The 52nd edition of the Seattle International Film Festival begins on May 7 with writer/director Boots Riley's second feature, I Love Boosters, and ends with actor/director Olivia Wilde's third, The Invite, on May 17. My 2026 coverage begins with Mārama, one of the highlights of this year's lineup.
MARAMA
(Taratoa Stappard, Aotearoa/New Zealand, 2026, 89 minutes)
The lingering effects of colonialism take the form of terrifying visions in New Zealand filmmaker Taratoa Stappard's assured Gothic horror Mārama.
Stappard, who lives and works in the UK, begins in 1859 as Mary Stevens (Ariāna Osborne, who is of Ngaāti Mutunga and Te Āti Haunui-a-Pāpārangi descent), a 24-year-old Māori woman raised by a white family, arrives in Whitby, North Yorkshire from Wellington, where a surly coachman drops her off miles from the home of Thomas Boyd, a mystery man who reached out to her, paid for her trip, and promised to tell her about her parents.
The coachman warns that the path is steep, but doesn't offer to help her in any way, a sign that she isn't welcome as a woman, a non-white, and a foreigner. Mary is on her own with bulky luggage until Peggy (Jamaican-Scottish actress Umi Myers), a servant, arrives in a coach to bring her to Hawkser Manor, home of retired whaler Nathaniel Cole (an avuncular Toby Stephens), to rest for the night. They appear to have anticipated her visit.
The look on Mary's face suggests that she knows to question anything that comes out of a white man's mouth (Osborne says a lot without words). It's convenient that Thomas died during her 73-day trip, and that Nathaniel also grew up without parents. Plus, he's exceptionally eager to win her favor, claiming that he often hired Māori men to work on his ships and that he speaks the language. He even built a model Māori wharenui on his grounds.
Mary has no other option, though she senses that something isn't quite right with this picture, which Stappard indicates through the way seemingly innocuous moments–glances in mirrors, the touch of hands, the very sight of the wharenui–send a chill down her spine for reasons she can't explain.
The eerie sounds of tapping metal or rattling glass accompany these moments, leading to visions which grow more detailed each time they occur. In some, Māori women attempt to communicate with her. In others, her throat appears slashed as if a murdered woman's spirit has possessed her.
As Mary gets to know Anne, she finds that the girl also speaks Māori and has a similar birthmark on her arm, hints that her mother may have been Māori or that they may be related. Anne is only a child, but she's the closest thing Mary has to a confidant. Peggy, who lacks her educational advantages, resents her privilege, and Nathaniel's friends and associates creep her out, especially when they join together in a grotesque play to celebrate the birthday of the great white hunter.
Then, Nathaniel tells her about a woman from his past, and everything starts to make sense–and not in a good way–but she's resourceful and resolute, and she won't rest until she puts all of the pieces together.
In that sense, she recalls the Second Mrs. de Winter in Daphne Du Maurier's novel Rebecca–and Hitchcock's adaptation with Joan Fontaine and Laurence Olivier–who becomes a de facto detective in order to determine the truth about her secretive husband's late wife and his hostile housekeeper.
Unlike Mrs. de Winter, though--who lacks a first name--Mary is no shrinking violet. As the amateur theatrical comes to an end, she lets Nathaniel's guests know exactly how she feels. In Māori, of course, which most of them don't speak, but it's the first sign that her employer may not hold as many cards as he thinks he does.
For most of the film's run time, Mary keeps a tight lid on her emotions, but after her outburst, all bets are off. To Stephens' credit, he doesn't overplay his hand, possibly because Nathaniel doesn't see himself as a villain. He may value Māori culture, but he doesn't exactly value Māori people, other than as a means to an end. He can collect their art and speak their language, but they exist to serve his whims, and in the end: they're pretty expendable.
Beyond Du Maurier, Stappard's directorial debut, the first in a proposed trilogy of Gothic horror stories, brings the novels of the Brontë sisters to mind–particularly Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights–through the isolated setting, the severe costumes, the foreboding atmosphere, and the sort of handsome, brooding man who has convinced himself he knows everything there is to know about women. At his peril.
It's no surprise, really, when Mary finds her inner strength, since she never comes across as a victim, and since Stappard indicates that a showdown looms on the horizon with each slippery word Nathaniel utters and each startling vision that rattles Mary's equilibrium, but it's still supremely satisfying when she takes control of an impossible situation, not least since Ariāna Osborne's fury could melt the polar icecaps (like her father, television presenter Glen Osborne, she's a former rugby player).
Even for those who don't normally gravitate toward Gothic horror, Mārama is absolutely worth it just to see one woman right several generations' worth of wrongs with the sheer force of her will. If only it worked that way in real life.
Mārama plays SIFF Downtown on Fri, May 8, at 9:15pm and the Uptown on Sat, May 9, at 3:15pm. Click here for more information. Images from Kirsty Griffin / New Zealand Herald (Ariāna Osborne), New Zealand on Screen, and San Diego Asian Film Festival (Osborne and Evelyn Towersey), Dusted Off (Joan Fontaine and Judith Anderson), and Posteritati (Mārama poster).
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