Tori and Lokita

Tori and Lokita call each other brother and sister. Biologically, it's not true. Emotionally it's more true than anyone around them could know. Their relationship is the core of "Tori and Lokita," a tight, heartrending social realist drama from Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne, who've been working in the genre for decades and do it better than almost anyone else.

Tori (Pablo Schils) is a boy on the cusp of adolescence who speaks and carries himself like he's younger. Lokita (Mbundu Joely) is the young woman who looks out for him. They claim to be orphans, but the movie pretty quickly establishes this as a cover story. They keep going over the details together to keep their stories straight when they're dealing with state authorities, such as the functionaries that Lokita deals with in her quest to get a work visa (she's always rejected), and the cops who stop the two on the street for no good reason. Lokita owes a lot of money to African smugglers who brought her here so that she could earn money to send back home to her mother and siblings. 

The best scenes in the new film by Luc and Jean-Pierre Dardenne observe the tender interactions between the two characters, African immigrants struggling to survive in a new land that despises them for their skin color, their national origin, and their poverty. As often happens in relationships between biological siblings with an age difference of more than a couple of years, the elder becomes a quasi-parent to the younger. We see Lokita doting on Tori, keeping him on track, even singing a lullaby to him at bedtime. He wasn't always her responsibility, but she protects him anyway, because that's love. 

Lokita works at a restaurant owned by Betim (Alban Ukaj) that's really a front for drug dealing. Betim throws Lokita a little bit of money to sing to the customers (sometimes in a duet with Tori) but most of her wages come from distributing product on the streets for Betim. Lokita walks all over the city delivering drugs to customers and brings Tori along. Most of the interactions are uneventful, but sometimes you get a hint of impending violence. 

There are more ever-present threats as well, from the police who harass immigrants as a matter of course, the government bureaus that could deport Lokita, the African gang that paid to bring Lokita to Belgium and extorts most of the money she makes, and the everyday treacheries of urban life. The most insistent threat comes from Betim and his crew, who put the survival of the business over anyone else's humanity. When Lokita gets a job tending Betim's drug greenhouse, she becomes a prisoner who's not allowed to use a cell phone to contact anyone, including Tori, and no matter how coldly her employers/captors behave, you can rest assured that they can be even colder. 

The lead performances are so extraordinary. As is often the case with the Dardennes, the handheld, up-close, acting-driven filmmaking puts you in the middle of the action to a sometimes nerve-wracking degree, though with less shakiness than you would've seen in the brothers' earlier features (switching to digital cameras seems to have brought understated elegance to their previously rough-and-tumble style). There might be fewer than 100 shots in the entire movie. The scenes tend to unfold in just one take, a fact that would be impressive no matter who the actors were, but that is especially noteworthy here, considering that the two leads are juvenile newcomers. A long take in the middle of the movie that follows physically and emotionally intense action through several rooms of Betim's drug greenhouse lasts almost five minutes, but it's executed with such offhand confidence that you never think of it as a logistical feat. 

The style works better here than in stories about more privileged characters (Ken Loach does it brilliantly as well), because what defines Tori and Lokita's life more than anything else is a sense of urgency. They don't have enough time, they don't have enough money, and they're surrounded by people who exploit, harass, or ignore them. They have to keep moving, and keeping their eyes and ears on hyper-alert as they move. Ninety-nine percent of every day is spent dealing with what's right in front them, while being careful not to make a mistake that will get them deported, jailed, or killed.

The ending is so bleak that it will linger in the minds of viewers for the rest of their lives—much like the tragic Neorealist Italian films of the 1940s that the Dardennes films often evoke, especially "Bicycle Thieves" and "Rome, Open City." Perhaps there's a conversation to be had about the way the film occasionally takes too much of a macro view, seeing its title characters mainly as pawns in a corrupt system more so than freestanding individuals, and part of a Black immigrant community that's loathed for their Otherness but needed for their willingness to do low-wage and/or dangerous jobs. But the lead characters and their actors bring audiences inside each moment so skillfully that you feel that you can intuit flashes of context that the script may not necessarily have provided. And the Dardennes' empathy is so great, and their anger at the situation so unmistakable, that the entire film is borne along by a desire to shock viewers into calling for change.