Can happiness be measured? The Festival de Cinema Budista de Catalunya presents its first film forum with the acclaimed documentary Agent of Happiness, premiered at Sundance and screened at more than 100 international film festivals. Following the screening, co-director Dorottya Zurbó will join specialists in science and Buddhism for a conversation around one of life’s deepest questions. A unique experience bringing together cinema, reflection, and contemplative wisdom.
Available online from May 29 to June 1, 2026, with an in-person screening on May 29 at Verdi Park cinema in Barcelona.
On April 29, 2026, the Bhikkhunī Dhammadinnā will hold an online conference on the inner and outer dimensions of ethics in early Buddhist teachings. Organized by the Fundació Universitat Rovira i Virgili and the Dharma-Gaia Foundation, the session will explore how discernment, mindfulness and the transformation of experience sustain ethical life on the Buddhist path. An opportunity to deepen the relationship between ethics, mind and awakening from an academic and contemplative perspective.
Benoy K. Behl has been a privileged witness to the beauty, kindness, and compassion that art can bring to the world. An art historian, documentary filmmaker, and photographer, Behl (New Delhi) is the only person to have documented Buddhist heritage in 19 regions across 17 countries. For this reason, his name is now included in the Limca Book of Records as the most traveled photographer and art historian (Limca is an annual reference book published in India that documents India’s achievements in multiple fields).
The turning point in his career came when he photographed the ancient paintings in the Ajanta caves, the oldest surviving paintings from the historical period on the Indian subcontinent. In the horseshoe-shaped gorge of the Waghora River in Maharashtra, western India, thirty-one caves were excavated in two phases. The first dates back to the 2nd century BCE, and the second, between the 4th and 6th centuries CE. C. The mural paintings and sculptures at Ajanta depict the Jataka tales, stories about the Buddha in his previous lives, and the caves were used for centuries as a retreat place for Buddhist monks during the monsoon months.
Photograph by Benoy K. Behl
Behl photographed the Ajanta paintings in their authentic colors and details in 1991 (and a year later, he returned to redo the work and perfected it). After publishing these photographs in National Geographic magazine, museums and universities around the world invited him to lecture and exhibit the paintings. The Director General of the Archaeological Survey of India wrote to him: “You have conquered the darkness of the Ajanta Caves.”
Benoy K. Behl is one of the foremost ambassadors of ancient Indian art through his books, photographic exhibitions, and documentaries. Some of his documentaries, such as “The Indian Roots of Tibetan Buddhism” and “Indian Deities Worshipped in Japan,” have won awards at various international film festivals.
Buddhistdoor en Español: You have mentioned in many articles the impact your photographic work of the Ajanta murals had on you. After visiting so many places around the world that boast some of the finest Buddhist art, what did you find so extraordinary about the Ajanta murals?
Benoy K. Behl: “I have been incredibly fortunate to see and document some of the most beautiful Buddhist art, in places like the Borobudur Stupa in Indonesia; Sukhothai in Thailand; the 12th-century paintings of Bagan in Myanmar; the Dungkar Caves in the Tibet Autonomous Region; the cultural history museums of Bangladesh; and the Sigiriya Caves in Sri Lanka. What is extraordinary about all this art is its sublime vision of life, which gives a profound inner perspective to the painted and sculpted figures. It is exquisite art that transports you away from the noise and clamor of the material world to the peace that can be found within.”
Ajanta 268 (Bodhisattva Padmapani, Cave 1)
After having seen this wonderful collection of Buddhist artworks around the world, one returns to its most sublime source. The paintings of Ajanta are the most complete and exquisite embodiment of the spirit of compassion in Buddhism. There is a delicacy in this art that moves you and completely transforms you; you simply have to give it a chance and spend time in its presence. Scholars and pilgrims have always spoken of ‘the world of Ajanta,’ and this is what I experienced there. The thousands of kind and gentle figures painted on the walls of the Ajanta caves transport you to a world of compassion and kindness. These paintings convey a holistic view of life that changes you forever. The compassionate message of Ajanta is captured in an inscription at the site, which reads: “The joy of giving filled him so completely that there was no room left for the feeling of pain.”
BDE: Let’s step back in time. If you could recreate on film the atmosphere, the sounds, and the people who worked at and visited the caves during the two phases of construction of the Ajanta Caves, what would we see?
BKB: “The main thing we would see is a multitude of dedicated people, fulfilling their role in life, sculpting and painting. They were guilds of artists who considered it their dharma, or sacred duty, to create art that would convey the knowledge and understanding of life they had received from their ancestors.”
BDE: Are the Ajanta paintings in danger?
BKB: “In the 1920s and 30s, before India’s independence, a team of Italian conservators was invited to preserve the Ajanta murals. This was a disaster for the conservation of the paintings, as the conservators applied shellac (a type of lacquer) over them, believing it to be the best way to preserve them. Over time, the shellac yellowed and darkened considerably with the amount of dust that accumulated from the atmosphere. For decades, the Archaeological Survey of India (ASI) has been carefully removing the shellac to reveal the colors and details of the paintings. Some of this delicate process has been successful, but much more remains to be done.
In addition to intrusive human activities, such as the application of shellac, there are other natural factors that threaten the paintings for the future.” There are some moisture leaks coming from the distant summit above the cave. The SAI is doing everything possible to protect the paintings.
Another damaging factor is the buildup of moisture and bacteria inside the caves, caused by the large number of visitors in recent years. An Interpretation Center has been built near the caves, in the hope that many visitors will go there and not spend so much time inside the caves.
Ajanta 6 (Bodhisattva Vajrapani, Cave 1)
BDE: India boasts one of the world’s most beautiful painting traditions, yet many of its ancient artists seem to be unknown today. Could you mention some of the highlights of the Chitrasutra from the Vishnudharmottara Purana, the world’s oldest known treatise on art?
BKB: “The legacy of painting tradition inherited by the artists of Ajanta was documented in the Chitrasutra, dating from the 5th century CE. This treatise offers hundreds of details on how to paint. For example, Indian painters focused intensely on portraying their subjects’ feelings through their gaze, as the eyes are the windows to the soul. Thus, we find five types of gazes described in the Chitrasutra: chapakara, or meditative; matsyodara, or loving; utpalaptrabha, placid or peaceful; padmapatranibha, frightened or sobbing; and sankhakriti, angry or deeply pained.”
The Ajanta paintings were created by the heirs of a very long tradition. They were guilds of painters who painted palaces, temples, and caves. The art of painting was their legacy, and their duty in life was to paint. As you can imagine, they had no need to write their names on the paintings. It was a great sense of importance and fulfillment to play your part in the world.
These painters had a great compassion and vision of humanity that moves and captivates us to this day.
Ajanta 6 (Bodhisattva Vajrapani, Cave 1)
BDE: At what point did the representation of the Buddha in human form begin in the Ajanta caves, and in Indian art in general?
BKB: “Since the ego and the belief in our own identity are considered an illusion caused by the limitations of our senses, the focus was never on the individual. For about a thousand years, in antiquity, up until the 7th century CE, an immense amount of art was produced in India. This art depicted deities, mythological beings, animals, plants, trees, forms that combined these beings with great harmony, and there were also representations of ordinary men and women. However, this art never depicted prominent figures, not even the kings under whose rule these works were created. Nor was the artist’s name mentioned. According to the Chitrasutra, personalities are too unimportant to be represented in art. Art has a noble aim: to show the eternal, beyond the ephemeral forms of the world.”
The purpose of the artworks was to convey the Truth, as experienced by the artist. No thinker or artist claimed to have seen the Truth alone. In fact, great Indian masters of antiquity, including Gautama Buddha and Mahavira, declared that they were merely following in the footsteps of those who came before them. The emphasis was on the loss of the ego, not its perpetuation. Art was a fundamental vehicle for communicating these ideas.
One of the greatest contributions of this philosophical current lies in the absence of barriers between the spiritual world and the world of the senses. The art of this tradition fully embraces life experiences in all their aspects. It views our perceptions, from the sensory to the highest spiritual planes, as a continuous path. It empowers our faculties and perception to help us understand and attain the divine through all our resources, including our emotions. This philosophy does not attempt to deny our response to the splendor of the world around us. In fact, it sees beauty as a reflection of the divine. For this reason, the human form is not presented in a way that might awaken primal desires that become a burden. Instead, Indian art recognizes grace in all humans and in other forms as well, and seeks to elevate us through our reaction to the aesthetic.
Human-form Buddhas began to appear in Indian art, along with other deities, from the 1st century BCE to the 1st century CE. C. Therefore, during the second period of Ajanta, we can see these images frequently.
BDE: You developed a low-light photographic technique to photograph the murals at Ajanta. What was the experience like?
BKB: “Working at Ajanta was a technical challenge. This low-light photography captured details and colors that had not been previously known to the world.
But what happened in the process of spending so many hours with these beautiful paintings was something different, something that was, in fact, more important than the technical achievement. I received constant, close exposure to ancient Indian art. It was the most transformative experience of my life. Through these glimpses, a clear understanding emerged that compassion is all there is. Understanding is different from something you read in a book. Understanding is something you know, something that has become part of your consciousness.”
The documentary “The Indian Roots of Tibetan Buddhism” by Benoy K. Behl:
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Mireia Pretus Labayen
She studied at Ramon Llull University in Barcelona, earning a degree in journalism. She later completed a course at the Escola Superior d’Imatge i Disseny (IDEP) on screenwriting and film production. In 2001, she developed an interest in Buddhism, and since then, she has studied and practiced with various Buddhist teachers, especially those of the Tibetan tradition. During these years, she has worked extensively as a translator, particularly providing simultaneous translation from English to Spanish for Buddhist teachers, and has collaborated with the Casa del Tibet Foundation in Barcelona, the University of Mysticism in Ávila, and The Meridian Trust. She has been a member of the Catalan Coordinator of Buddhist Organizations. Currently, she works for the British NGO The Friendly Hand, coordinating educational and health projects in the UK, Spain, India, Peru, and Sri Lanka.
In this article, Douglas Calvo Gaínza analyzes The Zen Breath, an experimental short film by Daylet Acevedo that transports the essence of Buddhism to the everyday context of Havana. The work dispenses with dialogues to focus on mindfulness and the beauty of impermanence through ambient images and sounds. Calvo highlights how the film achieves a “riddled” vision of Zen, inviting deep reflection on freedom and compassion in today’s Cuba. It is a technically and artistically complex piece that marks a milestone in incipient Buddhist cinematography in the Spanish language.
Elisa Cucinelli is much more than a documentary filmmaker; she has become a bridge between two often disconnected worlds: Western artistic quest and the rich Eastern contemplative tradition. Of French origin and with a life rooted in movement, having lived in Beijing, Berlin, and the forests of Thailand, Cucinelli embodies the contemporary seeker. As a queer woman and visual artist, her identity challenges traditional molds, giving her a unique sensitivity to observe that which often remains on the margins of history and spirituality.
Image: Ayya Jutindhara practicing walking meditation. Courtesy of Elisa Cucinelli.
We are talking with her today because she is at a crucial phase in her career with the birth of Paragami – To the Other Shore. This project is not a conventional documentary, but a brave fusion between her spiritual practice and her cinematographic craft. After years of a relentless personal search for meaning, Elisa has managed to transform her doubts into a work documenting the lives of Buddhist nuns in Southeast Asia, a historically invisibilized collective.
It is vital to listen to Elisa because her work sheds light on patriarchal structures in Buddhism. Additionally, she offers examples of feminine wisdom that the world urgently needs. In times of polarization, climate crisis, and media noise, her proposal of “engaged Buddhism” and cinema that acts as a “gentle guide” offers us a real alternative. Her story shows us that it is possible to integrate activism, art, and spirituality to heal not only the individual, but the community. Below, we converse with her about this journey of transformation.
Image courtesy of Elisa Cucinelli.
Daniel Millet Gil: Elisa, to understand the depth of your current project, we must look back. How do you remember your early years and that initial awakening to life’s big questions? I understand that your first intellectual approach to Buddhism clashed head-on with your French cultural identity.
Elisa Cucinelli: Since childhood I have been preoccupied with big questions. I’d stay up late trying to understand death and non-existence, but both seemed impossible. I was also fascinated by people, observing them closely, trying to understand what they felt and why the world worked the way it did. Some seemed happy, but I wasn’t sure they really were. And I couldn’t understand why some lives were valued less than others: at school we collected rice for Somalia, but it felt like a drop in the ocean. Why was suffering elsewhere treated as inevitable?
As a teenager, my father gave me Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse, and it struck something deep in me. I felt drawn to that kind of wisdom. When I asked my mother about Buddhism, I remember she mentioning Buddhists rejected desire and oppressed women. It was a disappointment. In France, where passion, pleasure of the senses are so woven into our identity: the arts, food, music, love, etc, the idea of renouncing desire seemed almost nihilistic. So I went on with my life. I kept thinking about it through the years, wandering the spirituality shelves in bookstores without knowing what I was looking for.
Image courtesy of Elisa Cucinelli.
DMG: Years passed and modern life caught up with you until it brought you to a breaking point. What was that moment like when you decided to stop, and how was your first real encounter with meditation and the teachings of Buddhadasa Bhikkhu in Thailand?
EC: Later, life became very busy. I was working too much and asked myself, is this it? When a friend mentioned Vipassana, I was immediately drawn to it and also intimidated. At that time, I couldn’t sit still for five minutes, I filled every moment until I crashed. I tried meditating, but it felt impossible. I couldn’t stay alone and needed to be with people constantly and I knew it wasn’t sustainable. I realized I probably needed a cold plunge, something that would leave me no choice but to stay and sit with it, myself and the loneliness I was running from. On a trip to Thailand, by pure coincidence, I discovered a forest monastery near a friend’s house offering Vipassana in the Suan Mokkh tradition.
This is how I started meditating about nine years ago. I encountered Buddhadasa Bhikkhu’s teachings and little did I know that it would change my life. The teachings on Kilesas and Dukkha struck me strongly: they explained so clearly the forces at play in me and in the larger systems we live in. I could observe for the first time that emotions just came and went by themselves, I was happy, angry, fearful, sad and there was no input from the outside, no one responsible for these torrents, no one to blame.
Who was thinking the thoughts? Who was feeling the feelings and where did they come from? It was very difficult; I almost left a few times but stuck through it somehow. It was also the first time I heard that the ego itself was the problem, that we could simply watch it dance and try not to feed it. It became obvious to me that our society constantly feeds the kilesas and the ego, and that so many of the world’s problems arise from that endless appetite.
DMG: That retreat marked a before and after, giving you a solid foundation. However, as you deepened your practice, you began to notice certain shortcomings, especially as a queer woman. What conflicts did you start to observe within Buddhist communities and how did the apparent disconnection of Theravada from the world affect you?
EC: That retreat gave me grounding, a kind of manual for life I had been missing. At the time I was living in Beijing, China and that retreat lead me to move back to Berlin. From that point I started to read dharma books from Buddhadasa Bikkhu, Ajahn Cha, Krishnamurti.
I kept going back to Thailand to take part in meditation retreats and there I also began to notice the patriarchal structures in the Buddhist communities I visited. I kept seeing women in supportive roles but rarely teaching. As a queer female, I longed for female teachers and communities where I could feel a sense of belonging, people who shared similar experiences. I also was uncomfortable with the disengagement that Theravadan’s Buddhism was preaching, it felt somehow wrong to be only focusing on one’s own enlightenment without engaging with the world, and this kept on coming to me as a point of doubts.
Mae Chee chanting in Paiboonpoonsuk. Image courtesy of Elisa Cucinelli.
DMG: The pandemic arrived as a forced pause that transformed both your career and your spirituality. How did you discover the concept of “engaged Buddhism” and in what way did you finally decide to integrate your filmmaker profession with your spiritual practice to overcome those doubts?
EC: At the same time, my relationship with filmmaking was becoming complicated. I had already moved away from commercial work and focused more on documentary and art videos. Then the pandemic arrived and took away my work entirely for a while. It was strangely liberating: I let my practice with the camera rest, like leaving a field fallow. It allowed me to slow down and reconnect with creative practices. Unfortunately, I wasn’t part of a buddhist community in Berlin and my meditation practice slowly slipped away.
I felt more and more worried about the polarization, the climate crisis, the wars. Looking for answer, I discovered Bell Hooks and I connected for the first time with Thich Nhat Han’s teachings. Their simplicity and emphasis on community felt like a relief in these times of uncertainty, I heard for the first time about engaged buddhism which resonated strongly with my personal beliefs and felt like a missing piece to the puzzle.
Slowly, I started to follow the first 5 precepts without making it a conscious decision. When the biggest part of Covid was over, I was lucky to spend two retreats in Plum Village Thailand, where I took refuge. The combination of Plum Village’s warmth and engaged Buddhism with the rigor of Buddhadasa’s teachings gave me a balanced foundation. It was then that I understood the idea of taking refuge in the Buddha, Dharma and Sangha.
It also became clear that if my spiritual life was to be central, it had to be woven into my work. My filmmaking skills could serve the Dharma, helping share these teachings in a world that badly needed it. To fall in love with filmmaking again, I decided to change my approach entirely: no fixed plans, no compulsive shooting, just openness and trust in what would unfold, I would merge my personal search, mindfulness practice and professional practice and trust that something good would come out of it.
Ven. Saccadharani is waiting for her ordination in Sakyadhita monastery, Sri Lanka. Image courtesy of Elisa Cucinelli.
DMG: In this new phase, your search intentionally turned toward feminine wisdom. Who were the female teachers and mentors you found in Thailand and Cambodia, and what role did both academic readings and advice from other filmmakers play in your research?
EC: Around that time, my search for female wisdom became more intentional. I began visiting monasteries in Thailand and Cambodia, meeting remarkable women: Mae Chi Ajahn Ben in Issan province, the courageous and already legendary Thai Bikkhuni Dhammananda, Ayye Kammala in southern Thailand and eventually Ajahn Tritrinn (a trans Mae Chi in Northern Thailand). These encounters were guided more by intuition than academic research, I followed chance, listened, practiced, and filmed only when it felt necessary.
When I set on my search at the beginning, the day I arrive in Bangkok I walked by a buddhist library and was lucky to find the perfect book to start: “Gender and the path to Awakening” by Martin Seeger which would become very helpful. Later I got in touch with him and he became a great mentor along with Amnuaypond Kidpromma from Chiang Mai university. Through them I gained a deeper understanding of the historical and cultural contexts of gender in Thai Buddhism. Through reading Dhammananda Bikkhuni and Karma Lekshe Tsomo, I became more aware of the struggles of Mae Chi and Bhikkhunis.
I also started to read more works of Bikkhunis and Mae Chis like Ayya Khema, Upasika Kee Nanayon, Mae Chee Kaew and listened to Jetsunma Tenzin Palmo or Ajahn Brahm. I also connected with the buddhist filmmaker Edward Burger who had inspired me 10 years earlier. Back then he planted the first seed and reminded me that cinema can be a form of gentle guidance, not just entertainment. When I turned to him for advice, his generosity and encouragement meant a great deal to me and strengthened my resolve.
Ayya Jutindhara meditando. Image courtesy of Elisa Cucinelli.
DMG: All this process crystallized in the Paragami project. How did you define the final form of the work and why did you choose an immersive approach instead of a traditional didactic documentary to tell the stories of these women?
EC: At the beginning I didn’t know what shape would the project take: Maybe an installation or a series of portraits, maybe a film or an online platform. One thing was clear: I would take it slowly, resist the tendency to rush to completion and definition. Over time, the project became clearer, and Paragami – To the Other Shore was born. The film follows four women from Thailand and Cambodia who have chosen the monastic path. Their lives are deeply inspiring: creating sanctuaries for women and LGBTQI practitioners, planting trees and plants to recreate ecosystems on dry land, teaching meditation, and quietly carving out spaces of compassion and resilience in traditions that often overlook them.
I didn’t want to make a didactic documentary pointing out injustices from the outside. Instead, I wanted an intimate, immersive film that allows the viewer to step into the rhythm of monastic life: the sound of bells, the sweep of a broom, morning chants, silences between words. These textures speak as much as the stories themselves, showing that another way of living is possible: one rooted in harmony, simplicity, and care.
I decided to separate the project in 2 parts: the documentary that would be more immersive, following the lives of these women in a Docu-reality style and a platform on social medias where all the interview content gathered through the research will be available to the broader public for free so that their voices can reach a wider audience.
Paragami Trailer
DMG: To conclude, Elisa, this process has taken you physically very far, from Sri Lanka to Cambodia, and has transformed you personally. What do you take away from the experience of living with these women, and what is your hope for the future of Paragami now that you are seeking support for it to grow?
EC: Through the filming process, I have been so lucky to spend more time in monasteries, sharing their daily rhythms, morning alms rounds, chanting and meditation, gardening, cooking. It’s taken me far beyond what I expected: to Sri Lanka, witnessing the Bhikkhuni ordination of Ven. Saccadharani and walking on pilgrimage in Anuradhapura with Ven. Ariya Mangala; to Cambodia, following Ayya Jutindhara through remote landscapes in search of abandoned monasteries. In different ways, we’re all walking our own kind of quest.
Paragami is a personal project, it came from wanting to give something back, to be of service but also to immerse myself more in Buddhist lives. These women embody the qualities I was searching for: strength, kindness, generosity, presence. Their example has given me guidance and hope, and through the film I want to share that feeling with others, to offer new role models and inspire reflection. I am growing slowly wiser through it and with it and am so grateful for all of them to have given me their trust and patience.
I’ve financed the work independently so far, to protect its experimental and intuitive process, and I’m now in the phase of building support so it can grow. This journey has been transformative for me, both as a practitioner and as an artist, and I hope Paragami can contribute, in its own humble way, to shining light on female wisdom and to spreading the Dharma in fresh, inclusive ways.
Daniel Millet Gil holds a Law degree from the Autonomous University of Barcelona and a Master’s and PhD in Buddhist Studies from the Centre of Buddhist Studies at the University of Hong Kong. He was the recipient of the Tung Lin Kok Yuen Award for Excellence in Buddhist Studies (2018–2019). He serves as Executive Editor and is a regular contributor to Buddhistdoor en Español and is the Founder and President of the Dharma-Gaia Foundation, a non-profit organization dedicated to the academic study and dissemination of Buddhism in the Spanish-speaking world. The foundation also promotes and sponsors the Buddhist Film Festival of Catalonia. Additionally, Millet serves as co-director of the Buddhist Studies program at the Fundació Universitat Rovira i Virgili (FURV). In the publishing field, he directs both Editorial Dharma-Gaia and Editorial Unalome, both specializing in the translation of Buddhist texts. His numerous academic and general interest publications are available at:
This is an additional list of Buddhist films and documentaries complementary to the filmography published in the “Resources” section of the Buddhistdoor en Español website. It expands the selection with complementary works, maintaining the same curatorial criteria as the main guide. We have included both little-known classics and recent productions that explore various Buddhist traditions through the cinematic lens, from meditative works by Eastern directors to Western documentaries that capture contemporary Dharma practice. Each title has been carefully selected for its artistic value and fidelity to Buddhist principles, thus offering viewers an authentic window into the Buddha’s teachings across different cultural and narrative contexts.
There are artists who strive to aestheticize their own lives, to endow them with a distinctive color, a mythological aura in the search for magic in their lives, Literary. In many cases you can see the seams, you can smell the postin, the boredom that underlies the aureole. There are others — very, very few — who do it unaffected, whose lives seem to be dominated by a secret motive, possessed by a demon that will lead them to unexpected and tragic places. Yukio Mishima is one of these: his literary work cannot be separated, in retrospect, from the biographical fact that he founded a kind of ultra-nationalist militia with which he would end up kidnapping a general and haranged the armies to carry out a coup d’etat in Japan, a failed assault that culminated in the ritual suicide of the writer and one of his followers. Such madness was not the work of a third-rate author seeking posthumous fame, but of a strong candidate for the Nobel Prize. This dramatic ending of the samurai, whose alternation of heroism and derision seems designed for 20th century lenses, will mark the writer’s entire posterity. Considered one of the main stylists and renovators of Japanese prose, Mishima will also be, after his death, a symbol for ultra-nationalist, subversive and radicalized movements. A threat to the peace and order of the nation, whom the prime minister of the time described as a man “out of his mind”.
Although film adaptations of his work proliferated during Mishima’s lifetime, after his suicide (1970) he began to be prevented by Japanese celluloid. In the following three decades, we found only a handful of remote titles (such as Kinkakuji [1976] or several re-enactments of The sound of the waves). Some foreign directors showed interest, for example, Paul Schrader in Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters (1985), which intertwines the life and work of the “coup” writer and took forty years to be screened in a Japan that until the 21st century maintained a film veto against the writer. In the 1950s and 1960s, Mishima had acted in films such as the Yakuza Afraid to Die (1960) and even addressed himself based on one of his stories (Patriotism or the Rite of Love and Death, 1966), staging of a Seppuku which the widow ordered destroyed (fortunately, some negatives escaped her). The best-known film about his work is still the one made at the time by Kon Ichikawa, who would adapt, together with his wife and co-screenwriter Natto Wada, the novel The Golden Pavilion On a tape called Enjō: ‘Conflagration’ (1958).
Yukio Mishima commits suicide on a stage at the Nō theater. Still from ‘Patriotism’ (1966)
Gōichi Mizoguchi is the son of a Buddhist priest who enters the temple of the pavilion that gives title to the novel to train in the profession. Although we will have to wait for The Temple of Dawn for a deeper immersion in Buddhism, which took the writer to India and the Ajantā caves, The Golden Pavilion offers a peephole at what Mishima (and any neighbor’s son) could see in the Establishment clerical “zen”. A disenchanted lens that Ichikawa’s camera delicately reconstructs, focusing on the hypocrisy of hierarchical interactions and the network of mutual occultations, from evening outings to a bottle of cologne in a box. Time goes by in a routine where the recitation of Sūtras or financial management that meditation and discussion of Kōans or Zen riddles, although we will witness a lesson about the famous episode where Master Nansen kills a cat that was the subject of discussion (collected in The Immortal The Door Without a Door). “If you can say a word, I’ll forgive the cat. If not, I’ll kill him.” It kills him.
A slow monastic life, without major shocks or scandals, except for a few visits to GeishaThey are socially accepted in a monasate that had abolished celibacy the previous century (Mizoguchi is not the only “son of a monk” who is sent to the temple to learn the profession of his caste). The protagonist, on the other hand, resents these minor corruptions, as well as the inquinine crosses around him and the antagonism towards his person due to his stuttering and perceived favouritism. To this are added family trauma and an obsession with the ungraspable beauty of the historic golden pavilion, a combination of frustrations and complexes that will lead him down the slope of the final conflagration.
“The people who live in a temple aren’t all Buddhas.” Frame from the film.
Faced with such a “cinematic” novel, abundant in associations and visual juxtapositions, with recurring meditations on beauty, a modern-day filmmaker would easily fall into the temptation to chain together dreamlike or visionary transitions. Ichikawa, on the other hand, shows off a clear line, a sober realism that doses lyricism. We are (still) in the 1950s, and the narrative material is pruned for consumption by the spectator of the time: the female breast —one of the visual motifs in the book— is not even insinuated and the always troubled protagonist appears a little more like a victim of society, since we are not given access to his thoughts. In this sense, the film is the negative of the novel: there it is monologuistic, here impenetrable. The lack of an inner narrative requires a more predictable character, who purges twists that would be inexplicable, as a first test of amorality: in the original, the prostitute does not have an abortion as a result of a struggle, but because Mizoguchi steps on her belly at the suggestion of the American client. The contours are softened, the psychology is simplified, but what is narrated can continue to impact.
Apparently, Kon Ichikawa considered this his favorite film of those he shot. We didn’t buy the bet from him (in a catalog that ranges from The Burmese harp To the spectacular An Actor’s Revenge, passing through the grandmother of Twin Peaks, The Inugami Family), but we understand that recording it would feel like a leap in the void. It is a film that foreshadows the “new wave” of Japanese cinema, like a Teshigahara released to its air in a city of temples. The custom of monastic life is accompanied by unsettling strings and dramatic angles, hints of the strange reminders of this filmic trend that for many will be born two years later with Cruel Story of Youth, by Nagisa Ōshima, another story of adolescent crime and rebellion (which apparently are the ideal subjects to usher in “new waves” of cinema, both in Paris and in Kyoto). Its rarefied atmosphere, its bold editing and its warning about the fatal weight of the eyes of others make Enjō a surprisingly “modern” production.
Mizoguchi (Raizō Ichikawa) and his mentor Tokari (Tatsuya Nakadai)
Anyone who wants to learn about the life of a Buddhist monk will only learn here the fundamentals (good and bad) of the life of a monk from anywhere. As we said, Mishima had not yet shown literary interest in Buddhist thought, which he never incorporated into his martial and obsessive way of living life anyway. On the other hand, for an Ichikawa just arrived from The Burmese harp, who had turned the condition of the mendicant monk into a debated pacifist icon (Bhikkhu), it may be this connection that drew him to the story, although the lesson he takes from Buddhism is that conflicts are resolved by killing the cat.
This is an additional list that complements the filmography published in the “Resources” section of the Buddhistdoor website in Spanish. It expands the selection with complementary works, maintaining the same curatorial criteria as the main guide.
Kihachirō Kawamoto’s Book of the Dead is a rare treat in Japanese animation, notable for its stop-motion technique and slow pace, closer to pre-modern art than to contemporary anime. The film tells the story of Iratsume, who, after copying sutras, perceives the spirit of Prince Ōtsu, merging a Buddhist fable with a ghost story. It explores classical Japanese Buddhism, its syncretism with Shinto and the superposition of spiritual beliefs. The author, a master of stop-motion, uses detailed landscapes to tell a culturally dense story that addresses mountain worship and protection against spirits. Ultimately, the film celebrates craftsmanship and ritual, suggesting that artistic and spiritual dedication offers a form of transcendence and salvation.
I recently watched the documentary Sugarcane (2024), an extraordinary journey into the horrors of Canadian Indian boarding schools and the healing journey that one father and his son—the filmmaker, Julian Brave NoiseCat—take as they fully face the truths of their experiences in relation to this system of colonization and oppression.
The story begins in 2021 with the discovery of more than 200 unmarked graves at the site of the Kamloops Indian Residential School, and the discovery of 50 graves outside the cemetery at St. Joseph’s Mission Indian Residential School on the Sugarcane Reservation in British Columbia. The schools were run by the Catholic Church, and much of the story is about the abuses perpetrated by Catholic priests. NoiseCat’s father, Ed Archie NoiseCat, was a resident of St. Joseph’s. The film makes clear the consequences of the trauma he experienced as a child, and how that trauma reverberated through to his son and their relationship.
We also meet other courageous individuals: residential school survivor Charlene Belleau, who now investigates these atrocities; Chief Willie Sellars of the Williams Lake First Nation, a young man who bears the task of speaking these truths to the public; and Rick Gilbert, former chief of Williams Lake First Nation, who travels to the Vatican for a meeting between Pope Francis and Indigenous Canadians.
Sugarcane was a difficult film to watch, but of course it was far more difficult for First Nations peoples to have gone through the experience. Any time I felt the need to turn away from what I was seeing, I tried to remember that and sat through my discomfort and, at times, even pain at what I was witnessing. It reminded me of sitting a weeklong Zen sesshin and working with feelings of emotional and physical discomfort, practicing presence rather than seeking an escape.
While the filmmakers, Julian Brave NoiseCat and Emily Kassie, are remarkably fearless in going deeply into and describing the details of what happened at these schools and how families continue to be impacted, the heart of the story is about healing and about the strength of a people to face devastating truths together.
Many years ago, when I worked on the Buddhist Peace Fellowship’s journal Turning Wheel, the editor Susan (Sue) Moon and I paid special attention to stories that exemplified the practice of “not turning away.” That felt like a core principle of socially engaged Buddhism, to learn how to look deeply into devastating situations without seeking easy answers or distracting ourselves from the pain associated with them. In fact, Sue even put together an anthology of some of the best articles from the journal, titled Not Turning Away (Shambhala 2004).
Some of the stories in the book included Jarvis Jay Masters’s reflections on life on San Quentin’s Death Row, Marianne Dresser’s account of taking part in a Bearing Witness retreat at Auschwitz with the Zen Peacemaker Order, and Jenna Jordison’s story of responding to a letter from one of the men who murdered her father, whom she later meets in person. These and other stories convey the courage it takes to look directly into the vortex of human greed, hatred, and delusion, and the healing that is possible when we can do so.
I so much appreciate what Sue wrote in the preface to the book:
I have a great curiosity about how other people meet suffering. What do they do when they are afraid? What gives them the strength to reach out again and again, to people who have turned their backs in anger? What gives them the courage to ask a soldier to put down his gun?
While I don’t think the practice of “not turning away” is exclusive to Buddhism, it seems to me there is something about having a meditation or other kind of contemplative practice that makes it more possible to stay steady in the face of extreme suffering. In Sugarcane, over and over we see how the Indigenous people draw on Earth-based practices to be in a container large enough to hold the immense suffering of the story. In one scene, Julian and his father take what must have been an unbearably cold plunge into a lake as they seek to hold and digest all they have been learning about the incidents at the boarding school and their own lives. In another scene, Charlene smudges Julian with sage as they both take in how harrowing it is to look directly at the horrors of what unfolded at St. Joseph’s school.
The other element of the healing in Sugarcane is the remarkable way that individuals support each other, and that the community comes together to ensure that these stories are told. Even under the most excruciating circumstances, people are present for each other. I was reminded of how powerful sangha is in our Buddhist context, what it means to have a community of friends who make a commitment to “not abandon you,” to use my friend Alan Senauke’s phrase.
If you have a chance to view Sugarcane, I strongly encourage you to do so. I found it to be akin to some of the most powerful Dharma talks I’ve ever heard, offering us an embodied path toward wholeness and healing even in the face of the most extreme level of suffering.
Maia Duerr es escritora, consultora, practicante de zen desde hace mucho tiempo y profesora de meditación, reconocida por su trabajo en los campos de la atención plena (mindfulness) y el compromiso social. Ha sido directora ejecutiva de la Buddhist Peace Fellowship y coordinadora del Programa de Capellanía Budista de Upaya. Maia tiene formación en antropología cultural y ha aplicado su experiencia en estas áreas para ayudar a individuos y organizaciones a encontrar mayor claridad, propósito y resiliencia. Ha escrito extensamente sobre temas relacionados con la atención plena, la creatividad y el cambio social, y es autora del libro Work That Matters: Create a Livelihood that Reflects Your Core Intention”(Un trabajo que importa: crea un medio de vida que refleje tu intención central).
