Sarah's Oil

The Weight of the Earth, The Weight of the Soul

There is a particular genre of American cinema that acts as a soothing balm, a polished mirror reflecting our history back to us not as a jagged wound, but as a parable of overcoming. These films often teeter on the precipice of didacticism, risking the complexity of human experience for the safety of a moral lesson. Yet, in *Sarah's Oil*, director Cyrus Nowrasteh manages to drill past the bedrock of standard inspirational fare to tap into something more viscous and volatile. By framing the true story of Sarah Rector—the eleven-year-old Black girl who became a millionaire in 1913 Oklahoma—not just as a victory of wealth, but as a battle for autonomy, Nowrasteh elevates a history lesson into a soulful inquiry about who gets to own the earth beneath their feet.



Visually, the film is a study in textures. Nowrasteh and his cinematographer shun the sepia-toned nostalgia often reserved for period pieces. Instead, the Oklahoma landscape is rendered in harsh, unforgiving daylight—the dust tastes real, the sun bleaches the hope out of the soil, and the oil, when it finally arrives, is a violent, chaotic rupture of black against the pale earth. This visual language serves the narrative well; it underscores that Sarah’s inheritance, the so-called "worthless" allotment given to Creek Freedmen children, was never meant to be a blessing. The director uses wide shots to emphasize Sarah’s smallness against this vast, indifferent horizon, making her unwavering conviction that the land holds value feel less like childish optimism and more like prophetic sight.

At the heart of this struggle is Naya Desir-Johnson, whose performance as Sarah is a revelation of quiet fortitude. She avoids the trap of playing the "precocious movie kid." Her Sarah is watchful, internal, and possessed of a stillness that unnerves the adults around her. When she places her ear to the ground, listening for the rumble of "Texas Tea," it plays not as a gimmick, but as an act of communion with a heritage that society tries to deny her.



The film’s central friction, however, lies in the relationship between Sarah and Bert Smith, played by Zachary Levi. Levi, cast against type as a rough-edged wildcatter, brings a weary cynicism that plays beautifully against Sarah’s resolve. The "white savior" trope is the lurking shadow in any story like this, but Nowrasteh navigates it by making Bert not the hero, but the student. Sarah does not need Bert to save her; she needs him to operate the machinery of a world rigged against her. The transaction is clear, and the friendship that blooms is earned through mutual survival rather than charity. Levi’s performance suggests a man who knows he is broken, finding repair in the unlikeliest of business partners.

It is worth noting that while *Sarah's Oil* operates within the framework of faith-based cinema (produced by Kingdom Story Company), it thankfully resists the urge to sermonize. God is present here, but He is found in the mystery of geology and the dignity of the Rector family, not in heavy-handed dialogue. The villainy, embodied with oily menace by Garret Dillahunt, represents the systemic greed that views Sarah not as a child, but as an asset to be liquidated.



Ultimately, *Sarah's Oil* is a film about the audacity of ownership. In a 1913 America where a Black child’s agency was legally and socially invisible, Sarah Rector’s refusal to be swindled is a radical act. Nowrasteh has crafted a film that is traditional in structure but subversive in its implications. It reminds us that the American Dream has always been a wrestle in the mud—and that sometimes, the smallest hands grip the tightest.