There is truly something magical in the works of Iranian filmmaker, Majid Majidi, in the way he can capture the beauty of both the natural and the industrial, the comedy in poverty, and the innocence of childhood. His rich worlds and memorable characters have consistently stood out for me from the moment I was dazzled by the mountain villages of رنگ خدا (The Color of Paradise) and moved by the affection between brother and sister in بچههای آسمان (Children of Heaven). The Song of Sparrows serves as a third marker of the man's genius as a filmmaker who consistently captures the essence of Iranian life and serves it as a fine dish for international palates.
The Song of Sparrows takes us into the more familiar desert climate of Iran, where Karim works on an ostrich farm. However, the desert portrayed here is hardly bleak, its silky, tufted grass swaying to an unearthly rhythm as the characters pass through. The homes are simple, poor, yet never for a moment lack warmth, even as Karim's junk pile builds in his courtyard. There is something in the way Majidi portrays this country that makes it feel inviting, even when he transitions into the big city of Tehran. Here, among the slums and traffic, he still finds a rhythm, brings out the color, and sees the humor in the way people interact with each other in a such a place. So enriched are these worlds that a mere blink feels like a disrespectful act.
The Song of Sparrows follows its predecessors in a warm sense of humor. His characters are, without exception, very poor and struggling to make ends meet yet never fail to find the humor in their situations. Karim in particular is hilarious in his mistakes, starting when he disciplines a group of boys for climbing into a dirty well because it's unsafe; then when one of the boys spots a snake, Karim pushes one of them into the muddy water to get out of the way. He prances through the desert wearing an ostrich disguise, walks into his neighbor's house to grab a spare door and walks out again, and picks up the most bizarre bunch of passengers on his motorcycle. (It really is a marvel how many oddly shaped devices a person can carry on the back of a motorcycle; I recommend watching it just to see them.) Yet, above all of Karim's quirks and his occasional bouts of temper, his caring relationship with his family makes him all the more endearing.
Finally, Majidi's portrayal of children is inspired. He has a tendency to give at least one child character a handicap, be it blindness or deafness. Their fathers try to shape them as best as they can, but in the end, the child who knows what (s)he wants cannot be molded. I found the story of the boys cleaning out the well to fill it with fish to be enchanting. No matter how much resistance Karim put forth, how he stormed and raged, the kids really did a marvelous job of renewing a filthy eyesore. The child actors are adorable in their innocence, and they, like every other of Majidi's characters, are so convincing that the viewer cannot imagine that they could have lives outside of these stories. They become such a part of these villages, these terrains, these stories, that the films themselves are truly alive.
A warning to film students and snobs: this is not a rapid film, nor does it stick to 8-sequence structure. It is a slice of life, a meditation on a character, but every second of it is enchanting, and in the few points where it slows down noticeably, one can be assured that it is only a preparation for a new surprise. Should you get a chance to rent this gem of Iranian cinema, or indeed any work by Majid Majidi, take it and enjoy.
The Song of Sparrows takes us into the more familiar desert climate of Iran, where Karim works on an ostrich farm. However, the desert portrayed here is hardly bleak, its silky, tufted grass swaying to an unearthly rhythm as the characters pass through. The homes are simple, poor, yet never for a moment lack warmth, even as Karim's junk pile builds in his courtyard. There is something in the way Majidi portrays this country that makes it feel inviting, even when he transitions into the big city of Tehran. Here, among the slums and traffic, he still finds a rhythm, brings out the color, and sees the humor in the way people interact with each other in a such a place. So enriched are these worlds that a mere blink feels like a disrespectful act.
The Song of Sparrows follows its predecessors in a warm sense of humor. His characters are, without exception, very poor and struggling to make ends meet yet never fail to find the humor in their situations. Karim in particular is hilarious in his mistakes, starting when he disciplines a group of boys for climbing into a dirty well because it's unsafe; then when one of the boys spots a snake, Karim pushes one of them into the muddy water to get out of the way. He prances through the desert wearing an ostrich disguise, walks into his neighbor's house to grab a spare door and walks out again, and picks up the most bizarre bunch of passengers on his motorcycle. (It really is a marvel how many oddly shaped devices a person can carry on the back of a motorcycle; I recommend watching it just to see them.) Yet, above all of Karim's quirks and his occasional bouts of temper, his caring relationship with his family makes him all the more endearing.
Finally, Majidi's portrayal of children is inspired. He has a tendency to give at least one child character a handicap, be it blindness or deafness. Their fathers try to shape them as best as they can, but in the end, the child who knows what (s)he wants cannot be molded. I found the story of the boys cleaning out the well to fill it with fish to be enchanting. No matter how much resistance Karim put forth, how he stormed and raged, the kids really did a marvelous job of renewing a filthy eyesore. The child actors are adorable in their innocence, and they, like every other of Majidi's characters, are so convincing that the viewer cannot imagine that they could have lives outside of these stories. They become such a part of these villages, these terrains, these stories, that the films themselves are truly alive.
A warning to film students and snobs: this is not a rapid film, nor does it stick to 8-sequence structure. It is a slice of life, a meditation on a character, but every second of it is enchanting, and in the few points where it slows down noticeably, one can be assured that it is only a preparation for a new surprise. Should you get a chance to rent this gem of Iranian cinema, or indeed any work by Majid Majidi, take it and enjoy.
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