“A lack of lived-in feeling undermines the very social realism the story demands.”

Haifaa Al Mansour broke through in 2012 with Wadjda, a film celebrated for its topicality and its quality. It told the story of a young Saudi girl who simply wanted to ride a bicycle, and yet it was a political film, both in content and in its very existence as the first feature-length film directed by a Saudi woman. Wadjda was Saudi Arabia’s first Oscar submission (though ultimately not nominated) and it earned a BAFTA nomination for Best Foreign Film. It announced Al Mansour as a filmmaker with a sharp eye for both social critique and formal discernment. In the years since, Al Mansour has moved across various forms of production, from a Saudi drama (The Perfect Candidate, 2019), to a biopic with big-name stars (Mary Shelley, 2017), to even a Netflix production (Nappily Ever After, 2018). With her latest film Unidentified she returns to Saudi Arabia, and it appears she has taken a step back. While its subject matter remains politically resonant, the film itself feels less challenging and less refined than her debut film, as it is closer to lower-tier Sundance drama than to the sharp provocation of Wadjda.

Set in Riyadh, Unidentified follows Nawal (Mila Alzahrani), a receptionist at a police station who becomes obsessed with solving the murder of a young girl. In the opening scene a body is dumped in the desert, and is captured with eerie stillness in easily the film’s best moment. It suggests something sharper, darker, and more haunting to come, but soon the story slips into a pedestrian groove. Nawal, determined and gritty, decides she will not simply remain at the photocopier where much of her police office work occurs, but she will investigate the crime herself. She quickly earns respect from some colleagues, often outperforming her male superiors. In theory, this is potent and powerful as a young woman breaks social and professional norms in Saudi Arabia. In practice, it too often feels corny, even cartoonish.

The police chief and his deputy are played not as real figures but as bumbling stereotypes. The chief is rotund and comical, the deputy cynical but consistently wrong, and together they seem more at home in a Scooby-Doo episode than in a serious drama. Nawal, meanwhile, is presented as impossibly ‘cool’: Converse sneakers, perfect makeup, defiance wrapped in style – perhaps a Velma-like character. None of this is unbelievable on its own, but the way Al Mansour frames it as glossy, posed, and pristine strips the film of grit and realism. Even in outdoor scenes, even in the dust of the desert, no character ever looks like a true person. The film feels more like a photo shoot rather than reality.

Worse still, Nawal’s investigative skills come not from training or instinct but from doomscrolling a TikTok murder-mystery influencer; it is as implausible as it sounds. The device might have worked as social commentary, such as the way online culture informs young people or how social media leads to a democratization of knowledge, but here it feels like a shortcut and a contrivance that makes the story laughable. Nawal does not struggle or stumble; she simply absorbs TikTok facts and applies them flawlessly. Is she meant to be a genius stifled by patriarchy, or is the script just lazy? The film never coheres and the credibility dissolves.

To Al Mansour’s credit, the film does not shy away from important themes. It addresses sexuality, female chastity, and the suffocating weight of cultural norms. These remain vital topics. However, the way they are woven into the narrative often feels forced, instrumental, like box-ticking to propel the plot from point A to point B. The film gestures at societal urgency, but the execution is melodramatic rather than incisive.

Visually, Unidentified is oddly uneven. At times the cinematography is flat and pedestrian. Then, suddenly, there are slanted eccentric angles and flourishes that feel like the work of a first-time student filmmaker trying out every trick they learned. The production design, likewise, is too clean, and too curated. No one inhabits these spaces; they are overly polished backdrops. This lack of lived-in feeling undermines the very social realism the story demands. There are, however, flashes of great filmmaking, such as the desert opening, but these feel too few in a film that requires more.

There’s a major plot point in the film that’s unexpected. This late twist jolts the film and risks melodrama but is at least surprising in its audacity. For some viewers, this turn may resuscitate what has otherwise been a risible experience. For others, it will confirm the implausibility.

Al Mansour remains an important filmmaker, and any film by her has value simply for the perspective it brings. But Unidentified does not rise to the standard, urgency, or refinement of Wadjda. It feels trapped between wanting to be political and wanting to be a glossy crowd-pleasing thriller. In the end, it is neither.