Hatidže Muratova is one of the few wild beekeepers left in Europe, and yet she continues her quiet life in a remote North Macedonian village, caring for her blind, bed-ridden mother, and following a strict ethical code of keeping a natural balance in the land she lives off. “Half for me, half for you” she chants to the bees, as she harvests their honey to later sell at the local market. There is a meditative quality in watching her work, as if she herself is part of an ecosystem that cyclically maintains itself.
Honeyland documents Muratova’s labour with sharp clarity, capturing the majestic mountainous regions of North Macedonia as she hikes across a cliff face, as well as the miniscule movements of the bees with which she maintains a symbiotic relationship. There is a unity in its images, binding together the macro- and microscopic elements of nature with bright golden hues in the sunlight, bees, honeycomb, and Muratova’s clothing.
We spend a fair amount of time experiencing the rhythms of Muratova’s life, getting to know her eccentricities and playful relationship with her mother. It is only once we are comfortable with this tempo that the peace is disrupted. When a family settles nearby, Muratova apprehensively befriends them, imparting to the parents and children the art of wild beekeeping that she learnt from her ancestors. But with them they bring avarice and carelessness, leaving little honey for their own bees to survive on and eventually impacting Muratova’s own bee colony. If Honeyland wasn’t so real it could easily function as a fable, warning us about the dangers of taking from nature without giving back.
As Muratova’s world is disturbed, the smooth camerawork transitions to handheld, becoming shakier. We witness the exploitation of a carefully balanced ecosystem, relentlessly pushed beyond its ability to provide sustenance, before it is rendered useless and discarded without a second thought. Throughout all of this, the settling family aren’t painted as villains, but rather as regular people who have passively absorbed the values of a consumerist economy. Though they will likely find somewhere else to set up camp and start all over again, Muratova is left to deal with the aftermath. She might be able to eventually build her livelihood back up, but even as we start to get glimpses of hope we are reminded of the mortality of all living things. Accepting the cycles of life also means accepting the inevitability of death.
It is sometimes hard to believe that Honeyland isn’t a scripted narrative, given how improbable it seems that a film crew was around to capture such an interesting human story emerging from this sparsely populated area. But at the same time there is nothing remotely staged in the actual interactions between Muratova, her mother, and the settling family. The documentary is as observational as it gets, doing away with interviews, voiceovers, or any form of exposition that might threaten our immersion. That this film still manages to hold together as a cohesive story without the use of these devices comes down to the skill of the directors, Tamara Kotevska and Ljubomir Stefanov, and their ability to identify those parts of Muratova’s life that are truly cinematic. When they turn our attention to the sweeping landscapes of North Macedonia, we feel tiny; when they capture the miniscule details of the bee colonies, we feel massive; but when they put us face to face with the humans in Honeyland, we must turn inwards and examine our own values.
We loved this film and apppreciate the detailed and accurate review. Thanks