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Ten
**1/2
Cinema
Releases - December 20, 2002
Rated on a 4-star scale. Certificate 12A. Iran.
92 minutes. Written and directed by Abbas Kiarostami. Starring Mania Akbari,
Amin Maher, Roya Arabashi, Katayoun Taleidzadeh, Mandana Sharbaf, Amene Moradi,
Kamran Adl, Morteza Tabatabaii, Bahman Kiarostami, Mastaneh Mohajer, Mazdak
Sepanlu, Reza Yadzdani.
I look at reviews of Abbas Kiarostami's
"Ten" with a mixture of puzzlement and suspicion. The film
has things going for it, but there are also moments of absolute amateurism,
and ultimately it is a curious failure. When the Guardian's Peter Bradshaw
writes that it is, "brilliant, radically minimal", what he actually means
is it's shot on camcorder and he has decided to ignore the fact that this
is not something new. When he says that it gives us "a sense that you have
witnessed something profoundly important", I cannot help but think that he
would see the material as a lot more down to earth if it were not set in
Iran.
There is a temptation to overrate films from countries
of traditionalist regimes -- to pick up on every hint of their modernity,
intelligence and savvy, and claim them to be revolutionary. Sure, it's nice
to see a movie like "Ten", which pays attention to women while coming from
a society where they have little voice. And yet isn't it somewhat patronising,
perhaps even a subtle form of racism, to overestimate that? Movies like this
are important, but significance is not the same thing as
quality.
"Ten" is a collection of ten short scenes, shot
on stationary video camera, showing either the passenger or driving seat
of a car. In each story, it's the same vehicle, whose driver is a divorced
mother played by Mania Akbari. The first sequence shows an argument with
her pre-teen son Amin (Amin Maher), and this situation is revisited several
times. In other segments, Akbari is shown talking to such people as her sister,
an unidentified young woman, an old lady on her way to church and a prostitute
who gets into the car by mistake.
Maybe it's a faux pas to ask fundamental
logical questions of films as artsy as this, but I'm gonna plough ahead anyway,
and the beret crowd can scoff all it wants. Who is Akbari? What is her character?
Where does she work? She's not a cab driver, because we never see her accept
any money or use appropriate lingo, and so why is she giving all these strangers
lifts, and why are they so willing to jump in her door? The character makes
reference to being a liberated woman who wants to indulge herself in the
arts, and so it is possible she's on some journey of discovery in which she
drives around with different types of folks for educational purposes. Perhaps,
but we don't find out.
The scenes themselves are a mixed bag. Akbari
and the sister basically have a girlie chat; I'm sure a lot could be read
into it by those willing to do so, but hey -- talking about picking up stuff
from the bakery, and rehashing family strife, is essentially a bit of shooting
the breeze. The scene with the old woman follows something about her devotion
to God that I found hard to follow. Confession time: I actually ended up
drifting into a short nap at this point, so the lack of understanding is
as much my fault as that of Kiarostami.
The sequence with the prostitute is embarrassing.
The camera stays fixed on Akbari as the conversation progresses. The hooker
cackles piercingly, in between speech where she contradicts herself with
declarations that her job is all about sex, and not about sex at all, and
she loves it, and she doesn't love it, and she's better than Akbari, and
she can't stand the feeling that Akbari is looking down on her. Yeah, yeah
-- the film is attempting to examine her tattered, unclear mindset and lack
of comprehensive expression. I don't care. It doesn't work. Akbari's dialogue
in this scene is essentially a rehash of old do-gooder clichés about
the evils of prostitution, how it demeans women, and how the prostitute could
do something with her life if she got some self-esteem. Good sentiments,
badly and unselfconsciously expressed.
That is, of course, part of Akbari's character.
It becomes annoying in that scene, fascinating in others. Look at the moments
in which she argues with her son. The mother lectures the boy on how she
is a brave person for divorcing her husband, and tells him that he should
respect her for embracing her freedom. The boy shakes his head, dismisses
her arguments, claims her to be selfish and refuses to accept the love of
his stepfather. Some critics have read these moments as a strong female character
attempting to reason with a kid who is on the road to male chauvinism, but
I don't think it's that simple. Both characters have valid points. The mother
should not have to live in a society where women are second-class citizens.
The boy deserves better than a mother wrapped up in theoretical pretensions,
and although he can neither quite express it properly or get his mother to
listen, he is not entirely wrong that the job of a parent is to put your
own needs behind those of your child. And yet, nobody is that perfect. Around
and around the argument goes: The pity is that neither person is listening
to the other. The touching thing is that they both want to love each other;
a late scene in which both of them manage to smile at the same time is surprising
in its impact.
Akbari's performance is one of commitment and
interest; she talks and talks, and gives us a sense of a personality. Maher,
the kid, is astonishing: He acts with naturalism and truth, not through being
subtle, but in the way he whines, shouts, doesn't seem to be able to be heard.
He looks odd and silly when cupping his face in his hands, fidgeting, waving
his arms -- but that is how frustrated young boys do look when trying to
express a point.
What does this all add up to? I'm not exactly
sure. The day may come when I see "Ten" on television, latch onto its train
of thought, and find that it all makes blinding sense. But that has not happened
yet. The film is difficult to watch. In between its moments of brilliance
are stretches of failure and long spots of boredom.
COPYRIGHT©
2002 Ian Waldron-Mantgani
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