nwasianweekly.com
Jan. 26, 2008

Image provided by Sony Pictures Classics

“Persepolis,” based on the graphic novel of the same name, is a nominee for a 2008 Oscar in the category of Best Animated Feature Film of the Year.

Iranian life in cartoon motion

By N.P. Thompson
Northwest Asian Weekly

The black-and-white animated film “Persepolis” begins with a young Iranian woman wandering and waiting, somewhat ambiguously, around an airport. Marjane Satrapi and Vincent Paronnaud, who co-wrote and co-directed this adaptation of Satrapi’s two autobiographical graphic novels, don’t signal their intentions right away. From time to time, they return to these airport scenes (the only ones that are in color) as the woman — a version of Satrapi — waits and chain-smokes and (most of all) remembers.

And what memories she has. This kaleidoscopically conceived movie, which encompasses a range of moods and tones from amusing to tragic and back again, serves as a coming-of-age story, a history of 20th-century Iran and, above all, as a comedy of the absolute highest order.

Satrapi’s humor surfaces from the necessity of being fast on your feet. At one point, the teenage Marjane, surrounded by Islamic fundamentalists who accost her over her “punk” wardrobe, tries to convince them that the Michael Jackson button on her lapel is actually a picture of Malcolm X.

The main story opens in Tehran, 1978, during the last days of the Shah, an era of guarded optimism for adults (“This regime will collapse sooner or later,” Marjane’s father says), but for 9-year-old Marji (charmingly voiced by Gabrielle Lopes), it’s a time of childhood innocence, for being a little girl who loves Bruce Lee, for trying out her karate moves at a party in her parents’ apartment while adorably cooing, “The dragon’s revenge is a bitter dish best served cold!”

Even in the exuberance of the film’s early section, Satrapi and Paronnaud, without fuss, make political points that implicitly criticize U.S. and British foreign policy. A man jailed by the Shah tells party guests, “Our torturers were trained by the CIA. They certainly knew their stuff.” Much later, when the adult Marjane returns home from Vienna after the eight-year Iran-Iraq conflict, her father laments, “People don’t know why we had a war. The West sold arms to both sides.” As he speaks, we see soldiers shooting at one another across a trench, yet all tumbling into the same grave — a shrewd assessment of war’s futility.

The movie also captures the oppression wrought by religious fundamentalism. A middle-aged neighbor of the Satrapis recounts how the Islamic Republic enticed her 14-year-old son into the army with promises of a plastic key that would open the gates of heaven. “I’ve prayed. I’ve worn the veil,” the woman confides, “but I can’t believe in anything anymore.”

Yet the film has its share of bawdiness, too, most often from Marjane’s lovingly irascible, foul-mouthed grandmother (an inspired vocal turn by the octogenarian actress Danielle Darrieux). When little Marji asks how a woman her age has such round breasts, Darrieux replies, “I soak them in a bowl of ice water for 10 minutes a day.”

Satrapi’s magnificent hand-drawn animations occasionally summon up the feeling of Persian folklore, combining visual allusions to a fairy tale past with strong emotion. There’s a stunning flashback of Marjane’s exiled Uncle Anoush making his passage to Russia as a turreted castle rises up from a sea of puppet waves. After Anoush dies, those waves return, formed from the stripes on Marjane’s bedspread; the two swan sculptures her uncle had made for her sail away on them, away from the crying, grief-stricken girl.

I’d be remiss not to say more about the Austrian sequences, which find teenage Marjane assimilating into the punk scene of 1984 Vienna. A series of fallings-out with everyone from anarchists to nuns leads Marjane to meet Markus, a playwright whose platinum curls give off the glow of a disco ball. A zippy, fantastic love montage ensues, a golden dream wherein a spin in his car floats along like a magic carpet ride. In one of the filmmakers’ most audacious moves, they subject this sweet tenderness to a grotesque parody. The same images are replayed for maximum viciousness; the relationship sours into full-blown hate. Cruel? Yes. True-to-life? Undeniably. And a cinematic masterpiece? Most definitely.

“Persepolis” opens Jan. 25 at the Harvard Exit, 807 E. Roy St., Seattle. For showtimes, call 206-781-5755.

N.P. Thompson can be reached at info@nwasianweekly.com

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