Film Review: Pasa Faho (2025) - Australia
Reviewed by Andrew Chan (Film Critic Circle of Australia)
I rated it 7/10
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A Quietly Radiant Tapestry of Heritage and Home - Kalu Oji’s debut feature, “Pasa Faho" (meaning "parts of a whole"), arrives like a warm breeze carrying the scent of distant soil mixed with Melbourne suburbia. It’s a film that eschews the polished sheen often associated with Australian cinema for something far more valuable: lived-in authenticity. Set amidst the unassuming streets and humble shops of Melbourne's immigrant communities, it’s a gentle, soulful exploration of heritage straining against the currents of gentrification and generational change, centered on a relationship as worn and real as the shoes its protagonist sells.
Azubuike (a revelatory Okey Bakassi shedding his comedian's skin with profound vulnerability) is an Igbo shoe salesman whose small shop feels like an island of tradition in a rapidly shifting sea. His struggle isn't just financial; it's existential. What does it mean to be a provider, a father, a bearer of culture, when the ground beneath your feet is being sold for condos? Opposite him, in a performance of remarkable naturalism from young Tyson Palmer, is his 12-year-old son Obinna. He loves his father, but his world is Australian schoolyards and the inherent tension of being a first-generation child – fluent in a culture his father navigates like a foreign language.
The film’s greatest strength lies in its unforced truth. Oji, filming in real locations – cramped shoe shops smelling faintly of leather and polish, modest 70s-era homes clinging to memories – crafts an atmosphere less like a constructed drama and more like stepping into an archived memory. Cinematographer Gabriel Francis captures this world with an old-school finesse, bathing dusty shelves and ordinary backyards in natural light that feels almost sacred, transforming the mundane into the meaningful. There’s no artifice here, only observation steeped in respect.
The heart of the film beats in the quiet, often unspoken, friction between Azubuike and Obinna. Oji beautifully encapsulates this generational and cultural gap in a recurring, almost deceptively simple motif: a goat. To Azubuike, it’s sustenance, tradition, a connection to a practical past. To Obinna, it’s a potential pet, a creature to befriend. This disagreement, played out with subtle glances and resigned sighs, speaks volumes about the unbridgeable spaces that can open between parent and child across the immigrant divide. Bakassi’s performance is a masterclass in restrained anguish; you see the weight of a "whole" he feels crumbling, piece by piece, yet his love for his son remains his unwavering anchor.
If "Pasa Faho" stumbles slightly, it’s in its narrative restraint. Clocking in at a lean 86 minutes, its "slice-of-life" approach, while often hypnotic, occasionally feels too slight. Promising threads, like Azubuike’s sister diligently studying law – a symbol of a different kind of future – are introduced but left yearning for more exploration. The film prioritizes atmosphere and mood over conventional plot propulsion, a choice that imbues it with a lovely, nostalgic haze but might test the patience of viewers seeking a more structured dramatic arc. One wishes Oji had allowed himself just a little more canvas to let these secondary colors bloom.
Yet, the final verdict resonates with quiet power. “Pasa Faho" is not a film of grand gestures or loud pronouncements. It’s a radiant, deeply felt celebration of community, resilience, and the quiet dignity found in preserving identity against the tide. It refuses to simplify the complex tapestry of the migrant experience, honoring both the beauty of tradition and the ache of displacement. Oji announces himself as a filmmaker with a keen eye for detail and a profound empathy for his characters. While its scale is intimate, its emotional resonance is undeniably substantial. It shows us an Australia rarely illuminated on screen, and for that glimpse into its authentic heart, it is essential viewing. It lingers, like the memory of a place called home, long after the lights come up. (Neo, 2025)