The Sheila Variations: <i>The Day I Became A Woman</i>; director: Marziyeh Meshkini

May 3, 2008

The Day I Became A Woman; director: Marziyeh Meshkini

Iranian film The Day I Became A Woman (2000), directed by Marziyeh Meshkini (it was her first film, although she had worked as an assistant director before that on husband Mohsen Makhmalbaf's films) won awards around the world, it was a ringing success.

The film is broken up into three stories, seemingly unconnected, but on a closer look, there is a thread tying them all together. The theme is pretty clearly stated in the title of the film, but there is nothing rote or predictable about this film ... I'm a huge fan of Meshkini now, and eager to see whatever she does next. It's stunning. And the last story earns the right to be called Fellini-esque - there are images there that are so arresting that they verge on poetry. It's a dream-space, and there are moments where I couldn't believe what I was looking at. Beautiful!! And the final image of the film ... I won't give it away - you'll just have to rent it. I watched it with dropped jaw. Fantastic. A fantastic debut.

I've been watching quite a few Iranian films recently with strictly Tehrani settings, like Offside (review here), or The Circle (review here). The Day I Became A Woman is set on Kish Island, off the coast of Iran in the Persian Gulf, a spectacular place of white beaches and crashing surf. It's apparently a resort island, a vacation spot for the Iranian wealthy - and a place where it's a bit more relaxed for women to hang out. But the world of The Day I Became A Woman does not show that side of Kish Island. You would never know it was a resort spot from what we see in the film.

The first story is about a little girl on her 9th birthday, the day she is slated to "become a woman". Meaning, she will have to put on the chador, not play with (or talk to) boys anymore, and basically begin her training to become a woman. Hava (the little girl) is a wild urchin whose best friend is a little boy named Hassan. But on this day, her birthday, she has to say goodbye to him as a friend. Her mother and grandmother give her a break, and tell her she can go off and see Hassan, but they put a stick in the sand and tell her she has to be home when the shadow of the stick disappears. Hava races off to find Hassan. Throughout their interaction (they share a lollipop, smacking their lips because of the sour-ness), Hava keeps racing back to check the shadow of the stick. She gets kind of frantic. She doesn't question her "plight", she just knows it's unfair, because she loves Hassan. But you know, she's a kid. She does what the grown-ups tell her to do. Like most Iranian film-makers Meshkini uses a light touch with filming children. She does not overburden them with metaphor and meaning. They are uninhibited, and seem like the most child-like of children in film. Hava does not see herself as a victim of a patriarchal theocratic society. She sees herself as living in an unfair world because she can't play with her best friend. It's no different from other children wailing about how "unfair" it is that they can't sleep over a friend's house on a school night. I'm not saying the two things are equal, of course I'm not - but it's equal in the way it is portrayed. Children are innocent. They may be mischievous, and capable of the full range of human emotions, but they are not aware of the larger societal issues that make life the way it is. And so Hava is pissed at the unfairness of life. She is too young to rebel in any meaningful way, and the whole thing is unFAIR because she wants to go outside and play. She doesn't see purdah itself as unfair. She's too little for that. It's why the first segment of The Day I Became A Woman is so devastating, because Hava is too young to understand. But she will submit, because ... that's what you do when you're a kid. Little Hassan, sucking on a sourpop with his friend, is also an innocent ... he doesn't understand why things have to change so drastically. Yesterday you were my friend and now you can't walk on the beach with me? Why? The use of strictly non-actors gives the first section an almost documentary feel to it. The kids are 100% unselfconscious in front of the camera. They aren't saying lines, they aren't acting at all.

The third story in The Day I Became A Woman (I'll come back to the second one momentarily) shows an old infirm woman going on a shopping spree. She is a widow, she has a little money, and has decided to buy all the things she wanted to buy during her life but never did. Her own things. She is so frail that a small boy pushes her wheelchair around a glittery mall (not her grandson - he is black - and from a couple of comments she says to him, it becomes clear that once upon a time she was in love with a black man, but was not allowed to marry him ... so she feels like the little black boy could be her dream-son). She buys so much stuff that an army of small boys are gathered to roll her purchases down the street on carts. The little woman has pieces of cloth tied around her fingers, to remind her of what she wants to buy. I kept expecting the little boys with the carts to bring them to a house or an apartment complex ... but no ... they take them to the beach. And set all of the stuff up on the white sand. A huge bed. A refrigerator. A clothesline, with pots and pans hanging from it. A free-standing tub. A couch and a couple of armchairs. With the blue gulf beyond. I'm still thinking about the scene, and the amazing images of it. It was stunning. There were moments when I thought of Fitzcarraldo, with the boat going over the mountain. What I was looking at was real, and was obviously really happening. But it had such a surreal edge, and ... I guess I'm used to seeing the same images, just in different movies. Even very good movies. You know, you see apartments, and close-ups of faces, and shots of sunsets. I'm simplifying, but still. In The Day I Became A Woman, I saw new things. A clothesline suspended on two poles that were offscreen, with pots hanging from the line, and empty glass bottles ... the blue sea in the background. The grandmother and two women sitting on the couch and armchair, chatting, surrounded by white beach. Then, odd scenes: the little boy putting on makeup in the mirror. Smearing lipstick over his lips. Another little boy trying on what was obviously the grandmother's wedding dress once upon a time. A little boy dancing on a beach, wearing a wedding dress. Seriously, there were so many fantastical stunning images I couldn't process them at first. And it's all in service to that particular story. None of it seems imposed ... which is why "Fellini-esque" is the term thrown around in every review. It's artificial, the set-up is way out of the everyday - it's surreal, the classic sense of the word ... but with a rough edge, it's not a static image - people are alive in that surreal scene. It's a theatrical psychological moment - and film is the perfect medium for something like that. The whole thing took my breath away.

But it was the second story that is the masterpiece of the film. As monotonous as it will sound, I could have watched an entire two-hour movie of that particular story-line. It was brilliantly executed.

It starts with a sandy expanse of land, and a man on a horse. He sets off galloping across the land, and he rides like a bat out of hell. The horse is a gleaming black stallion, and the vision of the black stallion, and the white sand, and the man in the billowing white shirt - riding the horse as it flies across the earth - is stunning. And it sets up the mood and the pace for the entire storyline. The first story was somewhat static. We remained mostly on Hava's little face, as she chattered up to Hassan in the window, and they shared the lollipop. But this one is all movement. The camera never stops moving - until the very very end ... and as it slowly glides to a stop, it is shattering, because you know it's over. As long as there was movement, there was hope. I have no idea how they got some of these shots. The camera is obviously on a truck, going alongside the galloping horse at the same speed, but there is no jostling, no ups and downs or jerks ... it is a smooth and fast tracking shot, and at times it pulls back and swoops around in a curve, as the man takes off in another direction, giving us an even wider perspective. The choreography of the camera in episode 2 is remarkable. We aren't sure at first what the man is doing, but it is pretty obvious from his body language that he is not out for a leisurely ride. He is looking for something. And then in the distance (the land is absolutely flat), we can see small figures - moving in a horizontal line ... He gallops towards them. (Again, the camera is never once still. We never have a shot with the camera on the ground, and the man galloping by it. It is always in movement and so are the characters ... it's breathless, we are just trying to keep up with everyone. I need to own this film just so I can watch this sequence over and over again.)

As the man approaches the distant figures, we can see the sea beyond them, blue-green, crashing surf. There is a road along the sea. And along that road bicycle black-clad women, 40 of them, 50 ... pedaling furiously, black chadors billowing behind them. It's a stunning visual. We can hear the whizzing of the bicycle wheels, and the crank of the gears, and the little ringing bells when one wants to pass. It's a race. The women look identical, black cut-out silhouettes against the sea, but all wearing jeans and sneakers underneath - and this, like the man on the horse, is not a leisurely ride. They hunch over the handlebars, making themselves streamlined, small, their veils flying up and out behind them like crazy bat wings. Sometimes one surges ahead, and you can feel the others start to work harder, like, "Oh shit ... where does she think SHE'S going?" I just couldn't get enough of what this all looked like. Fantastic. There is obviously, again, a truck with a camera zooming along beside the women bicyclists - but there's no bumps, just a smooth fast procession. But then sometimes, we're in the thick of the race, and there's a handheld camera, and we can hear the heavy panting breaths of the women, the whizzing wheels, the clink-clink of bicycle bells ... the camera moves in front of the procession sometimes, almost leading them on, pulling them forward. The blue surf crashes on their right, and the desert spreads off to their left. The man on the horse makes a beeline for the race, and gallops along beside the women, peering at each one.

But of course they are indistinguishable from one another, because of the veils. He has to move a bit ahead of each woman, and peer back at her face. To see if it is her. It eventually becomes clear that his wife, Ahoo (played by the wonderful Shabnam Toloui - she has two lines, I think - "Hello" and "No" - after all, she's in the middle of a bicycle race, she's not up for chatting - but she's fantastic. Tragic.) has disobeyed his orders to not participate in the bicycle race. He's furious. All of this takes place as he gallops alongside her, and she pedals furiously, glancing up at him occasionally, but never hesitating, never faltering.

He's shouting, at first about how she hurt her leg and she promised him not to bike anymore with her bad leg. She ignores him. There's something frantic in her face. He soon starts to shout about the shame she has brought to him, and that if she doesn't stop the bicycle race he will divorce her. Ahoo keeps pedaling. Finally, he realizes it will do no good, and he gallops off. We think that might be the last of him, but sadly, it is not.

The race careens on at breakneck speed. There's a rivalry between Ahoo and another woman, who's listening to a Walkman as she rides. They are neck and neck. All we hear is her breathing, and the sound of the gears and the wheels. Sometimes a crash of surf. When music finally comes into the segment, near the end, it's horrible. Your heart breaks. You know it's a sign. An eerie portent. But up until then, it's human, and clashing, and fast, and pumping legs and panting breath. Life!

Her husband is not going to give up easily. He gallops back, this time with the village mullah, also galloping on a horse. The mullah gallops alongside Ahoo, shouting at her that that is not a bike she is riding, but "the devil's mount" and she is bringing shame to her family ... Ahoo keeps riding. Faster, faster, never stopping. The two give up and gallop off. We know now that they will be back.

Ahoo is so pumped full of adrenaline, and rage, and competitive spirit, and fear, that she surges ahead, far ahead of the others. She is a singular small black figure, all alone on the road. We still hear only her panting breath and the bicycle wheels.

We grow to hate the sound of hooves and whinnying, and the sound is brought in beautifully - sometimes we hear the hooves and the whinnying before we see the horses, and our hearts sink. The husband keeps returning, with other figures, all male, galloping on horses. Her father. Screaming at her. He tells her he will count to seven, and then she will stop bicycling. "Our tribe doesn't divorce!" He threatens to sic her brothers on her.

Ahoo, crazily pedaling, becomes one of the most heroic figures I've ever seen in cinema. She has no lines. She's an awesome athlete, first of all, with great endurance. She persists, she pushes on, she ignores the shouts and taunts ... but there are times when you can feel it's starting to get to her ... and that's when the other women start to catch up to her, and zip by her. This wakes Ahoo up to her situation, and she pushes forward, a burst of energy and speed.

Again, the camera is never still. It swoops ahead of the race, plunges itself into the middle of the race, sometimes catapults itself far back, so we can see the figures against the sea ... I eventually realized that the speed of the camera in the entire sequence reflects Ahoo's commitment. I became invested in how fast that camera was moving. As long as we zoomed along in a blur, there was hope.

Made even more tragic when you know that Shabnam Toloui, the actress, was banned by the Islamic clergy once it was discovered that she was a member of the Baha'i faith (the Baha'is are persecuted in Iran, sometimes even executed). She was banned from working in film and television in Iran, and finally couldn't take it anymore and moved to Paris to pursue her acting career. I wish her the best of luck. She's terrific.