Bahman
Ghobadi interviewed by Jamsheed Akrami,
a
professor of film at William Paterson University.
Your
short films and your first feature were about children. You have mentioned your
childhood as your biggest source of inspiration. What made you abandon the
subject for your new film?
I haven’t quite distanced myself
from children in this film. You see them in a few scenes and in some other
scenes main characters display carefree and comical behaviors typical of a
child-like mentality.
Where
did the idea for Marooned in Iraq come
from?
I spend two or three months in
Kurdistan every year trying to discover the uncharted corners of the land. As I
travel, I come into contact with a wide variety of people. The characters you
see in this film are some of those people and their stories.
How
long did it take you to shoot the film?
It was a difficult shoot that lasted
just over three months.
What
made the shooting difficult?
Well, I had to switch my director of
cinematography halfway through the film. This made us lose 25 days of great
snowy weather. Also, a great deal of the support I had been promised never
materialized.
What kind of support?
I had planned to re-create scenes
from the war, and I needed support from the military and the government to do
that. In Iran, we don’t get any free assistance from the government. To
finance the film, I had to sell my camera and the domestic rights of the film to
Farabi Cinema Foundation.
You
have shot the film in a harsh and inhospitable terrain. The locations and the
inclement weather must have made it hard to shoot the film?
We were determined to shoot the film
in real locations, so we knew we had to deal with harsh weather conditions. What
we did not expect to happen was for the winter weather to precede the fall
weather, which is what happened last year! This was so bizarre. It really
complicated our planning and seriously set us back.
In
both your films, we rarely see urban environments. You have a clear proclivity
toward rural and mountain areas.
I am not terribly fond of living in
Tehran because of all the air and noise pollution. Also, strange behaviors and
complicated relationships, which come with living in the big cities, make me run
away and seek refuge in the nature any chance I get. I find the villages of my
homeland to be the best shelter for me. I cannot think of anything more
desirable than living close to nature among simple and kind-hearted people.
And
again you have several scenes staged in the snow.
I cannot picture Kurdistan without
cold and snow. All my memories of Kurdistan are somehow winter memories, maybe
because all the wars and political turmoil in the area have happened in the
winter.
Do
you use snow as a symbolic motif in your films?
I see snow as a cleanser. To me, the
white purity of snow symbolizes the innocence of the suffering Kurds. I have
always viewed Kurdistan’s nature as somewhat treacherous. The wheat fields
seem to produce a harvest of mines. It is so easy to step on a mine and blow
yourself to pieces. In the border areas, one or two people die every day from
stepping on mines.
Who have planted these mines?
The neighboring countries like Iraq,
Iran, and Turkey. The mines are made in countries like Germany, Israel, and the
United States.
You
shot all your shorts and features in Kurdistan. What is the main attraction of
Kurdistan as a setting for you?
My interest in Kurdistan is so deep-rooted in my heart.
Images of Kurdistan are etched in all the corners
of my mind. It pains me to see how other people have always shown Kurdistan in
their mindless action movies as a land where its people don’t engage in
anything but war and bloodshed. I want to erase those negative images with my
films.
How
was the film received in Iran?
The reception in the Kurdish towns
was tremendous. The film ended up being one of the top three box office hits
ever shown in Kurdistan. Most of the Iranian film critics also liked the film
better than my first feature.
Have
you shown the film in Iraqi Kurdistan?
Yes, and it was well received there
as well.
Did you use mostly non-actors again?
Yes. Most of them had never seen a
movie camera before. The only exception was Saeed Mohammadi who plays the young
teacher, who had appeared in other films and already garnered a reputation in
Kurdistan as the Iranian Al Pacino!
Did you use any Iraqi Kurds in the film as cast or
crew members? If so, how did you work with them?
I did, especially in the camp scenes
where a lot of the kids are Iraqi Kurds. There was really nothing
different about working with them.
Your
actors have comical physical features. Is that what you were looking for when
you were casting them?
The physical characteristics of the
cast were quite important to me. I searched hard to find these people.
Are
your three leads real life musicians?
Yes, they were well-known musicians
in Sanandaj.
How
are they doing now?
Mirza is over seventy years old and
is retired. Barat and Audeh are in their fifties. They are reluctant to play at
weddings anymore because people look down on wedding musicians. Barat and his
family earn a living now by making daffs
(the instrument Audeh plays in the film). Audeh used his salary from the film to
buy a cab and start a new career, though he recently called me to say he was
determined to do more acting, too!
You
have made a very crowded movie. Was crowd control a problem during the shooting?
The nature of the script required the
extensive use of crowds. The extras were quite cooperative.
As Kurds, they felt they had a natural interest in helping this film.
Compared
to A Time for Drunken Horses,
which was a bleak account of Kurdish
life, this film is lighter and has a good dose of comedy, though it turns grim
at the end.
I wanted to take a different look at
the Kurds in this film. That is why I rendered it less grim and used humor
throughout the film. Humor is the new weapon used by the Kurds. They wear it on
their weary bodies and minds to survive the hardships better. I had to bring
back a sad and sobering tone at the end so the people would not leave the film
thinking that Kurdish life is all fun and games. I wanted to remind them that
agony and misery are inevitable facts of life in Kurdistan.
According
to your script, Hanareh left Mirza some 23 years ago. That is when the Islamic
revolution broke out in Iran. Are you implying any connection between the two?
Yes, there is an oblique reference to
the banning of women singers from performing after the revolution. Hanareh can
no longer sing in Iran.
What
is the exact time frame of the film? Right after the Gulf War when Saddam used
chemical weapons on the Iraqi Kurds?
Correct. The story unfolds after the
Gulf War and Saddam’s bombing of Halabcheh.
How
do you see the current situation in Iraq?
There is a huge bomb ticking under
Iraq, which threatens the Iraqi Kurds more seriously than anyone else. Not
having quite recovered from the earlier wars, they are now being forced to enter
another one. Saddam is a criminal and should be eliminated, but he could be
eliminated without an all-out war.
Do
you think the war is inevitable now? If so, how is that going to affect the
Iraqi Kurds?
Yes, I do. I think it will determine
the fate of the Iraqi Kurds one way or another.
The
film is broken down into two almost equal halves; with the first set in Iran and
the second in Iraq.
By giving equal time to the Iranian
and Iraqi parts, I wanted to try to blur the distinctions between Iranian and
Iraqi Kurds, except that the Iraqi Kurds have been massacred by the Iraqi
government. The Kurds are Kurds no matter where they are.
There
have been a number of other Kurdish films made by Kurdish filmmakers living
outside of the Kurdish territories over the past couple of years. Do you see the
signs of a burgeoning Kurdish film movement?
I guess it is too early to say a movement is in the
making. We need to wait a few more years to see if the trend continues before we
can claim a Kurdish Cinema has taken roots.
What
was your artistic inspiration for the film? The
film has the chaotic combination of comedy and drama, as well as anger and
humor, typical of Emir Kusturica’s films.
I love Kusturica’s films. I love
the energy and the music of his film. I see a lot of common characteristics
between his characters and the Kurds. But you don’t see the magic realism of
his films in my work. Pure realism is still more appealing to me.
Some
of the best moments of the film happen on the margins of the plot. They are
moments of people’s lives going on in the background, scenes like Audeh taking
a shower and women making bricks or setting up tents….
The journey of Mirza and his sons in search of Hanareh
was only an excuse for me to take the viewers on a trip deep into the heart of
Kurdistan and show them how the Kurds live. Hanareh’s story does not
necessarily stand out among the millions of stories of the Kurdish people. You
can find amazing stories in every corner of Kurdistan.
In
the very first shot of the film, we hear the frightening roar of unseen bombers
immediately followed by music. This odd combination of horrifying and pleasant
sounds dominates the sound track throughout the film.
The roar of the bombers and
explosions has become part of the Kurdish music. We are so used to it that it
does not terrify us anymore. When they discover mass graves in Kurdistan, no one
is shocked. Everybody has a tragic story; every family has lost someone. War has
turned into a melody for me. It used to be a sad melody, but now we have heard
it so often that we have learned to dance to it. We have become intoxicated with
war.
The
old man referred to as the doctor in the film explains AIDS as a disease
affecting mules. Is there any truth about that kind of perception of AIDS?
I did not intend that as a commentary
on people’s ignorance of AIDS. I was interested in the humor of the scene. But
it is also true that the government has not paid any attention to this problem
in our region.
You
have re-constructed the scene from A Time
for Drunken Horses where the smugglers are attacked by Iraqi bombers as they
are crossing a mountain path. Why did you decide to re-visit that scene?
I wanted to show the lives of the
characters of the earlier film had not changed at all. I also wanted to point
out that every one in that group of people has a unique story. We followed the
story of Ayoub and Madi in the first film, and Mirza’s and his sons’ here.
When
the trio comes across a group of kids being taught by a teacher on the mountain
paths, one is reminded of Samira Makhmalbaf’s Blackboards,
in which the scene you are depicting is the central subject. The characters
loudly wonder about a question that many viewers of Samira’s film might have
had in mind. “What are those kids doing in the middle of bombing and mountains
alone with no parents?” Is this an inside joke?
No, it is not about that film. When I was shooting the
school scene of A Time for Drunken Horses,
where they are reading a lesson about airplanes, one of the kids asked me if
I had ever flown on an airplane. The whole class seemed fascinated about the
issue, and I ended up talking to
them about airplanes for couple of hours. Later, when I was flying over
Kurdistan one day, I was reminded of the curiosity of those kids about airplanes
and I decided to do a scene with kids and their teacher talking about airplanes
on top of a mountain. The character of the teacher is inspired by an uncle of
mine, who was a dedicated teacher and would always take his rural kids to the
city to show them around and satisfy their curiosity.
In
an interesting scene, you use the bombers sound effects on paper airplanes flown
by the kids. Is that a commentary on the futility of war?
True, and also how war has turned into something as
ordinary as a children’s game for people.
Music
plays an important role in the film. Is the kind of music played by the trio in
the film typical Kurdish music?
The music you hear in the film is
Kurdish folk music, which is exactly what the characters in the film play in
real life. It is a kind of primitive, high-energy music that the players just
acquire from their communities without any formal studies.
You
have cast your mother as the pivotal but unseen Hanareh? Why don’t you show
her?
Was
she okay with that?
My mother had no objection, because
she is the real filmmaker in my films. She never lets me get away with doing
anything less than my best. I needed six hundred women for four shots in the
film. I found out it was very difficult to find all those women and I was
content to do the shots with sixty women. But my mother got some of her friends
to help her and found me six hundred women!
By not showing Hanareh, I was trying
to say our homeland is full of Hanarehs. You can think of the young woman Barat
falls in love with as another Hanareh, or Hanareh’s own daughter.
You
show the woman whose voice Barat falls in love with either as shadow or in
silhouette the first time they meet. Why? She proves to be an elusive presence.
Is this a veiled reference to women’s singing being banned in the Iranian
media?
Absolutely. I also wanted to draw a
parallel between her and Hanareh so we can see them both in the same light.
Did
you have any difficulty with the Iranian censors?
Their only objection was to the original title of the
film. They thought it smacked of Kurdish nationalism. I just laughed at them,
and fought off their insistence to change the title.
They gave me more problems in distributing the film.
They booked it in only one theater in Tehran without any advance publicity. This
happened at the same time the U.S. government refused to give me a visa to come
to the U.S.
Borders
feature prominently in your films. At the end of A
Time for Drunken Horses, the
main character crosses the border into Iraq; in this film the main character
crosses the same border back to Iran. In both scenes the characters are carrying
another person.
Borders have created the worst
problems in the Middle East. Because you have borders, you also have mines to
reinforce the borders. Borders are a legacy of the big foreign governments in
the area. You can travel all over Europe with a bicycle without worrying about
borders, but in our region you cross a border, and you end up with eight years
of war. Unfortunately, even the Kurds have confined themselves by borders. In
Iraqi Kurdistan, there are two different Kurdish areas with two different
governments, and you need permission to go from one area to another. To me, a
border is where all the other problems-- like wars, mines, and cultural
depravation-- come from.
The
film ends with a note of optimism. Failing to see Hanareh, Mirza takes back her
little daughter - whose name, Sanooreh, means “border”.
If Hanareh has lost her voice in the chemical bombing, Barat has found a
younger woman with a magic voice.
Kurdistan is full of Hanarehs.
Everywhere you turn, you can find one. Hanareh means pomegranate in Kurdish, and
to me, it symbolizes Kurdistan. Despite
all the hardships, hope remains an inseparable part of our lives.
Although
you are still quite young, you have started your own company, and you are
planning to produce and distribute other young filmmakers’ films as well.
I hope to be able to produce a few
short and feature films in this company every year. I am planning to also start
a traveling school for teaching filmmaking and showing films in different parts
of Kurdistan. Recently, we bought
twenty thousand children’s books for distribution in deprived parts of
Kurdistan. The idea is to encourage rural kids to read so they can develop a
better understanding of themselves and the outside world.
Your next film?
I am working on a
script that will have the title of either
Zoroaster
or Satellite.
It is about the Kurds in Iraq and Turkey and somehow relates to the U.S. –
Iraq war. It will be a very different film, and I’ll be shooting it in the
spring for a change!
* Jamsheed Akrami is a professor of film at
William Paterson University.
|
