Always Good Movies

Direction: Kaouther Ben Hania
Country: Tunisia

For her second fictional feature film, Tunisian writer-director Kaouther Ben Hania sought inspiration in the Belgian contemporary artist Wim Delvoye's living work Tim (2006). She tells the story of Sam Ali (Yahya Mahayni), a Syrian refugee who was forced to flee his tumultuous country to Lebanon, where he was literally turned into a flesh-and-blood piece of art by the provocative Belgian artist Jeffrey Godefroi (Koen De Bouw). The latter’s concept consists in tattooing a Schengen visa on Sam’s back, which, ironically, allows him to travel to Europe, not as a human being but as a work of art.

Unwillingly, Sam left his sweetheart, Abeer (Dea Liane), at the mercy of Ziad (Saad Lostan), a smug politician who works for the Syrian embassy in Belgium. Years later, they have a chance to meet again in Brussels.

The duality achieved between being a famished refugee and an exploitative object of art is thoughtful and works well until we reach the film's midpoint. At that stage, Hania makes this crushing love story nosedive into fabricated banality, also spoiling the potential of the romance. It really seems that the finale was cooked up under pressure after an ambitious start.

As my interest kept declining, The Man Who Sold His Skin showed to have a lot more in mind than what it could handle. This once promising satire, made imperfect by a weak twist, misses the killing blow.

Directed by Leyla Bouzid
Country: Tunisia / France / other

Leyla Bouzid’s debut feature is imbued with a tactful dramatic strength and attractive charm. It’s no surprise that the film has conquered Venice when it was exhibited at that city’s prestigious film festival.

Happy and confident, Farah (Baya Medhaffer) is an 18-year-old Tunisian girl who lives in Tunis with her protective mother, Hayet (Ghalia Benali). For political reasons, her dissident father has no work in Tunis, having been relegated to the small city of Gafsa.
The year is 2010, only a few months before the start of the Jasmine Revolution.
Ms. Bouzid deftly reconstructs the atmosphere of fear lived at that time, when the corrupt regime of the former President Ben Ali, who ruled for 23 long years, intimidated, both physically and psychologically, the ones who seemed a threat to his leadership.

So, how come the innocuous, naive, and impulsive Farah is tracked down and threatened by the stern authorities?
She’s not only a brilliant student who was admitted to the demanding medical school but also an astounding singer, playing regularly with a rock band named Joujma whose leader, a lute player called Bohrène (Montassar Ayari), becomes her first true love.
In addition to the fun of playing their own songs, the goal consists in denouncing the oppression lived in the country through the illustrative lyrics that accompany the inebriating rhythms and harmonies, which is a soulful blend of modernity and tradition.
Still, the problems don’t resume solely to the truth carried by the songs. Farah is frequently seen drinking alcohol in bars, which are considered men’s places, as well as hidden in some bushes with her boyfriend, timidly discovering love.

Farah starts an arm wrestling with her experienced mother who, despite the woes and insistent warnings, understands better than anyone the rebelliousness of her daughter, almost a reflection of her own past. However, she feels powerless and anguished when her obstinate child vanishes, having to resort to an influential man who once was part of her youth.

Baya Medhaffar has an auspicious debut in front of the cameras, also surprising us with the interpretations of the original music composed by the Iraqi oud master, Khyam Allami.
The message conveyed by Ms. Bouzid, who co-wrote with Marie-Sophie Chambon, is utterly pungent and yet, I had the feeling that a few particular scenes, whether could have been better crafted or even suppressed.
Notwithstanding, we’re before a genuine and articulate statement about human rights, well contextualized in its socio-political perception.