For those not feeling buoyant as they sail over the waves of life (indulge me with this hokey phrasing), I do not recommend diving for many days to look at an octopus and, from it, learn how to cope with the verities of human existence. Note the italicized “human.” If you are a shark, maybe you could take some tips on hunting from watching this film—that is if sharks can apprehend the visuals of cinema.
But if you want to have an hour or so—give and take the minutes spent by the narrator on land as he summarizes the events under the sea—of stunning visuals, then this documentary, My Octopus Teacher, is the film for you.
This is not the first time underwater scenes of such breathtakingly glorious dimensions have been filmed and shown on-screen. Easily coming to mind are the classic narratives from National Geographic, just to cite a major model. But there is something about My Octopus Teacher, which draws you into the recesses of a kelp forest somewhere in South Africa, down into the caves where an octopus retreats (in the documentary, the octopus is a “she”) from what is identified as its predator.
The narrator, Craig Foster, is a filmmaker. We know where he is coming from and why he develops such an obsessive—and compulsive—desire to dive into the sea, and, after encountering an octopus, pursues a creature the way an avid male courts an alluring female. The man seeks a way out, or a way in to another life. Not on land but in the depths and shallow of a sea.
Would an octopus provide a warmer/cooler companionship? This is not being flippant but that question has to be asked if we want to make sense of the premise and the conclusion of this film.
And so he sees an octopus.
I know what you would ask: How do you know that the octopus you see one day, or on first dive, be the same being you view and meet again the second day?
But get to know the octopus, the man does. Like any human being encountering another human being, the first is a literal eyeballing. Then, he dives the next day, and the next day…and the next days. Until, one day, on-screen we witness one of the tentacles of the octopus outstretched, touching the hand of the man. Nothing magnificent about that unless you interpret that as the octopus offering a friendship. Which the man articulates to be such, a being from the sea engaging with a being—a human—from the land.
The outstretched tentacles and the sensitive suctions on the tentacles begin to assume human touch—all this from the perspective of the documentarian.
In a tale of friendship and love, however, there should be a villain. The poor sharks (and here they are called “pajama sharks” because of the stripes around their body) are once more the bad guys.
In one awesome scene, a shark pursues the “poor” (modifier as commentary entirely mine) octopus and bites off one of its tentacles. For the first time, I see a cut tentacle the way I see it on a table in a market as fish vendors chop octopus to selling bits. Whether it was ever taught to us in our Biology class or I forgot, the tentacle eventually regrows and, according to the documentary, after some 100 days resumes a full-pledged status as a tentacle again.
By the way, while the shark is trying to get away with at least one part of the octopus, the documentarian is a bothered and anxious observer: “Should I intervene?” he asks. At a certain point, we share his nervousness as he quickly surfaces for fresh air (he is human after all), and goes down again to find out what happened to his friend, the octopus.
As the shark runs away with a bitten-off tentacle, we are aware this pursuer-pursued drama does not end there. That between the shark and the octopus, this dynamic relationship will continue. That we cannot call this a conflict between a predator and its prey because this is how things go under the sea. Let it also be said that while with the shark, the octopus is the object of pity, with other fishes and sea creatures, the same prey—the octopus—becomes the powerful predator, an object of derision from us human viewers.
Enough lessons or insights or exciting knowledge can be derived from the aforementioned scenes between predators and prey. There is also the discomfort that we do not have the right to intervene in the “fight” between the shark and the octopus. Perhaps, these are not even fights. But because we go into the sea, we take it upon ourselves to critique the shark, the octopus and the corrals the way we elucidate on the dirty politics of the human groups.
This is my problem with this documentary, when it anthropomorphizes the creatures of the sea. Attributing to them human traits make me lose interest in the lessons this unknowing octopus has supposedly given the documentarian.
While I am not judging and will not judge the human emotional and psychosocial problems the man/documentarian has gone through, I find it a source of pathos if we humans have to dive into the sea, observe and be friends with octopuses so that we could feel human again. There is enough wisdom and data we can collate and analyze from the sharks and empty shells of our own societies.
As for the visuals of this film, a big credit should go to Roger Horrocks, who is cited for the cinematography of My Octopus Teacher. According to his bio in IMDb.com, Horrocks is an underwater-cinematographer specializing in wildlife sequences for documentaries and features. He has worked on projects for National Geographic, Disney Films and the BBC.
My Octopus Teacher is a 2020 Netflix Original documentary film directed by Pippa Ehrlich and James Reed. It won the award for Best Documentary Feature at the recently concluded 93rd Oscars.
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