With To the West, in Zapata, director David Bim delivers a deeply moving and visually arresting debut feature that sheds light on the lives of those living on the margins of Cuban society. Shot in stunning black-and-white cinematography, this observational documentary transports us to the Zapata Swamp, where untamed nature, revolutionary history, the pandemic, and daily survival converge with a striking emotional sensitivity.

Divided into two parts, To the West, in Zapata follows the lives of Landi and Mercedes, a couple struggling to make ends meet while caring for their teenage son Deinis, who lives with a disability. The first half, titled “Landi,” immerses us in the protagonist’s life as a crocodile hunter in a protected zone. We watch him cross the swamp with a crocodile slung over his shoulders, his only companion a wind-up radio broadcasting news from the outside world—pandemic updates, state propaganda, and Revolutionary anniversaries—through crackling static during long stretches of solitude.

What stands out is Bim’s ability to construct a powerful narrative without dialogue or interviews. The camera becomes a silent observer, following Landi’s movements through long takes that evoke the spirit of Flaherty and Lisandro Alonso, while maintaining a distinct and personal voice. One particular scene—Landi submerged waist-deep in water under a gentle rain as he captures a crocodile—combines visual beauty and raw tension, proving that cinema doesn’t need grand production to be profoundly cinematic.

The film’s second part, “Mercedes,” shifts the perspective. Landi’s wife takes center stage as she looks after Deinis, cooks, makes charcoal, and searches for her son in the woods. She too lives in isolation, though hers is a domestic kind, filled with immediate, pressing concerns: the child’s well-being, scarce resources, her husband’s absence. Deinis is portrayed with great tenderness—never through pity or dramatization. Bim frames him with the unconditional love of his parents, offering a depiction filled with dignity and humanity.

Rather than explicit commentary, the film leans toward a poetic representation of time and space. The black-and-white visuals create a suspended atmosphere, as if Cuba’s present were still anchored in an unresolved past. The radio’s grandiose, repetitive messages clash with the quiet, humble images of daily life. This ongoing tension between official memory and lived reality is one of the film’s most powerful revelations.

While part of a cinematic tradition that portrays Cuba from the periphery—much like El Mégano did in the 1950s—To the West, in Zapata avoids both denunciation and romanticism. Its approach is more intimate: offering a sincere, affectionate gaze at a family surviving between swamp and scarcity, but also between love and resilience. There are moments of true mystery, such as when Mercedes sings La de la mochila azul and Deinis, entranced, responds with an enigmatic gesture that borders on trance. In such moments, cinema transcends testimony—it becomes poetry.

Beyond its documentary value, the film’s vision is deeply artistic: capturing the essence of the everyday and transforming it into cinema. It’s a portrait of Cuba, yes—but also a meditation on the human condition, on the contradictions between the collective and the individual, the weight of the past and the fragility of the present.