The Mad Songs of Fernanda Hussein

This blistering examination of American life during and after the Persian Gulf War is one of the most vital experiences I've had with American independent cinema. The story follows the downward trajectory of three New Mexico residents: a woman whose children are the victim of a vicious hate crime because their last name is the same as that of Saddam Hussein; a high school student whose increasing interest in peace activism leads him to run away from his sheltered home; and a returning soldier who indulges in an empty existence while trying to shake off the horrors he's witnessed. The film is not perfect, with some badly acted scenes, and the politics are unquestionably partisan but nothing less than heartfelt. Made over 6 years and 13 credit cards, this film taps into a raw live-wire energy that means everything to the sorry state of independent filmmaking. Both the characters and the film brandish a fierce, wounded innocence that gives way to inconsolable rage at their own ineffectuality under the shadow of war, modulated by some vivid musical and visual digressions, and culminating in a finale of apocalyptic spectacle of fascination and horror. Not everyone will like this, but everyone should see this.

To be quite honest, the film is not perfect. But even when it fails on a professional level, it still manages to affect the viewer on a human level, and that I believe is the mark of its potential. Now as America plunges once again into war with Iraq, the film's sentiments speak more boldy than ever. We did not learn our lesson the first time. Let me start with what I disliked about the film, this being primarily the acting. Gianvito spends a good deal of time focusing on the thoughts and fears of the film's three lead characters. Because he is so careful to script these parts into touching human drama, it is unfortunate the acting falls through completely at some of its most important moments. I am reminded of Charlie Sheen in Platoon. Like Platoon, the dialogue here is deep, thoughtful, and occasionally shocking, but the actors say it as flat lines rather than breathing life and heart into it. Interestingly enough, in his cameo role, Gianvito seemed far more authentic than the leads, pulling off one line in particular to a student's father that could easily have fallen flat. Fernanda's caring friend and the old woman who takes the homeless boy under her wing are also played meaningfully and full of conviction. My only major issue with the story itself is the use of drugs and sex to portray the soldier's downward spiral. Drugs, especially, seem to pop up in any movie that requires a character to descend quickly into misery. It can be argued that this was a true occurence among those returning from war, but then why shoot the scene as a hyper-erotic scene of promiscuous sex. The sins of indulgence have become a staple of independent cinema and it's sad to see a film as good as this one bearing these trappings. On the other hand, I was completely absorbed by the docu-drama feel of the film. The shots of children obsessed with G.I. Joe, patriotic apparel, and Desert Storm-themed fireworks gave rise to a sick realization that as a child I had been the same way. And it all felt so innocent back then. The soldiers depicted with guns blazing seemed like comic pictures, not reality. I was also impressed that a large amount of the more successful dialogue is shot interview style. This reinforces and enhanced the stock footage used to show world events. The cinematography of the film is spell-binding. Vast Southwestern landscapes of sandstone and prairie grass stretch out to the infinite blue skies. The characters are shot at long distances, like ants. One scene concerning protestors who burn an effigy, turns into a demonic spectacle that managed to scare me more effectively than any horror film I've viewed in the last couple years. All in all, I have to argue that Gianvito created a concept that was completely original, poignant and significant to both my generation and his own, and limited only by his budget and his reliance on mediocre actors. I sincerely hope that Gianvito is able to gather together enough funding to shoot another film that can incorporate a higher degree of acting.

So I was zoning out, rewatching Akame 48 Waterfalls (2003),and the opening of "The Mad Songs of Fernanda Hussein" just kept flashing in my mind, like a weird little filmstrip stuck on repeat. Also, whenever I watch Shinji Somai's "Moving" ('93), I always find myself comparing moody setup, and especially the ending of "Mad Songs of Fernanda Hussein" to it. There's this strange artistic resonance between them for me.

Here's the CRAZY part: only TWO reviews EVER since 2003?! What is GOING ON?! This HAS to be one of the most criminally overlooked gems EVER. The films of John Gianvito, they don't just tell you about the horrors of war; they let you feel the chilling mental toll, the gnawing economic impact, and the long shadow the USA casts over Latin America and the Middle East. His documentaries are gripping without being all dramatic. You just feel it. My favorite is "Profit Motive and the Whispering Wind," it's way more than just some dusty history lecture and feels like a ghostly whisper from the past.

But this movie we're talking about, "The Mad Songs of Fernanda Hussein"? It's different, avant-garde and very interesting from his other stuff. It feels simple on the surface, but it really digs deep. It drops you right into the Persian Gulf War and unfolds these three intense stories.

The first story unfurls with this opening that's nestled right in my heart! This figure, all mysterious in a bandanna who drops a little boy into the Rio Grande, it's like a sad painting comes to life - a teenage girl floating, and a close-up where you see the crimson tears of blood trailing onto the leaves. Then, like a whispered secret, the magnificent canvas of Paul Delaroche's 'Young Martyr' appears, and the movie's title softly blooms on the screen. It's breathtakingly poignant. The whole film orbits around Fernanda Hussein, this woman desperately clawing for her lost kids. Being an outsider in this landscape, she gets slammed by the system, twisted into some pro-Iraqi villain. And you see the weight of that "Hussein" name, the target it paints on her back, as her children - a teenage girl, a young boy - cast into the unforgiving river. This isn't just a story.

Then comes part two, "Orphans of the storms," and it kind of echoes the starkness of the first part. It opens with this quote from John Trudell "Don't trust anyone who isn't angry" - and it just hangs there, heavy. It's about this teen who's clashing with his super conservative, pro-war dad because he's all about anti-war stuff, probably from his radical teacher at school. Everyone just sees him as this weakling, And then, without even a second thought, he just runs away from home, wanting to throw himself into the movement, like he's got nowhere else to go so he just runs off to join the movement.

The third part follows this war vet who's really messed up after being in Desert Storm. He's just wandering around, eaten up by guilt, and basically shuts himself off from everyone. Then there's this threesome sex scene that starts with the women teasing him, running hands all over his body and nipples and it keeps cutting to these stark newsreel footage of killing fields, the ghosts of his trauma bleeding into the present. It's a visceral collision of desire and devastation, unhealed wounds laid bare within the act of intercourse itself.

John Gianvito was spot on the background score. He brought in this incredible Iraqi oud player, Nasser Shamma, who created a soundtrack that just understands what the film's trying to do and really brings out that feeling all the way through.

There are some scenes I CANNOT forget: 1. The hate smeared across Fernanda's wall - "Arab pigs go home." 2. Her boys, Assad and Amir, lying in the grass, tracing clouds with their fingers. A fleeting oasis of peace before the storm.

3. Assad's wish bracelet slipping into the river.

4. The police station. Cold fluorescent lights. Cops who don't even pretend to care. One even suggests she change her name.

5. you can just sense the cops being part of the problem. One even coldly advises Fernanda to "change her name." 6. A marine stares at the sun, suddenly the tone gets strange, almost dreamlike.

7. And finally, that note: "My loves, the door is open. I've gone to look for you."

I could go on forever about this gem, but my absolute favorite part? The climax. Total avant-garde brain-melt, straight-up other dimension vibes. It all goes down at this local gathering called Zozobra, where they LIGHT THIS GIANT EFFIGY ON FIRE to, like, torch all the bad juju. And Fernanda's just standing there, watching this CULT RITUAL of people losing their minds, screaming 'BURN HIM! BURN HIM!' like a bunch of freakin' savages. The primitive mindset, the psychological heaviness that drives people to indulge in this trance-inducing violence, is captured perfectly. You see this deep, primal, head-trippy violence take over. And Fernanda's sanity? Question mark city. The whole story goes sideways into this abstract freakout with flashing lights, and this burning monster puppet is just pure human chaos going UNGA BUNGA on steroids.

It smacked me in the face with memories of those batshit experimental films - Takashi Ito, Dore O, Ishu Patel, Phil Solomon, Klaus Wyborny, Peggy Ahwesh, and OBVIOUSLY Shinji Somai's 'Moving' - it's all got this dark, twisted edge, all wrapped up in this weird, subconscious trip Gianvito takes you on. It's wild. This is cinema as a primal scream against the void. Gianvito isn't just telling a story; he's performing a psychic autopsy on the American psyche in the shadow of war.