My Son the Fanatic

My Son the Fanatic was a surprizing treat. I never heard of it before renting at blockbuster last night. I don't think it ever played in Toronto theatres. Never the less I must applaud at Hanif Kureshi's yet again bold and honest attempt at highlighting a recent phenomenon in the South Asian community: the son going "holier than thou" on the family. This film touched me personally because in my case the opposite happened; my father turned fanatic muslim on me. Hanif Qureshi's "My Beautiful Laundrette" is one of my favourite films of all time and after "Budha of Suburbia" I fell in love with this brilliant man and his work. "My Son" is a lot less shocking but still weaves it's way through the father and son conflict elegantly and I am shocked at how blind the Oscar nominators are when it comes to Om Puri's brilliant acting! This is the first film portraying South Asians where the wife has some personality and actually speaks out so I see her as a mother, a wife and a woman that I know because she exists in my community. She is dull and fat and stuck in her little world within the four walls of her home. I dislike her but I know her. The subtle emotions and body language of this lower middle-class family might not be fully understood by a non-south asian critic and that is why some find it moves slowly sometimes. I could not agree with Earnest Hardy more when he says this film (and others by the writer) "endorse a morality of compassion". I think that is the only moral value worth pushing!

I think this movie will resonate especially with any first-and-up generation person whose parents emigrated from east to west. The innocence and almost childlike approach taken by Parvez, Om Puri's character, to things light and dark in England reminded me very much of my own experiences in trying to show my parents "how things work" in America. He has done a beautiful job with this character. All in all a well-written and enlightening movie for anyone who is curious about the complex and often convoluted dynamic between immigrants and their transplanted realities.

Unremittingly difficult to sit through this one. Whoever finds any comic relief in its minor ironies ("Fingerhut," "Mr. Shits," etc.) is just not concentrating on the main theme. This is a film about people living out their lives in more or less distinct states of alienation from those around them as well as from their own self-concepts. As with all such stories, there is nothing to laugh about.

Be that as it may, the actors and the direction are first-rate. While nothing much happens to develop plot, a great deal comes into view in progressively more intimate sketches that delineate character and advance one's awareness of just how "out of synch" everyone is. Central to appreciating it all is how easily universal values of love, compassion, integrity, and objectivity come unstuck when someone heeds the call of looking for greener pastures.

Specifically, the problem of ambitious people moving out of their native countries to find a better life elsewhere is one that we find in history and literature from the beginning of time. And even more specifically, the clash of one culture or religion with another -- together with elements of racism and competition -- are certainly nothing new to cinematic representations. This is a kind of story with neither end nor beginning, only one bitter scene fading into another.

A very dark film indeed.

A Pakistani taxi driver in Britain (Om Puri) is plagued by a bad cosmic joke that seems co-written by Salman Rushdie and Martin Amis: his son, rather than becoming an unrecognizable assimilate, turns into a jihad-embracing Muslim fundamentalist. At the same time, the warmth of a white hooker (Rachel Griffiths) beckons, to the chagrin and hissing tongues of his local countrymen.

The writer Hanif Kureishi's onetime Benetton smugness has mellowed into ripe colors of rue, mockery and regret as he eases into middle age, and this adaptation of his short story is a lovely, surprisingly beautifully shot, sneakily haunting small movie. The dialogue sometimes has a novelish explicitness, and the performances are variable--Puri sometimes drifts into F. Murray Abraham terrain, but he has an amazing, craggy, pain-absorbent face. But the movie has a real subject: the ways in which postmod culture-hybridity isn't always a rainbow-colored day at the beach. And the warmth amid desperation of the central relationship suggests what Neil Jordan's MONA LISA might have been without the smoky-sax romanticism.

The sad thing about seeing this movie was that, after Miramax gave the movie one of their unceremonious heave-hos (par for the course for their good movies), the audience, unblanketed by buzz, hype, an aura of hot-ticket, reacted as shruggingly as critics seem to have. Too bad: MY SON THE FANATIC evokes the sweet, melancholy fatalism of seventies pictures like THE NICKEL RIDE and STRAIGHT TIME. It has the atmosphere of an overcast crime picture without the crime. And it has at least a handful of real, breathing people in it--as rare an occurrence these days as a flight of the dodo.

It's a rare treat to see a film character of such complexity. His story, a love story, is as homely and real as a wound.

Om Puri's character is not to be forgotten and Griffith gives the searingly intelligent performance I have come to expect of her. Kurtha, as the son, is very poor, his delivery stilted and amateurish, and an outdoorsy scene with the two lovers is cinematographically squandered; otherwise, nothing but raves for this one. Also takes the prize for sexiest and most heartbreaking love scene in movie history.