FILM REVIEW: The Day I Became A Woman

(Naturally, Kevin returns to indie-ness with nothing less than an obscure Iranian film)

Directed By: Marzieh Meshkini

Written By: Marzieh Meshkini and Mohsen Makhmalbaf

Starring: Fatemeh Cherag Akhar as Hava, Shabnam Toloui as Ahoo and Azizeh Sedighi as Hoora

Marzieh Meshkini, primary creative force behind The Day I Became A Woman, one of the best films I’ve seen in a long time, is incidentally the wife of Mohsen Makhmalbaf, the notorious Iranian filmmaker/dissident/resident-of-Paris. In an ironic exercise of the very sexual inequality that Meshkini explores here, I will, of course, compare her work (although, in my defense, I do so favorably!) to her husband’s most visible work among film connoisseurs in the West: 2001’s Kandahar. For me, the most frustrating thing about Kandahar is that it unwisely ignores the centrality of the love between Nafas and her sister (which ultimately is what should ground the film) and instead too frequently descends into an ugly, in-your-face and occasionally even awkward tirade of social injustice in Afghanistan. Again, I refer to Slumdog Millionaire, the perennially overrated Danny Boyle film in which the devastations of poverty and inequality are but sidenotes to a bigger picture (NO PUN INTENDED LOLZ) that celebrates life and beauty: ultimately, what makes the film so fiercely poignant is not its unapologetic depiction of Indian slums but its tenderness and optimism. Kandahar, on the other hand, is so very utterly depressing. Nafas is constantly offered cul-de-sacs masquerading as false illusions of help, visions of handicapped mine victims begging profusely for plastic limbs from UN medical officials and obstructed by oppressive patriarchal structures; eventually, her journey is truncated and her sister presumably dies. There is no redemption, no salvation, no characteristic poetry, no momentary happiness even. Even Nafas’ friend and the film’s only beacon of humanity, Tabib Sahid, is ironically an African-American exile who lives a life of falsity.

In The Day I Became A Woman, the female protagonists are too victims of the same devastating realities presented in Kandahar, except Meshkini makes their bitterness a tangential, if palpable, sidenote; ultimately, the stories here are about their triumphs, however small, and however insignificant — and that’s what makes this film a more powerful political statement than Kandahar can ever dream of being. We live in an age where few people are unaware of the plight of mine victims in Afghanistan and Cambodia, of emaciated, malaria-stricken babies in Africa and abused child labour in China; these are inarguably open secrets. What we are seemingly unaware of, however, is how such people deal with circumstances so inhumane. What we are unaware of, paradoxically, is the reality of the situation, because the cultural context of these plights are often so very different and so very inconceivable to us who read about them from iPhones and iPads. As such, how Meshkini humanizes and fleshes out her characters, how she maps out their reactions and symbolic protests in the face of an unyielding authority (which is best illustrated in the Ahoo segment) is, I contend, of even more importance than the elucidation-of-plight stylings of Kandahar.

But what makes this anthology much more than an instrument of humanization is Meshkini’s towering ability to weave continuous streams of symbolism into her prose, her quietly effusive respect for the female enigma and her taste for subversive undercurrents. Her plots are deceptively sparse, her characters deceptively simple, her films deceptively static; for all her self-effacing pseudo-unremarkability, her distaste for Kandahar-esque in-your-faceness, Meshkini is in many ways just as critical and even as ambitious as her husband. Ultimately, it is this illusion of simplicity is what makes this film, like Sofia Coppola’s Somewhere, a great one.

Hava, the first segment, is unquestionably the best. The title of the anthology automatically suggests plots involving puberty (specifically, menstruation), marriage (and in extension, sex, because Muslims are cultured that way), and motherhood, so it is extremely refreshing to find that Meshkini cleverly chooses to open her film with a segment that employs an unfamiliar, presumably Middle Eastern notion of womanhood (Hava is told at 9 years old that she is a ‘woman’), and that immediately erodes conventional/Western expectations of what ‘womanhood’ entails. Tellingly enough, none of the aforementioned platitudes are employed in any of the films 3 segments; Ahoo is about divorce and Hoora is about hedonism. But let’s talk about Hava, which is, first and foremost, utterly unexpected and subversive in its depiction of a nine year-old heroine who graciously accepts the realities of gender segregation despite her best friend being a boy, especially since the Makhmalbafs are notorious for their bitter protests against the oppressiveness of Middle Eastern society. Naturally, though, Meshkini doesn’t actually have Hava wholeheartedly embrace her fate, and subtly allows her the room to symbolically repudiate her new role as a ‘woman’. What was most subversive, for me, however, was not how Hava symbolically traded her chador for a rubber duck (an obvious denial of her womanhood and proof of the illusion of ‘womanhood’ as a social construct), but of the quasi-sexual exchange that she has with her best friend Hassan. He gives her money, she comes back with candy, and they suck frantically from the same lollipop as Hava has to return to her house before noon. On a deeper level, this exchange immediately mimics a pre-marital affair fervently anticipating marriage and thus wanting to squeeze in as much “candy-sucking” as possible, which speaks to a deeply hedonistic desire running contrary to Islamic traditionalism and eloquently elucidates the independence of Islamic society/culture from the Islamic people — which are often inaccurately conflated by the Western media. Meshkini here exposes the myth of difference between different peoples, and reveals the universality of needs and desires — a notion that is seemingly self-evident but that is constantly debunked by unwitting racists like Lukas Moodysson (Swedish lesbianism advocate in his career low-point Mammoth). Of course, there are many other wonderful symbols, like the symbolic prison that Hassan is forced to enter once he defies Hava’s grandmother, an ironic symbol of patriarchal authority, and (my personal favourite) the phallic shadow that represents Hava’s fast-depleting authority in her transition into a woman, but I’d like to think that this film is more than a masturbatory exercise in symbolism so I won’t get into it.

Ahoo, the second segment, is easily the least problematic, albeit simplest, one — although it is no less politically-charged or symbol-packed than its neighbours. What I love about this film is how the obvious political implications of Ahoo’s marriage/divorce and her husband’s/tribal member’s ramblings (“You broke his pride!”, “You have broken your tribe’s pride!”, “Our tribe does not tolerate divorce!”) are simply sidenotes to Ahoo’s wicked cycling chops, her ferocious sense of determination and most importantly, her glorious chador billowing magnificently, gorgeously, in the relentless wind. Her iPod-wielding male rival is one of the most fascinating symbols here, because he seems to be a representation of the technologically-advanced West who surpasses the Middle East but only because the latter is held back by a relentlessly oppressive patriarchy (represented by Ahoo’s eventual confrontation with her tribal members and thus detainment), and who passively, sadistically looks on as the Middle East continues to be rampaged by injustice and perversity. It is perhaps also pertinent to think about why Meshkini portrays the West as a black boy, a politically-charged figure that recalls marginalization and injustice and thus that suggests hypocrisy and inhumanity; again, I don’t want to get into it, but I think this is inarguably an important point to consider when critically interpreting this segment. In any case, can we just take a moment to swoon over Meshkini’s ingenuity? K.

Hoora, the third and final segment, is the funniest and, some would claim, the most Fellini-esque one. Here, an impoverished old woman, through unknown means, gains a ridiculous amount of money, goes to the city, and buys everything she’s ever wanted. It’s a gloriously wacky Bollywood-esque rags-to-riches fantasy, a gratuitous exercise in hedonistic excess, and a triumphant declaration of freedom. The story is, at first viewing, a straightforward fable that reinforces the mythic pervasiveness of Islamic traditionalism: Hoora only spends her money on domestic furniture and household gadgets, asks repetitively for random boys to be her son, and at one point acts out the role of the matriarch entertaining house guests. In truth, this film is much more subversive. Hoora doesn’t seem to even care about her purchases: when she decides on buying another teapot, she simply leaves everything on the beach as though she doesn’t care if people steal or abuse them; when she sets sail for her ship, she doesn’t bring any symbolic ‘son’ with her; when it is time for her to leave her ‘guests’, she never expresses disappointment or guilt at eschewing her matriarchal role. What this means is that while she genuinely understands the necessity of fulfilling traditional notions of womanhood, neither motherhood nor matriarchy is fulfilling to Hoora in any way. What ultimately completes Hoora’s journey to womanhood is neither her age nor her silly dreams about ‘cold water’, but the reclamation of her freedom, which is explained adroitly by incorporating Hava’s chador into the segment. Hava’s chador, a symbol of femininity and therefore, in an extension, womanhood, is used as a mast for one of Hoora’s numerous rafts, which reflects Hoora’s hedonism as a reclamation of her (long-lost) womanhood. This symbolism is perhaps the most important of all, because in Islamic culture, womanhood represents a journey to male acquisition, and Meshkini defies this by reclaiming ‘womanhood’ as, paradoxically perhaps, a journey to male independence (which is symbolized by the Hoora’s ship). Of course, one could argue that the ship is simply another patriarchal device (Meshkini, in true spirit of Kiarostami-esque ambiguity, doesn’t clarify), but then again this film, as said before, is very much about celebrating the small triumphs, the momentary freedoms, so such a reading would only heighten both the themes of patriarchal oppression and female triumph.

There are only two problems with this film, and both stem from Meshkini’s weak and, honestly, just plain unconvincing attempt to link the three segments together. The Ahoo link is exceptionally ridiculous. It also seems terribly unlikely that Moora and Hava are set remotely close to each other — Hava’s village is just too awfully run-down to be in close proximity to the modern metropolis that Hoora patrons. As such, I think I speak for everyone when I say that it would’ve been so much better if the three characters’ lives didn’t intersect at all. Besides, Meshkini’s thoughtful, culture-specific exploration of the feminist plight, her pensive simplicity, her preternatural understanding of mood and her knack for incisive, punchy dialogue already provide enough thematic and stylistic consistency to effectively connect the dots between the three segments.

Dear filmmakers behind Paris, Je T’aime, 

THIS is how you make a fucking anthology film.

Sincerely,

Kevin

KevinScale Rating: 4.5/5

FILM REVIEW: Mammut (Mammoth)

Written/Directed By: Lukas Moodysson

Starring: Gael García Bernal as Leo, Michelle Williams as Ellen, Marife Necesito as Gloria

Lukas Moodysson is one of the few Swedish directors, alongside Tomas Alfredson and some other people I can’t quite remember (lolz), that has a substantial presence in contemporary ‘world cinema’ (a term that I hate for its reductionistic tendencies and American bias but that is, unfortunately, inescapable); and I make the most of every opportunity to extol the beauty of Swedish cinema. He is also the main creative force behind the best lesbian romance film in history, the gorgeously understated Fucking Amal, and has on multiple occasions been dubbed “the new Bergman” — because American film critics’ only knowledge of great Swedish films is from their essential viewing of Bergman’s overrated classic The Seventh Seal and they have no idea who Victor Sjöström or Bo Widerberg is, and because Moodysson really is one of most interesting filmmakers Sweden has ever had to offer. Naturally, the thought of praising his work while decrying the vapidity and sheer triteness of American/mainstream cinema is incredibly tempting. However, Moodysson’s Mammoth is too much of a blithering disappointment to allow that.

For one, the soundtrack is a giant fucking annoyance. Some of the tracks here are appealingly hipster-chic, but like most other directors who aren’t Sofia Coppola and have cool music taste but a poor understanding of mood, they often feel tragically inapposite and/or painfully uncomfortable. For example, when Leo finally succumbs to fucking around with a prostitute, the post-coital scene is accompanied by a bizarrely moving electronic instrumental piece, which seems to indicate that we should appreciate the romance in it, but then the sequence continues with Leo secretly, inconsiderately leaving her while she’s asleep. I understand what Moodysson is trying to do — he wants to emphasize that the romance was just an escapist fantasy, an illusion of intimacy, but he doesn’t succeed because he doesn’t understand how soundtracks work. Non-diegetic music either tells the audience how to react, or hints at a hidden emotional state. The problem is, Leo doesn’t secretly feel that his encounter is romantic — he loves his family too much to make it out to be anything more than a temporary, regrettable but necessary behavioral anomaly in an alien world, and while Leo understandably wants it to be romantic, the film and the audience are supposed to remain ambivalent, because they, as presumably intelligent entities, must acknowledge both the essentialness and wrongness of his dalliance; they can’t and don’t have Leo’s privilege of living inside the fantasy. If the music were diegetic, it would’ve both emphasized the illusory nature of Leo’s affair while effectively disengaging the audience from the romance; if there were no music, the film would allow us the space necessary to ponder the morality and reasons for Leo’s actions. Instead, Moodysson smothers us with an inappropriately romantic song choice, emptying the scene of its depth and unconvincingly invites us to revel in its aimlessness. When Leo finally returns to his family, Cat Power’s poignant “The Greatest” plays in the background (great music taste btw lolz), and there is absolutely no attempt at addressing Leo’s lack of guilt over fucking a prostitute while being away from his wife. These haphazard, bewildering uses of music (there are so many other instances, but I don’t have the effort to list them all) also parallel the tragic self-unawareness of the screenplay, which is a point I’ll revisit later on.

In the second half of the movie, home to much of the film’s overwrought drama, there are also just too many scenes where dramatic instrumental pieces manipulatively bend us over backwards to fuck the sympathy out of us. For example, when the (sadistic) grandmother brings Salvador to a junkyard where poor children are collecting trash, sad piano music plays in the background because Moodysson too wants us to feel guilty over the fact that some children have shit lives. I mean, it’s really sad that people have to live that way, but what’s even sadder is that Moodysson thinks that this is some kind of powerful revelation deserving of a lot of screentime. Part of what makes Slumdog Millionaire so wonderful is its no-nonsense depiction of Indian slums; it shows us how disgusting the living conditions are, how unsafe and horrible that world is, but the insight is always just a sidenote. The movie, above all, is a story of triumph, of destiny and love, not of how sad the world is and how bad we should feel for owning iPhones while others don’t. The world is fucking unfair, and obviously sometimes it’s really sad. But get the fuck over it. How naive can you be? This naivete brings me to my next point: White guilt.

I think this film, above all, is an unwitting (but illuminating) insight into the dynamics of white guilt. Leo travels to Bangkok, and feels overly guilty about a pretty Thai girl being a prostitute, so he hands her a shitton of money and asks her to go home to ‘sleep’, possibly because he is stupid enough to think that his money will last her a lifetime and will effectively turn her away from lucrative nights of prostitution, but probably because he is actually condescending and self-important enough to think that he alone can change the way things are in the third world. This self-importance is suggested throughout the movie when he tells the Thai whore that she SHOULDN’T EVER THINK THAT BOYS ARE GOOD WHILE GIRLS ARE NOT and when he arbitrarily declares, in laughable sincerity, that he should think about DOING CHARITY in less fortunate places, especially since he has SO much time to spare for some occasional self-serving pseudo-goodwill. Even Ellen, his wife, immediately feels bad for unintentionally discrediting the merits of Tagalog (Philippines’ national language) and spends much of the second half of the movie attempting to make herself feel better by showing her maid, Gloria, some cheap parlour tricks involving an apple pretending to be an orange. When I first saw these scenes, I immediately thought that Moodysson was cleverly, self-knowingly pointing out the laughability of white guilt. But then I realized that he was juxtaposing them with some disgusting, cringe-inducing scenes involving Gloria’s children and their oh-so-sad lives; turns out, Moodysson, in true white ignorance, doesn’t even recognize how self-important and disgusting these sympathy ploys are. Yes, people in the USA are generally quite privileged, and yes, the people in third world nations (specifically Thailand and the Philippines here) aren’t as entitled, but so fucking what? Is Moodysson so ignorant that he doesn’t realize that there are too ghettos in the US? Does he not realize that there are too privileged people in third world nations? The Bangkok that Leo first sees looks exactly like a high-budget Hollywood set, yet Moodysson seems perfectly and tragically unaware of the implications here — because he too is an unwitting advocate of self-important white guilt and first-world condescension. Think about that. Moodysson’s underlying sentiments are truly disgusting.

The worst part of the film is the Gloria character. She is such a flat, nonsensical caricature of working mothers and maids across the globe it is almost painful and infinitely insulting. We are led to believe that Leo and Ellen’s daughter, Jackie, is a stand-in for Gloria’s sons, but Gloria seems genuinely delighted by Jackie. Gloria cries dramatically (and haphazardly) practically every night when she talks to her children, and constantly talks about her inability to be away from her children (something that has understandably been interpreted as an anti-feminist statement against working mothers), but this pain is never transferred into her job, where she magically puts her pain away and savors her time with Jackie, even praising her intelligence in front of her Filipino friends and teaching her Tagalog words. This incongruity is endlessly baffling and unconvincing. Necesito doesn’t seem to understand her character’s pain, but then again perhaps it’s Moodysson’s fault for not telling her? Her character immediately reminds me of Walter Salles’ segment in the anthology film Paris, Je Taime, in which a maid too is made to take care of her employer’s child while abandoning her own — except that film effortlessly conveyed her plight, while Mammoth remains as inarticulate as Gloria is ridiculous. Also, just to add on to Moodysson’s inherent racism, the Filipino character in his film is a maid, and the Thai character in his film is a prostitute. Right on, white people. Asians so enjoy being reduced to cultural stereotypes by the ever-wonderful white gaze. BRB, STABBING MYSELF.

This film bravely attempts to style itself as a piece of world film, but fails quite miserably. While most films tend to be in one language or at most two, Mammoth ambitiously sends its characters to 3 different parts of the globe and incorporates all 3 languages into its framework. I mean, it unwisely perpetuates the myth of difference between the three peoples, but at least there is some vague attempt to highlight the universality of disconnectedness, especially in the first half of the movie. Ellen and Leo, Gloria and her sons are both separated by distance, Ellen and Jackie by Gloria and by Ellen’s job, Leo and the Thai whore by language, Leo and Bob by lifestyle. However, instead of intelligently tackling this idea of disconnectedness and disillusionment and linking it to modernity, Moodysson bizarrely uses it to make a vapid statement about privilege, which in turn completely undermines his attempts at universality. The titular mammoth ivory pen at first too seems to be a metaphor of disconnection, in that the ivory is at once tangible and intangible, physical but of unimaginable, non-existent provenance, but it turns out to be a lame statement about Leo’s privileged life, a trite declaration of first-world/third-world imbalance.

But good filmmakers have a tendency of fitting in at least a few redeeming qualities in even their worst movies. I really enjoyed the disconnectedness in the first half of the film, and had the film been about disconnectedness in a modern world, regardless of race or country, I would have enjoyed it a lot more. Of course, Moodysson’s racism would’ve remained as pervasive, but still. Also, in Moodysson’s defence, the film does have a marvelous premise — it is just executed in such a ghastly, unintelligent fashion that it is indefensibly offensive. Anyway. The two leads’ performances are absolutely spectacular. I’m a huge fan of Gael García Bernal, an ex-teen idol from Mexico turned critical darling with Alfonso Cuáron’s fantastic Y Tu Mamá También turned perennial supporting actor in an assemblage of Oscar-nominated films, and here he is absolutely spot-on in playing the awkward, guilt-ridden Leo, who is dreamily attractive but subtly awkward, child-like but tentatively assertive. It’s a gloriously strange, believable character that for once humanizes the Hot Male Lead, and it’s really, really sad that Bernal’s magnificent creation will be ignored because of Moodysson’s sub-par efforts. Michelle Williams, probably the most exciting actress today, is as always, unstoppably eclipsing and achingly humane. There is nothing she can’t do, except save this film (lolz).

KevinScale Rating: 1.5/5