There are approximately 8 billion people on this planet, and statistically speaking, at least a few thousand of them are currently convinced they're the reincarnation of Cleopatra or Napoleon or, if they're feeling spicy, a medieval peasant with a really interesting past life. Fine. Whatever. You do you, crystal collection and all.
But then there's Yuval Abraham and Rachel Szor, two Israeli filmmakers who spent years embedded in a community that took the whole "past lives" thing and cranked it up to a level that makes your aunt's essential oil pyramid scheme look like a Nobel Prize in Economics. Their documentary, "Naza," is basically a masterclass in watching people swallow increasingly unhinged nonsense until they're choking on it.
The film centers on a woman named Naza, who claims she's the reincarnation of a Nazi pedophile. Yeah. Let that sink in for a second. Not Cleopatra. Not a glamorous 1920s flapper. A Nazi. Pedophile. The kind of guy who would've been the villain in a movie so over-the-top that critics would call it "unrealistic character writing."
But here's the kicker: people believed her. They built an entire spiritual community around this woman and her alleged past-life memories. Think about that. In a world where you can't get your neighbor to believe that vaccines work, there's apparently a thriving market for "yes, I was definitely a child-murdering fascist in a previous incarnation, wanna join my workshop?"
Abraham and Szor don't just point and laugh, though. That would be too easy. Instead, they do something far more unsettling: they let the absurdity speak for itself. The result is a documentary that's less "gotcha" journalism and more "slow-motion car crash you can't look away from" cinema.
What makes "Naza" genuinely disturbing isn't the past-life claims themselves. It's the mechanics of it all. The way charismatic figures can take the most horrific historical monsters and repackage them as "healing journeys." The way trauma becomes currency. The way people desperate for meaning will hand over their wallets, their autonomy, and their critical thinking skills to anyone who speaks with enough confidence and wears a linen scarf.
The film has been making the festival rounds, and it's easy to see why it's polarizing. Some viewers walk out furious, arguing that giving this story any platform at all is irresponsible. Others call it a brilliant piece of anthropological horror. And then there's the third group, the ones who quietly Google "how to tell if I'm the reincarnation of someone famous" on their phones during the Q&A.
Abraham and Szor reportedly spent years building trust with their subjects, which is either admirable dedication or a concerning lack of self-preservation instinct. Either way, the access is uncomfortably intimate. You don't just watch these people; you sit in their living rooms and watch them rationalize things that should be impossible to rationalize.
The documentary raises a question that nobody wants to answer directly: where's the line between spiritual exploration and predatory manipulation? Because from the outside, it looks pretty damn clear. But from the inside? That's where things get murky. That's where people start defending the indefensible because admitting they were duped would shatter the entire framework of their lives.
"Naza" isn't an easy watch. It's not supposed to be. It's a mirror held up to a culture that's so desperate for transcendence that it'll accept any story, no matter how grotesque, as long as it's packaged with enough incense and ambient music.
**The takeaway:** We're all one charismatic weirdo away from joining a cult, and "Naza" is a 90-minute reminder to keep your bullshit detector fully charged. Also, if someone tells you they were a Nazi in a past life, maybe don't give them your credit card information for their next "healing retreat."