SELF-PORTRAIT is described as "a portrait of humanity as captured by its surveillance cameras." Seemingly paradoxical to this description, however, is the fact that very few humans are actually seen in the film. Instead, the film is composed of the footage that we, humans, point our cameras at.

The footage covers quite a lot of ground, showing blizzarding mountaintops, barren fields, bustling city centers, overflowing landfills, standstill shipping ports, a sleeping stray dog, abandoned homes, a church altar mid-service, a couple kissing in the sea. The visuals traverse the globe. It is a tedious film that arranges the footage to show the seasonal passing of time. Snowy winter scenes turn to early spring rains, soon evolving to summer sun, then a cooling autumn. During the summer sequence, we see a clip of a pool that was previously empty and covered for winter is now bustling with swimmers and sunbathers.

A frequent question arises while viewing SELF-PORTRAIT: what is a surveillance camera doing there? What good does a surveillance camera do at the peak of an uninhabited mountain, in the middle of an ocean, submerged in a murky river, or aimed straight up at the sky? Don't hold your breath for these answers. They never come, nor is the film's goal to deliver them.

These cameras exist. They are recording. Humans put them there. But no one's watching. So what's the point?

This is the real essence of the film: an examination of the insurmountable extent of surveillance and documentation. While that is a slightly horrifying thought (Big Brother may not always be watching, but he's undoubtedly recording at all times), SELF-PORTRAIT ends on a positive note. The final surveillance shot shows a delicate rainbow developing against a grey cloud, a moment we would not have seen had it not been recorded.