Crows Are White (2026)

Crows Are White is the kind of documentary that sneaks up on you: deeply personal and spiritually curious, yet disarmingly funny, thanks to an unlikely guide—a monk whose taste runs more to heavy metal and ice cream than solemn sermons. Over years and across continents, Ahsen Nadeem turns the camera on his own contradictions with a rare honesty, letting the film breathe with intimate conversations, awkward silences, and sudden bursts of odd charm. The vibe is contemplative without being preachy, and revealing without feeling like confession-for-confession’s sake—more a searchlight than a spotlight. If you want a tidy thesis about religion, this may feel too human and messy, but if you’re open to a resonant journey where faith and love are questioned with wit and tenderness, it’s quietly irresistible.

Crows Are White is clearly aiming for an intimate, soul-searching journey—part spiritual inquiry, part odd-couple friendship—set against the fascinating rigor of a secluded Japanese monastery. The problem is it can drift from “investigation” into “self-session,” where the director’s personal processing starts to feel like therapy on camera rather than a focused exploration of faith and tradition. Some moments may also grate if you’re allergic to meandering narration or a tone that swings between profound and quirky (yes, ice cream and heavy metal). If you’re patient with deeply personal docs, there’s real tenderness and access here, but if you want a tighter, more outward-looking study of Buddhism and monastic life, this may test your goodwill.