'Kandahar' lifts the veil on war-ravaged Afghanistan
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Early in Mohsen Makhmalbaf's absolutely mesmerizing drama "Kandahar," a helicopter — and Makhmalbaf's camera — descends toward a group of black-clad figures, running across the sand. At first, it's a strangely beautiful sight, like birds gliding toward water. As we get closer, though, it becomes clear that the figures are human, and that they are desperately hopping, one-legged, on crutches. This is modern-day Afghanistan, and these men are the maimed victims of war.
The remarkable timeliness of "Kandahar" makes it seem almost like a documentary, and the true story that inspired it is heartbreaking. Journalist Nelofer Pazira (who plays herself in the film, renamed Nafas), who emigrated to Canada from Afghanistan as a teenager, received a despondent letter in 1998 from a close friend left behind. Worried that her friend was contemplating suicide, Pazira made a dangerous attempt to enter Afghanistan to find her, but failed.
Makhmalbaf ("Gabbeh," "The Silence"), a leading figure in contemporary Iranian cinema, adapted Pazira's story and persuaded the journalist to act in the film. Although enough changes were made to render the story fictional — it's essentially the story of what might have happened if Pazira had been able to enter Afghanistan — the tragedy and hopelessness remains intact.
Shot at great risk in a small town on the Iran-Afghanistan border and cast with nonprofessional actors (the elegant Pazira, who radiates quiet intelligence, had never acted before), "Kandahar" is mostly a visual story. No dialogue can carry the weight of rows of veiled little girls, peering at the camera with curiously mature eyes; nor can words appropriately describe their possible future as women of Afghanistan.
And words fail at the sight of artificial legs, sent by disaster-relief agencies for victims of land mines, gently parachuting from the sky. It's surreal, like a Magritte painting turned tragic.
Numerous small dramas fill the story, as Nafas slowly makes her way toward Kandahar. A young boy, engaged by her as a guide, sings like an angel and then, in an instant, turns ghoul as he steals a ring from a skeleton. Red Cross workers, with a wryness brought about by numbing exhaustion, offer artificial legs to those who don't need them. "There are mines everywhere," says one, explaining why it'd be good to have an extra leg on hand.
The Afghan women in the film, without exception, are swathed in loose, veiled gowns called burkas, which cover the entire body and mask the face. The garment can be beautiful — in a shot of a wedding procession, a rainbow of burkas blows in the desert wind — but also burdensome and suffocating.
"Kandahar" is essentially a brief lifting of the veil: Although occasionally its narration is a bit halting and awkward, it's a lyrical, stunning picture of the ravages of war. Its ending — or, rather, its non-ending — is disturbing and yet absolutely right, and the image of Nafas lowering her veil against the sunset will haunt you, long after the sunset fades.
Moira Macdonald: 206-464-2725 or mmacdonald@seattletimes.com.
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