Cabo Negro

 

Writer/director Abdellah Taïa

CABO NEGRO           B                                                                                                         France  Morocco  (76 mi)  2024  d: Abdellah Taïa

This has a kind of Waiting for Godot vibe, as two young queer students from Casablanca, best friends Soundouss and Jaâfar (Oumaïma Barid and Youness Beyej), arrive at a luxury villa in Cabo Negro, a beachside community in northern Morocco, while awaiting the arrival of an older American from New York, Jonathan, who is renting the villa for the month of August and lent them the keys, yet never arrives.  While there are indications Jonathan and Jaâfar are former lovers, Soundouss is also excited about the arrival of her girlfriend Soumaya who remained behind in Casablanca, sending her inflamed messages, where expectations are high that they will spend a carefree month in the sun, swimming on the beach, living a comfortable life, where the idyllic setting offers a reprieve from surrounding social and political upheavals.  This beautiful locale has the makings of your typical Éric Rohmer film, who set many of his films along the sunny shores of summer beach holidays, where the sensual atmosphere and youthful carefree vibe became a staple of French cinema, though the Moroccan director has chosen an altogether different path, choosing a minimalist, near documentary approach with quiet observation, and while the film’s languid sensuality is undeniable, it’s difficult to comprehend the motivations behind the character’s actions.  Born in Salé just outside Rabat, Abdellah Taïa is the first Moroccan writer to live openly and unapologetically gay, eloquently writing a coming out confession to his family (Homosexuality Explained to My Mother), publishing several novels ('A Country for Dying' Review: A Fresco of Departures, Real ...), while currently living in Paris and writing in French, where any notion of home remains elusive, as back home he is viewed as a “traitor,” with Morocco’s biggest-selling newspaper denouncing him, while also attacked by other Moroccan writers, journalists, and politicians, with many suggesting he should be stoned.  Realizing at an early age that words were used to denounce the LGBTQ community, making them feel dirty and despised, where families often cast out these children as misfits from society, and for that reason he is wary of how language is used to portray gay people, who remain extremely vulnerable to acts of violence, as gays are routinely demonized as evil by religious and political entities, making them ashamed of who they are.  There’s an expression from the American South, “Watch the dog that carries the bone,” in other words watch the messenger.  Growing up, the director felt he was all alone, with no one in the world able to identify what he was going through, leaving him isolated and alone, where he had to navigate his way through troubled waters in a society that offers no refuge, only hateful rejection.  Offering a very low-key sense of what it is like to be queer in Morocco, and still be a practicing Muslim, his goal is to make cinema accessible to those same LGBTQ youth growing up today, offering them inclusive avenues they may not have felt or known about, yet it’s clear this is a man on a mission.  Taïa was present at the screening and he’s an unusually gifted speaker, highly intelligent and emotionally compelling, where his command of language in both mediums is thought-provoking.

Largely due to the director’s mistrust for how language can misconstrue reality, this is more of a moody, atmospheric film filled with deeper meaning, with very little dialogue and long silent pauses, where the scale of the film remains small, and the plot purposefully oblique, allowing viewers to recognize other aspects of storytelling, where that initial euphoria turns mysteriously dark and melancholic, growing more circumspect as Jonathan avoids all attempts at contact, refusing to answer his phone, and remains completely out of touch, while Soumaya has similarly distanced herself from Soundouss, leaving her down in the dumps.  This strange turn of events leaves them both perplexed and dismayed, suddenly finding themselves unable to pay the rent or buy food, as if stranded on an island with no provisions, yet rather than return home they decide to stay and make the best of it, walking to the beach each day, soaking up the sun, and just enjoying the simple pleasures of living.  But Taïa throws in a few wrinkles we haven’t seen before, as hiding in the forested path to the ocean is a group of Africans awaiting their chance to be smuggled across the sea into Europe, where direct eye contact is made, but no words are actually spoken.  Similarly, when a lone stranger follows them, rather than turn him away, they actually offer him food and a safe place to sleep for a night, discovering he’s just been released from 3-years in prison for a crime he never committed.  When they run out of food, they both stand along a wall at night waiting to be picked up by random strangers for paid sexual hookups, a social realist reflection of early Fellini films, expressing a harsh reality that exists side-by-side with their upscale accommodations.  Making things even more disruptive, the villa owner arrives unannounced in an angry mood, where he’s not pleased to see they are not Jonathan, who apparently has a history of renting the villa each summer.  Nonetheless, they treat him with respect, offer him sweetened tea the way he likes, but he’s aloof and standoffish with them, believing they are misfits and undesirables, eventually giving them an ultimatum to leave, but only after he orders Soundouss into one of the empty rooms where he rapes her, giving them three more days, which is like a dark cloud hanging over their heads.  This beguiling feature is a clever examination of upended expectations, homophobia and sex tourism, and an ambiguously sexy vacation thriller, reckoning with queerness within the prism of Arabic and Muslim culture, as Taïa adds artistic rigor to confront age-old beliefs while maintaining a compassionate gaze for all his characters, where the end result displays an unexpected intensity.  

As Jaâfar is paying respects to his father’s nearby grave, another man, Mounir (Julian Compan), runs into him asking for help, as he’s searching for his grandmother’s grave, but he’s French and can’t read Arabic.  He’s invited back to the villa afterwards, where we learn he was rejected by his family for being gay, and despite his grandmother’s prolonged illness, they wouldn’t allow him to see her before she died.  Yet his grandmother was everything to him, as she fully embraced who he was with no reservations, and made him feel loved.  This heartrending story allows the viewing audience to understand the true meaning of the word “tolerance.”  It’s important to understand the director’s motives here, as he’s targeting the LGBTQ youth in Morocco who have no desire to run away to Los Angeles to find freedom, but want to find a way to live in their own country, as difficult as that may seem under strict Islamic laws that view homosexuality as a punishable offense that may lead to prison terms or even death (The Islamic State's Views on Homosexuality).  Even in this idyllic setting, these kids need to navigate their way through a difficult path, as Morocco is no longer the gay and lesbian paradise of the 1970’s, home to Jean Genet (and William S. Burroughs in the 50’s) and a regular destination of Rainer Werner Fassbinder, but is a country that criminalizes and persecutes the LGBTQ community, and while disheartened, they don’t lose faith or change their values to reflect the harshness inflicted upon them.  Instead they freely reach out to others, making a celebratory feast of couscous and invite a group of African exiles awaiting safe passage, people who would never be invited into a villa like this, as it caters to a wealthy white elite with plenty of money to spread around.  These communal experiences are the heart of the film, like dancing with strangers, as they offer ways to live their lives freely accepting the differences in others, who are nonetheless embraced, with no lectures or self-absorbed tirades to make themselves feel good, but simply because it’s the right thing to do, creating a world filled with fleeting interactions and temporary connections, embracing the cultural Moroccan messages without the divisive rhetoric.  Taïa got the idea for the film by following an Instagram account of two young gay Moroccans, only to notice that over time the girl goes mysteriously missing, yet he notices they exhibit powerful signs of a vibrant new iGeneration trying to express themselves, despite the aggressive government response of denunciation, living for the moment day by day with a sense of longing and hope, yet openly thriving outside established rules.  This gave him the framework for a story, where he could add his own fictional embellishments, creating LGBTQ protagonists whose voices blend together forming a unique stream-of-conscious mix, deciding they can no longer wait for societies to change, instead creating a safe sanctuary through their own bonds of solidarity amongst themselves, sharing meals and their own loving experiences, offering a sense of grace even while there are turbulent forces around them fomenting social and political violence.    

Oasis

 

Writer/director Lee Chang-dong

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

OASIS (Oasiseu)                    A-                                                                                               South Korea  (132 mi)  2002  d:  Lee Chang-dong

This is a wild adventure, bold and brutally raw, yet also unusually innovative and psychologically intriguing, a wretchedly close-up look at societal prejudice through one of the most improbable and disturbing love affairs ever captured on film, which is also heartbreaking, as there are small, intimate moments that will simply take your breath away.  Assuredly directed, evenly paced, using a whole arsenal of camera techniques, the film features two outstanding lead performances that couldn’t be more difficult for the audience to watch, each exposed through different opening segments.  Hong Jong-du, in a simply dazzling performance by Sol Kyung-qu, makes the impossible become possible, as his completely unlikable manner later becomes endearing to the audience.  He roams the streets in a short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt while everyone else is wearing winter clothes, smiling, affable, completely at ease with himself, though his body is a neverending series of nervous energy where he can’t stop himself from constantly wiping his nose throughout the film.  Others find him so repulsive that they think of calling the cops the moment they see him.  In American films, the seedy character of Ratso Rizzo from MIDNIGHT COWBOY (1969) comes to mind, but this character hasn’t half his brains.  The man defies convention, lurching into action the moment anything comes to mind, operating completely by instinct, his body a constant stream of twitching motion, never sitting still, so out of control on the edge of society that there’s no one else out there with him.  Recently released from prison, perhaps mildly retarded, certainly behaviorally challenged, his family has moved and changed phone numbers, perhaps hoping they never see him again, leaving him hanging in the wind trying to survive on nothing.  But when the police arrest him for failing to pay for meals, his family resumes the position of bailing him out of trouble, seemingly a neverending task.  

Out of the blue and apparently without any thought to what would happen, Jong-du decides to pay his respects by bringing a fruit basket to the family whose father he was convicted of killing in the hit and run accident that led to his incarceration.  Outraged at the thought of seeing him again, they find his presence disgusting, but no more disgusting than what we soon discover they are planning to do, which is leave their seriously disabled daughter with an advanced stage of cerebral palsy, Han Gong-ju (Moon So-ri), alone to fend for herself in a rathole of an apartment while the rest of the family moves into a brand new spacious residence that was built to accommodate the needs of the disabled.  Gong-ju in a wheelchair is a sorry sight from the moment we see her, as her physical contortions are profoundly disturbing and awkwardly off-putting, her eyes moving around her unsteady head which itself has no muscle control, with stunted growth on her hands and feet, unable to walk and barely able on occasion to blurt out a few nearly unrecognizable words.  Adding to the wretchedness of this situation, Jong-du returns later to find Gong-ju alone and sexually assaults her to her hysterical cries and shrieks, only deterred when she faints, where he then actually takes the time to make sure she recovers.  With this brief moment of concern, our revulsion turns to amazement as an oddball friendship ensues. 

In what could only be described as remarkable, the audience is immediately intrigued by Gong-ju’s use of a hand mirror, continually glaring it in Jong-du’s face, where the light reflections break up into surrealistic images of little butterflies.  Earlier, to the sounds of her singing a soft melody, we saw light rays in her room turn into a slow motion rendering of a white dove fluttering around her apartment.  These visions are sparingly used, but quite effective, as on occasion Gong-ju actually becomes the woman she envisions, completely healthy without any physical deformities, but still glaringly in tune with her partner.  When they meet, Jong-du tells her that her name in Korean means “princess,” which he affectionately calls her after that, claiming he was named after a famous general, the nickname she uses for him, but only after pointing out that the famous general he was referring to was actually a notorious traitor.  Meanwhile, Jong-du becomes her only friend, seemingly the only one who talks to her, even calling her on the phone, sharing noodles together, doing her laundry, washing her hair, and is certainly the only one whoever takes her outdoors from her imprisoned environment.  In the real world, however, no one sees her as a person, instead she is simply a deformed creature that people have learned to stay away from.  When Jong-du brings her to his mother’s family birthday party at an upscale local restaurant, the family is immediately repulsed at the sight of her and no one except Jong-du ever offers to help her.  After both being roundly rejected at the restaurant, Jong-du doesn’t want to go home but wants to make a special night of it, taking her to a karaoke lounge where he holds nothing back, screeching at the top of his lungs while singing her a beautiful love song. 

From the long opening shot which focuses on an Indian tapestry hanging on the wall, like an exotic magic carpet showing a beautiful princess along with a young servant and an elephant at a water hole next to a giant palm tree, this film does an excellent job creating the fragile interior world of the lead characters, using music and eloquent fantasy sequences as brilliant contrasts from the blunt trauma of an uncaring exterior world that is a near documentary depiction of lower class deprivation.  As the film progresses, we learn how the families have turned their backs on both of these individuals in such a morally reprehensible manner that it’s as if society is tilted upside down, where the outside world is nothing but arrogance and self-serving class interests that blames or pushes aside anyone that stands in their way, making both of these hapless individuals easy family scapegoats.  Without ever mentioning it, both understand the degree of their social ostracization where there has never been anyone else who actually took the time for either one of them.  Over time, as the views of society prevail, this couple is but a faint glitch on a radar screen, thoroughly bulldozed by the larger societal interests and savagely misunderstood, where the realist world continues to have their own way of seeing things.  One can’t help but be utterly flabbergasted at what is achieved by the end of the film, where despite their wrenchingly sad predicament, there is something profoundly upbeat and emotionally cathartic about what we’ve experienced here, using vibrant exit music that has a Latin jazz tinge of what we might hear from Wong Kar-wai, leading to a tremendous climax that only dissolves afterwards over the end credits.  The exquisite music is attributed to Lee Jae-jin.  Moon So-ri’s painstaking detail in expressing her physical deformity is nothing less than phenomenal, apparently realized by living in a house of cerebral palsy residents for several months prior to the shoot, which certainly adds a spectacular layer of realism to the sheer look of this film, never for a moment overshadowing the equally stunning physical mannerisms of Sol Kyung-qu.