Some films don’t ask for your attention—they simply welcome you in. The Gardener and the Dictator, the latest documentary by Hui Wang, does exactly that. Soft-spoken, richly personal, and deeply human, this film brings audiences into a world of quiet routines, long histories, and intimate love. It may not shock you, but it will stay with you—especially if you’ve ever wished you had more time with someone you’ve loved. The Gardener and the Dictator is something of a companion to Wang’s debut feature Last Harvest (2015), which followed a rural farming couple displaced by China’s South-North Water Diversion Project. But this time, Wang turns her lens inward—toward her grandparents, with whom she lived during the production of Last Harvest. She filmed them simply because she wanted to preserve their memory, their humour, and their presence. What we see in this film is a time capsule—recorded over a decade ago, edited over 200 painstaking hours, and finally shared with the world.
Set in Wuhan, China, just a few years before the COVID-19 pandemic, The Gardener and the Dictator reconnects us with a nearly forgotten rhythm of life. Wang’s grandparents— both in their late 80s— live in a modest apartment surrounded by a rapidly modernizing city. But their world is still full: they bicker playfully, tell stories of surviving the Japanese occupation and the Cultural Revolution, and move through their home with a practiced choreography that comes from decades of companionship. The title refers to their nicknames: her grandfather, “the Gardener,” is calm and nurturing, a steady soul in a shifting world. Her grandmother, “the Dictator,” once athletic and mischievous, grew stricter with age—but always retained a spark of wit and fire. Together, they make an unforgettable pair. Their dynamic—full of gentle teasing, eye rolls, and mutual respect—is the beating heart of the film.
What stands out most is not just what Wang shows, but how. The cinematography is raw and observational. Some shots are shaky, others linger unexpectedly. This isn’t a flaw—it’s a strength. The camera never intrudes; it witnesses. It captures the textures of real life: the clink of dishes, the sound of slippers on tiled floors, the pauses between conversations. Wang uses long wide shots and carefully chosen close-ups to let us observe, to let us feel present without being directed.
There are no interviews. No narration. Only time, gestures, and silence—woven together through thoughtful editing. The use of on-screen dates tracks the subtle shift in seasons, reminding us how time moves forward, even in the smallest of ways. These moments of stillness—what documentary filmmakers often refer to as “breathers”—give the audience space to reflect. I found them incredibly effective. They echo the feeling of reminiscing, of remembering something deeply felt but quietly lived. The visual style also leans into nostalgia. Colours are slightly faded, never over-saturated, allowing the natural light and lived-in spaces to speak for themselves. There’s no need for heightened sentimentality. The emotion is already there—in every touch, glance, and sigh between the couple.
At the Hot Docs screening, the audience responded warmly. There was laughter throughout—especially during the couple’s banter—and a calm, reflective stillness by the end. The story’s trajectory may feel predictable, but that doesn’t lessen its power. Knowing where it leads only deepens the weight of each passing moment. The Gardener and the Dictator is a textbook example of this “fly on the wall” approach of documentary—and the results are quietly breathtaking. Hui Wang shared during the Q&A that editing her film was emotionally difficult—so many memories, so many tears. But what she has given us is more than just a family archive. It’s a universal meditation on care, aging, and legacy.
Listen to the audio review here:
