Wim Wenders and Juliano Ribeiro Salgado’s The Salt of the Earth (2014) is a documentary that transcends its form, weaving a profound meditation on humanity through the lens of photographer Sebastião Salgado’s life and work. Rather than a conventional biography, the film is a visual and emotional odyssey, its power rooted in three key elements: its masterful cinematography, its nuanced narrative structure, and the haunting interplay of Salgado’s photographs with the film’s score. Yet, it stumbles slightly in its pacing, occasionally lingering too long on certain projects, which can dilute its emotional intensity.

The cinematography, led by Hugo Barbier and Juliano Salgado, is a triumph of light and shadow, mirroring the stark contrasts of Sebastião’s black-and-white photography. Whether capturing the scorched landscapes of Kuwait’s burning oil fields or the gaunt faces of famine-stricken Sahel, the film’s visuals echo Salgado’s ability to find beauty in desolation. The camera doesn’t merely document; it converses with his stills, creating a layered dialogue between motion and stasis. This synergy elevates the film, making each frame feel like a photograph in itself, deliberate and evocative.

Narratively, Wenders and Salgado craft a delicate balance, interspersing Sebastião’s personal reflections with his global journeys. The film avoids hagiography by revealing Salgado’s own doubts and emotional toll, particularly during his work on Exodus, where the weight of human suffering nearly broke him. This vulnerability grounds the story, but the film’s middle section sags under the exhaustive cataloguing of his projects. A tighter edit could have sharpened the emotional arc, ensuring the audience remains as immersed in his redemption through the reforestation project Instituto Terra as in his earlier despair.

The score, composed by Laurent Petitgand, is a quiet revelation. Its minimalist strings and somber tones underscore the gravity of Salgado’s images without overwhelming them. The music feels like a pulse, guiding viewers through the photographer’s moral reckoning and eventual hope. It’s a subtle yet vital thread, binding the film’s disparate chapters into a cohesive whole.

Ultimately, The Salt of the Earth is a testament to art’s capacity to bear witness and heal. It challenges viewers to see the world through Salgado’s unflinching yet compassionate gaze, though its occasional indulgences remind us that even great works can falter in their ambition.