Review - August

July 19, 2020

August – Iran, 2017

I recently watched Kevin Smith’s Dogma, and I was struck by just how much exposition there is in the film. It goes something like this. A character – usually one of the angels – mentions a biblical figure or aspect of Christianity, only for someone near them to express their ignorance of it, thus necessitating a wordy, as well as lengthy, explanation - ostensibly for the benefit of the character, but really, we’re the intended audience. We are assumed to be as oblivious as the character. The technique is a mixed blessing. While many viewers will walk away having had their eyes opened to certain concepts, the action grounds to a halt, and this is a problem for a film like Dogma, one in which time is supposedly of the essence. But I digress. This is not a review of Dogma. Rather, it is a look at Bahman Kamyar’s August, a film that takes an entirely different approach to ambiguity.

Instead of over-explaining, Kamyar, who wrote the screenplay as well, aims to amplify the audience’s uncertainty, and when it does indeed drop a clue, it is very likely to be a red herring. It was wise then for Kamyar to tell the story from the perspective of someone who would likely reach these false conclusions. After all, for most of us, the first explanation we reach is often the easiest to take. Were our minds to anticipate the most horrific scenarios, we would likely drive ourselves into such an unstable mental state as to render us in need of some serious help.

August tells the story of Roya (impressively played by Ra’na Azadivar) and Amir (Mohammad Reza Forutan), a recently married couple, whose marriage has fallen on hard times. During one scene, we watch them sitting next to each other and eating dinner in complete silence. Roya narrates the film, and in its first scene, we hear her comparing life to a boomerang – in other words, implying that the past has a way of returning and potentially harming you and your loved ones. So, just what skeletons lie in Roya’s closet? Apparently, two failed pregnancies and a bacterial infection which still prevents her from getting pregnant. The two still wish to have baby, though, and they are planning to go to London to undergo a rather expensive treatment. However, as the date of their departure approaches, doubts arise in Roya, partly as a result of her husband’s increasingly suspicious activity.

There is ample support for Roya’s suspicion – from Amir’s peculiar decision only to take calls on the balcony, where Roya cannot hear the conversation, to her discovery that Amir has been lying to her about going to work. Kamyar cheats slightly when he cuts away from Roya and shows us snippets of moments from a third-person perspective, such as when he shows us Amir straightening his tie in an apartment that is clearly not his. Moments like that aside, the first half of the film is mainly about Roya’s doubts and regrets, and it is this part that resonated the most with me. Roya fluctuates between blaming herself for her childlessness – and also for her husband’s possible infidelity – and questioning the importance of having children in the first place. After all, she reasons, just why is it that a woman to whom motherhood is denied is deemed to be living a lesser life?

I referenced Dogma earlier, and the consequence of its characters’ habit of launching into long explanations. Well, August takes the opposite approach. While it is perfectly understandable that Roya cannot tell us exactly what is going on, for the mystery to remain undefined, the characters who are in the loop much remain rather vague about their actions, even when discussing them when people in the know, and this strains credibility. In one scene, Amir remarks that they’re “doing all this for [Roya].” Just what this is remains unsaid. At other times, characters act in ways that are inconsistent with people in their situations, lying to the very people they should be honest to if they are going to have any hope of evading suspicion.   

Of course, these are reflections made after the fact. In the moment, they are somewhat effective, adding an additional layer to Roya’s insecurities and growing concerns about bringing a child into the world. I enjoyed many of the film’s early scenes. An early one in which Roya goes shopping with an overly nervous pregnant friend is fascinating and ends with a sweet image of her friend beaming with joy after feeling her child kick and an equally overjoyed Roya with her ear to her friend’s stomach. In another memorable scene, the two visit an orphanage and express their inability to comprehend why parents would abandon their children.

The film takes a dramatic turn in its second half, during which a new character is introduced. The dialogue remains coded, yet clues can be gathered by noting the location, emotions, and procedures referenced. In other words, it all makes sense in the end. Well, almost everything. By the end of the film, I found myself asking whether someone in Amir’s position would really have acted so mysteriously, but maybe it was a natural reaction to doing something that you believe is morally wrong.

August is a decent, yet problematic film. It puts far too much effort into keeping the truth at arms length, yet when all is revealed, what we have is a realistic tragedy, a tale of characters forced to take desperate measures – one as a direct result of Roya’s actions (the boomerang effect, again). I also appreciated it for shining a light on a problem not often associated with Iran and for its willingness to look at that issue from multiple angles. Still, the film didn’t resonate as powerfully as it should have. I found myself less invested in the survival of Roya and Amir’s marriage, and as a result, the conclusion produced a look of slight indifference rather than a tear.

I would be neglecting my duty as a critic if I didn’t mention the inaccuracies in the film’s subtitles. I watched the film on DVD and was frequently frustrated. Apparently, someone thought No, he was to be here? was correct English. At one point, a character is said to have filled him in. What she means to say is that someone filled in for him. Sadly, there are many more examples of this, which is a pity. A movie like August doesn’t usually get a double dip, making it yet another film imperfectly preserved for posterity. (on DVD)

2 and a half stars

*August is in Farsi with English subtitles.

Review - Gabbeh

September 27, 2018

Gabbeh – Iran, 1996

Gabbeh: “a hand-woven pile rug of course quality and medium size or characterized by an abstract design that relies upon open fields of color and a playfulness with geometry” (Wikipedia)

One of the keys to understanding Mohsen Makhmalbaf’s Gabbeh occurs early on the film when we see a young woman (Shaghayeh Djodat) standing outside a makeshift home somewhere in the Iranian countryside. On her door is a gabbeh, dyed mostly blue to resemble water and topped by the figures of a man and a woman on the back of a white horse. The camera cuts away for a moment, and when we return, it is an older woman who now stands in front of the camera in the same traditional blue tunic, now a little more faded due to the passage of time. We are, in my opinion, looking at the same woman years later (I admit there are problems with this interpretation). This is important, yet I believe the most pivotal part of the scene is her smile. It is as if Makhmalbaf is telling us that, despite the situations we see unfold as the film progresses, hers is a happy story, one that, while not having all of the elements of one of those western fairy tales, is about a woman who got her Prince Charming and is still glad that she did.

I mention this because it is not always apparent that the life she has is a joyful one. Her husband is now much older and possibly a little senile. Their years together have not produced wealth or even a middle-class lifestyle. There is also a suggestion that the two of them have remained childless, one of the aspects of their life that sets them apart from the families we see in flashbacks. Their home is miniscule, and an early discussion hints that they have only one pair of boots between them. Still, there is tenderness there, a connection forged through a lifetime of shared experiences, many of which were obviously extremely trying.

Yet to completely call this a love story would be misleading. It is a tale about waiting, about a love that is worth waiting for, and ultimately about the costs that can come with pursuing a love that is forbidden – and even that description trivializes the film. It is also about mankind’s symbiotic relationship with both colors and animals, and how these relationships shape the way we see and relate to the world around us, as well as the fragility of memory and the objects we create to preserve our memories. It is a poetic vision of life and love, one in which characters transcend space and time, in which a character can reach into a picturesque landscape that is physically quite a distance away and pull out a bouquet of flowers. In this motif, we are presented with the notion of time and space being flexible and ever-present, and characters seem alternatively stuck in time and free to interact with their former selves. In other words, Gabbeh is a complicated thing of beauty, a combination of fantasy, tragedy, caution, and romance, a film which expresses itself in lyrical prose rather than direct and clear exposition.

On the surface, the film can be summed up quite easily: An elderly couple (Hossein Moharami and Roghieh Moharami) reminiscences about how they eventually eloped. There is nothing particularly impressive or novel about that description; however, Makhmalbaf spins his tale so uniquely that what could have been everyday becomes rich and meaningful. In fact, we see very little of the woman’s love interest. He is always afar, howling for her to come to him. (I mean that literally.) Instead, the film presents the clash of modernity and traditionalism, as well as that of romance and practicality. The woman cannot just marry the man of her dreams; she must respect long-standing views on the natural order of things. For example, according to her father, she cannot get married until after her uncle does. In the film, the uncle (Abbas Sayyahi) represents both the fantastic and the modern. He dresses in modern clothing and has rather improbably notions of Ms. Right.  However, even after the uncle ties the knot, life sees fit to delay young love over and over.

As the film unfolded, I found myself caught up in it. The way the experiences of humans intertwined with those of animals, the connection between color and emotions, and the use of gabbehs as records of both triumph and pain. At one point, the laying of an egg foreshadows the birth of a child, and both are presented as being natural and automatic. I also found it fascinating that the gabbeh is used to record factual moments, as well as fictional ones, especially when the fictional account is preferred. And then there’s the film’s frequent use of wolves. I was reminded that while a wolf’s cry may convey a level of longing, following it can also lead you to danger.

I don’t pretend to understand every aspect of the film, and there were times when the interaction between characters seemed intentionally opaque, as if the characters were avoiding clarity just for the sake of creating additional mystery for the audience. However, by the end of the movie, all of my misgivings had washed away, and I was overcome by the sheer power of what had transpired in front of me. Here is a film that is both conventional and ground-breaking, that will make you smile and then fill you with sorrow. It is a film that will undoubtedly divide some viewers, with some seeing it as a tragedy and others seeing it as love story with a truly happy ending. I myself was a bit conflicted. In my notes, I wrote the following: “Life is hard and reality is not so romantic. There’s a yearning for the past, for other than what you’ve become.” I felt that, and then came the smile again, that smile that seemed to suggest no regrets for a youth defined by one impetuous decision. It suddenly occurred to me that these two feelings are not mutually exclusive. What Makhmalbaf seems to be saying is that life is not a fairy tale. We don’t always get the castle, the money, or the desired simplicity. This does not mean we cannot have our happily-ever-after, though. (on Blu-ray as part of Mohsen Makhmalbaf: The Poetic Trilogy)

3 and a half stars

*Gabbeh is in Persian with English subtitles. 

Review - Taxi (2015, Iran)

September 29, 2016

Taxi – Iran, 2015

Pay close attention to the first scene of Jafar Panahi’s Taxi, for it establishes many of the themes that reverberate throughout the film. The scene is remarkable for its documentary, fly-on-the-wall feel, and much of this is due to the stationary position of the camera. It sits there motionless, focused on two people, a man and a woman, who could not be more different. The topic of their conversation is the executions of two thieves for what appear to be minor offenses. The male sits in the front seat and boasts loudly of his support for Sharia law and the harsh punishment the thieves received; the women is in the back seat, and she openly wonders just what more killing will bring to a country that has seen far more than its fair share of it. What follows in the film somewhat answers that question, while also bringing many more issues up for discussion and then leaving them floating in the air unresolved.

Perhaps unresolved is the wrong word, for most of the characters we meet seem to know deep down what the answers would be in a perfect world, yet they have been forced to accept a situation in which acting on those answers can be dangerous. Towards the end of the film, we meet a woman with a particularly intellectual and legal mind, one who is on her way to provide legal advice to a woman unjustly jailed for over a hundred days. In a better world, she would be a respected champion of human rights; here, she ekes out a living selling flowers.  

Panahi, director of such films as The White Balloon and The Circle, is the star of Taxi, and it is this fact which gives the film its sense of mystery. I admit there were times when I openly wondered whether I was watching a documentary or a work of fiction. In the film, Panahi has been banned from making films and finds it necessary to make a living as a cab driver. This is an entirely believable scenario, made even more realistic by Panahi’s lack of skills as a cab driver. In one humorous moment, he gives directions to someone only for a passenger to interject with better directions. Later, two women get in the cab and ask to go to a place he clearly doesn’t know how to get to. His solution: Pull over and get them a different cab.

Humorous moments aside, Taxi is a rather powerful film about serious issues. As a director, Panahi seems to understand that small doses can add up to quite an impressive whole, and so he gives viewers brief scenes in which an aspect of society is commented on without any real chance of true resolution or a happy ending. We are presented with an Iran that seems at war with its own citizens. Laws allow for the unequal treatment of women and those wanting to research or make films must adhere to strict guidelines. In fact, hearing the rules a director must abide by gave me a sense of déjà vu. It was as if Will Hayes had risen from the grave and taken a job running Iran’s film industry. Late in the film, Panahi picks up his niece from school and the two of them discuss her hopes of becoming a director like her famous uncle. Her challenge of course is making a film that will be deemed distributable, and as we watch her attempts to do so, it becomes clear that this is much harder than it should be. Real life just doesn’t want to cooperate.

I feel like I haven’t done justice to Taxi yet, for I haven’t conveyed just what a moving experience the film is. It starts out with a fascinating, thought-provoking conversation and grows increasingly mesmerizing with each successive scene. We come to know the confusion of artists and the brave resistance people show just to be able to watch or study a banned movie. We see people clinging to dreams even though it would take absolute conformity to live them out, and it is as inspiring as it is frustrating. I was reminded of the scene in Pleasantville in which Jeff Daniel’s character pleads with the city council for the right to paint. He insists that he’ll accept to whatever conditions they give him so long as he’s able to keep doing it, completely oblivious of the notion that compromised art is not really art and will never leave him truly fulfilled.

Panahi knows this and refuses to conform. With Taxi, he has truly given audiences much to think about, and those who see the film will be better for having done so. (on DVD)

4 stars

*Taxi is in Farsi with English subtitles.

*There are no end credits to the film, and yes, this is significant. 

Review – The Apple

January 19, 2011

The Apple – Iran, 1998

There is perhaps nothing that gets the blood boiling faster than insinuations of child neglect or abuse. The mere hint of it is enough to turn friends into strangers and some communities into possible lynch mobs. I would venture that director Zahra Naderi was well aware of this when he began his 1998 film The Apple with brief glimpses of two twelve-year-old girls clutching to the bars that keep them locked inside their house. We also get quick glances of their parents, a man who looks as if he became a father later than most and his wife, a blind woman whose face remains covered for the entire film. I remember thinking that something was wrong with this picture. I was meant to. In a way, I became one of the names we see signing a letter imploring the authorities to do something to help these two poor girls, and I felt relieved when such help arrived.

And yet almost as quickly as the film builds up our suspicions and concerns, it begins to chip away at them piece by piece. We learn that the family is struggling with poverty in a poor area of Tehran and that the girl’s father ekes out a living selling salt and bread. We also see that he is a kind man who for reasons unexplained yet completely understandable has become resigned to the life that they now live. “It’s fate,” he tells the social worker assigned to make sure the two girls are safe. “It’s destiny.” He doesn’t say this like a man determined to flaunt authority; instead, he says it in a way that makes us suspect that it is a philosophy borne out of years of hardship and disappointment, yet one that enables him to get through life without giving in to bitterness.

In her own way, the man’s wife also shares her husband’s perspective on life. However, while his response to it is to accept it, his wife’s is to withdraw from it, to lock herself inside her home as if the outside world were filled with nothing but the most vile and dangerous of individuals. When she goes to pick up her daughters from the child welfare department, it matters more to her that their heads are covered up as soon as possible than it does that they seem to have enjoyed their time out of the house. Later, the father will explain his and his wife’s fears of the neighborhood boys taking advantage of their daughters. I’m sure there’s a back story here, one that is particularly heartbreaking. However, we don’t learn it. In truth, we don’t have to. Their fear speaks volumes.

All of this is not to say that The Apple is a depressing film, for it is also the story of the first day of real discovery in the lives of two delightful young girls. Just what does one do when the doors that have been locked for most of your life are suddenly opened and you’re told to go out and play? I imagine we’d all do what they do – walk out, look around a bit, and then return to the place we’ve known for so long. It’s only when they realize their world has permanently changed that they begin to explore what to them must be a strange and new environment. Like many children, they’re awkward playmates at first. However, somehow we’re sure they’ll get the hang of it.

The Apple has the look and feel of a documentary, and in many ways it is. Naderi’s camera is often in motion, and it sometimes lags behind the characters, as if they moved too fast for him. In one scene, it’s as if he is locked out of the family home, and the camera moves upward and peaks into the family’s property from a perched position, as if the cameraman had just climbed a ladder. The message is clear. The audience is very much an unwanted observer, just as much of a nuisance as the neighbors whose written accusations have turned the family’s world upside down. At other times, Naderi focuses his camera on the tired aged face of the father, and we see what a man looks like after a lifetime of quietly fighting a losing battle against poverty. When he is told he has to make sure his daughters get an education, he teaches them to cook rice and wash clothes. In truth, it’s all he can think of doing.

Adding to the sense that we are witnessing something real are the facts that The Apple is based on a true story and that the cast is playing themselves, something that is not uncommon in Iranian films. These are really the two girls who were kept inside for so long, and this is really the man who had to suffer accusations that no father can easily shake. It’s clear from the film that the charges that were leveled against him and his wife continue to sting. It may also explain why the girls’ mother, Soghra, never shows her face. Some have said that the actors appear nervous. I suspect they did when they were going through this in real life as well.

There are things I’ll remember about The Apple for quite a long time. The charity of the surrounding community. The joyful smiles of Zahra and Massoumeh as they wind their way along the streets of Tehran for the first time. The determination of Mrs. Mohamdi to set things right and her steadfast belief that education must come from both inside and outside the family. Not all of her methods would be considered acceptable in other countries, but there’s no denying their effectiveness. And then there are the film’s final moments, one’s filled with the promise and hope that this day indeed has marked a turning point for this family. They certainly deserve one. Quite simply, The Apple is unlike any film I’ve ever seen. (on DVD in Region 3)

4 stars

*The Apple is in Farsi with English subtitles.

Review – Close-Up

April 7, 2008

Close-Up – Iran, 1990

1989 was an important year for me when it came to my interest in acting. That year heralded the release of Steven Soderbergh’s Sex, Lies, and Videotape, a film that shocked and riveted me. Seeing James Spader’s emotional portrayal of Graham reinforced my drive to be an actor, for I wanted to act in films like that and give virtuoso performances like the one James Spader delivers. That same year, on the other side of the world, Iranian director Mohsen Makhmalbaf’s film The Cyclist opened. It had an enormous effect on a man named Hossein Sabzian. A year later, Sabzian would find himself in court, accused of perpetrating a fraud by impersonating Makhmalbaf and possibly planning to commit burglary. Abbas Kiarostami’s Close-Up reunites the defendant and his accusers to tell one of the most haunting stories you’re likely to ever see on film.

Close-Up begins with an odd sight of a journalist and two police officers getting into a taxi. The journalist has been alerted to a big, sensational story, the kind that gains journalists notoriety. As the cab approaches its destination, it comes to the end of a road. The journalist notes that it seems as if a story is coming from a “dead end,” an observation that accurately describes Sabzian’s situation, for at that moment, he has come to a point in his ruse when only one outcome was likely. Even he knew it. A moment later, the journalist reveals Sabzian’s ruse, and the police officers take him into custody.

Much of Close-Up takes place in a small courtroom, where Sabzian explains his actions to the judge, the family he deceived, and the director himself. However, the film is nothing like other contemporary films in this genre. Sabzian does not swindle people out of millions of dollars as the lead character in Catch Me If You Can does, nor does he discover hidden interests and talents as the man pretending to be Sidney Poitier’s son does in Six Degrees of Separation. Sabzian, it appears, was not after wealth; he was not after the quick fix that crime sometimes affords people who engage in it. And it is this difference that makes Sabzian someone that affects you long after the credits have finished.

Just as Americans turned to motion pictures to ease the pain and disconnect that they felt during the Depression, Sabzian turns to movies after the promise of the Iranian Revolution fades. Unable to find steady work, powerless to save his marriage or take care of his children, he finds a sense of solace and truth in the films of the time, in particular those detailing the struggles of the poor and innocent. It is pure coincidence that he bears a striking resemblance to the director of The Cyclist, but because of that, he is often mistaken for him. Seeking reprieve from the daily reminders of his poverty and unemployment, at one point he stops correcting people’s misperceptions. Who can blame him? As Makhmalbaf, he is looked at with respect. People are honored to have him over for dinner. They ask him for his autograph and freely give him their phone numbers. Who wouldn’t want that? The problem is that feelings of importance can be addictive, and it is often hard to stop a deceit once one is begun. As the film came to a close, I found myself greatly worried about Sabzian. Having seen his emotional, sometimes lost expression for an hour and a half, I wanted some reassurance that everything had turned out well for him. One was not forthcoming.

Sabzian’s victims, the Ahankhars, are a family that fate has dealt a slightly better hand to. Having stayed together as a family, they have been able to weather the storm and come out in a better position financially. However, like Sabzian, something is missing from their lives – the feeling that they too matter in contemporary Iran. Sabzian gives them this impression, for as Makhmalbaf, he conveys the message that they are of great consequence, that they are talented, that they are worth immortalizing. In essence, the deceit empowers all of them - for a time. (on DVD)

4 and a half stars

*Close-Up is in Persian with English subtitles.

*The film was listed as one of the A List 100 Essential Films by the National Society of Film Critics.

Review – Leila

October 7, 2007

Leila – Iran, 1996

God did not give her the ability to bear children, but He gave her endless endurance and patience. This is how Leila views her plight, and to get through it, she will need every bit of those two qualities. Leila finds herself in the best and the worst of situations. On the plus side, she is married to a loving husband, and it appears that they couldn’t be happier together. On the negative side, she belongs to a culture in which there is tremendous pressure to bear children.

Three months after her wedding, Leila and her husband Reza (played magnificently by Leila Hatami and Ali Mosaffa) are told that Leila will most likely never give birth naturally. What should be a quiet moment to grieve is shattered by the ringing of the telephone, which brings with it members of Reza’s family who proclaim that the problem cannot possibly be Reza’s, as all of the other men in the family don’t have been able to have plenty of children. After later test reveal that Reza is indeed able to have children, it falls upon Leila to somehow enable him to do so. For two years, she undergoes various kinds of treatment but to no avail. It is then that her mother-in-law approaches with a terrible choice: She can selfishly deny Reza the child he has always yearned for or allow him to take a second wife.

For his part, Reza says all of the right things - he doesn’t care about having a baby, all he wants is Leila, she should ignore his mother-in-law. However, he himself is unable to heed his own advice, never once standing up to his mother on Leila’s behalf. Before he knows it, Leila is recommending that he agree to a meeting that his aunt has arranged with a potential wife. He eventually stops protesting. At first, the meetings are fodder for humor. Reza and Leila have a good time talking about all of his potential wives’ personality quirks and physical appearance. However, beneath this fun is the knowledge that one of these days, the women will not be so objectionable.

In a less intelligent film, Reza’s entire family would be against his remaining with Leila exclusively. However, in Leila the pressure applied to her comes from only two people, Reza’s mother and aunt, and if one of Reza’s sisters is to believed, the vehemence with which they pursue their goal is the result of their drive for revenge, for Reza choose to marry Leila over his aunt’s daughter. Reza’s three sisters like Leila and disapprove of their brother taking a second wife. In addition, Reza’s father cannot understand why other people can live without children and be happy and his son can’t.

Throughout the movie, the audience hears Leila’s thoughts and emotions through a voiceover. They reveal a character that questions her own decisions and is fearful of the kind of future that awaits her if her husband acquiesces to his mother’s wish. Leila herself is a fascinating character. She clearly loves Reza and does not want to lose him. At the same time, she seems to be expecting him to develop an inner strength that would enable him to defend her honor and refuse his mother to her face. It is, therefore, tempting to see every one of Leila’s actions as a test of Reza’s devotion to her, a test which he unfortunately does not have the strength to pass, leading to a final act that is heartrending and tragically realistic. (on DVD)

4 stars

Leila is in Persian with white subtitles. The subtitles are at times hard to read and on occasion contain grammatically incorrect English.