Anishinaabe filmmaker Darlene Naponse’s film Aki, which is set in Atikameksheng Anishnawbek, is one of eight Indigenous movies at TIFF this year, thanks to support from the Indigenous Screen Office.Supplied
Aki, a new film by Anishinaabe filmmaker Darlene Naponse, is one of a record eight Indigenous films featured at this year’s Toronto International Film Festival—but it likely wouldn’t have gotten made without the support of the Indigenous Screen Office (ISO), a national funding program that supports Indigenous filmmakers.
Set in Atikameksheng Anishnawbek, Ms. Naponse’s home community, Aki eschews dialogue, speaking instead in seasons: snow loosening its hold, earth breaking to thaw, water carrying light. And, she notes, it shows what the ISO enables: a filmmaker returning home to make work that answers only to that place, and to herself.
“It’s not an easy idea to go, ‘Hey, I’m going to make a non-verbal film on my reserve in northern Ontario,’” says Ms. Naponse. “To be able to take that time… that’s why the ISO is really important. It allowed us to show the love and the kindness and the beauty, but also the call for our environment, and also that people see sovereignty differently.”
TIFF featuring eight Indigenous films from Canada is an important milestone, because for much of its history, Indigenous voices were scarce at the festival’s panels, screenings and industry events.
“I remember the days when we just really couldn’t even get into TIFF parties,” says Kerry Swanson, chief executive officer of the Indigenous Screen Office (ISO). “But now, I feel so proud and honoured to be a part of this history of Indigenous cinema. A lot of these filmmakers are ones I’ve known for decades.”
Her pride is the sort that comes from watching a community claim more space on its own terms. Backed by the ISO’s $3.5 million ISO Story Fund, an Indigenous film funding program, these are projects that span generations and genres. Their inclusion is a testament to both the resilience of Indigenous storytellers and the growing attention to their work. Beyond Canada, the ISO is also spotlighting Indigenous stories internationally, a reminder that this is a global conversation in motion.
Indigenous Screen Office CEO Kerry Swanson says she feels “proud and honoured to be a part of this history of Indigenous cinema.”Supplied
“We see films by Two Spirit filmmakers with queer protagonists. We have Indigenous languages on screen. Aki [is] nonverbal… told through moving images and music,” Ms. Swanson says. “This is the perfect time for audiences to get the real picture of the diversity, depth and scope of Indigenous cinema.”
It’s a lot to ask of any festival to be all things to everyone. TIFF, like Cannes or Sundance, typically run into these challenges amidst a film market destabilized by COVID-19, the writers’ strike, and an industry in retrenchment. In moments like these, what falls through the cracks are usually the voices that were already struggling to be heard.
That’s where the ISO becomes essential: putting money and weight behind films that remind the public and festivals alike of what can and should still exist. Barely five years old, the organization has already made its mark. In 2024 and 2025 alone, its Story Fund has invested $6.3 million into 28 productions, which include nine feature films, five shorts, and 14 series.
But they’re also doing it all in a way that prioritizes sovereignty.
For Ms. Swanson, it comes down to control over storytelling, which means Indigenous voices telling stories on their own terms, not filtered through what the industry thinks audiences want. That insistence on ownership has yielded powerfully authentic films with specific voices.
Bringing that commitment into writers’ rooms and pitch meetings—where originality can be treated like a liability—lends weight to what the ISO makes possible.
“We can take those risks and make those films in the sense that we’re not dictated by a certain idea of what Indigenous films should be,” says Ms. Naponse. “This film changed how I make work. It settled me, and reconnected me to the place I was born and raised.”
Director Shane Belcourt echoes that sense of settlement. At TIFF, thanks to ISO’s backing, his film Ni‑Naadamaadiz: Red Power Rising, co-written and produced by journalist Tanya Talaga (TIFF ’24’s The Knowing), unfurls a reckoning with the 1974 Anicinabe Park occupation in Kenora. Archival ghosts meet present voices; resilience is felt, memory insists.
“I can remember the days when there was no ISO… the models were more about Dances with Wolves—who could be on the poster, who could lead this,” says Mr. Belcourt. “You’re kind of bending yourselves around trying to do that, or you’re saying, I’ll make my own independent films.”
Talaga’s reporting has long tallied the costs of institutions built to ignore Indigenous lives. Her eye for accountability threads through Red Power Rising and matches the ISO’s wager: sovereignty is not an abstraction but a practice, carried out on screen, in story, and in who gets to tell it.
“Even if this film didn’t make it into TIFF … look at all these people that have films in the festival. I’m so excited for them. I’m so excited for us,” Ms. Talaga says. “This is still baby steps of this film movement, not the apex. There’s only eight this year—there’ll be more next year, and more and more and more.”
One in a regular series of stories. To read more, visit our Indigenous Enterprises section. If you have suggestions for future stories, reach out to IE@globeandmail.com.