You’d be forgiven for thinking that Miki Magasiva’s feature film debut Tinā is based on a true story. Sure, elements are pulled from truth, with Magasiva utilising the tragedy of the 2011 Christchurch earthquake as a scene setter for his characters, while the climactic Big Sing competition is one of New Zealand-Aotearoa’s largest choral events, but the bulk of Tinā’s narrative is a work of fiction.
Yet, even with the knowledge in mind that this isn’t a true story, you’re still likely to rush out of the cinema wanting to find out more about the glorious Mareta Percival, played with comforting level of firmness and sass by Anapela Polataivao. As Mareta, Anapela soars, imbuing Tinā (the word means mother in Samoan) with verve and vitality, elevating the film above the status of routine dramatic weepy to become something of a rare gem that will stand as an enduring experience akin to comfort viewing.
A lot of that comfort comes from the way Magasiva explores the meaning of the role of great teachers in our lives and they way they can provide structure and stability to a classroom full of disconnected students, each of them trying to find a sense of self in a rigid private school framework.
After losing her daughter in the earthquake, Mareta lingers in grief and unemployment, and after her dole payments have stalled, she’s pushed into applying for a teaching position at a prestigious private school. After giving a simple, one sentence interview response, she miraculously gets the position and is then guided back into the world of teaching which she once derived such joy and passion from. In the process, she rediscovers what it means to be a mother to her students, to guide them from being novice choir singers to a group who might be able to compete against the best in Aoteoroa.
Great teachers are gifts, they sew into the minds of their students’ memories and thoughts that will guide them for generations to come. Magasiva dives into this mindset with the films most poignant and memorable scene which sees Mareta teaching her students how to breath. As they lay on the floor, hands on their fellow students diaphragm, feeling their breaths in, their breaths out, we are gifted with the formation of core memories that will linger in their lives. It’s as if Magasiva is saying, ‘If we feel the breathing – the life – of our friends and fellow schoolmates, then we are able to strengthen our empathy and understanding of the world around us.’ If there’s one enduring message tucked within the many messages in Tinā, it’s this one.
The group of students Mareta is entrusted with include Sophie (Antonia Robinson), a young student trying to find her own path into music, and Anthony (Zac O’Meagher), one of the schools promising rugby players, amongst others with their own societal issues to bear. Outside of the school, Mareta’s nephew Sio (Beulah Koale) is going through his own personal troubles. Like Mareta, these characters are given enough specificity to feel pulled from real life. Yet, their narrative threads are as familiar as the rest of Tinā is, with each taking you on the routine emotional journey that hits at the rights spots, meaning that you’ll no doubt have used up your packet of tissues long before the films close.
Which in itself is one of the bugbears of Tinā. Magasiva’s script is a stock standard one, with character tropes that fit the slots comfortably, allowing his cast to deliver impressive, memorable performances that never overstep their mark or tower over the other. Yet, each character has their own trauma to bear, with our beleaguered teacher Mareta saddled with the films heaviest moments. While Anapela navigates these scenes with immeasurable talent, I couldn’t help but feel that poor Mareta was given a hard load to carry: death of her only daughter, loss of family, stuck on welfare support, no job, enduring racism and slander against her culture; and that’s before we even get to the unexpected third act revelation that acts as the pinnacle of pain for Mareta. As each shovel load of sadness was heaped onto poor Mareta, I felt something I shouldn’t feel for her: pity.
This pity is exacerbated by the cartoonish levels of racism and bullying that comes from fellow teachers and students in the school. At a school assembly, Jamie Irvine’s headmaster in waiting Peter Wadsworth announces that Alan Hubbard (Dalip Sondhi) will be retiring from the position of headmaster at the end of the year, with all duties handed over to Wadsworth immediately. Where Sondhi’s Hubbard is a character who has breathed air into the lungs of the school for years, Wadsworth is a caricature of the highest order; if he were wearing a moustache, he’d be busy twirling it in every scene, so tonally out of synch is his performance with the rest of the film. Wadsworth is sceptical of Mareta's choir, using its existence as a chance to belittle her attire and diminish Pacific culture in the school.
And look, given the current state of Aoteoroa and the way Christopher Luxon’s party seemingly wants to drag the nation back from The Treaty of Waitangi, diminishing Maori and Samoan culture across the land, the presence of racism in Tinā is expected. But Irvine’s performance is so wicked and over the top that it feels as if he exists to give white audience members an out from our complicit role in the institutional racism that exists in both Aoteoroa and Australia. ‘Well, I’m not like that,’ they might say to one another as they leave the cinema, all the while critiquing the role of Welcome to Country’s at public events.
It's here that Tinā faces its biggest dilemma: what audience is it seeking? Is it aiming to be a reflective experience for Samoan and Maori audiences who are yearning to see themselves on screen? Or, is it giving white audiences a dose of cultural tourism that allows them to ‘see something different’ before returning to their lives of homogeneity?
The reality is that it sits somewhere in the middle; and that’s ok.
Its faults lie in the safe attempt to balance both Pacific culture and entertainment for a white audience, yet its strengths outweigh those faults immeasurably.
Tinā is a comforting film. It's one that accentuates the beauty and warmth of mothers and great teachers. It's the kind of film that makes you cry, that makes you laugh, that teaches you something, and that leaves you swaying your hips a little as you walk out to the sound of the credits.
Tinā is imbued with respect for Samoan culture, and Magasiva’s script opens the world up to those whose roots are tied deeply within that culture and to those who are unfamiliar with Samoan hymns or might not know what a puletasi is. Tinā is the textbook definition of a crowd pleaser; it has enough moments of lightness that act as uplifting quick breaths out tucked between the long, emotional deep breaths in that make up the bulk of the film.
When Tinā hits its emotional beats, and Magasiva crafts genuine moments of glory, the film is at its finest, blurring the lines of fiction and true story to create something in between. It’s clear that that glory has resonated with audiences, as they turn out to make Tinā one of the great cinematic success stories of the year.
Director: Miki Magasiva
Cast: Anapela Polataivao, Antonia Robinson, Beulah Koale
Writer: Miki Magasiva, Mario Gaoa (contributing writer)
Producers: Mario Gaoa, Dan Higgins, Miki Magasiva
Composer: Sebastien Pan
Editor: Luke Haigh
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