Bold claim: a quiet, audacious shift in how we see nature documentaries has arrived, and it’s turning heads from Sundance to Thessaloniki. Here’s the story, rewritten to be fresh, accessible, and just as informative as the original.
Canadian filmmakers Jack Weisman and Gabriela Osio Vandenk knew they were onto something when their 14‑minute short, Nuisance Bear, a boundary-pushing nature piece about Manitoba’s annual polar bear migration, attracted attention from New Yorker Studios after its Toronto Film Festival premiere in 2021 and earned an Oscar shortlist. What started as a proof‑of‑concept for a longer film blossomed into a major project, with A24’s now-closed documentary division stepping in as producers and the feature grabbing the Grand Jury Prize for U.S. documentary at this year’s Sundance Film Festival. The duo describe the ride as almost unreal: open‑eyed disbelief at how far the project has traveled, and a growing sense that the story is still gathering momentum. The international premiere is set for the Thessaloniki International Documentary Festival, running March 5–15, with U.S. distribution still in the works.
The film was shot between Churchill, Manitoba—often called the polar bear capital of the world—and Arviat, a primarily Inuit community on Hudson Bay’s shores. Nuisance Bear tracks mounting tensions as polar bears lose ground in their traditional habitats, opening with scenes of tourists flocking to witness the migration and then turning to the human communities living in a fragile coexistence with the bears. The title nods to the Inuit term avinnaarjuk, which describes bold bears that roam crowded human spaces with little fear. Deep questions about colonialism, climate change, ecotourism, and urban expansion permeate the narrative, challenging conventional wildlife storytelling while capturing intimate and striking footage of polar bears in their natural surroundings.
Produced as an A24 presentation in collaboration with Ninmah Foundation, the Denovo Initiative of a Documist, and Rise Films, Nuisance Bear features a score by Cristóbal Tapia de Veer of The White Lotus fame and is narrated by the late Mike Tunalaaq Gibbons, a respected elder in Arviat, who passed away just weeks before the premiere. The interview with Variety highlights how the filmmakers and their team navigated a decade-long journey—their partnership with New Yorker Studios began after the TIFF debut, and a careful, patient approach cultivated trust with the communities involved.
How did this project begin and evolve over time? Osio Vandenk recalls a broad convergence of interests that sparked the idea. In 2015, she and Weisman visited Churchill for the first time, drawn by an artistic itch rather than a desire to become wildlife photographers. They were deeply influenced by BBC nature programming and began grappling with the ethics of documentary filmmaking: what to show, what to omit, and how to balance storytelling with responsibility toward animals and habitats. They discovered Arviat—an almost neighboring world with a distinct perspective on ecotourism—and realized there was a compelling contrast between the two communities. They wanted to avoid the didactic trap common in environmental cinema, resisting a “this is right, this is wrong” frame.
Weisman adds that the people featured in the film helped steer the project away from polemics. They asked to participate on their own terms, resisting any portrayal that would impose external judgments or assign blame. The material is sensitive—politics and money swirl around conservation debates, and the filmmakers sought to remain neutral and respectful while still telling a powerful story. The short film ends with a dramatic scene of a polar bear airlift, a narrative hinge that the eventual feature would expand upon to maintain continuity while broadening the scope.
Was the airlift always the intended bridge to a feature? Yes and no. The pair originally envisioned the eight‑week octagonal migration as the core timeline and believed the airlift would serve as a natural pivot between Churchill and Arviat, offering a way to follow a bear’s journey across different vantage points. Their plan wasn’t a grand, pre-rigged production; rather, it emerged from a practical and opportunistic process. Once they assembled the short’s footage, a respected filmmaker urged them: this is a complete film. That judgment unlocked a chance to pursue the longer project, leading to TIFF premieres and the New Yorker’s interest, followed by Sundance recognition and a broader, ongoing festival circuit run.
Logistical realities shaped the filmmaking. The team prioritized minimizing environmental impact and safeguarding both bears and people, using long telephoto lenses (even a 50–1000mm behemoth) and a stable truck setup to capture dynamic, respectful footage from a safe distance. They avoided pursuit or interference, instead learning bear routes and timing shoots with infrared and thermal monitoring to gauge when bears would approach, letting moments unfold rather than forcing them. The production required careful planning: two leads worked from Arviat and Churchill, coordinating around an eight‑week fall migration window and juggling responsibilities across communities. Tensions and disagreements arose—phone conversations became a necessary space for negotiating choices—but a shared commitment to ethical storytelling kept the project moving forward.
A central challenge was threading authentic representation of Inuit perspectives with broader environmental concerns. There is tension between conservation voices and Indigenous hunting practices, and the filmmakers explicitly positioned themselves as neither advocacy group nor outsider critic. They emphasized listening to Arviat’s side of the story, hoping to counter a one‑sided narrative that has often prioritized Churchill’s vantage point. After community screenings and direct engagement, Mike Tunalaaq Gibbons’s family and the Arviat community offered their support, transforming initial skepticism into a welcoming collaboration. This openness was pivotal to the film’s nuanced approach and its departure from conventional nature filmmaking.
What makes Nuisance Bear stand apart from typical wildlife documentaries? A producer, Michael Code, and other collaborators encouraged the team to reconsider the “gaze” on nature. They challenged the idealized view of nature as untouched by humans—a colonial construct used to justify expansion and policy decisions. The result is a film that acknowledges human influence on wildlife and landscapes, while still preserving the awe and beauty of the natural world. The production’s independence—modest budgets, many donated or borrowed pieces of equipment, and scrappy logistics—helped preserve a more intimate, less polished aesthetic, which the filmmakers argue enhances rather than diminishes the story’s credibility and complexity.
Weisman reflects on the film’s purpose: a bear‑centered story that respects ambiguity and avoids presumptions about what bears think or feel. He acknowledges that the audience may find the ending less than fully satisfying because it invites interpretation rather than definitive answers. Still, the film offers a canvas for listening—an invitation to consider multiple perspectives and to hear the bears, if only through careful observation and restraint.
The film’s festival run continues: Nuisance Bear is slated for Thessaloniki, where audiences will experience the unfolding narrative of a project that began as a simple concept and grew into a landmark in contemporary documentary storytelling. The question it leaves with viewers is provocative: when you tell a story about wildlife, whose voice counts, and what responsibilities do filmmakers owe to the communities and ecosystems they depict? If you’re open to pondering these issues, you’ll likely find that the conversation has only just begun.
