Only This Much Shadow Left: The Day I Became A Woman (2000)

I am going on the record as saying that were I afforded an unlimited amount of time, brain power and ability to master an understanding of cultural mores and language that I would wholly spill my time into understanding all things related to Iranian cinema.  While it is not my primary focus or even one of my sub-research interests as I become more invested in my academic endeavors I am quite certain in my assertion that it has produced some of the best films in the past two decades, hovering almost entirely around the wonderful offerings of Abbas Kiarostami.  However, he is far from the only director working in the country and others have produced keenly meta-cinematic works that manage to consider the state of identity in Iran both on a literal and metaphorical level, all lending in some degree to the impossible, yet perfect, blending of the realist and allegorical tradition of this countries cinematic output.  I adore these works, A Moment of Innocence and Close-Up being two notable works, however, upon the discovery that there existed a film by an Iranian woman that had achieved equal status demanded its being sought out, or more accurately introduced to me by a professor, and the result was nothing short of an evocation on art and the nature of the self when it is in contrast to competing notions of what one should do in a society whose history is a maddening conflation of contradictions as well as rich and proud history.  The Day I Became a Woman is the poetic and magical work by Marzieh Meshkini and it is nothing short of pure cinematic perfection.  Told in a tripartite narrative, this film manages to cleverly navigate tenuous boundaries of temporal and spatial existence to show that perhaps not everything is as idyllic in a country whose global exoticization, paired with a particularly tense relationship with the "western" world has resulted in a cinematic experience so inherently unique that to place another layer of non-normative identity upon it causes it to take on an ethereal and outright moving quality.  If cinema truly has the ability to move beyond the real into another layer of understanding, The Day I Became a Woman is the backbone to such an aesthetic argument.

Clearly divided between three stories, The Day I Became a Woman begins with the experiences of Haveh (Fatemah Cherag Akhar) a girl on the island of Kish who has just turned nine years old, therefore making her subject to the wearing of traditional chador (Islamic headdress for Iran).  Confused by this demand, enforced by her grandmother and own mother, Haveh simply wants to spend the day playing with her friend Hassan (Hassan Nebah).  While she cannot put off her becoming woman she is able to bargain for an extra hour of play with Hassan that is limited by his having to complete homework, thus resulting in her having only time to share an exchange of a lollipop with Hassan before being placed in the chador and carted off by her mother.  The second story centers on Ahoo (Shabnam Toloui) a young woman who is shown competing in a bicycle race with other woman on the island and while she seems content with simply riding with the pack when a her husband approaches on horseback demanding that she give up racing and return home, the panicked Ahoo continues to ride forward never stopping or appearing to consider giving up.  Indeed, as her husband and other men from her tribe approach demanding that she stop, Ahoo drives forward blowing past all the other women in her race, however, when the tribe gets their leaders involved, including some of Ahoo's brothers, their blocking of the road prevent her from moving forward, becoming a thing in the background of another riders line of sight.  The third portion of the story focuses on Hoora, or Houra (Azizeh Sedighi) an elderly woman landing in Kish in hopes of doing some extensive duty free shopping.  Houra, complete with a series of strings on her fingers to remind her of the items she needs, begins accruing furniture and appliances at an alarming rate, her source of money is confusing to all involved.  Yet when she completes her list, save for one item on her finger which she cannot recollect, she is not quite ready to leave, therefore she sets up her wares on the beach in a sort of house without walls much to the elation of the boys she has hired as help and the confusion of two women who have approached on bicycle, purportedly having just finished the race involving Ahoo.  Regardless, Houra has the boys build her a raft that allows her to float her goods onto a ship in the distance skyline, all the while the newly chador donning Haveh looking on with an enigmatic look that suggests both despondence and curiosity.

Time, space and identity are all clear themes within Meshkini's stunning film.  However, to some degree, these are also central issues in pretty much every film, although uniquely so to Iranian cinema and its bizarre world of hyper-censorship.  I, however, am fascinated with the ways in which Meshkini uses movement to suggest something transitory, if not constantly liminal.  The figures in her film seem to be caught in an impossible space between the world of representation and the reality the viewers are living.  Take for example, the innocent, yet highly sexualized sharing of a lollipop between Haveh and Hassan.  The continuity in this shot is off, but it would appear to be a choice on the part of Meshkini, as the two are now split off from the world, the cutting of the scene never showing the two children (or new adults?) in the same frame, it would break censorship, yet through a stroke of delightful precociousness, the two share in an intimate encounter, overlaid by suckling sounds on the overdub soundtrack that moves between the diagetic and non-diagetic simultaneously.  The two move in impossible ways because to depict them in a normal encounter would be to face off against strict censorship.  Incidentally, even in its cut off manner, censors still suggested that Meshkini remove the scene altogether.  Ahoo's movement is perhaps most evocative, because the constant shots from the forefront of her biking towards the screen invoke the same sense of terror that occurred in Arrival at the Train Station or the Klans ride in Birth of a Nation.  However, what is impending and fear inducing, is instead a shared encounter between Ahoo fleeing an oppressive past and the viewers, assumedly the women encountering the film.  The intercuts of Ahoo's peddling feet and the clomping of horses chasing the rebellious Ahoo suggest a movement both transitionally, but also metaphorically as she becomes animalistic in her flight from illogical oppression, but more importantly, an unseen predator.  Finally, it is worth quickly noting Houra's own movement which is decidedly more aided by the mechanical, whether it be her landing in the space on a plane or the aid of her extended wheelchair/pushcart, Houra represents a figure whose movement is figuratively disembodied and requires the help of others.  Her female identity overlaid by this and a desire to consume all that she never had speaks to immobility of women in the space of cinema and culture in wild and transgressive ways.  Again it is worth noting that the film was made within censorship restrictions, but manages to knowingly contradict them at every opportunity.

Key Scene:  The lollipop scene is seriously one of the most complex of cinematic encounters I have ever witnessed and this is in a film full of visually transgressive commentary.

The DVD transfer is not great, but aside from a Korean region 3 DVD it is the only option and it looks phenomenal regardless.  As such buying a copy is a MUST.

What Is Wrong Is Wrong, No Matter Who Said It: A Separation (2011)

I was a bit worried about including A Separation within this month, because aside from the few very captivating images I had seen during its Oscar win last year, I knew very little about it and was uncertain as to how heavily women would play into the narrative, a confusion that was not cleared up in the slightest by the presence of a plot synopsis, yet when my school decided to show its as part of their Middle Eastern Film Festival, I knew that I at the very least should check it out, at worst I would watch it and it would not apply to the blog for the month, yet, much to my elation, the film is very much concerned with women, both in context of contemporary Iranian society, as well as the manner with which they navigate spaces in culture and in film both in their presence and absence.  A Separation is a very deliberate, some would say contemplative film, about the nature of bureaucracy, truth and the foundations of religious identity, all issues seemingly key to Iranian cinema, although I am hesitant to say this with certainty, having really only seen Abbas Kiarostami films as a commentary on Iran.  It would be outright foolish to assume this to be the only image of Iran, much like saying only Kurosawa's vision of Japan is accurate, or to bring it closer to home, only Scorsese's image of America is honest.  An American would be quick to negate the urban landscape within Scorsese's films as a full reflection of The United States.  Of course, this is simply an aside, because much of Iranian cinema is inaccessible or has faded into obscurity, so Western film critics must draw from what is available and, perhaps in the future, more will make its way to a global audience.  With all of this in mind, I must consider A Separation as some degree of a reflection of contemporary, at least urban, Iranian society, after all it, was the film submitted to the Academy of Motion Pictures for Foreign Language Film and managed to win it as well.  I do not claim to understand the intricacies of gender politics as they relate to Iran, but I would be willing hedge a bet on this film representing them with some degree of accuracy, particularly in the materialist feminist consideration of gender/property oppression that emerges within the narrative.  Possessing a decidedly vague ending, A Separation, nonetheless, appears to hold optimism as its central ideology.

A Separation begins with a divorce hearing between separated couple Nader (Payman Maadi) and Simin (Leila Hatami) who are told that they will find themselves incapable of divorcing unless they can agree to terms, one of which centers around the movement of their daughter Termeh (Sarina Farhadi) out of the country, a decision that Nader flat out refused to agree to, and seems to be the main point of divide between the couple.  Simin seems intent on leaving with the family, but Nader refuses any possibility, almost entirely because of his Alzheimer's ridden father's immobility.  Simin, while understanding the tragedy of the situation, nonetheless, extracts herself from the situation, leading to Nader needing to hire an employee to take care of his ailing father while he is at work.  Finding reluctant help in Razieh (Sareh Bayat) Nader continues with his work, yet when Razieh claims that she cannot continue working, due to the religious issues with needing to bath the ailing man, Nader decides to consider her offer of allowing her unemployed husband to do the work instead, however, her husband Hojjat (Shahab Hosseini) has ties to creditors that keep him occupied, leading to Razieh returning as hospice.  This occurs a bit longer, until one day Nader returns home from picking up Termeh to find the house locked.  Frantically navigating the house, he discovers his father to be tied to the bed and passed out on the floor, only moments away from dying.  Furious at Razieh he berates her upon his return and assumes her to also be guilty of stolen money, leading to him forcefully pushing him out of his apartment, in the process Razieh apparently slips down a few slick stairs, leading, Nader later discovers, to a miscarriage.  This act leads to confrontation between Nader and Razieh and her husband Hojjat within the bureaucratically complex Iranian legal system.  At one point Nader is accused of willful murder, while Razieh is blamed for negligence of an elder, leading to a legal battle that turns ugly when hostilities move outside of the court.  Eventually, the group makes financial amends, heavily a result of Simin's intervention, moving things back to some degree of normalcy, although viewers are to assume that a high level of deception as occurred, not to mention that the events only solidify the desire for Simin and Nader to end things, much to the contesting of Termeh who is forced to decide which parent she would like to stay with.

The film really drives home the idea of truth as a relative term to one's ability to assure their comfort and safety, as well as those around them.  None of the characters are inherently bad, per se, with maybe the exception of Hojjat whose past woes have led to a heavy amount of debts, and little explanation is given to explain what led to these debts, almost certainly suggesting illicit behavior.  The patriarchal figurehead factors in heavily into how persons navigate the film, particularly Nader who finds himself fully aware of the realities of losing his wife if he does not agree to move, yet his obligation to his aging father is tantamount and leads to accepting the loss of his wife.  Yet, while these narratives and ideas are key, the film seems deliberately set on suggesting that many of the issues faced by all involved in the narrative tie to the notion that women can only navigate the bureaucracy and legality of Iran with their male superiors guidance and presence.  The main factor in preventing Simin from leaving is that she must do so with the permission of Nader who refuses to do so out of principle, completely ignoring the very real concerns for Simin's, as well as Termeh's, safety.  Similarly, a viewer can easily argue that Razieh's inability to navigate the job market without the permission of her prideful husband proves problematic, considering that he cannot obtain work and she is legally not allowed to do so without his permission.  It reminds one of notions of Marxist Feminism, which suggest that much of women's oppression finds its ties in private property and in the case of Iran their inability to possess it, even in the cases in which their husbands are detached from logical engagements to correct a financial situation.  Even when Nader hires Razieh with the best of intentions, the fact that it is technically illegal suggests that if anything goes wrong, it will invariably the fault of the woman.  The narrative, also seems to be in favor of this idea at first glance, but the reminder that it is male privilege and public sphere presence which has led to all the problems only rejects such a reading.  A Separation is purposefully critical of gender politics in the film, yet, in a very clear statement Asghar Faradi seems to remind viewers that future generations of Iranians will be far less oppressive and the two young girls who navigate the filmic space as well certainly affirm that.

Key Scene:  There are a ton of great monologues and interactions, yet a single brief shot of Nader and Simin on an elevator facing perpendicular to one another seems to really undermine these ideals.

This movie is phenomenal, I watched it on DVD, but plan to obtain the bluray and I suggest you do the same.

It Suits You, But It's Not Right For Us: Through The Olive Trees (1994)

Abbas Kiarostami is not unfamiliar to this blog some months ago I heavily praised his work Close-Up as being not only an absolutely cinematic and politically intense work but a means to better represent exactly what I feel cinema can provide as a sort of simulacrum and recreation of our own historical and cultural understandings.  It should be no surprise then that his film from four years later Through The Olive Trees manages to provide a similar sense of metacinema that is not only referential to other moments in cinematic history as well as its own historical relevance, but too is  means to better understand our own performances within moments, particularly when those moments are clouded by disaster, loss and coming to age much quicker than planned.  While I am by no means an expert on Iranian history, nor their culture, I would venture to say that the means by which tragedy influences the film, would be similar to a filmmaker making a film about making a film about 9/11...if any of the makes sense, probably not though.  To follow the work of Kiarostami one must inherently be willing to deconstruct their notions of traditional narrative, as well as cinematic spaces, particularly when it comes to question what amount of honesty and validity can arise from a cinematic moment, one that is constantly changing and influenced by a multitude of off screen factors, whether they be something as minor as the misplacement of props or something much larger, as is the case with unrequited love in this film.  Furthermore, given the rather problematic construction of the Middle East that has been created with the Western, particularly American, rhetoric one could find themselves assuming that an Iranian film would be cultural insensitive, sexually oppressive and negative on a large scale.  However the work of Kiarostami, and from what I understand is the case for most Iranian filmmakers, they manage to remind viewers that for a very large portion of the Iranian people war and politics are just as unwelcome and corrupt as they are in the states and it is their government preventing them from speaking against these injustices, not matter how brilliantly they manage to do so within a filmic setting.

As was the case in Close-Up the line between actor and character are often blurred, something that is engaged with from the films beginning when we are shown the actor Mohamad Ali Keshavarz, who plays a director within the film, explaining that he will be going to a girls school to cast the role of a young girl within Kiarostami's film, making it as much a moment of documentary filmmaking as it is the actual narrative.  While this is the only moment of direct breaking of the fourth wall, the films other main character of sorts Hossein is played by a young man named Hossein Rezai, causing the lines between reality and fiction to further blur.  What one is able to draw from the hybrid of fact and fiction is that Hossein has given up his life as a mason worker with the hopes of becoming an actor, a dream that has been pushed healthily forward by being cast in a leading role by the director from the beginning of the film.  A problem emerges, however, when the role of lead female is given to a neighborhood girl named Tahereh (Tahereh Ladanian) of whom Hossein has attempted on countless times to court.  Despite having lost both her parents in an earthquake, an event that evades every conversation in the film, her grandmother a conservative refuses to grant Hossein's requests for marriage, despite her daughters liking him, stating that he is both illiterate and does not have a house for them to live in upon marriage.  Hossein is not stupid and realizes she is just being elitist, noting that most newlyweds do not have homes, and that if so desired he would take up masonry, yet again, solely to provided them with a private domestic space.  While it is hard to tell, Tahereh does take a liking to Hossein within their repeated performance of a scene in which Hossein is to find his shoes, eventually ending the day of shooting.  While the adult crew bickers over issues of moving equipment Tahereh begins walking home only to eventually be followed home by Hossein and in what is a moment of absolute cinematic magic, we are given an extremely long distance shot of Tahereh finally answering Hossein about marriage.  We are left to wonder about her answer as the young man runs back across a green field.

There could be countless books written on not only the state of metacinema, but the director Abbas Kiarostami as well.  In fact, I may make it a goal of mine to read at least one book of criticism on this director while on Christmas break, as I imagine it will have a profound effect on my understanding of cinema as a larger concept.  Yet this is not the topic I want to discuss when concerning oneself with Through the Olive Trees.  Instead I find it to be a film incredibly influenced by what role tragedy and loss has upon youthful bliss and ignorance.  As mentioned, an earthquake which occurred a few years prior in Iran evades every moment of the film and is, in fact, mentioned in many of the meta scenes filmed within the film.  We, as viewers, are led to believe that whole families were lost within the disaster leaving a variety of dismantled and broken homes, both literally and figuratively.  As such, many, if not all of the youth and children within this film seem to exist in an uncomfortable space where they are required to dismiss their youthful bliss in the face of forced roles in adulthood.  This certainly holds true for the two young boys bringing flowers and plants to the filming set whose looks of loss and confusion cannot be ignored.  Furthermore, it invariably affects the means and manner of how Hossein woos Tahereh, in that much of his rhetoric is surrounded by offering a safe domestic space in which they can be their own family and create their own home for the future.  Nothing in his talks suggests youthful love and blind ambition, yet the head over heals nature of his approaches to winning Tahereh certainly do, particularly when he follows her in a near stalker manner begging for her hand.  In the end it appears as though the two young people are provided with a fragile and beautiful moment of young happiness, or at least that is what I like to imagine in the film closing moments, if not it will go down as one of the saddest endings in cinematic history.

Key Scene:  There are a few car scenes with a POV camera that are still fresh and unique to watch despite having been overused since their introduction in this film.

I want to say that buying this film is a no brainer...tragically there is not film version to watch.  However, there is a version of it available on youtube that is of decent quality.  You may want to check it out before it inevitably disappears.

Rolling Paint Cans And Questions Of Human Nature: Close-Up (1990)

As I noted in my original post for this blog, I find cinema to reflect society in uncanny ways almost to the point that it is a clear refabrication of our own reality.  While many films do not do this in a semiotic sense, given their fantastical elements or historical distancing, some films manage to merge this line so perfectly that the boundaries of factual reality and fictive narrative become blurry, and this is certainly the case for Abbas Kiarostami’s cinematic tour de force Close-Up.  A hybrid between a documented account of a poor Iranian attempting to pass as a famous director and an imagined revisiting with the imposter some years later leads to something heartbreakingly real about the nature of forgiveness, guilt and self-identity in a politically disparate country that cares little for the impoverished and misdirected.  Despite being released in 1990, Close-Up has a timeless nature about it that makes it instantly accessible to even the most burgeoning of moviegoer, a notion that is only intensified by the stagnant, yet masterfully composed cinematography, which is delivered most eloquently in the quite lengthy shot of an aerosol can rolling down a hill.  It is easy to call the film thought provoking, but it is something much greater than that and is incredibly contemplative and philosophically engaging.

Close-up, as noted in the introduction, is about a case of identity fraud which occurred involving a man of rather low class impersonating the great Iranian director Mohsen Makhmalbaf.  The incident begins when the Hossain Sabzian lying to a woman about his identity while riding on a public bus.  Her suspicions are quickly dismissed as the elderly woman notices Hossain reading a copy of Mokhmalbaf’s screenplay for The Cyclist.  Hossain/Mohsen furthers his credibility by claiming that he rides on public transportation as a means to find material for his upcoming films.  Enthralled by the interest of such a respectable director, the old woman invites Hossain/Mohsen to return to her house and meet her family.  Over a length of time, Hossain/Mohsen continually visits the family and claims to be interested in using their home in his next film and at one point convinces the family to give him a large sum of money for his next project.  It is not until one of the young male members of the family discovers a article about Makhmalbaf receiving an award recently, that the man attempting to pass as the famous director is not, in fact, who he says to be, particularly considering that he is much older than the director looks in the picture.  The film intercuts these encounters with courtroom footage involving the family criticizing Hossain for his behaviors, although through long confessionals it becomes quite clear that Hossain is not in a great state mentally, considering after a large amount of evidence against him, he still claims to be the director.  The film closes with an encounter between a journalist friend of the suspicious family member and his imposter, in a gutwrenchingly real scene of fandom and obsession, which involves taking photos of the Hossain for an article outing his lies.  At this point, it seems like a great melding of fictive ideas and factual statements, but what makes Kiarostami’s film that much more brilliant is that the cast members throughout the film are indeed played by their real-life counterparts, merging the factual and fictional into a new level of uncertainty. 

It is this choice by Kiarostami to use the actual persons of the historic event that makes it such a uniquely honest film.  If it were intended to be a fictional rethinking or a political diatribe the director could have easily hired actors to ham up or file down the performances to fit his agenda.  Set up in such a way, as is the case with Close-Up, it instead becomes an extension of documentary filmmaking that while forced, nonetheless, manages to mirror reality quite magnificently.  Furthermore, the questions of human identity that are interspersed throughout the film become that much more meaningful, when we as viewers find ourselves relating to the characters on a very real level, considering…well, the realness of each individual.  It also questions what role an artist plays in documenting an event, while the scene involving the rolling aerosol can may seem like a artistic insertion of modernist zeal, it allows viewers and even the journalist who kicks the can to question what mark they are making in such an event, and how clear such markings have on the outcome as a whole.  The addition of such a seemingly mundane scene, arguably proves to become one of the most important scenes in the film.  The most important part of the film, however, is its dealings with human nature and the ability to forgive.  The simple fact that Kiarostami was able to gather all the individuals again for such a reunion is powerful enough, but to get them to verbalize their desires for forgiveness and understanding on film is a statement to the possibility of society on a global scale.  It is clear why this film was such a global success; it is definitively one of the most positive outlooks into our future ever made

I could tell you that buying this film is necessary simply because it is in The Criterion Collection, however, it is far greater than that and is probably one of the films that is necessary to own, if you were limited to only a small selection of films.  It is by far one of the best films I have watched this year, and ever for that matter.