Zejtune – A Maltese Drama About Farmland, Folk Songs, and the Realisation That You Might Be Stuck Here Forever

If someone had told me that the most emotionally honest Maltese film of the year would be about a woman trying to sell some inherited land while being gently dragged back into rural life by an 80‑year‑old folk singer, I would have laughed, asked if it was a joke, then gone straight home and watched F1 instead.  

And yet here we are. Zejtune, directed by Alex Camilleri, is exactly that film: a quiet, low‑hype, home‑grown Maltese drama that looks, on paper, about as exciting as a Land Registry meeting, and ends up feeling like a long, awkwardly honest conversation with your own conscience about whether you’re allowed to leave the island or not.  

The Plot, In As Few Dramatic Words As Possible  

Mar is a young Maltese woman who’s decided she’s done with Malta. After a complicated relationship with her mother ends with her death, she’s left with a complicated legacy and a chunk of farmland she doesn’t want. Her plan is straightforward: sell the land, cut the link, and walk away from the island with a clear conscience and a bank transfer that actually works.  

On paper, it’s a clean, adult decision. In reality, Malta is never that tidy. As she drives around the countryside, trying to sort out the paperwork, the arguments, and the vague sense that everyone already knows everything about her family, she stumbles across Nenu: an 80‑year‑old folk singer played by the real‑life legend Nenu Borg.  

He’s the kind of man who still thinks a song can solve a family feud, that a bit of soil is as important as a CV, and that the best thing you can do with a piece of land is keep it, even if it looks like it’s losing the battle with weeds. He’s also the kind of man who will talk to anyone, anywhere, about anything, as long as there’s a chance of singing about it later.  

Their unlikely friendship turns Zejtune into a slow, polite tug‑of‑war between the urge to run off somewhere that feels “easier” and the stubborn, messy affection you feel for a place that never quite lets you go. It’s not about a dramatic conversion, a tear‑jerk confession, or a grand gesture where someone stands in the middle of the road and shouts “I’m staying!” in slow motion. It’s about the way a field, a song, or a slightly awkward conversation over tea can quietly undo a decision you were sure you’d made for good.  

Why It Feels Like a Real Maltese Conversation, Not a Movie  

If you grew up in Malta, Zejtune will feel like someone finally made a film that dares to talk about the stuff everyone mutters over kaffè and pastizzi but never admits out loud: the guilt of leaving, the guilt of staying, and the constant low‑level anxiety that you might be doing the wrong thing whichever way you choose.  

It’s one of the few recent films that actually shows Malta beyond the postcard clichés. Instead of endless sunsets over the Proclamation and a soundtrack of someone whispering “relax, enjoy the island,” it gives you the countryside, the half‑renovated farmhouses, the arguments about who owns what, and the kind of people who still know who’s feuding with who from 1998.  

That focus on rural life, real Maltese folk music, and local characters makes Zejtune a quietly important piece of home‑grown Maltese cinema. It’s not a tourist brochure. It’s a film that assumes you already know what it means when someone says “it’s the villages, that’s the problem,” and then decides to show you why that’s both true and not true all at once.  

It’s also a film that understands that Maltese conversations never start with small talk and always end with a story. So of course, in a film about leaving and staying, everyone you meet feels morally obliged to tell you three other stories about people who left, came back, argued with everyone, and then died in peace (or not).  

Camilleri’s Quiet, Observant, “Can We Please Stop Shouting?” Style  

If you’re familiar with Alex Camilleri’s work, especially Luzzu, you’ll recognise his style here: naturalistic, warm, and not at all interested in the kind of glossy, speed‑edited energy that dominates most mainstream films. Zejtune is a slow‑burn drama, not a slick thriller or a rom‑com cut like a TikTok reel. It’s the kind of film where the camera lingers on a field, a song, a slightly awkward conversation, or a man stubbornly refusing to sell his land because “it’s from the family, that’s it.”  

The use of authentic Maltese folk artists and traditional sound adds a layer of credibility that most films about “roots” never manage. It doesn’t feel like a festival performance that’s been dropped into a script and then awkwardly edited around a dramatic twist. It feels like music that’s always been part of the island and suddenly becomes part of Mar’s life too. It’s the soundtrack of a place that doesn’t care about your five‑year‑plan, it just cares about whether you remember the words to the song.  

For anyone who enjoys intimate, character‑driven stories, Zejtune is a low‑hype way to see Malta as it actually functions on the ground: gossip‑prone, stubborn, loud, occasionally chaotic, and weirdly beautiful. It’s the kind of film where the main character’s biggest internal conflict is not “run from the bad guy” but “run from the island without running from myself.”  

The Funniest Bits Are the Parts That Aren’t Meant To Be Funny  

One of the funniest things about Zejtune is that it doesn’t really try to be a comedy. It’s a drama, first and foremost. But life in Malta has a way of being unintentionally hilarious, and the film leans into that.  

There are moments when the film feels like a doc about bureaucracy: someone explaining why you can’t just sell a bit of land without six forms, three signatures, and a cousin who’s suddenly discovered he has “rights.” There are arguments that could only happen in a small place, where half a sentence is enough to launch an entire family history. And there’s the constant, low‑level mockery of the idea that you could ever truly “escape” if everyone knows whose child you are and which village your grandfather’s house is in.  

The film also has a quiet, dry sense of humour in the way it presents Mar’s city‑life mindset – all plans, spreadsheets, and exit strategies – against Nenu’s deeply unplanned, deeply rooted existence. One is trying to calculate the best financial and emotional exit, the other is just trying to remember the lyrics to the song he sang at your uncle’s wedding. Watching them bounce off each other is both funny and quietly devastating.  

Why It Stays With You After The Credits  

Most films that try to talk about “roots” end up feeling like a motivational poster with a soundtrack. Zejtune doesn’t fall into that trap. It doesn’t give you a neat moral, a dramatic “you should stay” moment, or a sweeping, emotional finale where the hero suddenly realises they love the island more than themselves.  

Instead, it gives you a slow, understated sense that leaving and staying are both valid, messy, and emotionally exhausting choices. It trusts the audience to sit with that discomfort rather than handing out a clear answer. That restraint is what makes the film feel so real.  

By the end, a lot of viewers feel two things at once: a sense of calm, because the film doesn’t shout, and a nagging unease, because it quietly asks whether any of us really know what we’re running towards – or away from.  

A Very Long, Slightly Sarcastic, Personal Verdict  

If I had to summarise Zejtune in one long, slightly sarcastic, personal sentence, it would be this:  

“It’s a film about a Maltese woman trying to legally and emotionally divorce herself from the island, only to be slowly dragged back in by an 80‑year‑old man who still thinks folk songs solve arguments, that a bit of land is as important as a degree, and that the best thing you can do with a complicated family history is sing about it and then argue some more. There’s no car chase. There’s not even a dramatic plane‑ticket‑versus‑field showdown. It’s just people talking, singing, walking through fields, and occasionally arguing in Maltese with the kind of confidence that only comes from living in a place where everyone knows your family tree back to the Great Siege. And yet, by the end, you realise that the film has quietly made a case for why leaving might feel like freedom, but staying might feel like home. It’s a slow, modest, home‑grown drama that proves a story about farmland, folk music, and family drama can still hit harder than half the noise we usually call entertainment. If you’re Maltese, it will feel like someone finally put your internal conflict to camera. If you’re not, it’s a gentle, low‑hype introduction to the real side of Malta that doesn’t show up on Instagram. Now, can someone please pass the pastizzi and tell me if I’m allowed to stay or leave after all?”

In short: Zejtune is the kind of Maltese film that doesn’t try to be slick, loud, or globally “important” in the usual way. It’s just honest, rooted, and quietly emotional enough to make you question your own relationship with the island – and that’s more than most films manage, even the ones with explosions.

Finally, and this is a proper footnote: it’s a relief that Zejtune and local productions are finally getting a proper theatrical run at Embassy Cinema, because local films deserve to be screened on screens that don’t fall apart, rooms that don’t feel like a cave, and showings that actually have working air conditioning. Every time I visit Eden, it's a battle between the film and the dark, dim screen, the missing sound, and the feeling that the ceiling is about to give up on life too.