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Photo By Steve Ramos
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Majid Majidi at the Toronto Film Festival.
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Of all the films I watch regularly, Iranian films continue to be the most humanistic. An Iranian film like Delbaran, writer/director Abolfazl Jalili's transcendent, coming-of-age drama, is a celebration of life. The fear is that America's on-going war with Afghanistan will alter our perspective of films from all Muslim countries on the Asian continent. In the minds of many Americans, Iranian films represent a part of the world we now consider deadly.
Before the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks destroyed the World Trade Center and severely damaged the Pentagon, there was little doubt that new Iranian films had become the world's leading cinema movement. After Sept. 11, it's hard to determine how Western audiences will respond to Iran's films. Rational thinkers know Iran only shares a border with Afghanistan. Yet, as American military troops increase their presence in Afghanistan, rational thought is no longer a priority.
Casualties of war can take various forms. Ground Zero, in lower Manhattan, is a reminder of how stark and disheartening these casualties can be. There are also cultural casualties of war. Here in Cincinnati, German street names and German-language newspapers were squelched by anti-German sentiment during World War I. It's hard to say what the immediate fate is for Iranian films. Still, history does not provide reason for optimism. From a filmgoer's perspective, the fear is that a lot of noteworthy cinema will be lost in the wartime tension.
Delbaran was one of the best films I saw at this year's Toronto Film Festival. A simply told story about a 14-year-old Afghan refugee, Kaim (Kaeem Alizadeh), Delbaran artfully combines stunning landscape photography (courtesy of cinematographer Mohammed Ahmadi) combines sparse dialogue and natural performances into a heartfelt and emotionally satisfying movie. For me, Delbaran confirms what's so satisfying about the new Iranian cinema: Its emphasis on the human condition reaches the level of transcendence.
In Delbaran, a small Iranian town near the Afghanistan border, Kaim has become the servant boy of the café and service station owner who helped him illegally cross the border. Away from his war-torn homeland, Kaim is forced to fend for himself.
Inspired by Jalili's encounter with Alizadeh, a real-life refugee working in a desert road stop, Delbaran makes the most of its basic drama and Alizadeh's everyday actions. An old woman peels potatoes. A lone motorcycle roars down the primitive highway. Music from truckers' radios breaks the extended periods of silence. The effect is subtle and beautiful.
Iranian filmmaker Majid Majidi's Afghan refugee drama, Baran, also addresses the political issues facing what has become a chaotic part of the world. For Majidi, it's through films that people have a chance to better understand other cultures.
"Politics don't create history," Majidi says, tracing his finger against his bushy mustache. "History is created by artists and culture. Iranian cinema has built up history and culture, and it has a stronger influence than politics. You see a country through its art and culture.
"The Iran that's shown on television creates the negative attitude towards Tehran that's prevalent in the West. But these film show that there are human feelings and emotions."
The rewards of Iranian cinema are constant and rewarding. In Jafar Panahi's The Mirror, released on video earlier this year, a first-grader, Mina (Mina Mohammad-Khani), struggles to find her way home from school after her mother fails to show. For Panahi, The Mirror is another poetic and transcendent look at childhood that follows in the footsteps of The White Balloon (1995). It's amazing how Panahi captures a child's perspective on the adult world. Only in its climax does he allow The Mirror to make a social critique on the male-dominated society that encompasses Iran and other countries in the neighboring Arab world.
Also on video, director Mohsen Makhmalbaf's The Silence (1998) tells an even more poetic story. Makhmalbaf's first movie since 1996's Gabbeh, The Silence tells the story of Korshid (Korshid Normatava), a 10-year-old blind boy who works as a tuner for an instrument maker. In the small village of Tadzhikistan, a world filled with delicate sounds and vibrant colors, Korshid experiences life through his other senses. A touch of his hand reveals the quality in a loaf of bread. Korshid's ears connect him with the surrounding activities. He revels in the everyday occurrences that most people take for granted. But when he is locked outside his workplace, Korshid's ability to fend for himself is put to the test.
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A scene from director Abolfazl Jalili’s Delbaran.
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Like many Iranian films, The Silence excels by telling a story unlike anything we've ever experienced in Western cinema. The cultural separation of Iran from the rest of the world has forged a unique type of child-centered story. The Silence is a simply told story, centered on a child protagonist. The portrait is intentionally idyllic. Invigorated by its stunning photography (courtesy of cinematographers Ebrahim Ghafori and Reza Sheykhi), The Silence achieves the status of film art. Makhmalbaf takes a basic drama and creates a story that's awe-inspiring.
Iranian films like Jafar Panahiís The Circle, Abbas Kiarostami's Taste of Cherry and Dariush Mehrjui's Leila build their stories around social commentary. Makhmalbaf's The Silence tells a story best described a philosophical.
Movies like The Mirror, Delbaran and The Silence place a human face on a part of the world that's been covered in villainous black. These films show a world that's neither completely militant nor extremist in its stance between Muslims, Jews and Christians. This is not a time to ignore Iranian cinema. This is a time to embrace it. ©
