Haifa al-Monsour's "Wadjda," the first Saudi film to be sent to the Academy Awards for consideration, is an absolutely terrific film. There is quite literally no other film like it. It's filled with terrific performances, like first-time actress Waad Mohammed, who should be considered for an Oscar nomination. She and her fellow young actors put in better performances than most Hollywood adult actors.
Mohammed plays our protagonist, Wadjda. If there is nothing more powerful than an idea whose time has arrived, as Victor Hugo said, then I would add that there is also nothing more powerful than a young child finding her voice and pushing the envelope, particularly when said envelope is Saudi Arabia. Such is the case with young Wadjda. The film begins with her and her fellow students reciting scripture including a section on patience. They repeat it. If there was ever a land that required copious amounts of such patience, it's the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, and having been a resident here for a little more than two years, I can attest to that.
To give you an example, recently at a train station, I got into a somewhat heated argument with a ticket man because I was wearing shorts and not slacks. Several Saudi women, covered from head to toe in black abayas, watched to my right. I went off to speak with the security guard who smiled, shrugged, and said "mafi mushkala" (no problem) and I was shooed away to the train. It appears that Saudi Arabia has not yet discovered the uniquely human ability to look away at something which offends. Anyway, I waited for the train in anger, until I heard a "hello" several times from my left. There was an adorable young girl in a pink dress, and she smiled when I waved to her. This girl was willing to smile at something (or someone) quite different, and yet she will likely grow up being taught to be offended at the simplest of things. Girls riding bicycles, perhaps.
This is somewhat the conundrum for young Wadjda. It's obvious from the lectures she receives from her mother and teachers that what she is doing is wrong. So what are the terribly forbidden acts she commits? Well, for one, she listens to rock (or pop, or something). She sticks up for her mother against a mean driver. And of course, she really wants a bike. Not only does she want a bike, but she wants to ride it faster than any boy. But she receives no support. "A woman's voice is taboo," according to her teacher. How appropriate it is that Wadjda gets a bit of an epiphany when she sees a bike atop a car, as if it's flying. But there are two obstacles for her in her quest. First, as Saudi Arabia is literally the only country in the world where women are banned from driving, she is prohibited from riding in public. (Recently, the country decreed that it is permissible for women to ride bikes, as long as they wear an abaya while doing so and be accompanied by a male guardian--so how often do you think that's going to happen?) Second, the bike costs about 800 Riyals (about $213).
Wadjda is not afraid to stand up for herself, either. She pokes fun at males, like when she quips to one teenager that even his "money cologne stinks," and to her young friend that she's too cute to be his sister. (The relationship between them demonstrates a relaxed comfort in showing pre-teen romance in a country that deeply, terribly frowns upon it.) Wadjda almost gets caught in a scandal involving the mutawa, or religious police. (Yes, they seriously exist, and their abhorrent record includes banning hugging, scolding women in public, and even preventing a fire crew from saving girls in a burning school because if they escaped, they wouldn't be covered.) But her main hindrance besides her society is her principal (Ahd Kamel), called "the creature" by two rebellious teenage girls. This woman is fiercely traditionalist and not afraid to show it, running her school with an iron fist. She almost gleefully encourages the ostracizing of some of her sinful students. But while her mother (Reem Abdullah) of course offers Wadjda maternal support, she too is a bit of a purist. She scolds a friend who works at a hospital, one of those rare laissez-faire institutions in the country where men and woman actually talk to each other. Still, the mother-daughter relationship in the movie is heart-warming, and I got a bit choked up at some of the moments between them.
The obvious comparison is to "The Bicycle Thief," but the average moviegoer might be surprised at how entertaining a movie about a young girl obsessing over a bicycle can be. Even the competition for memorizing the Quran is surprisingly tense, without the use of hyperbolic editing or a predictable, manipulative score. You ought to see this film for two reasons: One, you will learn so much about a country that, for better or worse, has been and will continue to be linked to the United States and its allies. Two, it's an incredible film, truly one of the year's best. Its simplicity is matched by its potency, and al-Mansour deserves quite a bit of praise for being able to marry the two. This is one of the great coming-of-age films of our time.
Mohammed plays our protagonist, Wadjda. If there is nothing more powerful than an idea whose time has arrived, as Victor Hugo said, then I would add that there is also nothing more powerful than a young child finding her voice and pushing the envelope, particularly when said envelope is Saudi Arabia. Such is the case with young Wadjda. The film begins with her and her fellow students reciting scripture including a section on patience. They repeat it. If there was ever a land that required copious amounts of such patience, it's the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, and having been a resident here for a little more than two years, I can attest to that.
To give you an example, recently at a train station, I got into a somewhat heated argument with a ticket man because I was wearing shorts and not slacks. Several Saudi women, covered from head to toe in black abayas, watched to my right. I went off to speak with the security guard who smiled, shrugged, and said "mafi mushkala" (no problem) and I was shooed away to the train. It appears that Saudi Arabia has not yet discovered the uniquely human ability to look away at something which offends. Anyway, I waited for the train in anger, until I heard a "hello" several times from my left. There was an adorable young girl in a pink dress, and she smiled when I waved to her. This girl was willing to smile at something (or someone) quite different, and yet she will likely grow up being taught to be offended at the simplest of things. Girls riding bicycles, perhaps.
This is somewhat the conundrum for young Wadjda. It's obvious from the lectures she receives from her mother and teachers that what she is doing is wrong. So what are the terribly forbidden acts she commits? Well, for one, she listens to rock (or pop, or something). She sticks up for her mother against a mean driver. And of course, she really wants a bike. Not only does she want a bike, but she wants to ride it faster than any boy. But she receives no support. "A woman's voice is taboo," according to her teacher. How appropriate it is that Wadjda gets a bit of an epiphany when she sees a bike atop a car, as if it's flying. But there are two obstacles for her in her quest. First, as Saudi Arabia is literally the only country in the world where women are banned from driving, she is prohibited from riding in public. (Recently, the country decreed that it is permissible for women to ride bikes, as long as they wear an abaya while doing so and be accompanied by a male guardian--so how often do you think that's going to happen?) Second, the bike costs about 800 Riyals (about $213).
Wadjda is not afraid to stand up for herself, either. She pokes fun at males, like when she quips to one teenager that even his "money cologne stinks," and to her young friend that she's too cute to be his sister. (The relationship between them demonstrates a relaxed comfort in showing pre-teen romance in a country that deeply, terribly frowns upon it.) Wadjda almost gets caught in a scandal involving the mutawa, or religious police. (Yes, they seriously exist, and their abhorrent record includes banning hugging, scolding women in public, and even preventing a fire crew from saving girls in a burning school because if they escaped, they wouldn't be covered.) But her main hindrance besides her society is her principal (Ahd Kamel), called "the creature" by two rebellious teenage girls. This woman is fiercely traditionalist and not afraid to show it, running her school with an iron fist. She almost gleefully encourages the ostracizing of some of her sinful students. But while her mother (Reem Abdullah) of course offers Wadjda maternal support, she too is a bit of a purist. She scolds a friend who works at a hospital, one of those rare laissez-faire institutions in the country where men and woman actually talk to each other. Still, the mother-daughter relationship in the movie is heart-warming, and I got a bit choked up at some of the moments between them.
The obvious comparison is to "The Bicycle Thief," but the average moviegoer might be surprised at how entertaining a movie about a young girl obsessing over a bicycle can be. Even the competition for memorizing the Quran is surprisingly tense, without the use of hyperbolic editing or a predictable, manipulative score. You ought to see this film for two reasons: One, you will learn so much about a country that, for better or worse, has been and will continue to be linked to the United States and its allies. Two, it's an incredible film, truly one of the year's best. Its simplicity is matched by its potency, and al-Mansour deserves quite a bit of praise for being able to marry the two. This is one of the great coming-of-age films of our time.
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