Movies about the "Rez" usually go one of two ways. They’re either soul-crushingly bleak or they’re weirdly mystical in a way that feels like it was written by someone who has never actually stepped foot in a Navajo Nation gas station. Then comes Frybread Face and Me. It’s different. It’s quiet.
Honestly, it’s just real.
Directed by Billy Luther, this film isn’t trying to win an Oscar for "Most Dramatic Tragedy." It’s a 1990-set story about a city kid named Benny who gets dropped off at his grandma’s sheep ranch in Arizona. He’s obsessed with Fleetwood Mac. He carries a Cabbage Patch Doll. He is, quite frankly, out of his element. Then he meets his cousin, Dawn—affectionately and somewhat mockingly nicknamed "Frybread Face."
What follows isn’t some high-stakes thriller. It’s a slow-burn look at identity, weaving, and what it means to be Navajo when you don't even speak the language. It premiered at SXSW and eventually found a home on Netflix through Ava DuVernay’s ARRAY Releasing, and the reason it’s sticking with people years later is that it captures a very specific, very universal feeling of being an outsider in your own family.
The Reality of the "Cultural Gap" in Frybread Face and Me
Benny is from San Diego. He wants to see Simon & Garfunkel. Instead, he’s stuck in a place where the bathroom is an outhouse and the primary chore is keeping track of sheep that seem determined to wander off. This is the core of Frybread Face and Me. It highlights the "disconnected" experience that so many Indigenous youth face—growing up in urban centers, far from the traditional knowledge of their elders.
But Billy Luther doesn't treat this like a lecture. He treats it like a memory.
The film feels lived-in because it is. Luther, who is Navajo, Hopi, and Laguna Pueblo, drew heavily from his own childhood summers. When Benny struggles to communicate with his grandmother, Lorraine (played with incredible stoicism by Sarah H. Natani, who is a real-life master weaver), the frustration is palpable. She speaks Navajo. He speaks "1990s California." Yet, they find a rhythm through the work. The shearing. The spinning of wool. The actual creation of frybread.
There’s a scene where Dawn—Frybread Face—basically runs circles around Benny. She’s tough. She knows the land. She’s the bridge between the traditional world and Benny’s modern one. Keira Peah, who plays Dawn, delivers one of those child performances that doesn't feel like "acting." She just is that kid we all knew growing up—the one who was way too smart for their age and didn't have time for your city-boy nonsense.
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Why the 1990s Setting Actually Matters
You might wonder why Luther chose 1990 specifically. It wasn't just for the Fleetwood Mac references, though those are great. Setting Frybread Face and Me in the early 90s removes the easy out of technology.
There are no iPhones. No TikTok.
Benny can't just retreat into a screen when he gets bored or lonely. He has to look at the dirt. He has to listen to the wind. He has to talk to his cousin. This era was a turning point for many tribal nations as they navigated the shift into a more digital, globalized world, but on the ranch, time feels like it’s moving at a different speed.
The nostalgia here isn't glossy. It’s dusty. It’s the smell of mutton and the sound of a crackling radio. By stripping away modern distractions, the movie forces the characters—and the audience—to sit with the discomfort of cultural loss. Benny realizes he’s missing a piece of himself, even if he didn't know it was gone when he was back in San Diego.
Moving Beyond the "Tragic Native" Trope
For decades, Hollywood only wanted one kind of story from Indigenous creators: trauma. If it wasn't about the "vanishing Indian" or historical massacres, producers weren't interested. Frybread Face and Me is part of a massive, necessary shift we’ve seen recently with projects like Reservation Dogs or Dark Winds.
It’s about joy. And boredom. And annoying uncles.
The film deals with heavy themes—broken marriages, the struggle to keep a ranch running, the shadows of the boarding school system—but it does so through the eyes of children. To a kid, a family secret isn't a plot point; it's a whisper they overheard from the hallway. Luther captures that perspective perfectly.
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Take the character of Uncle Louis. He’s a rodeo rider who’s past his prime, struggling with his own place in the world. In any other movie, he’d be a caricature of the "broken man." Here, he’s just Louis. He’s complicated. He’s funny. He’s trying. That nuance is what makes the film an essential piece of modern Indigenous cinema.
Small Details That Make a Big Difference
If you watch closely, the film is packed with authentic touches that people outside the culture might miss, but that make the world feel solid:
- The specific way the grandma handles the loom, which is a sacred art form in Navajo culture.
- The "Navajo Tacos" and the ubiquitous presence of frybread as both a staple food and a symbol of survival.
- The gender dynamics—how the women are the undisputed backbone of the household and the keepers of the stories.
The Impact of Native-Led Storytelling
We have to talk about representation without it sounding like a corporate buzzword. The reason Frybread Face and Me works is that it wasn't made for a "white gaze." It doesn't stop to explain every single tradition or translate every Navajo word. It assumes the audience is smart enough to keep up, or at least empathetic enough to feel the emotion behind the words.
This is the "E-E-A-T" (Experience, Expertise, Authoritativeness, Trustworthiness) of filmmaking. Billy Luther has the lived experience. He isn't guessing what life on the Rez is like; he’s sharing his home. When major platforms like Netflix pick up these stories, it changes the bar for what is considered "universal." You don't have to be Navajo to understand what it’s like to feel like an alien at a family reunion.
What Most People Get Wrong About the Ending
Without giving everything away, the ending of Frybread Face and Me isn't a tidy bow. It doesn't pretend that one summer fixed everything or that Benny is now a master of his heritage.
Life isn't a Disney movie.
Instead, the film suggests that the connection has been sparked. The "me" in the title—Benny—is changed. He carries a piece of that desert back to the city. It’s a subtle realization that culture isn't something you "complete." It’s a thread you keep weaving.
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Critics have pointed out that the film’s pacing is "leisurely," but that’s the point. You can't rush sheep. You can't rush a rug. And you definitely can't rush the process of figuring out who you are when you’re twelve years old and stuck between two worlds.
Actionable Steps for Exploring More Indigenous Cinema
If Frybread Face and Me resonated with you, don't let it be the only stop on your journey. The landscape of Indigenous storytelling is exploding right now, and there is so much to catch up on.
Seek out the "New Wave" of Indigenous creators.
Start with Sterlin Harjo and Taika Waititi’s Reservation Dogs (Hulu/Disney+). It shares the same DNA of humor mixed with deep, localized heart. Then, look into the work of Erica Tremblay, specifically Fancy Dance, which stars Lily Gladstone and dives into much grittier, yet equally authentic, themes of family and justice.
Support Indigenous-owned media platforms.
Check out the Sundance Institute’s Indigenous Program. They have been the literal engine behind films like Frybread Face and Me for decades. Following their alumni lists is the best way to find your next favorite movie before it even hits the mainstream.
Read the literature that inspired this style of storytelling.
If the themes of memory and the 1990s Southwest hit home, pick up books by authors like Tommy Orange (There There) or Terese Marie Mailhot (Heart Berries). They offer that same raw, un-glossed perspective on modern Native life.
Look closer at the art.
The weaving in the film isn't just a prop. It’s a language. If you’re ever in the Southwest, visit the Hubbell Trading Post or local tribal galleries. Seeing a Navajo rug in person, knowing the months of labor and generations of history behind it, changes how you view the scenes between Benny and his grandmother.
The beauty of Frybread Face and Me isn't that it’s a "Native American Movie." It’s that it’s a great movie, period. It just happens to be told by someone who knows exactly what that dirt feels like between their toes.