This is Part II in a four-part series about the history of Kurdish cinema. Part I is available here.
Kurdish cinema began by inching its way onto the world stage as political films with human rights themes at their core. But what is it that makes Kurdish cinema stand apart from that of the Middle East and where does it stand in the world cinema scene?
Most Kurdish films take place within Kurdistan and some within the territories of the occupying states where Kurdish characters encounter, interact with, challenge, defy, and/or help their non-Kurd counterparts. For instance, Kazim Oz’s “Bahoz” (Storm, 2008) deals with a group of Kurdish university students/activists in Istanbul, and his “Fotograf” (Photograph, 2001) depicts a young Kurd sharing a seat with a Kurdophobic gendarme during a bus ride to the Kurdistan region of Turkey. Hiner Saleem’s “Kilometer Zero” (2005) likewise takes the viewer across the barren Iraqi desert of the 1980s with two soldiers, a Kurd and an Arab, who are commissioned to deliver the body of a Kurdish soldier to his family in Kurdistan.
While “Fotograf” masterfully handles the internal struggles of Kurd vs. Turk on the bus ride where they have periods of small talk and even share cigarettes, the characters in “Kilometer Zero” collide face-to-face as Kurd vs. Arab trek across Saddam Hussein-era Iraq. Both films are unique and powerful in their own rights.
Yet another perspective of Kurd vs. adversary is tackled in Shawket Amin Korki’s “Crossing the Dust” where two Good Samaritan Peshmerga help out a lost Arab boy ironically named Saddam in an Arab village during the second Gulf war.
Direct frenemy encounters are a natural part of Kurdish life and often unavoidable. Many folktales depicting ancient encounters with foreign invaders and neighboring groups — be it the Romans, Greeks, Seljuk Turks, Arabs, Armenians, or Persians — have been preserved through oral story-telling tradition and song. Kurdish films follow a similar path only through a new medium.
Stories that deal directly with the authorities of the ruling states constitute a large portion of Kurdish cinema. Among these films are Yilmaz Guney’s “Yol” (The Road, 1982) and “The Wall” (1983).
In comparison, cinemas of the other peoples that share the Middle East are less concerned with human rights themes as for them it’s a non-issue. They rather root for social dramas and mainstream product with plain entertainment as a motive to feed a wide viewership in the Middle East and North Africa (Arabic films) and Central Asia (Turkic films).
Israeli productions on the other hand are often labeled as art-house movies that find a home in the Western hemisphere. A handful of Iranian filmmakers are also credited for turning out a veritably good poetic fair with clever symbolism often used to defy rigid autocrats – the stuff festivals love to gobble up.
Kurdish films are occasionally pitched against their Iranian counterparts and are labeled as festival films for their serious subject matter, aesthetics, and often simple storytelling approach. Case in point, “Jiyan” (2002), was likened to Abbas Kiarostami’s “The Wind Will Carry Us” (1999) by The Guardian’s Peter Bradshaw. Upon deeper analysis, however, one may conclude that Iranian films can be poetic, but Kurdish films can be poetic with a sense of urgency.
On the downside, some Kurdish filmmakers seem to play up the victimhood syndrome too much and frequently, often showing Kurds at the short end of the stick, soliciting viewer sympathy, imploring, and obliging them to shed a tear or two. Once I invited a producer friend in Los Angeles to see “One Candle, Two Candles.” Days later, she dropped me a note saying she had a handkerchief out in preparation to watch the movie, but instead she found herself creased up and the only tears she had to wipe were happy tears. Yes, Kurdish films tend to have a sad aura about them as a reflection of their turbulent history past and present. As a consequence, their outreach is limited to a niche segment of society.
Another characteristic employed by some filmmakers but not all is crowding their films with overtly unsophisticated and almost primitive characters, imprinting a not-so-positive picture in the foreign viewer’s mind. These films are made specifically for festival attention and end up happy with awards, but do not shed a good light on the Kurds in general.
To sum up, Kurdish films stand out from their Middle Eastern counterparts and world cinema in that they are message-oriented representations of prevalent human rights issues and a plea for righting wrongs and correcting misconceptions about a people, their dreams, and their place in today’s world. Despite their shortcomings, like victimhood syndrome, sad aura, and character belittlement, they nonetheless serve as a window on Kurdish culture, geopolitics, and way of life.
My personal approach and mantra regarding filmmaking is that a good film is one that makes you laugh a little, cry a little, and walk away with something to ruminate on. And that should be the slogan of Kurdish cinema as well.
Kurdish cinema began by inching its way onto the world stage as political films with human rights themes at their core. But what is it that makes Kurdish cinema stand apart from that of the Middle East and where does it stand in the world cinema scene?
Most Kurdish films take place within Kurdistan and some within the territories of the occupying states where Kurdish characters encounter, interact with, challenge, defy, and/or help their non-Kurd counterparts. For instance, Kazim Oz’s “Bahoz” (Storm, 2008) deals with a group of Kurdish university students/activists in Istanbul, and his “Fotograf” (Photograph, 2001) depicts a young Kurd sharing a seat with a Kurdophobic gendarme during a bus ride to the Kurdistan region of Turkey. Hiner Saleem’s “Kilometer Zero” (2005) likewise takes the viewer across the barren Iraqi desert of the 1980s with two soldiers, a Kurd and an Arab, who are commissioned to deliver the body of a Kurdish soldier to his family in Kurdistan.
While “Fotograf” masterfully handles the internal struggles of Kurd vs. Turk on the bus ride where they have periods of small talk and even share cigarettes, the characters in “Kilometer Zero” collide face-to-face as Kurd vs. Arab trek across Saddam Hussein-era Iraq. Both films are unique and powerful in their own rights.
Yet another perspective of Kurd vs. adversary is tackled in Shawket Amin Korki’s “Crossing the Dust” where two Good Samaritan Peshmerga help out a lost Arab boy ironically named Saddam in an Arab village during the second Gulf war.
Direct frenemy encounters are a natural part of Kurdish life and often unavoidable. Many folktales depicting ancient encounters with foreign invaders and neighboring groups — be it the Romans, Greeks, Seljuk Turks, Arabs, Armenians, or Persians — have been preserved through oral story-telling tradition and song. Kurdish films follow a similar path only through a new medium.
Stories that deal directly with the authorities of the ruling states constitute a large portion of Kurdish cinema. Among these films are Yilmaz Guney’s “Yol” (The Road, 1982) and “The Wall” (1983).
In comparison, cinemas of the other peoples that share the Middle East are less concerned with human rights themes as for them it’s a non-issue. They rather root for social dramas and mainstream product with plain entertainment as a motive to feed a wide viewership in the Middle East and North Africa (Arabic films) and Central Asia (Turkic films).
Israeli productions on the other hand are often labeled as art-house movies that find a home in the Western hemisphere. A handful of Iranian filmmakers are also credited for turning out a veritably good poetic fair with clever symbolism often used to defy rigid autocrats – the stuff festivals love to gobble up.
Kurdish films are occasionally pitched against their Iranian counterparts and are labeled as festival films for their serious subject matter, aesthetics, and often simple storytelling approach. Case in point, “Jiyan” (2002), was likened to Abbas Kiarostami’s “The Wind Will Carry Us” (1999) by The Guardian’s Peter Bradshaw. Upon deeper analysis, however, one may conclude that Iranian films can be poetic, but Kurdish films can be poetic with a sense of urgency.
On the downside, some Kurdish filmmakers seem to play up the victimhood syndrome too much and frequently, often showing Kurds at the short end of the stick, soliciting viewer sympathy, imploring, and obliging them to shed a tear or two. Once I invited a producer friend in Los Angeles to see “One Candle, Two Candles.” Days later, she dropped me a note saying she had a handkerchief out in preparation to watch the movie, but instead she found herself creased up and the only tears she had to wipe were happy tears. Yes, Kurdish films tend to have a sad aura about them as a reflection of their turbulent history past and present. As a consequence, their outreach is limited to a niche segment of society.
Another characteristic employed by some filmmakers but not all is crowding their films with overtly unsophisticated and almost primitive characters, imprinting a not-so-positive picture in the foreign viewer’s mind. These films are made specifically for festival attention and end up happy with awards, but do not shed a good light on the Kurds in general.
To sum up, Kurdish films stand out from their Middle Eastern counterparts and world cinema in that they are message-oriented representations of prevalent human rights issues and a plea for righting wrongs and correcting misconceptions about a people, their dreams, and their place in today’s world. Despite their shortcomings, like victimhood syndrome, sad aura, and character belittlement, they nonetheless serve as a window on Kurdish culture, geopolitics, and way of life.
My personal approach and mantra regarding filmmaking is that a good film is one that makes you laugh a little, cry a little, and walk away with something to ruminate on. And that should be the slogan of Kurdish cinema as well.
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Jano Rosebiani is an American-Kurdish scriptwriter, director, producer, and editor associated with Kurdish New Wave cinema. This is the second part of a four-part series about the history of Kurdish cinema. The views expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of Rudaw. |
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