What should be encouraged
By David Walsh
Tuesday, 10 May 2005
This is the first in a series of articles about the recent San Francisco film festival,
held April 21-May 5
The Gravel Road (Chemman Chaalai),
from young Malaysian director Deepak Kumaran Menon, is one of the
loveliest and most moving films I’ve seen in years. One has had grounds
for asking recently: is this still possible, a work that never strikes a
wrong emotional or dramatic note, that uses the camera to evoke quite
precise and definite moods, whose performances (by non-professionals)
are understated and nearly flawless, that contains a subtle but
persistent and deeply-felt protest against social and national
oppression? Such a film exists. And one has to feel heartened by its
appearance.
This is not the end-all and be-all of world cinema. It is a
relatively small piece, rooted in memory, a recreation of a specific
place and time (a Malaysian rubber plantation in the 1960s). Perhaps the
director would stumble if he took on more ambitious and contemporary
problems. Who knows? We will see. In the meantime we have the pleasure
of The Gravel Road. Let’s not be greedier than necessary in these difficult times.
According to Menon (born in Kuala Lumpur in 1979) in an interview,
Indians make up eight percent of the Malaysian population,
three-quarters of them Tamil-speaking. “The British brought the Indians
to Malaysia in the 1940s, to the rubber plantations,” he explained. “And
the Chinese were brought in for the tin mines. Of course they left the
tin mines a long time ago. They control the economic power in the
country, the Malays control the political power in the country. The
Indians somehow could not fit into the society ...”
He went on, “As a matter of fact, Indians in Malaysia have the
highest negative statistics. We have the highest crime rate, the highest
school drop-out rate, etc. If you type in Google for Indian statistics
you will see them.”
The film then, whose publicity amusingly describes it as “An Indian
film without singing and dancing,” is in part an effort to give dignity
to and put a face on the Indian plantation workers’ contribution and
suffering. In the process, something more universal emerges.
A family is at the center of it. The Gravel Road is based
on the experiences of the filmmaker’s mother. In fact, she wrote the
script! The director made some significant changes in her story, to make
the outcome more “hopeful.” But he will explain that himself later on.
Shantha lives on a rubber plantation with her parents, three other
sisters and a younger brother. A uncle, Devan, a truck-driver, plays a
role, as does one of his happy-go-lucky friends. Shantha has a quiet
neighborhood suitor, Narean, as well as a dedicated teacher. The latter
writes on the blackboard, “He who is determined will reach his goals.”
Shantha takes this seriously; she wants to attend university, something
nearly unheard of for a girl from her background.
The family’s financial position worsens. Both parents will have to
take on additional work. Shantha studies long hours. Narean gently
pursues her. He asks, “If you become a big person, will you forget me?”
She, incredulous: “Me without you?” She also helps the family out by
taking a job with a Chinese woman tailor, Atchi. When Shantha explains
that she only knows a little, the woman replies, “Then your pay is
little.”
Money for the eldest sister’s dowry (in an arranged marriage) must
be raised. The mother proposes that her own jewelry be sold. The father
has an accident on his bicycle; somehow the jewelry, the parents’ only
valuable possession, is lost or stolen. A single shot: he lies on the
bed in their small room, she sits on it. No words are necessary to
convey the pain of the situation.
Pressures are placed on the father about Shantha’s schooling.
People ask: hasn’t she been educated enough? The father defends her,
“Let her do what she likes.” Someone tells him: “Don’t be offended. You
have only one son. He’ll be there in your old age.” The teacher brings
an application form for university. The crisis comes to a head. Her
mother now tells Shantha she’s studied enough. The girl responds: “Do
you want me to forget my dreams? Why’d you have so many children [i.e.,
so many mouths to feed]?” Devastated, the older woman poisons herself,
although she eventually recovers. The girl is told she only thinks of
herself; she rejects that, “I will help estate children become scholars
like me.” She’s the only student from the plantation able to attend
university.
Tragedy strikes people near her, in a traffic accident, and her
uncle bears some responsibility. She curls up on her bed and refuses to
eat. Now her mother comes to her and says: continue your studies. She
replies, “I feel very sad, I can’t do it.” The older sister offers
Shantha her wedding money, explaining: “I’m not interested in the
marriage. I’m interested in someone else.”
Ultimately Shantha decides to take the university’s offer of a full
scholarship. Her youngest sister is devastated. “You broke your promise
to take me with you.” “I’ll return and take you all after my studies.”
“Definitely?” “Definitely.” In the final sequence, shot from a distance,
she’s leaving for school; the family stands outside their small house.
The little girl runs to her. An embrace. She goes.
The Gravel Road contains a number of exquisite moments.
The youngest daughter recounts the story of the ‘ugly duckling’ (or at
least half of it) to her father in English while riding in front of him
on a bicycle. The uncle silently and anonymously places a pair of new
running shoes by one of his sleeping nieces, after she has bloodied her
feet running races barefoot. After the fatal accident, the same man sits
disconsolately in the family’s kitchen. Shantha never says a word, but
pours him a glass of water, in an act of forgiveness and reconciliation.
One of the most memorable characters turns out to be Atchi, the
Chinese tailor. One expects something of a stereotype, that she will be a
slave-driver. Instead we feel that her life has been very difficult,
dominated by hard work. She sings while she sews, about beautiful,
far-off things. When Shantha quits the job, Atchi goes inside her shop
and brings the girl a dress, and hands her a bonus. “Study well,” is all
she says, and we know what she means—so your life will be different
than mine. One’s chest tightens. How does someone know all this at
twenty-five or so, when our 40 and 50-year-old American filmmakers have
managed to learn virtually nothing of any use to anyone?
In fact, most film artists in the world today are falling down on
the job: to lay bare social and psychological reality, to enrich
humanity’s understanding of itself, to make sense of life. A devotion to
career and wealth is not the only trap set for the contemporary
filmmaker; self-involvement, the pursuit of the trivial or outright
ignorance have laid low far too many.
Menon’s instincts are healthy ones. He pursues life and represents
it conscientiously, movingly, sensuously. Again, more can be done in
cinema, more can be attempted, but what has been done here is not
insignificant. The life of a working class family, a social
circumstance, a moment in history, presented in detail, with care, with
sympathy, with sharp eyes, with genuine artistry. Not a small thing. No,
not these days. This is also an answer to the semi-hysterical films
about the oppressed from Scandinavia and Britain, for example, which
prevent the filmgoer from seeing or feeling anything except the
director’s own disorientation and morbidity.
Every work is a polemic, and this one argues for a serious approach
to lives that are not generally treated seriously today. More than
that, the representation of Shantha’s fierce determination to leave the
rubber plantation is a protest against a narrow and oppressive condition
that provokes such determination. Whether she goes to
university or not is secondary, what matters is the life shown, its
tragedy, its complexity. The director has succeeded in getting to that.
In our interview, Menon explained the changes he made to his
mother’s life story. “She is from a rubber estate. I had to change a
certain part of her life. In real life, she was not able to go to
university. She settled down on the estate. But her achievement, in her
own mind, was that she made sure that all her children made it to the
university. And my sisters and myself all graduated from college. I
condensed the generations. I couldn’t make it into a TV series!,” he
said, laughing mischievously.
He continued: “But also I wanted the film to be more hopeful and so
I changed the ending. This is what I had in mind actually: I wanted to
present a different part of Indian life, both to the Malaysian community
itself and also to everyone else who watched this film.”
We discussed the question of Shantha’s apparent selfishness in
pursuing her university education. The director commented, “I had to go
into these issues because the estate community is a very close
community. It’s not necessarily considered a good thing to leave the
estate. I did a lot of interviews with the estate people. Some of them
are very happy with their lives. And there are others who want to leave,
who want an opportunity to get out. So I had to balance these things.”
I said, “It’s a delicate question. Does someone from the working
class simply go off to university and forget about everyone else? The
girl says, ‘Well, I’m going to come back and teach the children here.’”
Menon remarked, “My mom is a Tamil school teacher, she’s been a
teacher all her life. That is what she wanted. She helps other people.
She does a lot of things to get her students into university. I’ve met a
lot of her ex-students, she has a lot of passion for education.”
I noted, “It’s clear that the girl is not simply selfish.”
The director: “At a certain point she seems a little self-centered,
but I think to help others first you have to help yourself. I teach in
the university, in multi-media, in Kuala Lumpur. Because of the quota
system it makes it hard for Indians to get into university. It’s a big
challenge. I was the first Indian staff to be in my faculty, it’s very
hard to get even one Indian guy in my class. What do the Indians do
after the age of 12? They reach 12 years old, and they already find it
difficult to continue to secondary level of education. And most of them
don’t make it, unless they leave the country, unless they are rich
enough.
“There’s a huge gap between the rich and the poor, in the Indian
community itself. The divide is very obvious. You can see the really
rich—the really, really rich—textile traders and others, they might own a
lot of Kuala Lumpur itself, then you have the really poor, still in the
rubber estates, and still on the outskirts of KL. It’s very difficult
to achieve anything at all.”
I mentioned Atchi: “It’s not a nationalist film. I thought the
Chinese woman was beautifully done. She’s one of the most remarkable
characters. Her farewell to the girl ...”
He replied, “The Chinese in Malaysia always fought for education.
They said, you can disturb anything, but do not disturb our schools. The
Chinese are very passionate about education, and they always are
supportive of anyone who wanted to go in that direction. The scene where
she’s singing? I tried not to have singing and dancing, but I couldn’t
help it.”
I referred to ethnic and other kinds of stereotypes.
“Stereotypes ... well, I sent the film to the distributor,” Menon
explained, “and the first five minutes, which are quite dark, they
thought there would be a rape scene and so on. I was playing around.
There are a lot of stereotypes about Malaysian Indians, that they’re all
criminals, etc. Malay films in Malaysia portray Indians this way. I’ve
played small roles in Malay films, as an actor. They give me roles as
robbers, thieves who break into houses. I say, ‘Man, why do you always
give me these roles?! I can be a good friend or something.’
“The Malay films often portray the Indian characters like this with
Malay actors who have dark skin. Already it’s a stereotype, they have
to be dark, they have to be moronic. We already had these stereotypes,
it’s very easy to go in that direction. But it causes harm somewhere
along the line. So when I did the film I tried to portray as much as I
could the other side of the Indian community.”
He continued: “The film appeals a lot to the estate people. These
[the performers] are all non-professionals. I pulled them off the
street. If you pluck any guy from the street they would have a clear
idea of the estate, either because of their own experiences, or their
parents’. The actors are from KL, but they have the experience. Some of
the rubber estates have become palm oil estates—rubber is not doing too
well—and also, golf courses. For them it’s a big memory, it’s a big part
of our lives. In fact, I lived on a rubber estate with my grandma,
every holiday I used to hang out there. A lot of things bring back
memories.”
The young filmmaker commented on his limited resources. “I
storyboarded the entire film. I could not afford to waste anything. I
had to shoot a lot of scenes, and I had to do it really fast. If you
watch the film, you see some scenes have a lot of actors in them, and I
only had two wireless mikes and one boom. I had to catch the
environment. All the sound is natural sound. I couldn’t afford to do
voiceovers. I needed to get the shot fast and right. I had to plan
everything, lights, mikes.
“A lot of things happened because of practicalities. In the scene
with the mother and father, the room was extremely small, I couldn’t fit
a lot of angles in it. It’s not always for profound reasons. I love the
scene with the ‘ugly duckling.’ The girl came in telling me the story; I
thought it was a beautiful story. I have a little meaning behind this. I
was implying that if the Indians continued to cause trouble in
Malaysia, we are going to be kicked out. You are the ‘ugly duckling.’
Some people got it, they said, ‘Oh my god, what are you doing?’”
He made a final point about ethnicity, which seemed to sum up his
attitude. “There’s a scene with a ghost? It’s a Nyonya ghost. That’s a
people who are in danger of extinction. A mix of Chinese, Malay and some
of the British. They speak their own language. They have no rights,
because they don’t fall into the main categories. They fall in the
‘Others’ category. In an Indian film, you see an Indian ghost, in a
Chinese film, you see a Chinese ghost, so I thought, why not an ‘Other
race’ ghost? She was my production designer, a Nyonya.”
Other films, other questions
Another film from Malaysia, Sepet, by a Malay director,
Yasmin Ahmad, is not as successful, but it has its moments. About an
interracial relationship, between a Malay girl and a Chinese boy, the
work is a little heavy-handed in its opposition to communalism and
racism. We are not likely to miss the theme. In the first scene, the
Chinese kid, ‘Jason,’ reads a passage from the Bengali poet and novelist
Rabindranath Tagore to his mother. They discuss it: “It’s a different
culture, a different language, yet we can feel what was in his head.”
The film is saved from its own good intentions largely by the
performance of Sharifah Amani as Orked, the Malay teenager who loves
everything Chinese. She’s a delight in various languages and
combinations thereof. “The French fries here are the best!” she
proclaims in English at one point. A scene in a hospital between Jason
and his friend (who is also in love with Orked) is also memorable. They
agree that hundreds of years ago interracial marriage was possible. “How
come it’s hard now?” The relationship between Orked and Jason runs into
difficulties. In a memorable scene, Orked and her mother weep in a car
over the sad fate of love, threatened as it is by ethnic divisions and
other social pressures. They weep convincingly.
The Riverside, directed by Alireza Amini—who made Letters in the Wind,
about conscripts in the Iranian armed forces in 2002, a film that had
censorship problems—is an unsettling work set on the Iraq-Iranian
border. A group of Iraqi Kurds is heading toward the border to escape
the disaster created by the US invasion. A young bride with a red veil
and red suitcase, on her wedding day, is among them. She has stepped on a
land-mine. If she lifts her foot, the mine will detonate. Her husband
has run to a nearby village for help.
Various people come upon her in her plight: a man carrying the
corpse of his young son in a plastic bag; a woman whose only possession,
a cow, has run off, frightened by war-planes; a young man loaded down
with weapons for sale; a grumpy older man and his thirsty sons. Each
sets aside his or her difficulties for a moment in the face of the young
bride’s horrifying situation. The old man says, “We’ve become homeless
because of war and politics, but since I’ve seen this bride I’ve
forgotten my problems.” They talk to her, sing to her, tell her stories.
The young man with weapons tells her to place rocks on her foot to keep
weight on the mine.
The enormous suffering of the people of the region is brought home.
The girl, who, despite her predicament, lowers her veil when the first
of the passersby speaks to her, wails and shrieks. Here is oppressed
humanity waiting entirely passively, one feels, to be helped, or
destroyed. The radio broadcasts news of the US invasion.
Despite its grim premise, the film manages to be both compassionate
and even humorous. The cross-talk among the stragglers is entirely
convincing. The old woman tells a strange, lengthy story about a woman
who keeps divorcing her husbands after she’s not pleased by the wedding
feasts. At each meal she’s offered only dried bread and a fish-head, and
she demands a divorce! Five, six times! Finally, she gives up, ‘What
can I do? I’ve changed husbands, I can’t change fate. I have to live
with it.’
What’s the director’s attitude toward this kind of resignation?
Presumably he’s critical of the passivity shown by the refugees. “We
have to do something,” everyone agrees ... but what? They place their
hopes in the husband, whose running legs are the only parts we ever see.
In ironic counterpoint, another old woman carries two girls on her
back through the harsh landscape, promising them a wonderful future:
“Everywhere in the world is nice, mountains, desert. You’ll be brides,
beautiful brides.” Needless to say, the film does not end happily.
Champions from the Czech Republic is not a flawless work,
but it seems like an attempt to get at something about contemporary life
in eastern Europe. A group of more or less impoverished Czechs, only
one of whom seems to hold down a steady job, eke out an existence in a
miserable small town. For the men, ice hockey is the center of their
life; in fact, it is their entire life. One of their number turns out to
be possessed of the ability, when drunk to the point of senselessness,
of predicting the outcomes of hockey games. One thing leads to another.
Nationalism and racism feed off the economic and moral despair. “We
have to root for ourselves, because no one else will!” says one of the
locals. When the Czechs win the world title, chants of “We’re the
champions!” ring out from the wretched barroom. The irony will be lost
on no one.
Hungary has specialized in gloomy, misanthropic films in the post-Stalinist era (and perhaps before). Dealer,
about 24 hours in the life of a nameless drug dealer, is not entirely
free of self-conscious moroseness, but it shows a bit of life too along
the way. And not a pretty life. The dealer, who mostly sits and listens,
is both a dispenser of pain and a source of relief to those in
desperate need: a religious leader with an absurdly distended abdomen, a
college student whose friend has been groaning for days, an
ex-girl-friend whose daughter may or may not be the dealer’s own, his
own father crazed with grief and loneliness after the suicide of his
wife. One derives a picture of people at sea, without any hope of
reaching land.
There are different tendencies in world film-making. The Gravel Road represents one. French director Claire Denis’ The Intruder,
another. The latter work concerns an older man who needs a heart
transplant and uses his considerable resources to purchase one. He seems
cold, brutal. The director says, “He is a loveless guy and a heartless
guy. A man without compassion, he is greedy, he wants more life, more
everything.” We see him in bed with a woman, murdering a man, conducting
business in South Korea, finally pursuing and attempting to reconcile
with his son in the South Seas.
The film, like nearly every other work by Denis, does nothing for
me. One senses that the director is simply taking shots in the dark,
guessing at what might be important. We are told by one critic that the
“theme of border crossing, cultural displacement, and societal
acceptance or rejection has been consistent in the films of Claire
Denis.” Perhaps. But what does she say about this theme? One shouldn’t
ask such impertinent questions.
The director expresses her feelings. I don’t know what to make of
them. She tells us little about the world, merely something about her
feelings. Her feelings intervene between the viewer and the world. I
know something about how Denis views her filmmaking and her position in
filmmaking. (“By writing the script, I can see the locations and feel
what the locations express. I can see the lens that I am going to use.
Everything is familiar to me. The film is not taking me by surprise; I
am inside the film.” Of what use are these observations to anyone?) We
know she aspires to be taken seriously. She aspires to be a serious
artist. But we know next to nothing more about the world, which is far
more interesting and varied in the end.
As opposed to this, what we see in a film like The Gravel Road,
is a ‘surrendering’ by the artist to the world, in the words of
Aleksandr Voronsky, Soviet critic and Left Oppositionist. Voronsky
wrote, “But it will not be subjective if the artist surrenders himself
to the world, if, to use philosophical language, he reproduces the
thing-in-itself rather than the thing-for-us. By surrendering to the
flood of his initial supra-rational perceptions, by re-embodying
himself, the artist virtually dissolves his ‘ego’ into these
perceptions, not, however, in order to run away from his own being, but
to find the world as it is in itself, in its most lively and beautiful
forms.”
One sees affected, self-conscious films, films made to impress, like Duck Season from Mexico, about a pair of teenage boys left on their own in one of the families’ apartment, like The Intruder. And one sees The Gravel Road, The Riverside, with their limitations. Here are two opposed tendencies. I will take the latter any day, twenty times a day.
Source:
World Socialist Website
