Saturday, July 21, 2007

Monday, July 09, 2007

Iraq War, and the Turtles

Three years ago I watched Turtles Can Fly in the movies. Today, I had the pleasure of watching it again on DVD. The movie is directed by Bahman Ghobadi, while the fabulous movie score by Hossein Alizadeh greatly adds to the value of this great movie. I'm quoting from my diary, the entry for November 28, 2004. Be aware that it contains spoilers.

In an artist's work, one can hear his cry; and his grief, and his pain, and his sorrow. Is the way of expressing their thoughts, the only thing that makes an artist different from others? Maybe. Anyhow, when a group of artists (although, most of them non-professional) together show their best performance led by another great artist we see such thing as Turtles Can Fly by Ghobadi, Alizadeh, and others.

Turtles penetrates to the hearts of the audience. For a short time disconnects them all from the outside world and brings them together to see the real depth of the disaster, and to do this, it does not refrain from making them suffer so that they can feel the sufferance of the children in the story. When Shirkooh tells Kak Satellite how Kak Esma'eel has beaten him, everyone smiles at his sweet childishness but this is only the beginning. When Agrin's son, Riga, touches her mom's face and hair and then his heart, the tears start falling in the theater. When Henkov sees Riga's death in a dream the hearts stop beating for a moment, but Turtles continues: Satellite crying on one side, the child's body under the water of the spring, and finally a pair of shoes at one side of the deep valley (reminding one of the opening scene of the movie in which Agrin jumps into the valley). The movie takes away everyone's breath and in the end, everyone is speechless. All are shocked by what they have seen; the result of the crimes of the dictator who was finally taken away. But then, who is going to answer the pains of all Agrins.

People leave the theater silently. Empty streets, the cold air of midnight, cabs by the door of the theater, Tehran's strange quiet at this hour, all are awaiting out there, but they're still at some distance. People get out of the doors, maybe not even thinking about their companions, each taking their way home while they have not forgotten the stare of Agrin and her child.