Tag Archives: B+

WADJDA

As many Iranian directors have done in the past, Saudi filmmaker Haifaa al-Mansour weaves a tale that possesses political bite, but makes its points through the eyes of children. “Wadjda” is on the surface a lightweight tale of a twelve-year old tomboy who challenges what’s expected of young girls by wanting a bike. But the film is no more about a bicycle than “The Bicycle Thief” was. It’s an indictment of the treatment of women in fundamentalist Islamic society, told from the perspective of a youngster who challenges the system in a modest way that brings a small but real triumph.

Waad Mohammed, a bright-eyed girl with a winning smile, plays Wadjda, who loves her mother (Reem Abdullah) and father (Sultan Al Assaf), but trouble is brewing in the household. She’s an only child, and since her father badly wants a son, he’s inclining to his mother’s wishes that he marry again. (Wadjda herself is crushed when the note she adds to her father’s family tree, which lists only males, is removed.) Meanwhile her mother, a teacher, is constantly upbraided for her tardiness by the driver she must have because women don’t operate cars. And at school, Wadjda—who’s somewhat rebellious, as is demonstrated in an early scene that focuses on the beat-up sneakers she favors over the polished black shoes of her classmates—gets stern looks from the principal (Ahd), who insists on absolute female propriety, in accordance with Islamic tradition, among her students.

Wadjda does get some solace from her friendship with the neighbor’s son (Abdullrahman Al Gohani), a tyke who’s obviously in awe of her attitude and—after she announces her determination to buy a bicycle to beat him in a race—even agrees to help her learn to ride his (after getting her agreement to string some election-campaign lights on behalf of his uncle from her house, despite her mother’s misgivings). Meanwhile, she puts down a deposit on the bike she’s enamored of with the proprietor of the neighborhood toy shop.

But where will she get the rest of the price tag? The solution comes with the announcement of a school contest pitting students against one another in answering questions about, and reciting portions of, the Koran. Though heretofore an indifferent student, Wadjda sets her mind to winning the prize, joining the religion club and plunking down cash for a video game centered on knowledge of the Holy Book. The principal is properly impressed with her apparent change of heart, even as she’s punishing other students for their behavioral lapses (which, we’re told, might well persuade their families simply to marry them off as punishment). But, of course, she isn’t aware of the motive behind Wadjda’s new-found devotion.

Mansour’s film certainly isn’t shy about driving home its point about the subservient status of women in Saudi Arabia. In addition to the myriad plot threads on the subject already noted, there’s another, concerning the consideration Wadjda’s mother gives to taking a new job in a hospital, where a more liberal attitude toward wearing the burkha prevails, that further reinforces it. But the writer-director’s touch in dealing with these matters is generally fairly light, always returning to Mohammad’s beaming face as she savors the possibilities that lie before her or the earnest concentration with which she regards the disappointments she has to confront.

“Wadjda,” moreover, is smart enough to say what the girl comes to realize: that while she may enjoy an occasional small triumph, she remains part of a culture in which she’ll still be constrained by custom and law. As moviemaking goes, that’s a cunning strategy on Mansour’s part, allowing for a juxtaposition of climaxes that mix messages of hope and the obstacles to it in a satisfying way. The result isn’t a Pollyanna movie, but neither is it a downbeat one. By including both small steps forward and setbacks, it manages to be both uplifting and realistic, charming and incisive.

“Wadjda” proves a winner in a great many ways.

MUSEUM HOURS

The intersection of art and life lies at the center of Jem Cohen’s lapidary film, a highly ruminative piece that takes what might have been the plot of a romantic dramedy—the relationship between a Canadian woman visiting Vienna and a guard at the Kunsthistorisches Museum—and uses it instead to comment, at times rather too bluntly but mostly with agreeable subtlety, on how every detail of human existence, even the most ostensibly banal, is part of the same pattern that constitutes man’s greatest artistic accomplishments. Whether you find the result tedious or enlightening will be a factor of your own openness to the director’s languidly atmospheric approach.

Driven more by mood rather than plot, “Museum Hours” opens with guard Johann (solemnly expressive Bobby Sommer) watching the disparate visitors to the exhibitions and describing in voiceover his attitude toward his job, his life, and the artifacts he’s there to protect. His tone is contemplative, wistful, and wry, but also appreciative of the beauties around him—most notably the room given over to the collection of earthy, vibrant portraits of peasant life by Pieter Breughel. What passes for narrative begins with the introduction of Janet (slightly frumpish Mary Margaret O’Hara), a plain middle-aged Canadian woman who strikes up a conversation with the man and inquires about directions to a local hospital where, she reveals after a bit, a cousin she hasn’t seen for a considerable time is a patient. It turns out that the woman is in a coma and Janet isn’t very well-heeled, eking out a living on odd jobs back home.

Johann, who will eventually explain that he doesn’t have many friends and spends a good deal of his free time playing Internet poker, decides to act as a budget tour-guide for Janet, showing her parts of the city that are interesting but off the beaten path (and inexpensive). And he patiently answers the questions she raises about what she’s observed on her solitary excursions through the city. He also accompanies her on some of her visits to the hospital, serving as translator in conversations with the doctors and joining Janet in talking to the comatose woman as a potentially therapeutic measure, describing, in his quiet way, some of his favorite paintings in the museum. In the process we get to know both people better—especially Johann, who reveals a rather incongruous past as a part of the pop music scene.

But while this personal side of the story has some charm, the real focus is on the museum, both the masterpieces on the walls and the people who come to see them, or don’t but are glimpsed outside its walls. Cohen juxtaposes the contemporary scenes of Viennese life with the paintings he lovingly photographs, cutting for example from the details of a Breughel canvas to the detritus left from an open-air flea market, or from the face of a man on the street to a strikingly similar portrait. Art imitates life, his camera seems to say, but the reverse is also true. It’s no wonder that some of the images Cohen draws of the couple’s travels through the city—like their boat tour of some underground caverns—have a distinctly painterly look.

These observations work best when they’re subtly expressed rather than explicitly shouted. A lengthy lecture on Breughel to a bunch of tourists by a teacher (Ela Piplits), for instance, makes its points far too bluntly. And at times Cohen strains for an artsy effect, most notably in a scene that switches from a discussion of a painting in which Adam and Eve appear nude to shots of museum visitors walking about au naturel. But generally speaking his choices and pacing work, and by the end you appreciate his sense of decorum and gentility, much as Janet comes to admire those same traits in Johann.

“Museum Hours” makes a nice companion piece to Alexander Sokurov’s “Russian Ark.” It doesn’t mimic that film’s technical virtuosity, of course, but it does embrace a similar attitude of reverence toward great art. And for Sokurov’s virtuosity it substitutes a deeper sense of humanity.