Final Rating: 4/5
Ed. note: read our original capsule review of Black Zombie by Elysia Brenner from Hot Docs 2026.
Afro-Caribbean-Canadian filmmaker Maya Annik Bedward has spent most of her life being told that her quest for answers to the origins of herself and others like her could never reach beyond the historical dead end known as the slave trade.
The brutal kidnapping and sale of humans as work horses was not done with documentation in mind, and its victims were gathered from across the African continent – their ways of life blending into a subversive mélange of the oppressed holding onto memories through creole cultures forged anew in the food, music, and rituals of Voudou, Santoría, Rastafari, and other spiritual practices of the African diaspora in the so-called “New World.” That, Bedward realized, was in and of itself the answer: the traces of her African origins were to be found in this blend of defiant traditions that literally channel shared ancestors into the present day.
Bedward may not herself be Haitian (her father is Jamaican), but in Voudou she sees a kindred spirit. And she has complex feelings about the way the Voudou-adjacent concept of the zombie has been twisted by pop culture – twisting global perceptions of Haitian and pan-Afro-Carribbean culture with it.
Writer/director Bedward – previously known for her work on projects like the BLK: An Origin Story, a four-part docu-series about the lives of Black Canadians over the past 500 years – now turns her lens on Haiti’s most famous folklore export in her new documentary Black Zombie.
She wants to make it clear: “the zombie is not a villain but a victim, a person condemned to eternal enslavement.” It is someone whose agency and will has been stripped from them so that their bodies can be used for labor without the inconvenience of their souls. Trapped between life and release from subjugation, it is “a fate worse than death.” A denial of the right to return to the ancestors.
A zombie is a human being who has themselves been consumed and controlled – not a monster trying to eat your braiiiiiins. Bedward hopes this documentary will help set the story straight, and cast a more favorable light on Voudou, so that its modern practitioners don’t feel the need to hide their faith. She hopes especially to reclaim Voudou from sensationalist, fearmongering Hollywood stories driven by white men of blood rituals and human sacrifice. Voudou is a complex living religion, Haitian zombies a state of punishment and victimhood – they are not one and the same, and all of Voudou should not be painted with the brush of black magic.
This is the point where I, the writer of this review, need to interject: I love zombie movies. And I think Bedward has an appreciation for many of them as well. (Not you, The Serpent and the Rainbow.) The evolution of zombie cinema is traced through an impressive array of movie clips, from White Zombie (1932) through George Romero, Wes Craven, and beyond.
She contrasts the shifting images they paint (or ignore) of the zombie’s Haitian origins with the true story of Haiti, from French colony, through a successful anti-slavery revolution, to a state of pecuniary punishment – she traces the role Voudou has played in all of the above, and the relatively limited and thoroughly adjacent place of the idea of the zombie therein. “Haiti is not resilience,” the film insists, scoffing at those who would cast Haitians as merely survivors, “Haiti is resistance.” Voudou is an act of resistance to subjugation; it is not “evil” or “black magic.” It is a cry for freedom and connection.
These stories she tells through a mix of narration and interviews with fans (including executive producer Slash, of Guns N’ Roses fame), experts (such as George Romero collaborator Tom Savini), and real Voudou practitioners around the world. Throughout, she weaves creamy black-and-white imagery of a reenactment of what a zombie film made by Haitians might look like: the piercing gaze of lead actor Anderson Mojica, black bodies moving through stalks of sugar cane with purpose, their white overseer a secondary detail on the periphery. (A proof of concept that will hopefully in the not-too-distant future become a reality.)
All this knitted into seven captivating chapters at a tidy 90-minute runtime. Whether or not you agree with every participant’s personal insights, the varied perspectives offer endless fuel for thought, and the film’s wall-to-wall information in a semi-popcorn format makes it a joy to rewatch.
Thank you to GAT PR for the screener.
