Tinâ (2024)

Tinā (pronounced TeeNUH) is a film that caught me off guard. I went in expecting a feel-good drama about a teacher and a student choir, but I didn’t expect to be wiping tears from my eyes by the end. This isn’t just a movie—it’s a deeply felt, culturally rich reminder of how loss, music, and connection can shape a life.

Set in Christchurch three years after the devastating earthquake, the story follows Mareta Percival (Anapela Polataivao), a Samoan music teacher carrying the heavy weight of her daughter’s death. She’s coaxed into a role at an elite private school—worlds away from the community she knows—and soon finds herself reluctantly leading a choir of mostly white, privileged students. From there, Tinā walks a familiar path, but does so with such emotional honesty and cultural specificity that it never feels stale.

Director Miki Magasiva’s first feature doesn’t rely on big twists or showy moments. What struck me most was the way grief was portrayed with such restraint and depth. Mareta isn’t dramatic; she’s just tired, and when she begins to find purpose again through teaching and music, it’s impossible not to feel that flicker of hope with her.

But it wasn’t Mareta who broke me—it was Sophie.

Antonia Robinson’s performance as Sophie is quiet, subtle, and absolutely gutting. She doesn’t get the biggest scenes, but what she brings to the screen is this fragile mix of yearning and strength that completely disarmed me. There’s a moment where she sings—haltingly at first, then with growing courage—and something about it cracked me open. It was raw in a way I didn’t expect. That’s when the tears came.

Polataivao, of course, carries the film with steady weight. Her Mareta has been through too much, and she wears it in her posture, her voice, her silence. Their relationship—this quiet connection between a grieving teacher and a student searching for something to hold onto—is the film’s beating heart.

The cinematography captures both the sterile, polished world of the private school and the textured, vibrant life of Mareta’s Samoan community. It’s not flashy, but it doesn’t need to be. The contrast is enough. And the music—sung in Samoan, performed by the St Francis Choir and LEAO—is woven in so naturally that it feels more like memory than soundtrack.

A few of the plot turns feel a little familiar, and some of the side characters are lightly sketched, but none of that takes away from the emotional core. The film isn’t trying to surprise you—it’s trying to reach you. And it does.

Tinā reminded me why stories like this still matter—why representation matters, why grief needs space, and why music can still shift something inside us. It’s a film that sings in quiet keys, and thanks to Sophie, it left me in tears.