100 Sunset

Dzi stones, we are told, were once insects living in caves. Touched by women, they became petrified into stone. Now these stones are treasured things, believed to bring wealth and good fortune, but if taken back to their caves of origin, they will become insects again.

The notion that there is something innately profane about women runs deep in Tibetan culture, confounding the romantic ways it is sometimes portrayed by outsiders in the US. Writer/director Kunsang Kyirong is an insider, herself part of Canada’s community of Tibetan exiles, which is here portrayed as something quite separate from Canadian society as a whole – though that might not reflect the desires of its young women. In many cities which proudly welcome immigrants, the reality is that they are pushed to the outskirts. In this film, that means a building on the edge of Toronto, surrounded by mountain country perhaps not so different from the foothills of the Himalayas. It is snowy throughout the film and the white sky makes the outdoor world feel like a blank space onto which anything might be written, whereas the interior world is cramped and crowded, filled everywhere with cultural signifiers which bind its heroines close.

Kunsel (Tenzin Kunsel) has grown up there, raised by her uncle Geysar (Tsering Bawa) in the bosom of the Tibetan community. She attends the constant parade of community events, from card game nights to talent shows, but is not an enthusiastic participant. Quiet, self-contained, she lingers on the sidelines, watching other people. Every now and again, she steals something special to them: a dzi stone, for instance, or a camera full of irreplaceable memories.

The camera gives Kunsel a new way of looking at life. She begins obsessively filming what she sees around her, and key scenes are seen from her point of view – often when she is in motion, but never jarring. She also uses its zoom function to spy on people in nearby apartments, including the couple who have just moved into 100 Sunset. These are a man in his early forties, still referred to within the community as young, and his 25-year-old wife Passang (Sonam Cheokyi). She was attracted to him when they met, she tells Kunsel, but it’s implied that parental pressure led to their marriage, and now she feels trapped. Kyirong captures the difference in perspectives well. The husband comes across as a kind and gracious man, well-intentioned, but his efforts to connect with Kunsel come up against a wall of disgust of the sort that young people reserve for the notion of anyone over 30 having a sexual dimension (something that really isn’t recognised often enough on the big screen).

With nobody else their age around, Kunsel and Passang quickly become friends. From the outset, Passang is aware of Kunsel’s kleptomaniac behaviour, and this seems to bring the girl relief, as if her repeated transgressions have always been an effort to push boundaries, to shake things up, to be noticed or to convince herself that life has some meaning. As the two young women spend time together, often outside, the contrasting lightness of their behaviour, combined with the intimacy of Kyirong’s framing, is suggestive of romance. This is never made explicit, and there is no sexual element to it, but Passang quickly becomes the centre of Kunsel’s world – even as Kunsel comes to realise that the most loving thing she can do for her may be to help her escape, and to accept being left behind.

With Geysar managing large amounts of money for the community’s dhikuti – a traditional savings and loan system backed by Buddhist values – it’s not hard to see how this could play out, and in some ways the plot resembles that of a classic noir – right down to the glamorous way Passang dresses and the way it fascinates Kunsel – but the tone is completely different, as is the nature of the risk that Kunsel faces, longing as she does for her actions to have consequences. With its soft, light synthpop soundtrack, the film has an airy quality. Looking through her camera from the window of her apartment, Kunsel sees the tops of distant towers protruding from fog like castles in the sky. Whilst those around her cling on to something of the soul of Tibet, she is already passing into exile, setting her sights on a new migration. The first step in such a journey must be learning to believe that it is possible.

Reviewed on: 13 Nov 2026