How a handful of boys in Kaduna became The Critics, using DIY filmmaking as escape and expression while evolving into socially engaged artists
Crocodile tells a story that’s part coming-of-age, part DIY film school and part cautionary tale. At its heart are a handful of teenagers in Kaduna who call themselves The Critics. With little more than borrowed cameras, patched-together props and fierce curiosity, they set out to shoot wild sci-fi and fantasy pieces that echo the big-screen spectacles they admire. What begins as spirited play gradually becomes something more serious: an exploration of creativity under pressure, of group dynamics strained by success, and of the real-world obstacles that shape — and sometimes blur — authorship.
The film, co-directed by Pietra Brettkelly and the young collective, moves between celebration and scrutiny. It follows late-night edits during power cuts, impromptu rehearsals in market backstreets, and small triumphs that fuel their ambitions. As Crocodile gained festival attention and viral traction online, the spotlight brought both opportunity and a tangle of practical problems the group had never needed to face before.
Resourcefulness is the movie’s most magnetic theme. Scenes of teenagers rigging lights from household lamps or mounting makeshift rigs on motorcycles are more than quaint anecdotes; they explain the look and rhythm of the films these kids make. Constraints shape aesthetics: sudden cuts, patchwork special effects and the stop-start tempo born of unreliable electricity become part of the collective’s visual language. At the same time, those constraints expose vulnerabilities — gaps in legal know-how, shaky agreements around credit and ownership, and the dangers that follow when informal projects step onto international stages.
That tension between inventiveness and exposure recurs again and again. Workshops, peer mentorship and shared screenings anchor the group’s creative identity — a cinematic voice rooted in Kaduna’s neighborhoods rather than in outside validation. Their influences are evident: space operas and intimate character pieces sit side by side, folded into stories about market life, family obligations and the small dramas of daily survival. When genre spectacle meets local texture, the result can be thrilling: an imagined interstellar voyage anchored by a neighbourly dispute, or a romantic subplot that plays out during a power outage.
But as the collective’s work attracted attention, thorny questions of authorship and rights surfaced. Without formal contracts or documented releases, the very things that made The Critics’ films possible — communal ownership, informal collaboration — put them at legal risk. Festival programmers and distributors often require clear chains of title, signed releases and evidence of cleared archival material. Missing paperwork can stall distribution, complicate licensing or even scuttle festival entries. Practically speaking, the fixes are simple and urgent: written agreements, a searchable register of rights, basic insurance and clear crediting procedures. Those steps protect the creators without stripping away the communal spirit that animates their work.
The film also traces a shift in tone. A watershed moment arrives after a violent crackdown on an anti-police brutality protest that left dozens dead. That tragedy pulled the collective out of their bubble of escapism and into social engagement. Where earlier scenes leaned into invented worlds and playful invention, later material carries traces of grief, outrage and political urgency. Filmmakers who once made speculative shorts to “fill the void,” as one member put it, began to document protest, loss and accountability. The change sharpened their images, gave them a sharper social edge — and raised fresh legal and ethical stakes. Documenting unrest brings potential privacy, defamation and safety concerns for participants; it also requires careful consent practices and an awareness of how footage might be used by platforms or authorities.
Crocodile’s editing mirrors the collective’s trajectory. Brettkelly and the material she’s given face a difficult task: compress years of home movies, rehearsal tapes and interviews into a single feature. The film often opts for a mosaic approach, favoring breadth over relentless narrative focus. That gives Crocodile a lively, fragmentary energy — scenes sparkle with intimacy and craft — but sometimes prevents deeper immersion in individual arcs. There are powerful touches: hands assembling cardboard sets, close-ups of makeshift effects, moments of candid vulnerability. Yet at other times the throughline frays; motivations and causal links are left to the viewer’s inferences.
These structural choices point to clear opportunities. A tighter edit in key stretches, a few contextual anchors (dates, brief captions) and stronger individual profiles would turn evocative fragments into persuasive evidence of growth. On the practical side, completing rights clearances and formal release paperwork before pursuing further festival or streaming opportunities will smooth the path to wider distribution. For the collective to keep its creative freedom while scaling up, the administrative housekeeping matters: contracts, copyright registration and transparent revenue-sharing arrangements will preserve both the work and the people who made it.
Crocodile delivers a vivid snapshot of a grassroots cinema movement in formation. It captures the effervescence of friends who teach one another craft, the way resource scarcity sparks invention, and the slow hardening of youthful play into purposeful art. At the same time, it leaves some questions unanswered — especially about how individual setbacks translate into later breakthroughs and which members will carry the project forward. That sense of an unfinished story is not a flaw so much as a promise: this is an opening chapter.
For programmers, funders and producers who want to support similar initiatives, the lessons are practical: build legal literacy into creative training; require simple, standardized contributor agreements; keep a rights registry; and factor in minimal insurance and clear crediting systems. For The Critics themselves, the most urgent work is not artistic but administrative: file the paperwork, document who did what, and protect the people who trusted each other enough to make films in the first place.
The film, co-directed by Pietra Brettkelly and the young collective, moves between celebration and scrutiny. It follows late-night edits during power cuts, impromptu rehearsals in market backstreets, and small triumphs that fuel their ambitions. As Crocodile gained festival attention and viral traction online, the spotlight brought both opportunity and a tangle of practical problems the group had never needed to face before.0