ReMastered: The Lion's Share (2019)

ReMastered: The Lion's Share opens on a hauntingly simple mystery: who really owns "The Lion Sleeps Tonight," and why does the family of its creator live in poverty while the song becomes a global gold mine? The documentary centers on South African journalist Rian Malan, who begins as both investigator and participant, a man trying to untangle a moral scandal buried inside a pop hit and, at the same time, a white South African wrestling with the legacy of exploitation that shaped his own country. The film's first movement places the viewer in the world of the song's origin and then steadily pulls back the curtain on the machinery that turned a Zulu melody into one of the most profitable songs ever recorded.

The story starts in South Africa, in 1939, when Solomon Linda records "Mbube" for Gallo Records. Linda is presented not as a glamorous star but as a gifted, working-class musician whose voice and arrangement capture something powerful enough to travel far beyond its birthplace. The song catches on locally and reportedly sells around 100,000 copies, but the triumph is hollow from the start. Linda signs away rights he does not understand, and because he cannot read or write English, he likely has no real idea what he has surrendered. That detail hangs over the rest of the documentary like a wound that never closes. The film lingers on this first injustice because it is the original betrayal, the hidden crack from which everything else follows.

From there the movie traces the song's transformation. In the early 1950s, the music reaches the United States, where Pete Seeger and The Weavers reshape it into "Wimoweh," treating it as if it is a traditional African folk tune rather than the work of a named composer. The new version is a success, but the credits blur the truth further. Then George David Weiss adds the now-famous English lyrics, and "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" is born. The melody becomes softer, brighter, and more commercially polished, yet the documentary keeps returning to the same underlying fact: each new version moves farther away from Solomon Linda's name while moving closer to massive profits. The film's tension comes from that gap between recognition and reward, between the song the world loves and the man who never benefits from its fame.

Rian Malan's investigation begins to give the story a human face. He tracks down Linda's family and learns that the singer died in 1962, long before the song's most lucrative decades. His daughters, Elizabeth, Delphi, and Fildah Ntsele, are shown living in severe poverty, their lives a bitter contrast to the endless commercial afterlife of their father's music. The film treats their condition not as background detail but as the emotional center of the case. Malan's search is no longer just historical; it becomes personal, urgent, and morally charged. He is not merely asking who wrote the song. He is asking who was erased so that others could profit from his work.

The documentary then broadens into a portrait of exploitation in the global music business. The song keeps making money for decades, and the largest modern explosion comes when Disney uses "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" in The Lion King. That moment is treated as the peak of the song's commercial life: a corporate megahit built on a melody whose original creator was barely compensated at all. The use of the song in a family movie about lions creates a cruel irony that the film never lets go of. The title itself becomes almost accusatory, as if the whole world has been singing over an injustice for years without noticing. The more successful the song becomes, the more painful the original theft looks.

Malan's role changes from observer to catalyst. He helps bring attention to Linda's heirs and pushes the issue into the legal arena, including a lawsuit against Disney seeking compensation for the family. The case becomes the documentary's central present-tense conflict: not a battle with fists or violence, but with lawyers, contracts, copyrights, and the stubborn persistence of institutional power. A copyright specialist joins the effort, and the film frames this alliance as a rare moment when the system briefly seems capable of correcting itself. The dispute gains public visibility through Malan's writing and through the documentary itself, turning a buried grievance into an international embarrassment for those who profited from it.

At the heart of this legal struggle is the revelation that Linda's descendants were not only denied the song's original value but also kept in the dark about how the rights were taken. The documentary makes clear that the publishing deal was likely signed without true informed consent. Linda's inability to read English becomes a devastating symbol of colonial-era inequality inside the music industry. He is not simply outmaneuvered; he is structurally vulnerable in a system designed to reward those who already have power. The film repeatedly returns to that contrast: a poor Zulu singer on one side, multinational publishers and entertainment giants on the other. The song's success is built on asymmetry from the beginning.

The legal pressure eventually works. Disney agrees to settle, and Solomon Linda is formally recognized as one of the songwriters of "The Lion Sleeps Tonight." On paper, this is the film's biggest victory. It feels, for a moment, like history has been corrected. The settlement is large enough to matter, and the legal recognition carries symbolic weight that extends beyond the family itself. For a brief stretch, the documentary allows the possibility that a wrong from the colonial and postcolonial past can be acknowledged and partially repaired. The film's momentum peaks here, as if the story is finally moving toward justice.

But the documentary refuses to end as a triumph. Instead, it sharpens into something more bitter. The settlement money is placed in a trust, and the family cannot directly access it in the simple, empowering way they hoped. The daughters receive compensation, but not the clean, liberating windfall that justice might imply. Reports in the film indicate that after legal fees and other deductions, each surviving daughter eventually receives around $250,000, but even that figure comes wrapped in frustration because the exact payout is hidden behind nondisclosure terms. Malan himself is bound by those terms and cannot speak freely about the details. The documentary makes that silence part of the story: even when the family "wins," the system controls the narrative and much of the money.

The final stretch reunites Malan with Linda's three surviving daughters in 2018, and the mood turns somber. What should feel like closure instead feels like another layer of obstruction. The women had expected the case to transform their lives, but the trust, the lawyers' cuts, and the secrecy surrounding the settlement leave them suspicious and resentful. Their disappointment is not petty; it comes from a lifetime of deprivation and from the knowledge that the song has generated enormous wealth for everyone except the people closest to its creator. The film does not depict a physical confrontation so much as an emotional reckoning. The daughters' skepticism becomes its own kind of verdict.

No one is murdered in the present-day action of the documentary, and there are no violent deaths on screen. The only death that matters structurally is Solomon Linda's own, which has already happened before the film begins, in 1962, in poverty and obscurity. His death is the original absence around which the whole investigation turns. It is the reason the daughters must carry the fight, the reason the song's authorship can be rewritten by others, and the reason the injustice lasts for decades. The film does not specify a dramatic cause of death; instead, it treats his passing as part of a larger life of erasure. He dies without seeing his song's global triumph, and without receiving the rewards that should have been his.

The documentary's confrontations are mostly indirect but still intense. Malan challenges the accepted history of the song. The family confronts the fact that their father's legacy was stolen. Lawyers confront Disney's legal machine. The film itself confronts the audience with the discomfort of enjoying a beloved song that rests on exploitation. Even Malan's own internal struggle matters: he is shown grappling with guilt, with the racial history of South Africa, and with the uneasy position of a white South African uncovering a black family's dispossession. His investigation into the song becomes a mirror for broader history, linking the entertainment industry to apartheid-era inequalities and to the long afterlife of racial extraction.

The biggest twists are not murders or secret villains, but revelations about credit, ownership, and the persistence of theft. The audience learns that the song many people think of as a cheerful pop standard has a traceable origin in Solomon Linda's "Mbube." It passes through "Wimoweh" before becoming "The Lion Sleeps Tonight," and each step strips away more of the original context while increasing the song's commercial value. Another revelation is that the family's legal victory does not produce a clean ending. The money arrives, but the family remains trapped in distrust and dependency. The documentary's final irony is that recognition comes too late to restore what was lost: decades of income, dignity, and control.

The last scenes leave the viewer with a sense of unfinished business. The film closes not on celebration but on an uneasy, unresolved note, with the family still living under the shadow of what happened to Solomon Linda and still questioning who truly benefited from the settlement. The trust stands as both safeguard and barrier, and the nondisclosure agreements ensure that the full truth remains partially hidden. There is no neat catharsis. Instead, the ending insists that this story is about more than one song: it is about a system that repeatedly converts black creativity into white and corporate profit, then offers partial correction only after the damage is long done.

So the documentary ends where it began, with a song that everybody knows and a history that almost nobody did. "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" remains in the culture, but the film leaves its audience with the cost of that melody etched into memory: Solomon Linda created "Mbube" in 1939, died in poverty in 1962, and only posthumously received acknowledgment after a legal fight driven by Rian Malan and his descendants. The family gets compensation, but not peace. The public gets the true story, but not full closure. The final feeling is not victory, but the bitter, lingering sense that justice has arrived late, partly hidden, and still incomplete.

In the ending of "ReMastered: The Lion's Share," the documentary culminates in a poignant resolution regarding the fate of the lion skin that was taken from the African continent and ended up in a museum in Australia. The film highlights the ongoing struggle for restitution and recognition of cultural heritage, ultimately leading to a call for the return of the lion skin to its rightful place.

As the film progresses towards its conclusion, the narrative unfolds with a series of impactful scenes.

The first scene shows the culmination of the efforts made by the descendants of the indigenous people, who have been advocating for the return of the lion skin. They gather in a meeting, filled with a mix of hope and anxiety, as they prepare to present their case to the museum officials. The atmosphere is charged with emotion, as the participants reflect on the significance of the lion skin to their heritage and identity. Their determination is palpable, and the weight of history looms large over their discussions.

Next, the film transitions to the museum, where the lion skin is displayed. The camera captures the stark contrast between the lifeless artifact and the vibrant stories of the people it represents. The museum staff, portrayed with a sense of duty, engage in discussions about the ethical implications of holding onto such items. There is a sense of tension as they grapple with the moral responsibility of returning the lion skin versus the institution's historical narrative.

In a pivotal scene, the descendants present their case to the museum board. The emotional weight of their words resonates deeply, as they recount the history of their ancestors and the significance of the lion in their culture. The board members listen intently, their expressions revealing a mix of empathy and contemplation. This moment is crucial, as it highlights the clash between colonial legacies and the modern understanding of cultural ownership.

As the discussions unfold, the film captures the emotional responses of the descendants, showcasing their vulnerability and strength. They express a longing for recognition and justice, emphasizing that the return of the lion skin is not just about the artifact itself, but about reclaiming their history and identity.

The climax of the film arrives when the museum announces its decision. The board agrees to return the lion skin to its rightful place in Africa, a moment that is met with tears of joy and relief from the descendants. The scene is filled with a sense of triumph, as the long-fought battle for restitution reaches a significant milestone. The camera lingers on the faces of the participants, capturing their emotional release and the weight of generations of struggle lifting from their shoulders.

In the final scenes, the lion skin is prepared for its journey back home. The film closes with a powerful montage of the descendants celebrating their victory, interspersed with images of the lion in its natural habitat. The emotional resonance of the return is palpable, symbolizing not just the physical return of an object, but the restoration of dignity and cultural pride.

The fate of the main characters is intertwined with this resolution. The descendants find a sense of closure and empowerment, having reclaimed a piece of their heritage. The museum staff, while initially hesitant, come to terms with their role in the narrative of colonialism and cultural restitution. The film ends on a hopeful note, suggesting that this act of returning the lion skin is a step towards healing and reconciliation, not just for the individuals involved, but for the broader conversation about cultural heritage and justice.

ReMastered: The Lion's Share does not contain a post-credit scene. The documentary concludes with a focus on the themes of cultural heritage, restitution, and the ongoing impact of colonialism, leaving viewers with a sense of reflection rather than additional narrative content after the credits. The film wraps up its exploration of the story surrounding the lion's head and the broader implications of art and ownership without extending into a post-credit sequence.

The lion's share refers to the portion of the profits from the sale of a famous painting, 'The Lion of Judah,' which was stolen from the Ethiopian emperor Haile Selassie. The film explores how this artwork, representing Ethiopian heritage, became a symbol of colonial exploitation and the struggle for restitution.

The film illustrates Haile Selassie's deep connection to the painting, as it embodies his legacy and the cultural identity of Ethiopia. His efforts to reclaim the artwork reflect his broader fight against colonialism and his desire to restore dignity to his nation.

The descendants of the original owners, particularly those connected to the Ethiopian royal family, are portrayed as key figures in the quest for justice. Their emotional testimonies and personal stakes in the story highlight the ongoing impact of colonialism and the importance of cultural heritage.

The documentary delves into the complexities of restitution, showcasing various perspectives on the return of stolen artifacts. It highlights legal battles, moral arguments, and the emotional weight carried by those seeking to reclaim their heritage, emphasizing the need for dialogue and understanding.

The characters experience a profound emotional journey marked by loss, hope, and resilience. As they confront the legacy of colonialism and the pain of cultural dislocation, their stories reveal a deep yearning for justice and recognition, culminating in a collective call for healing and restitution.

"ReMastered: The Lion's Share" is a documentary that explores the complex history surrounding the song "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" and its cultural implications. While the film is informative and engaging, it does touch on some themes that may be sensitive for children or those who are particularly sensitive to certain topics.

1. Cultural Appropriation: The film discusses the appropriation of African music and the impact it has had on the original creators, which may lead to discussions about race and cultural sensitivity.

2. Historical Context: There are references to colonialism and exploitation, which may be upsetting for some viewers, especially younger audiences who may not fully grasp the historical context.

3. Emotional Testimonies: The documentary features personal stories from individuals affected by the song's legacy, which can evoke strong emotions related to loss, injustice, and the struggle for recognition.

4. Legal Battles: The film delves into the legal disputes over rights and royalties, which may be complex and potentially distressing for viewers who empathize with the artists' struggles.

Overall, while the film is not overtly graphic or violent, its themes and discussions may require parental guidance for younger viewers.