition, or does it fall short? Let’s discuss in the comments.
