There’s a lot of interest in personal connection and consolation there. And man is it beautiful.
Persepolis
Based on Marjane Satrapi’s outstanding graphic novels comes this black and white animated delight deals with Satrapi’s own experience being an Iranian citizen, her temporary residence in Austria and her return to her homeland. The film is 90% black and white animation (with a couple snippets of color) and all in French.
The first thing an audience looks for in an animated version of a graphic novel is a visual quality that is respectful of its source material. There are really no qualms to be had there, as co-director Vincent Paronnaud nails Satrapi’s economical but affecting style while making subtle improvements. A haze of ink splatter here, some radical perspective there, toss in a charming near-psychedelic dream sequence and the comics are in motion. The only complaint is at points the fast paced 90 min. telling of her autobiography, coupled with the high contrast black and white gets a little fatiguing to the eye.
Any biopic (and only in a round about way this is), or book adaptation comes up against the twofold task of editing a story down to get through it all, and not completely alienate the fans. Paronnaud and Satrapi (who co-directed as well) triumph in this respect because of their screenplay. No major point in the two Persepolis novels feels too glossed over. Someone who’s never read the books could understand all of the gravity of the political tumult and war tearing Iran, as well as the gracious sense of humor Satrapi employs to the mix. The movie easily shifts from impressionistic visions of young Iranian men falling to their death, to a hilarious, surreal montage detailing Satrapi’s awkward physical transition into womanhood.
Finally the movie retains the instinctual gravity of the stories deepest point: the burden of split consciousness. Most of Satrapi’s battle is a psychological one as she fleas Iran at such a young age to find herself in Vienna. She is as much delighted at the ease of life in her new home, as guilty for leaving her family in a war zone. Little Marjane becomes fluent in French while going through teenage growing pains. She never feels at home amongst her Austrian friends even while head-banging along at a Vienna punk rock show.
A return home can only offer oppressive social codes; women are forced to wear veils over their heads in public and can’t be seen walking with a man unless he is a family member. Marjane’s European sensibilities make her too loud for Iranian oppression, and her respect and awareness of her heritage makes Austria a difficult fit. Her tenacity and humor add color to the black and white balancing act, a stranger in a strange land, Satrapi dreams of God and Marx in the same sigh.
***1/2
Guadalajara
I just got back from a little short of a week in Mexico’s second largest city. Guadalajara is a fascinating and beautiful metropolitan city that sits at a similar elevation to Denver. The plazas, cathedrals and brick streets invoke something vaguely European, but the place is unmistakably Mexican. We saw a majority of Mexican tourists taking pictures of the scenic landmarks. Aside from the massive and bustling Mercado Libertado (open/free market) where you can buy just about anything, the major events were the Guadalajara Filharmonico at the Teatre Degollado, and the Lucha Libre wrestling (you know the masked guys like that Jack Black movie).
The Teatro Degollado is said to rival the famous concert hall in Milan. We saw the Filarmonica de Jalisco perform some great material. Most memorably Fantasia Mexicana para dos Flautas y orquestra by Samuel Zyman. There are several levels of box seats in the theatre adorned by columns and reflective gold all over the place. The impressive circular ceiling has a fresco of angels painted on it.
Unfortunately the Museo de Arte was temporarily closed, but a helpful man working there directed us to an impressive local gallery. It was housed in an old nun’s covenant with stone walls. It featured impressive works by regional artists. I was even more delighted to find out they were screening Mexico’s art house classic The Holy Mountain . The screening room was something of a dungeon with movie seats, perfect for such a mind boggling cinematic journey of the psychedelic absurd.
I was a little disappointed to find out I had a hard time adjusting to the Guadalajaran accent. I was confident it would be no trouble, but the tapatio’s rapid speech sounded dissimilar to the families I was working with in the fall (most of whom were from Chihuahua in the north and had adopted a lot of U.S. Spanish slang). The other problem was all of my exchanges were short and business related (at restaurants, the market etc.). In reality I felt more capable a couple years ago in Spain although my vocabulary was weaker at the time. Accent does a lot to language.
One of the only friendly charlas I got was with an old fisherman at Lake Chapala who was using one liter pop bottles as fishing poles. He had the line wound many times around the middle of the bottles with a key as a sinker and an array of three hooks baited with tortillas on each line. He started to indicate the change in color of the lake several meters out, thinking he was an expert I asked him what caused the effect. He just smiled and shrugged “No sabemos, es naturaleza.” (We don’t know its nature.) I found that very charming.
Guadalajara is an amazing city. Un dia yo regresare.
