The second feature from Moroccan writer-director Maryam Touzani, whose two films have been the Moroccan Academy Award submissions for best picture of their respective years. The Blue Caftan film centers around a couple who own and operate a shop that makes traditional caftans in Morocco. The husband, Halim (Saleh Bakri), is a rare specialist; trained in the art of caftan making, he is a “maalem” or a master, one of the few left. Customers both desire and dismiss his skill, suggesting their caftans would be made faster if he just used sewing machines. His is a dying art, passed down to him from his father. His wife Mina (a nuanced Lubna Azabal) bristles at the demands and entitlement of customers, and is anxious that the business succeed, but we soon learn there is a larger threat in their lives. Mina is chronically ill, and her disease is progressing. Their seemingly longstanding, steady equilibrium is further disrupted by the arrival of their latest apprentice, Youssef (Ayoub Missioui), a tender young man who genuinely takes an interest in the training to be a maalem. We soon learn of Halim’s suppressed sexuality, as he’s drawn to Youssef, and we observe how the young man becomes increasingly intertwined into Halim and Mina’s shared life.
The Blue Caftan is above all a film of great restraint and few words, dialogue meted out in brief exchanges, simple yet elusive comments, stilted words and guarded allusions that serve as confessions. This in part due to cultural dynamics and a non-western perspective. We might expect more blatant emoting, more direct confrontation, more verbiage to steer our experience of the characters’ inner worlds and help us access their emotional lives. Here, we are steeped in restraint. Halim has been holding back his entire life, as a closeted man in a conservative society, and as a highly skilled artisan who spends hours carefully stitching the intricate patterns and designs of his work.
With well-chosen words and shots, Touzani’s script paints a picture of a shared life and long marriage, as well as a larger culture. The lead performances, along with Virginie Surdej’s cinematography, do much of the work of conveying emotional subtext. Mina observes Halim glancing at Youssef. Halim watches Mina as she grows more and more ill. Youssef observes Halim work. There are almost never overt, grand displays of emotions, rather still faces underneath which conflicting emotions and longings pass. It is the skill of the three actors that allows this interplay of love, regret, desire, jealousy and warmth to be played out so convincingly. Surdej uses close ups and tightly framed shots to give the viewer a sense of being in the room with the characters, of staring with them or back at them. When Halim goes to the baths, or Mina’s becomes more ill, the camera’s focus on the body conveys a mix of decay and desire and gives us a visceral experience of the character’s physicality.
The restrained acting and tight compositions are subtle and effective, and also give us a feeling of claustrophobia. This is both useful for allowing the dynamic of the trio to play out, and for conveying the difficulty of Mina’s illness and Halim’s repressed desires. However, the viewer at times misses a sense of their larger world and connections, unable to access something more dynamic from the characters’ experience.
The metaphorical power of the maalam’s work carries great weight. The art of creating these pieces through minutely rendered stitches seems to be a relentless and seemingly impossible task that somehow progresses to beautiful caftans. The camera returns time and again to closeups of Halim’s work; Youssef soon joins him. There is an intensely close focus on the stitching of golden fabric, and we feel as if we are crafting these pieces, slowly and inevitably pushing the needle through the shimmering cloth. Halim’s work mirrors his life; carrying on the expectations of the past, focusing on the precise steps to avoid mistakes, crafting a version of a loving marriage despite the circumstances.
Photo courtesy of Strand Releasing
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