Ethiopia: Lamb

(2015; writer/director: Yared Zeleke; language: Amharic; co-production with France, Germany, Norway and Qatar)

Ephraïm and Chuni are best friends – Chuni is the titular lamb (grown into a teenage sheep), and Ephraïm (Rediat Amare) a boy desperately in need of stability and companionship. His mother has died in the latest drought, and his father has moved to Addis Ababa to look for work, leaving Ephraïm with impoverished relatives in a distant part of the country. His great aunt is imposing but kindly (and armed with her own personal whip called ‘the oncoming storm’ or something like that), but his father’s cousin Solomon (Surafel Teka) is disappointed in Ephraïm’s talent for cooking rather than farming – the former being women’s work, and a skill inherited from Ephraïm’s mother. To add to the tension, Solomon’s wife Azeb (Rahel Teshome) is consumed with concern for her sickly and undernourished daughter, and irritated by her stepdaughter Tsion’s (Kidist Siyum) predilection for reading instead of housework and finding a husband. Matters come to a head when it is decided that the menu for the upcoming religious celebration will prominently feature lamb…

Lamb felt like an obvious choice, as the first Ethiopian film to screen at Cannes and having garnered positive reviews internationally. Although not new to cinema, the country has struggled to maintain and strengthen the industry in the face of censorship under the military dictatorship and a perpetual lack of resources. Although a couple of recent films have attained international reach, Lamb looked like the one I would most enjoy. The aim of writer/director Zeleke to show off the splendour of even the most impoverished Ethiopian lifestyles also felt like a good fit for the intentions of this blog. (In fact, the lack of positive portrayals of Ethiopia internationally apparently posed another challenge to making the film – people were wary of appearing it!) In Zeleke’s words:

Ethiopians can be afraid of the camera because they know the country doesn’t have a good image abroad because of the famine and the poverty. It’s as if the only thing the world knows about it is its worst aspects… Despite the dictatorship and war and famine and poverty — I had even grown up in a slum — I still feel I had a fairy-tale childhood. There was a lot of love and good food and colorful characters and incredible Christian festivities that I’d grown up with… In Ethiopia, there is no colonial legacy. The culture is untouched. It’s a dream for a filmmaker and storyteller. Beauty and heartache, it’s there.

And indeed it all is there, so thoroughly and lovingly captured by the filmmakers that others have described Lamb as an ethnography from the inside (although I found one reviewer who questioned the script’s naturalism). The camera luxuriates in the rural setting, glorying in the dramatic hills and the intimate lives of their inhabitants, human and non-human alike. Lamb allows the viewer time to acclimatise, to study its protagonists’ fashions, hairstyles, farming tools, and religious practices. To jostle with them in dusty markets and ride buses with sheep tied to the roof. To learn the recipe for sambusas, and climb through an otherworldly forest to reach a jaw-dropping mountaintop.

But it’s also a film concerned with modern problems and Ethiopia’s place in global systems, and in particular how drought and financial vulnerability affects subsistence farmers. Ephraïm’s brusque aunt Azeb becomes more relatable when you realise she is witnessing her child literally starve to death, and his uncle’s decision to eat Chuni is also rendered less callous (spoiler alert: the lamb lives). The film is set in the droughts of the 1980s, and the situation is not necessarily that much better today. According to Zeleke:

Ethiopia is experiencing a changing climate. There is a debate in some parts of the United States, but here in Ethiopia it’s a reality. 85% are still farmers. So it’s not even a debate, it’s a reality. Our country was once very forested, very green. Today it’s mostly deforested, but outside of that, the pollution from wealthier countries is causing havoc on the lives of farmers here.

In the film, the main hope for the future comes from Tsion, already educating herself about methods to improve her family and her country’s lot. It was nice to see local scientists featured in her reading material, highlighting the level of knowledge and drive that exists in the country. Her father, however, is less interested in the nutritional equivalence of lentils to meat or the fertilising properties of urine, and so Tsion rejects her prescribed future as a farmer’s bride and runs off to find her way to a higher education.

Her story could have been a film in itself, but perhaps less simple, and therefore less effective.The true strength of the film is the universal appeal of a well-executed classic children’s narrative – the lonely child banished to imposing and vaguely hostile relatives, trying to find his place in the world. It succeeds in establishing a child’s perspective in a way that Azerbaijan’s Buta (for example) failed to do, partly thanks to the sympathetic performance of its young star, and partly because it takes the time to inhabit a child’s sense of wonder, and their ambiguous integration into the adult world, conveyed with scintillating cinematography by Josée Deshaie. One of my favourite scenes was of Ephraïm alone on top of a ‘magic’ mountain, where you could feel him letting his spirits loose into the vast green expanse beyond and the grass and untouched earth beneath him – a release from the stifling atmosphere of his new home and a place to properly mourn his mother.

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For me, the film was at its weakest when it deviated from the focus on Ephraïm or his family, and veered too far into showing off the positives of Ethiopia to a foreign audience. For instance, several reviewers have focussed on the religious diversity and harmony depicted at certain times in the film: Ephraïm is half-Jewish through his mother, which  reviewers point out doesn’t seem to cause any trouble for his Christian relatives, and he also has a friendly interaction with a young Muslim girl. These references were few, however, and felt shoehorned in more as a way to show off the absence of religious conflict in Ethiopia than as something of relevance to the film’s characters or narrative.

The temptation to cover everything is perhaps a common problem for pioneering film-makers from ‘developing’ countries. If yours is one of the first films about the country to be screen internationally, it’s natural to want to declaim the positives while also highlighting problems caused by global inequalities. But unlike Malawi’s B’ella, which suffered hugely from this, Lamb manages largely to stick with its central story – the friendship between boy and sheep in a majestic natural setting. (We’re unlikely to see a similar topic from Zeleke in the future – he has apparently vowed never to work with an animal again).

Even if Lamb is clearly targeting a foreign audience, that didn’t stop me (a foreign audience, after all) from enjoying it, and I did learn a fair bit about Ethiopia in terms of geography, farming practices, religious diversity, gender roles, cooking, and international relations. I also learned that you can take anything on a bus in rural Ethiopia. Given the size of the country and the extent of its history, I certainly hope there will be more Ethiopian cinema to come.

Indonesia: A Woman from Java

(2016; writer/director: Garin Nugroho; language: Bahasa Indonesian; original title: Nyai)

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Set entirely on the titular Javanese woman’s porch in Yogyakarta 1927, and filmed in a single 90-minute take, the film uses a series of visitors to explore the gender, economic and religious politics of Indonesian society at a time of burgeoning movements for independence. As she deals with each new visitor, the oppressive nature of Nyai’s past, present and future are revealed, as is the steely resolve underlying her prim composure and outward air of acceptance.

As A Woman From Java itself makes clear, the Indonesian film industry has a long history. Two of the film’s characters excitedly discuss the 1926 film Loetoeng Kasaroeng, the first to be produced in the Dutch East Indies (the colonial name for Indonesia), based on a Java-Sundanese folk-tale and featuring an indigenous cast. Although that film is now lost, more recent post-independence classics have emerged such as Usmar Ismail’s Lewat Djam Malam (After the Curfew), and Eros Djarot’s 1988 war epic Tjoet Nja’ Dhien which won big at Cannes. More recently the industry has achieved a different sort of renown with low-grade exploitation flicks and occasional cult hits like The Raid. Each of these would probably teach me something about Indonesia and I hope to see them one day. But in the meantime the opportunity to attend the European premiere of celebrated film-maker Garin Nugroho’s latest offering felt too good to pass up.

Nugroho’s films have been described as political, artistic and exploratory, but also incredibly varied stylistically, so I wasn’t really sure what to expect beyond my curiosity about the one-take format.  And after viewing it I’m still not really sure what to make of it. Artistic it certainly is, with elegant set and costume design and sensitively composed shots revealing an assured eye for beauty.  In fact, in spite of the restrictions of a single take, the camera work was excellent, moving smoothly from mid-shot to close-up, from corner to interior, allowing even the most subtle of colours and textures to breathe: the muted greens and tans of the house, the carved wooden screens, the batik shawls and sarongs and Western lace, the bright outfits of the dancers.

Perhaps my main reservation is the film’s theatricality – it felt to a certain extent like watching a recorded play. The camera’s consistent position on the far side of porch created a distinct fourth wall, but even aspects of the set design felt theatrical, such as the use of different entrances and exits as characters alternated their time on the porch. This theatricality was echoed in the somewhat stagey performances, as well as other aspects such as the use of soliloquy, the lighting design of the final seconds (a spot on Nyai while the rest fades to black), and the incorporation of song and dance as emotional symbols. Even the characterisation of the two servants, a man and the woman known only as “Maid”, felt like Shakespearean comic relief staples.

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Against this stagey production design, for me it was actually the sensitive camerawork that demarcated it from filmed theatre; shots like the opening one that starts at Nyai’s feet while her servants pray before panning up to include her whole body neatly use film’s ability to selectively frame as a way to establish her authority. And while the theatricality wasn’t necessarily immediately to my taste, the film’s narrative is so symbol-driven anyway that it’s hard to imagine the director taking a more naturalistic route. An unusual way to make a film, but it worked.

In an interview from 2007, Nugroho states that “in Asia we have a more symbolic relationship with narrative than you do in the West.

Certainly, A Woman From Java makes heavy use of symbol in order to encapsulate an entire Javan society (past, and, one suspects, with nods to the present) on one porch over the course of an hour and a half. It is ostensibly the story of Nyai (Annisa Hertami), a woman from Java, welcoming visitors on the occasion of her sickly older Dutch husband’s birthday. But each set of visitors represents a section of Indonesian society, and in turn reveal more about Nyai (and her husband’s) place in it. In fact, as the film reveals, Nyai herself has had her identity and individuality revoked; although born Asih (‘love’), she was sold by her father at age 15 into marriage with a Dutchman. As a consequence, she became Nyai, originally a term for married woman it became a specific and derogatory term for the mistresses of European men.

And what a pig of a European she was sold to. Willem is now aged and sick, falling asleep in between groping the young virgin dancers he ordered for his birthday, and pulling a gun on any native he doesn’t like the look of. I think his infirmity was a wise decision from the film-maker. Nyai’s overt sexual exploitation is presumably largely in the past, and yet her economic and social freedom is still curtailed by her forced relationship to a man. Willem himself is shown to be so weak in body and pathetic in character that it I doubt any one would want to identify with him. Thus, the risk of Nyai’s sexual slavery being titillating is mitigated, and the film is able to focus on Nyai’s pursuit of economic and legal emancipation against patriarchal and colonial structures.

It also means Willem can largely be kept in bed and out of shot so that Nyai is the one to greet all the guests that trickle in. Dancers and musicians (gamelan players!) come by for Willem’s birthday, but also visitors with other agendas. Nyai is visited by Muslim religious leaders keen to reclaim her from the infidel status her relationship to Willem confers, and they promise, unsuccessfully, to stop the local kids throwing dung at her. But it’s not religious or moral approval Nyai wants. That is revealed by a visit from her lawyer, paid for by Nyai’s dwindling stash of jewellery, who is finding a way for Nyai to legally inherit Willem’s estate. The lawyer proposes that Muslim law, rather than Dutch, might be a better way to go, but generally seems more interested in his project to unite Muslims, Communists, labourers and Indonesian nationalists to join forces and overthrow the Dutch. One wonders how much attention Nyai’s jewellery is actually buying her.

Another round of visitors are striking labourers from Willem’s plantation, who demonstrate the economic as well as physical brutality of colonialism. The labourers want some of their land back, being unable to subsist off what Willem pays them (some, on other plantations are paid in tin discs instead of real coins). What’s the difference, they ask, between this and the recently abolished slavery? Instead it has given way to new oppression at the hands of foreign capitalists, despite the lofty promises of liberalism and rights promised by the Western rulers.

Nyai is even allowed a rare moment of genuine pleasure with a surprise visit from a man from Surabaya. For reasons unclear, Mr Sastro is writing a book about Nyai and has been corresponding with her for years. His extravagantly sensual mustaches make the intent of this particular visit all too clear. His suggestion of narrative possibilities for the book: “one is about Nyai feeling guilty for marrying a European and then she runs off with a Muslim man, which ends tragically.” Rather than running away with Sastro, Nyai has her eyes on the prize. After the humiliation of being sold to Willem, she has gained back her dignity by educating and polishing herself – simultaneously improving her ‘worth’ as a woman, but also her self-worth and self-determination. But ultimately the arrival of the Dutch accountants put paid to all her efforts, and the camera finally enters the house as it is literally being taken from her piece by piece. And for the first time Nyai’s composure fractures, and she unleashes her fury on Willem before the film ends with Nyai dancing a chillingly slow Yogyakarta pistol dance, desperate but also triumphant.

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All in all, an intriguing film that successfully incorporates aspects of the theatre medium while also being beautifully shot. The one-take format worked well stylistically with the film’s theatricality, but also thematically – reinforcing the rigid borders of Nyai’s physical existence. Even if the theatricality isn’t completely to my taste, it was effective in conveying the message that the film wanted to achieve. This is unsurprising, given director Nugroho’s views on style and substance:

I never think about ‘Third World Cinema.’ For me every person or community of filmmakers develops their own style to make a statement… The real issue has to do with the relationship of cinema with social and political problems. European cinema was so dynamic in the 1940s through to the 1960s because of its relationship with political problems. Today, even though the quality is very good, European films are voiceless. By contrast, in Asia today we have so many crises. Political and economic life is so full of suspense and surprise. You can see Asian films reflecting this instability. This is my opinion: the cinema runs parallel with the political, the social and the cultural.

Suffice to say, watching this film I learned a lot about the political, the social and the cultural in pre-Independence Indonesia, and from a female protagonist’s perspective. I also learned that while Indonesian dancing is impressive and potentially violent, Indonesian love songs from the 1920s seem as cheesy as the ones that turn up on Indonesian karaoke today. I was a little disappointed not to see much of the Indonesian landscape, even if various aspects of Indonesian (or at least Javanese) culture did get a good showcase. In locking the action to a single take on one porch, it made the film feel insular in the same way that Laos’ Chanthaly did, and both films share a focus on isolated women shut up in a house that is both a refuge and a source of patriarchal control. I guess if I want to see an Indonesian female protagonist kicking ass outdoors I’ll need to find a subtitled version of Tjoet Nja’ Dhien somewhere.

Uzbekistan: 40 Days of Silence

(2014; writer/director: Saodat Ismailova; language: Uzbek; original title: Chilla; co-production with Tajikistan, the Netherlands, Germany and France)

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Teenage Bibicha (Rushana Sadikova) undertakes a vow of silence – the titular chilla for a 40 day period. She moves in with her grandmother Bibi Soadat (Saodat Rahminova) in Bibi’s isolated mountain home, along with her worldly aunt Khamida (Barohad Shukurova) newly returned from ‘the city’, and Khamida’s illegitimate young daughter Sharifa (Farida Olimova). Through the subtle interactions between these characters, and meditative sound and imagery, the film examines the lives and choices of the three generations of Uzbek women as they negotiate the forces of tradition and gendered power structures.

My brief research into the Uzbek film industry turned up a decent number of well-received films from the Soviet era, and more modern hits such as Abdullajon (a science fiction comedy film which looks kind of fun), but unfortunately both the Soviet era classics and the post-independence productions are difficult to access with English subtitles. So, as is increasingly becoming the case, I let availability dictate and went with the Uzbek entry in my local film festival. As I’m also keen to include films helmed by women, and those with a clear focus on women’s lives, 40 Days of Silence seemed like a great choice for the blog. I was therefore a little disappointed to learn as the closing credits rolled that it was actually filmed in neighbouring Tajikistan (more photogenic? Cheaper? who knows…). But culturally and narratively the film seems solidly Uzbek, so I’m still going to use it here.

The film starts in a redly-lit basement with an oppressive metallic soundtrack. A stressed-looking Bibicha is surrounded by ghost-like apparitions of her family members, who debate whether or not she will survive her chilla. It is unclear why Bibicha is undergoing this ordeal, nor in what sense is poses a danger, but her undertaking is met with grave respect. (My initial thought was that she was pregnant, but this proved not to be). After this dramatic beginning, the rest of the film then resolves into a state of apparent calm, albeit one charged with tension and unease. The homely comforts of the women’s remote peasant life are overlaid with something unspoken and hard to pinpoint, a chronic and stifling atmosphere of oppression that bears relentlessly down on them.

40 Days of Silence is very much a festival film; it’s poetic, exploratory, and without much narrative drive or tension. In a lot of ways it felt like a film that wanted neither to show nor tell, but to use all the devices available to the medium to evoke a sense of the women’s lives and psyches on an almost tangible level. Some of these devices were more effective and well-executed than others – I personally was not a fan of the swirling blurred visuals used at one point, symbolic as they may be. Much more effective was the sensitive interplay between sound and image throughout the film. The central protagonist’s silence is most obvious aspect of this – her lack of dialogue forces the viewer to broaden their sensory awareness, taking in visual and auditory clues that combine to create a visceral experience of atmosphere, as opposed to plot or verbal forms of sense-making.

I’ve seen other films about vows of silence, and these tend to get their drama from instances where the protagonist really needs to talk. Few have captured the yawning stretch of isolation and dull introspection that such a vow might entail, a form of self-imposed solitary confinement. 40 Days of Silence conveys this through heightened attention to the mundane details of life at Bibi Saodat’s home – the fizz of rain leaking through the roof and landing on the heated hearth. The cacophony of goats going at the bare branches of the winter trees. The obscene guzzling of one bold goat who climbs onto the table to consume leftovers from the women’s dinner. The rasp of Bibi Saodat’s hands stroking those of her granddaughter. In contrast, the discordant tones of Aunt Khamida’s constant cell phone use become an unbearable agony, a comment perhaps on encroaching modernisation? And subtly invading these moments of quiet and stillness was a murky and disturbing soundtrack, like a white noise inside Bibicha’s head, charging the apparent normalcy with a lingering threat.

Reviewer Patrick Gamble put all this more concisely and poetically: “Dark, haunting scenes of personal reflection are accompanied by the throbbing, ominous vacuum of nothingness, and from the onset the audience find themselves in a nightmarish landscape where the pain and suffering of the past coexists with the present. By positioning us within the subjectivity of Bibicha, all other senses are sharpened. Ismailova utilises dense layers of sound, overlaid visuals and extreme close-ups to give a poetically tragic edge to what is, for Bibicha at least, already a sombre existence.”

Even Bibicha’s characterisation must largely be intuited from sensory cues – while Sadikova gives an impressive performance in what must have been a challenging role, her face is often partially or entirely concealed. The symbolism is understandable given the themes of women’s oppression and limitation, and in the context of debates (verbalised at one point in the film) over whether or Uzbek women should engage in the (as I understand it, non-traditional) practice of wearing a veil – a signal of the tensions around the meaning of Islam in an independent Uzbekistan. But even if symbolic, I kept feeling that if I couldn’t hear the actress speak, I at least wanted to see her. I was unwillingly distracted throughout much of the film by boredom stemming from not knowing what was going on, who was feeling what, or why. I put this down not to any of the performances but rather to the film’s experimental nature and its preference for layers of symbolism over anchoring these to narrative or characterisation.

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At times the camera broke away from the purely domestic, revealing wide vistas of Bibicha’s mountainous surroundings. But where shots such as these are often associated with freedom or the space to ‘find oneself’, in Ismailova’s film they do the opposite, intensifying – rather than relieving – the atmosphere of suffocation and confinement. We watch painfully as a barefoot Bibicha climbs a looming mountain of sharp shale; a cluster of buildings is an island in a looming veil of clouds; a forest of black twigs brings to mind the impenetrable isolation of the Sleeping Beauty; a blizzard rages. Outside her grandmother’s home, or in, Bibicha is hemmed in by the weight of her limited opportunities.

Although the source of Bibicha’s oppression are not explicitly stated, they are hinted at: poverty, isolation and an uncertain future, yes, but also gender and tradition. (This is perhaps unsurprising, given Uzbekistan’s record of women’s rights abuses). No men are seen on screen, but their presence is felt. At one point a radio interview plays, a woman twice a child-bride discussing the abuse she had suffered at the hands of her husband. Bibi Saodat groans, I know this so well. And yet she too is a bearer of tradition – her rhythmic voice extolling the iron will of the way of things. ‘The ghosts in your past define your present,’ Bibicha is told. At a party Bibi Saodat makes a toast to the fulfillment of the younger generation’s dreams, and I wonder what these could be. What were Bibi Saodat’s dreams, and what does she wish for her grandchildren? The film left me yearning to know more – what do women dream of in contemporary Uzbekistan, and how likely is it that those dreams are fulfilled? 40 Days of Silence made palpable rural Uzbek women’s oppression, but did not actually reveal much about their inner lives. I would have liked to know more about how Bibicha came to undertake her chilla and what it means for her – is it atonement or redemption, or is it a way to exert her will?

Director Ismailova states that40 Days of Silence is a story about women confronting crucial decisions: motherhood, the weight of tradition, homeland, sexuality, emotional expression, religion or self-destruction in modern society. The characters are inspired from situations lived by those who are close to me. Aside from women’s issues, I would like to explore an idea of lost identity, of living a complex re-evaluation and transformation of human values in a society deeply rooted in Islam, a society that was reshaped by communism and has recently become independent. How does this transformation ‘echo’ in women’s destinies, and in the way they perceive and confront their lives? The film is an experiment in approaching and beginning to unveil the blood-and-guts realities of Uzbek women’s intimate relations.”

And while much of this ambition is present in the film, particularly the notion of echoes of the past, I’m not sure that all of it was successfully realised – at least for a viewer like me with little to no prior knowledge of the country. The picture of Uzbekistan I got from the film – beyond the fact that it looks like Tajikistan – is one of a country undergoing changes, but where layers of historic trauma weigh heavily. Women’s existence seems to be one of little joy, little hope, and little room for change. While Ismailova’s film is admittedly experimental, and was at times very successful in evoking a sense of its characters’ psychological, cultural and geographical environs, I couldn’t help feeling it might have gone deeper into certain issues – particularly the role of women in independent Uzbekistan, and how this intersects for instance with nationhood and religion.

This article from Human Rights Watch, although somewhat dated now, offers an interesting introduction to some of the issues that the film appears to take up, but which I could never fully grasp while watching it.

Uzbekistan, which became independent in 1991, is a young state with claims to an ancient past. The desire to reanimate and reinvent national tradition, and thus to solidify the newly independent state’s claims to nationhood, has complicated women’s exercise of their human rights in the post-Soviet era… As in many post-communist societies, attitudes regarding women’s roles in society and the workforce, and the structure of family, grew more conservative during the turmoil that followed the break-up of the Soviet bloc. Social scientists have noted that ‘one of the more fully elaborated and vigorously promulgated components of Uzbekistan’s new national ideology is an imagined pre-revolutionary past in which the restriction of women to the private sphere supposedly enriched the lives of women and the entire nation.’ … This position is further complicated by the government’s contradictory stance toward Islam, which it also promotes as a facet of national culture and identity, but suppresses when it challenges state authority. Statements by government officials portray Islam on the whole as an encroaching threat to women’s exercise of their rights, ignoring facets of the region’s own Islamic heritage, such as the jadid movement, supportive of female emancipation.

Shoutout: Zulfiya

director’s short film about the dried up Aral Sea. Glimpse of similar rhythmic film-making, interaction between a largely silent female protagonist and her harsh surroundings, the danger of men, and tragedies of Uzbekistan’s history and present.

Malawi: B’ella

(2014; writer/director: Tawonga Taddja Nkhonjera; language: English)

Malawi is ranked among the world’s least developed countries, and nurturing a local film industry doesn’t seem to have been a priority. Apart from Charles Shemu Joyah’s The Last Fishing Boat and Seasons of a Life, there aren’t a whole lot of Malawian feature films out there. I’d like to check out Joyah’s films too, but when I saw B’ella listed in the local film festival line-up, I leapt at the chance – especially as director Nkhonjera was holding a Q&A afterward. Nkhonjera spoke positively about a growing interest in film-making in Malawi (although funding is still an issue), so hopefully more films will come!

Perhaps because Malawian feature films are such a rarity, B’ella is a film that tries to do everything. The blurb on the film’s website states that the film “covers issues such first love, friendships, school bullying, peer pressure, self-confidence, the importance of education, gradual loss of traditional values, teacher-student relationship, stigma connected to HIV and more,” and they’re not exaggerating. B’ella (Vinjeru Kamanga) is a 17-year old Malawian girl with a lot on her plate. Her best friend is sick with AIDS after selling sex to provide for her family, the school bitch Kalilole (Chimwemwe Mkwezalamba) is flirting with the guy she likes, her parents have high expectations of her as their eldest daughter, her maths teacher (Tony Khoza) keeps telling her she needs extra lessons, and she’s also just trying to find her place in the world as the adult she is on the brink of becoming. But B’ella’s strength and leadership are really allowed to shine when said maths teacher gropes her and proposes marriage, and B’ella leads the charge to make sure this kind of exploitation will no longer be tolerated. Throw in the build-up to an epic high school music concert (that never eventuates), the forging of a friendship with a chastised Kalilole, death in the family, and even a rumination on the acceptability of the word mzungu, and you’ve got… well, you’ve got the film B’ella.

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It’s definitely a roller coaster of a film. The film’s NGO-sponsors claim they wanted to show “that a Malawian girl is just like any other girl in the universe, growing up and looking for her identity in the jungle of every day life”. While B’ella’s jungle might be more intense than that of the average teen, maneuvering through the emotional turbulence of adolescence is something most can probably identify with. From this perspective, even the film’s abrupt tonal shifts make more sense – who else but a teen can go from mourning the death of a loved one to taking a carefree leap off a waterfall with their new best friend/former enemy? But I do feel like the film might have been more powerful had it not attempted to cram in so many issues, allowing the impact of presumably life-changing events to be explored in greater depth. As it is the film often strayed over into preachiness, with its catalogue of teen issues and the just slightly too perfect B’ella clearly set up as a role model: the perfect friend, the perfect daughter, the perfect love interest, the perfect mediator, the perfect sister and the perfect advocate. (This perhaps, is a consequence of the film being sponsored by an NGO – boNGO Worldwide – who list it under their ‘Youth and Adult Education / Awareness Raising Films’ section). In fact it is a major credit to Kamanga’s performance that the superwoman B’ella is anything other than insufferable. Instead, Kamanga gives B’ella an aura of groundedness and genuine warmth.

Screenshot 2015-08-29 22.27.09If B’ella was too much of a saint, her foil Kalilole was too much the stereotypical Alpha Bitch. Sure, the character shows how class differences can manifest even in (according to some definitions) the poorest places, but her story did nothing to vary the well-worn narrative of redemption through the humble protagonist’s innate goodness. (And why oh why are women’s emotional transformations so often signified by a change in hairstyle? In this case, a reformed Kalilole removes her weave and adopts a shorter style with her natural hair, like B’ella). And of course she and B’ella like the same guy, who is in the end put off by Kalilole’s shallowness and drawn to the obviously perfect B’ella. However, even if the Mean Girls aspects of the film were a bit uninspired, B’ella’s crammed running time offered plenty more in the drama department.

As an educational film clearly intending to offer young Malawians a female role model, it is perhaps unsurprising that it includes such a broad assortment of calamities. Malawi is burdened by a low average life expectancy, HIV/AIDS, and child-headed households, and has one of the highest rates of child marriage in the world (contributing in turn to the country’s devastatingly high maternal mortality rate). If the film offers young people tools to cope with the issues, or perhaps even combat them, then it would assuredly be a force for good. As an international viewer, I was less captivated by the helter skelter ride through Malawi’s development issues than I was by the small moments where the film was allowed to breathe and dwell on more banal interactions between its cast. The director mentioned at the Q&A, for example, that (no) hugging between friends is a taboo that the film challenges. Is this reflective of a change in Malawian culture around expressing intimacy? I also appreciated the moments when the action strayed over to a group of boys from B’ella’s neighbourhood, who frankly and sympathetically helped each other explore norms of masculinity and sexual (dis)interest – definitely not something one normally finds in your average American teen flick. I liked the space made for boys too to question the roles provided for them, in a film that was otherwise so determinedly focussed on inciting girl power that it risked becoming a slogan (in the style of a certain shoe company that shall remain nameless).

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Although eventful, and helped along by a confident and vibrant score by local artist Muhanya, the film is somewhat let down by its production values and a lack of polish. It is predominantly the performances of Kamanga and Mkwezalamba that carry the film, providing it with a luster and professionalism that is rather lacking from some of the supporting cast, many of whom were sourced from a local high school. Khoza – a radio personality – also does an excellent job of his film debut in the role of the maths teacher, endowing him with the perfect mixture of banal self-righteousness and sleaze. But complaining about poor production values hardly feels appropriate for the product of a vastly under-resourced film industry, and I imagine that director Nkhonjera has every right to proud of what he managed to achieve with the presumably low budget he had to work with.

In fact, hearing him talk at the Q&A made all to clear the challenges involved in the production process, and gave answer to some of the niggles I’d had watching the film. For instance, the school concert finale that never eventuated turned out to have been beset by filming difficulties. I was also confused by the European woman who wandered through the film at several points, contributing nothing but a distracting white presence, as though to remind the viewer that no African story is complete without a white filter – be it a coloniser or an aid worker. Finding out that she is the director of the NGO sponsoring the film made her on-screen involvement more understandable, if not narratively excusable. Overall, I got the impression that Nkhonjera was working with what he had, which wasn’t a lot, and was trying to make a film for a range of audiences and purposes. That the film even made sense is an achievement, and the fact that it is engaging, warm and at times genuinely stirring is a testament to the skill and energy of its director and leads.

Indeed, I think that the film’s unevenness can be ascribed more to the clash of purposes than any lack of talent or production values. It is at once a creative endeavour to show Malawi to Malawians, an educational film designed to fit an NGO’s purposes, and also a film directed at international audiences. With that brief, it could hardly be anything but choppy. Especially as the picture of Malawi intended for international audiences was somewhat at odds with the film’s educational focus on Malawi’s hardships. The film’s sponsors state “we want to break the cliché of showing Malawi, and other African countries, as poverty-stricken places, but show the reality – Malawi being a beautiful place in which people have difficulties and joys just like anywhere else in the world.” It is difficult to both break the stereotype of the impoverished sub-Saharan African nation and delve into the country’s poverty-related issues, but B’ella certainly gives it its best shot. And the enthusiastic showing off of the upsides of Malawian life is definitely another of the film’s successes. Shot (and set) in semi-rural Chazunda, a community on the outskirts of Malawi’s commercial city Blantyre, the film glories in Malawi’s dusty reddish earth, cloud-muted rolling hills, green forests and rocky waterfalls. Viewers are treated to colourful markets, and both traditional and modern performing arts. I’m not sure if all this balances out the dramatic deaths and sexual abuse that much of the film focusses on, but it certainly reveals a side of sub-Saharan Africa that rarely makes it onto Western screens; people going about their lives with purpose, vigour, enjoyment, ambition, and all the rest of the activities and emotions that can be said to characterise humans

In the end, the sense of Malawi that B’ella left me with was of people doing their thing, enjoying the good parts and doing their best with the bad parts. And while the film was uneven in pretty much every way a film can be uneven, I’m going to apply that philosophy to my viewing of the film: enjoy the good parts, and make the best of the rest. With the enthusiasm and emerging talent highlighted in B’ella, I certainly hope the Malawian film industry continues to bloom.

Lebanon: Caramel

(2007; director: Nadine Labaki; writers: Nadine Labaki, Rodney El Haddad, Jihad Hojeily; languages: Arabic, French; original title: Sukkar banat سكر بنات; co-production with France).

According to my cursory research, Lebanon boasts one of the strongest cinematic traditions in the Arabic-speaking world (second only to Egypt), with both film-making and cinema attendance being popular pursuits from the early 20th century onwards (Wikipedia has a good overview). As such there are a wealth of films to choose from, from Lebanon’s post-independence golden age (their first contribution to Cannes was Ila Ayn? in 1958) to contemporary films from international prize-winning (female) directors such as Randa Chahal Sabag, Danielle Arbid, and Nadine Labaki. From this abundance of riches it was difficult to choose one for the blog. I was tending towards Bosta (2005), a road movie depicting the clash between tradition and modernity through the fusion of techno with traditional Levantine dance (dabkeh). It was a runaway success in Lebanon and one of few films made after the Lebanese Civil War without international funding. However, in the end I let accessibility make the decision for me, and went with the film that kept catching my eye at the local library. And so…

Caramel is a salty-sweet romantic comedy of the type that sets female friendship front and centre. Despite running an apparently successful beauty salon, 30-year-old Layale (Labaki) still lives with her parents, shares a bedroom with her brother, and sneaks into the bathroom to make clandestine calls to her married lover. Nisrine (Yasmine Al Masri), one of Layale’s employees, is finding it difficult to play the perfect Muslim woman her boyfriend’s family expects, and when marriage looms she realises her non-virginity is also an issue. The salon’s other employee, quiet tomboy Rima (Joanna Moukarzel), seems a little adrift until an extremely attractive client appears on the scene. Frequent client Jamale (Gisèle Aouad) and neighbouring tailor Rosie (Sihame Haddad) give insights into the lives of middle-aged and older women, where age and responsibility clash with romantic notions of beauty, fame and romance.Screenshot 2015-07-23 21.15.30

Caramel is actress Nadine Labaki’s directorial debut, and she leads a cast of largely unprofessional actors who give performances of genuine warmth and verve. It’s attractively filmed, with a deft comedic touch (one of my favourite scenes was the genre-required wedding finale, where upon looking up to catch the tossed bouquet, Layale also catches some fresh bird guano). In many ways the film is a typical romantic comedy, and would easily hold its own with many of the better Hollywood offerings of the sort. The film bubbles with meet-cutes, sexual tension, and a mustachioed policeman’s humorously unrequited desire.

But the heterosexual relationships feel like window-dressing for the film’s main focus – exploring inter-female relations in all their joys and sorrows. It is this that the film’s title connotes. Ostensibly referring to the caramel the salon uses uses for hair-removal (and snacking), caramel is also a metaphor for the film’s core relationships: sweet, indulgent, feminine, and very painful when it rips all your hair out – even though that’s what you asked for. And in contrast to many romantic comedies which set up catty competition between women, most of Caramel‘s inter-female relationships are moving ones of support and solidarity, despite disparities in age or religion, and even at the cost of romantic happiness.

Screenshot 2015-07-23 21.26.49For Labaki, the salon setting is important in facilitating these relationships. She describes it as a place where women can be women together, where women open up and reveal themselves in all their flaws and vulnerability, in the hopes of improvement. This is inevitably true, and yet it seems to me that even (or perhaps especially) within this female sanctum men’s presence is still felt. Women can be women together in their quest to be a certain kind of woman, the woman men want, and women reveal their flaws only to have them fixed or disguised. Many arguments have been made for the inherent radicality of female bonding, and in many ways I agree with them, but this film brought home to me the feminist shades of grey – that female bonding doesn’t necessarily challenge patriarchy. Instead it might just help women to survive patriarchy (which is still better than not surviving it) or at times even shore it up.

So while woman-to-woman support and friendship might rule the day in Caramel, these instances of support are often related to situations dictated by men (or oppressive gender norms). These range from the comparatively innocuous – Rosie finally accepts a makeover from the salon team when she meets a man, and now has a reason to invest in her appearance – to the more extreme: worried that her wedding night will somehow reveal her previous sexual experience, Nisrine brings her friends with her when she visits a clinic to have her ‘hymen’ ‘restored’ (illustrated by the visual metaphor of Rosie sewing). This is obviously something Nisrine needed support with, but also something nobody should feel they have to do (especially as I’m not even sure what a surgeon would actually do as my understanding was that ‘hymens’ don’t actually exist, or at least not in the sense of something that ‘breaks’ and can be ‘restored’).

For me, it is precisely this interplay between inter-female solidarity, romantic comedy tropes, and persistent patriarchal interference that makes the film interesting. Not only is it a gentle antidote to more saccharine treatments of girl power and heterosexual fulfillment (a touch of salt in the caramel, if you will), it also felt evocative of the many facets I associate with Lebanon, and particularly Beirut. The Beirut we meet in Caramel is still in some ways ‘the Paris of the Middle East’ – stylish, bohemian, indulgent, and cosmopolitan. Women are economically and socially independent, men wear hats and tailored suits, and everyone seems to speak a mixture of Arabic, French and English. Veins of sensuality and sexual promise abound, Rima’s homosexuality (while not discussed) appears to be tacitly supported by her friends, and inter-religious friendships cause no friction. And yet…

… and yet a soldier (or heavily armed policeman?) wonders what Nisrine and her boyfriend are doing in a parked car together, forcing them to get engaged. And Layale cannot get a hotel room for her and her lover without evidence of marriage. The clash between desire and authority, between expectation and surprisingly rigid reality, spoke volumes about life as a woman in contemporary Beirut – and more than a simple portrait of oppression or liberation would. In Labaki’s words:

“It started with something I used to feel and am feeling sometimes, this contradiction between [the fact that] I live in a country that is very modern and exposed to Western culture, and at the same time I’m confused between this culture and the weight of tradition, religion, education and there’s always a lot of self-censorship, self-control. I’m a little bit lost between these two things, and I don’t know who I am exactly. I looked around me and felt that all women around me were feeling the same thing.” And: “You are confused: Are you this free woman who’s doing what she wants, or are you a more conservative woman? You are searching for your identity.”

This confusion and search for identity plays out most obviously in Rima’s story, or rather that of her gorgeous client. Described by Labaki as “the perfect example of a perfect woman,” she is nevertheless happy to embrace Rima’s gentle (and sweetly sensual) nudges into a more daring lesbian identity haircut.

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Given the amount of armed conflict Lebanon has seen, war is conspicuous in its absence in Caramel. But I can understand the desire to paint a warmer and more dynamic picture of one’s country, especially at a time when war seemed to be a demon of the past. This is not necessarily just escapism – war can easily come to define a country, laying foundations for future violence or international disinterest. Labaki herself felt an initial conflict around the film’s ‘light’ tone and subject matter:

“[The 2006 Israel-Hezbollah War] started exactly a week after we finished shooting. It was very surprising. We thought the war was behind us, and we hadn’t imagined that one day we’d be at war again. It was very hard for us, because we had just made a film that talked about life, love, colorful women, while our country was at war. As a filmmaker, you feel like you have a mission, you want to do something for your country. We had a lot of doubts about what the film said, but now I know that it was my mission after all: This is my country, not the clichéd image that people have in their heads of a country at war. It has a message of hope.

As far as I’m concerned, Labaki has achieved her mission. Caramel was a fun, sweet film that provided a glimpse into the positive and the negative aspects of being a woman in Lebanon, and showed up the beautiful Beirut in all its cosmopolitan glory.

Georgia: Line of Credit

(2014; dir/writer: Salomé Alexi; language: Georgian; original title: Kreditis Limiti)

Line of Credit is a case study of economics and class in struggling post-independence Georgia. The film follows forty-something Nino: a child of the Soviet-era bourgeoisie, she is now drowning in escalating spirals of debt as she attempts to maintain her failing business and former lifestyle in the Georgian capital city, Tbilisi. The choice of this film was partly based on availability (I saw it at my local film festival), but I was also intrigued by the subject matter, and by its status as the feature debut from a third generation of Georgian women film-makers. I’d love to check out her mother Lana Gogoberidze and grandmother Noutsa Gogoberidze’s work too.

Georgian cinema has a long and illustrious history, famously praised by Fellini in the following terms: “Georgian film is a strange phenomenon. It is special, philosophically bright, sophisticated and at the same time childishly pure and innocent. There is everything in it that can make me cry and I have to say that it is not easy to make me cry.” I don’t know if Fellini would consider Line of Credit consistent with the tradition he describes, and I don’t know if I would either – certainly it didn’t make me cry. However, a ‘strange phenomenon’ it is, with its subtle yet arresting interplay of contradictions: it is film both shallow and moving, drama and farce, timeless and bitingly contemporary.

The tone of the film is one such contradiction. Given its serious subject matter – the film could have been a long grind of a drama about debt-traps and despair. But what makes Line of Credit so unique, is it’s lens of wry humour where the viewer is treated to a comedy of manners so bitter that the laughs stick in the throat. This tone is expertly fueled by the look and feel of the film. Emotional connection with the characters is undermined by an absence of close ups; instead the cinematography favours overtly staged and too-perfectly framed medium and wide shots that produce a subtle denaturalising and distancing effect. This emotional shallowness is complemented by a bright colour palette and chirpy soundtrack, evoking at times a sense of comedic joie de vivre.

As a comedy of manners, the film is about a system rather than an individual woman’s plight. Following the dissolution of the Soviet Union, like many other post-Soviet states Georgia fell into a severe economic depression with the transition to a capitalist market economy. Civil war and military conflicts in South Ossetia and Abkhazia further aggravated the crisis, with many faring even worse than Nino and her family. The film’s post-script states that 14% of the Georgian population lost their homes between 2009 and 2013, as a consequence of high-interest loans. This is all relevant stuff, and the film shows us how the effects of these crises play out, but its real focus is on the behaviour that the transition to a capitalist economy encourages.

Nino’s life embodies the economic system – every social interaction takes the form of a financial exchange. She pumps her more financially stable friends for loans, manipulates the elderly blind co-owner of her house into gifting his ownership rights to her, and attempts to conceal from her mother the fact that she is selling and pawning most of their possessions (unsuccessfully on the latter count; as Nino furtively takes glasses out of a cabinet, her mother calls from the next room, “those glasses have no value, try the tea set!”). When her grandmother winds up in a coma, Nino seems more distressed about the 500 lari per day it costs to keep her on life support, and the unwillingness of the medical staff to take granny off it. While Nino isn’t all take, and repeatedly gives away some of her hard-loaned money to struggling friends and acquaintances, these feel more like largess doled out to reinforce the bourgeois status to which Nino clings, rather than a desire to help out of genuine emotional closeness. Giving financial support is one of the luxuries she can no longer afford, and yet she continues to do so, in turn landing many of her more financially stable friends in dire consequences as she bleeds them for credit.

The film occasionally strays over into moments of pure farce, such as the milking of a confused but easy-going French tourist for all he’s worth, or a stiffly hilarious scene where a skeptical but desperate Nino brings in a priest to bless the house. But the real farce is Nino’s naiveté, her willingness to accept obscene levels of interest, her self-delusion in her ability to pay off her loans, and her continued spending on the trappings of the life she is accustomed to as opposed to the one she is currently living. All this makes it harder to feel sorry for her, especially given the hints that the wealth she inherited hadn’t come to the family honestly. But the film doesn’t lay the blame on Nino, as the film isn’t really even about her, instead her predicament is used to show how capitalism makes assholes of us all. Nino’s employee comes to her aid with money she’d stolen from Nino in the first place, and Nino is obliged to drink champagne to ‘celebrate’ mortgaging her house. As Nino’s life falls apart (like Georgia’s newly capitalist economy), loan sharks, pawn shops, and greedy bankers rake in the profits.

Like fashion-plate Nino, struggling to sustain the trappings of former grandeur, the film presents Tbilsi itself as a city once replete with stately European splendour now descending into a particularly ugly morass of shabby pawn stalls and grotty loan-brokers; each a grasping symbol of a rat race with more losers than winners. It feels beneath not only Nino, but the rest of the country. Especially because it’s not only the former bourgeoisie who are in trouble – a carer working for Nino’s neighbour complains about her long commute to the job in Tbilisi and back to her farm, and the further full day’s work of caring from home, children and animals that awaits her there.

On a final note, I found it interesting that the economic actors of the film were almost entirely women. From the carer, loan-brokers, Nino’s employee, to Nino herself, women were the ones making and pursuing money. Men, on the other hand, tended to be portrayed as black holes – hardly present in the film and contributing little, and even getting in the way sometimes (such as when Nino’s plan to sell a valuable painting is ruined when her son admits its a fake – he’d already sold the original and frittered away the proceeds). Whether or not it is representative of Georgian society, it was certainly refreshing to see women taking an unquestioned and dominant role in various economic activities, and that they can be just as susceptible to human foibles and assholery when they do so.

The picture the film gave me of Georgia was one of a country in transition, and not necessarily towards a brighter future. The past reeks of corruption and entrenched class stratification, while the present is driven by an every-woman/man-for-themselves attitude where only (a select few of) the selfish succeed. Tbilisi looked like a city once beautiful, but now kind of run-down and depressing. I suspect much of Line of Credit is a familiar story for other post-Soviet countries in Eastern Europe, but perhaps – if Fellini is to be believed – it takes a Georgian film-maker to tell it like this.

Laos: Chanthaly

(2012; director: Mattie Do; writer: Chris Larsen; language: Lao; original title: ຈັນທະລີ)

Laos’s film industry is fairly young; under Communist rule since 1975, its film output was for a long time limited to government-issued propaganda. However, the last decade or so has seen the government open up to the potential of an independent film industry, and a clutch of feature films have emerged. The Ministry of Information and Culture still has to approve all scripts, which means that these films have tended to play it safe. This makes the film Chanthaly, from rising star Mattie Do, all the more interesting, as it bears the distinction not only of being the first Lao feature directed by a woman, but also the first Lao horror film – a genre far from government propaganda or tourist-tempting rom-coms. Chanthaly was thus an obvious choice for my Laos entry, as well as a chance to widen the generic horizons of the blog so far.

chnSickly Chanthaly (Amphaiphun Phimmapunya) lives in Vientiane with her conservative, overprotective father (Douangmany Soliphanh) and her greyhound Moo. She has grown up believing that her mother died giving birth to her, weakened by the same heart condition that Chan herself has inherited. Forbidden from leaving the house and walled-in yard, the lonely and bored Chanthaly spends her days making her father’s meals and operating a small-scale laundry business her father set up for her. Her life takes a disturbing turn when she starts to have visions of a ghostly woman, and discovers memories of events that her father says could never have occurred. How did her mother really die, and has her spirit actually departed? Is Chan’s mind playing tricks, or is her mother trying to get a message to her? And if she must choose between her health, her sanity, and her mother’s ghost, which is the right choice?

Although branded a horror film, I don’t think I’d really describe it as scary. Director Do points out that this is largely a cultural thing (in an interview with Little Laos on the Prairie):

Since we weren’t ever thinking about this film having much of a life outside of Laos, we tried–and I don’t know how successful we were at this–to really think about making a movie that would be scary for a Lao audience, understanding that a Lao audience has never seen a scary Lao movie. If that makes sense. And then we had to balance that with what we could actually do with our limited budget and resources, and with what a wary Department of Cinema would actually approve. So it’s not a blood and guts horror movie, and it’s not a monster movie.
    After I got my approval, I sat down and read the script again and I thought, ‘Wow, from a western horror standpoint, I don’t know if this is going to be scary.’ But then at the Luang Prabang Film Festival the audience was screaming and little kids were covering their eyes. So much of the film revolves around the ubiquitous spirit house and Lao superstition, and although the film gives a little bit of detail about that for an audience that might be unfamiliar with the ins and outs of Lao beliefs, there are a few things in the movie that are really terrifying to our Lao audience that might not even be unsettling for a foreign audience.

While some of the chills may very well have escaped me, the film was nevertheless a distinctly unsettling one. Instead of jump-in-your-seat scares or clutch-your-pillow terror, the film opts for a slow build-up of unease that is as much emotional as it is physical. This tension and uncertainty is underscored by an oppressive, claustrophobic atmosphere. Disjointed scenes flick from day to night, dream to reality, presence to absence, drawing the viewer into Chanthaly’s increasingly disturbed emotional and mental state. And while I often find that horror films lose some of their power as the story progresses and the hidden threat is revealed, Chanthaly is in many ways the opposite –  it’s when the true nature of the ghost is unveiled that everything starts to get sad and horrible.

chanthaly-2While not qualified to judge how distinctly Lao the film is, to me it felt like a different approach to ghosts than anything I’ve seen in Western, Japanese, or even neighbouring Thai horror films. As Do mentions in the quote above, the film’s ghost is rooted in the animist beliefs held by many Lao alongside the widespread Buddhist faith. According to these beliefs spirits (phi) co-exist with mortals, and can be placated with offerings in the ‘spirit houses’ found outside many Laos homes and buildings. Particularly important for this film are the phi phetu, malevolent spirits of those who die violently or in childbirth. From this perspective, there’s probably a lot to be scared of when Chan starts seeing the ghost of her mother, particularly after her father angrily knocks over their spirit house.

Not knowing anything about Laos beliefs before seeing the film, I found the destruction of the spirit house more emotional than dread-inducing; for Chan, it was a key spiritual link to her mother, and it felt like a violation of both women when Chan’s father knocked it down. And for me, it was the film’s poignant treatment of the supernatural that set it apart from other horror films I’ve seen. Supposedly, ghosts and the undead are frightening because they confront us with a deep-rooted fear of death. But any fear Chanthaly has of phi phetu or her own death is outweighed by longing for her mother. The discomfort comes as both viewer and protagonist try to figure out if these feelings are sensible.

And while a horror film protagonist trying to figure out if she’s crazy may not be a particularly new idea, Chanthaly gives the trope resonance by charging it with broader social tensions. Whether Chan is really seeing ghosts, or should simply submit to meds that don’t give her hallucinations, is a loaded question given that Laos’ Communist government has frowned upon the traditional belief systems and attempted to promote a rational atheism. But perhaps even more significant is the film’s treatment of gender roles and women’s struggle for self-determination. Chanthaly’s disobedience in pursuit of her mother’s ghost can be seen as a rejection of her father’s control over her life.

Do is steadfastly humble about the making of Chanthaly, but perhaps her greatest accomplishment is that she makes the most out of her limited resources. Shooting the entire film in her apartment only served to heighten the sense of claustrophobia, and although featuring mainly non-professional actors, the film was impeccably cast and well-acted. Waif-like pop-singer Phimmapunya makes almost tangible her character’s physical frailty and mental listlessness, without giving over to the grating docile passivity of many Cinderella figures. It’s a complex part, and Phimmapunya inhabits it. Soliphanh, too, is excellent as Chan’s father, managing to make the character sympathetic and even sweetly tragic, rather than simply an overbearing patriarch.

Even the bit parts are bursting with character; although only seen through Chanthaly’s eyes, I believed in them enough to imagine what their lives might look like beyond her limited view. And no discussion of the film’s acting would be complete without heaping praise on Do’s own Mango as Moo, one of the most expressive dog actors I’ve seen in a while. Even director Do acknowledges, in a drunken review of her own film (apparently it’s a thing over at Twitchfilm), that Moo is one of the film’s star turns. (For those like my sister Laura who need to know, in this horror film the dog doesn’t die).

Perhaps the one disappointment I had with the film in the context of this blog is that Chanthaly‘s insular focus meant that very little of Laos actually made it onto the screen – not even the cityscapes of Vientiane where the film is set. I do however feel like I learned a bit about urban Lao life in terms of chafing and pernicious gender roles, and a particular anxiety over the role of religion and superstition in a modernising, politically secular Communist country. I also learned that Lao ghosts are in a class of their own.

Shoutout: The Rocket (2013; dir: Kim Mordaunt).

For an international audience wanting a more general (but arguably less ‘authentic’) view of Laos, a film like Australian director Kim Mordaunt’s The Rocket is worth a watch. Made by foreigners and thus not subject to in-production censorship by the Laos government, The Rocket touches on governmental corruption and abuse, the legacy of the American invasion (in terms of live shells littering the landscape, and persecution of the Hmong), Laos’ poverty and exploitation by richer nations, a range of gorgeous jungle scenery, and some real footage of an impressive (and startlingly dangerous) rocket festival. But while it’s a good film and well worth a watch, it remains a film made by and ultimately for foreigners. There’s not necessarily anything wrong with that, but the contrast between it and Chanthaly has prompted me to reconsider the politics of the Western gaze and cinetourism, questions which I’m still chewing over.