In recent years, cinema surrounding the Gaza Strip has been defined by immediacy—films shaped by conflict, urgency, and historical framing. War dominates the image, often dictating not only the subject, but the structure itself. Once Upon a Time in Gaza, from Tarzan and Arab Nasser, rejects that framework outright. The conflict remains ever-present, but it is not the film’s focus. Instead, it recedes into the background, allowing something far more revealing to take its place: the texture of everyday life lived under its shadow.
“Gaza, lived—not observed.”
The distinction is subtle but essential. Where many recent films center on the spectacle of destruction or the immediacy of violence, Once Upon a Time in Gaza shifts its gaze toward the individuals navigating a reality shaped by those forces. Bombings occur, buildings fall, fighter jets pass overhead—but these moments are not staged as narrative peaks. They are interruptions, ambient and persistent, folded into the rhythm of daily survival.
What emerges is a crime story on the surface, but one rooted in something deeper. Written by Tarzan Nasser, Arab Nasser, Amer Nasser, and Marie Legrand, the film builds its narrative through character rather than plot mechanics. Power, control, and corruption drive the story forward, yet these themes are not presented as abstractions—they are embedded within lived experience. The stakes are not global or ideological, but immediate and personal.
“Not about war—about surviving it.”
This is where the film finds its voice. Drug trafficking, corrupt authority, and systems of control are not unique to Gaza, but the conditions in which they exist here are. The absence of open borders—no functioning airport, no viable exit by sea, and severely restricted land crossings—creates a sense of entrapment that defines the film’s emotional core. It is not simply that the characters are caught in a web of crime, but that they are operating within a space where escape, in any meaningful sense, is nearly impossible.
Christophe Graillot’s cinematography reinforces this sense of confinement. The image is not polished or pristine; instead, it carries a rough, uneven texture that grounds the film in something tactile and immediate. There is a deliberate lack of aesthetic distance. Even moments that could be rendered with cinematic flourish—such as the presence of airstrikes—are stripped of spectacle. They are presented plainly, almost indifferently, which paradoxically makes them more unsettling.
“A world shaped by conflict, not defined by it.”
And yet, for all its strengths, the film is not without its flaws. Structurally, it struggles to maintain a consistent focus. The first act positions Yahya at the center of a tightly constructed crime narrative, only for the film to gradually shift its emphasis. By the end of that opening stretch, the story feels as though it has lost its initial footing, recalibrating toward a broader thematic concern: the inescapability of one’s circumstances.
This transition is not without purpose, but it lacks clarity. The film ultimately arrives at a compelling idea—that life in Gaza is defined by an inability to break free from systemic constraints—but the path it takes to get there feels uneven. The narrative doesn’t collapse, but it does drift, occasionally losing the precision that defines its strongest moments.
Still, the performances anchor the film, particularly Majd Eid, who commands attention in every scene he occupies. His character may not be afforded the full range of emotional depth the story demands, but Eid compensates through presence alone. There is a naturalism to his performance that aligns perfectly with the film’s tone—unforced, grounded, and entirely believable.
Even moments that risk feeling derivative—such as a restaurant scene reminiscent of Michael Mann’s Heat—are executed with enough confidence to stand on their own. The homage is clear, but it never feels hollow.
Ultimately, Once Upon a Time in Gaza is not a flawless film. Its pacing falters, its structure wavers, and its narrative clarity could be stronger. But what it achieves is far more significant than technical precision.
It reframes Gaza—not as spectacle, but as lived reality. And in doing so, it offers something increasingly rare: a film that does not attempt to explain Gaza, but allows us to experience it.
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