The Oscar-shortlisted documentary Sugarcane is riddled with misinformation, unverified claims, and historical distortions
Marco Navarro-Genie
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An Oscar-shortlisted documentary should be held to the highest journalistic and factual standards. Sugarcane, directed by Julian Brave NoiseCat and Emily Kassie, fails this test spectacularly.
The film, which claims to expose a pattern of infanticide at St. Joseph’s Mission, a former Catholic residential school in British Columbia, is riddled with misinformation, unverified allegations, and outright falsehoods. It relies on emotional manipulation and selective storytelling to push a narrative that is not backed by evidence. This is not just an artistic failing—it is a betrayal of truth. And yet, it was embraced by Hollywood, earning a spot on the Oscar shortlist.
Despite the Academy’s recognition, Sugarcane ultimately did not win an Oscar. But the fact that it was even considered for such an honour exposes a troubling trend: the prioritization of ideological narratives over factual integrity. The film presents itself as an investigative documentary, yet it never provides a single shred of forensic proof to back its most shocking claim—that babies were murdered and incinerated at St. Joseph’s. Experts in Indigenous history and residential schools in Canada unequivocally state that there is no pattern of infanticide. No remains have been found. No credible witness has testified to such acts. Yet the film delivers this claim as fact.
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The so-called investigation at the centre of the film has not produced any verifiable evidence of missing children, secret burials, or infant killings. The documentary misleads audiences by implying that Julian Noisecat’s father, Ed Noisecat, was fathered by a priest, and that the priest played a role in attempting to dispose of baby Ed in a school incinerator.
In fact, Ed’s father was Ray Peters, an indigenous man with whom Ed’s mother, Antoinette Archie, had several other children. It was Antoinette Archie who, for unexplained reasons, abandoned her baby in the school incinerator. For that crime, Antoinette was charged, convicted, and served one year in jail. No priest was involved in this sad story.
This is a critical distinction. The film twists a tragic personal story to fit a predetermined political narrative, ignoring the facts in favour of sensationalism. It presents these distortions without scrutiny, allowing a falsehood to become accepted as truth. The question that must be asked is: why was this allowed to happen? Why did neither the filmmakers nor their backers demand basic journalistic integrity before promoting these claims?
The deception does not stop there. The film splices together archival footage from other schools, giving the impression that scenes from different locations are directly connected to St. Joseph’s. This is not just careless editing—it is deliberate misrepresentation.
This technique has been used before to shape public opinion on residential schools. In 2021, Canadians were told that mass graves had been discovered at the former Kamloops Indian Residential School. The media ran with the story, and even Prime Minister Justin Trudeau took a knee in front of a memorial. But years later, no bodies have been found. The so-called discovery was merely a radar scan showing soil disturbances—something that could have been caused by tree roots or construction, not burials.
The fallout from this misinformation was enormous. Across Canada, dozens of churches were burned or vandalized. People who questioned the claims were silenced or branded as deniers. The Catholic Church was vilified, despite clear evidence that Indigenous leaders were actively involved in running residential schools. And yet, when it became clear that no remains had been uncovered, there was no media reckoning, government apology, or accountability.
Now, with Sugarcane, we were told that St. Joseph’s was a site of systematic infanticide. This, too, is false. But the damage has already been done. The film’s Oscar recognition, even without a win, gave its fabrications an undeserved stamp of credibility.
The implications of this go beyond one documentary. The push to promote a false history for ideological or political gain erodes trust in real historical injustices. Canadians deserve to know the truth about residential schools, not fabricated horror stories designed to provoke outrage. What happened in these schools was tragic enough—why distort it?
The financial and political incentives to push these falsehoods cannot be ignored. Governments, advocacy groups, and filmmakers stand to benefit from narratives that stoke division and victimhood. Sugarcane received significant funding and glowing media coverage not because it is accurate, but because it aligns with a preferred ideological viewpoint. In contrast, Indigenous scholars and journalists who challenge these claims are ignored or attacked.
Documentaries are meant to inform, not mislead. Yet Sugarcane was celebrated, not challenged, by critics and film festivals that should know better. While it did not win an Oscar, its nomination alone signals a disturbing willingness to reward propaganda over truth.
This is bigger than one film. It’s about whether we allow history to be rewritten by those with an agenda. Sugarcane must be held accountable for its distortions. And Canadians must demand that taxpayer-funded investigations produce facts, not fiction.
The truth matters. Even when it’s inconvenient.
Marco Navarro-Genie is vice-president of research and policy at the Frontier Centre for Public Policy. He is the co-author, with Barry Cooper, of COVID-19: The Politics of a Pandemic Moral Panic (2020). This commentary was written in collaboration with Nina Green.
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