Booye kafoor, atre yas

A film director who can not make a film in his own country, decides to make a documentary film about funeral traditions in Iran for a foreign producer. At first he remembers death of his friends and it causes thinking about his own death. But his point of view about life changes little by little when he is making the new film. Finally he detects beauties of the world and nature and decides to change his perspective about them. The only thing I can say about Farmanara's last film is that it's the true story of his own generation. A generation who passed many bitter experiences and now tries to forget all (not with its negative meaning) and review all the things around.

This film was one of the first by the director in over twenty years. It seemed that he had run afoul of Iran's Revolutionary Guard and he was banned from making films--his permits being rejected again and again. I have no idea why he was suddenly allowed to make films, but I'd sure like to know why he was denied the right to make films as well as why he didn't leave the country in order to make movies.

Oddly, this film seems to be autobiographical--with the director also playing the leading character--a man exactly like the director himself. He is getting older and begins to contemplate his own death. Because he is so obsessed with his demise, this film is NOT recommended for seriously depressed people, as it might push them over the edge! Plus, many non-depressed people will no doubt dislike the somber and sad mood throughout most of the film. Frankly, it made me feel pretty awful watching it.

However, near the end, this very conventional film becomes very unconventional--with some surreal sequences about death that are somewhat reminiscent of a Berman film. Here is where the film excels, though waiting for these segments is a bit of a chore. As a result of this and the tone of the film, this is an interesting film that is probably not to everyone's taste.

The title is rather poetic. The film centers around Bahman Farjami (Bahman Farmanara, the writer, director, filmmaker himself took on the role), a man in his fifties, slightly chubby and looking tired. The "smell of camphor" actually associates with his memories of his wife, while the "fragrance of jasmine" reminds him of being in his mother's house. During a beginning phone conversation, we know his son, Nima, will not be able to accompany Bahman to visit his wife's grave on the anniversary (5 years hence) of her death. Nima's wife is expecting to give birth.

It is drama in three acts with touches of a documentary. Each has a repeated scene of Bahman sitting by the window on a moving train. The whole film resembles one being on a journey in tandem with what's going through one's mind (and heart - he really misses his beloved wife, and worries over his mother who has Alzheimer's).

"A Bad Day" - such directness in the title, you'd sense he's going to tell you like it is. It's a seemingly ordinary day to start with: he takes out a bouquet of flowers from the fridge, gets into his car, heads for the cemetery. On the way, he stops and gives a lift to a woman in black chador. Through the conversation between Bahman and the passenger, we learned about an aspect of a struggling Iranian family. Bahman the filmmaker, mature in his filmic experiences (in spite of 24 years lapsed without a film produced - this information we learn through his brief exchange with a stranger in an elevator), discloses many phases of Iranian living and politics through conversations. There's the exchange with the cemetery administrator; his visit to his lawyer's house; answering a call from a friend's wife in need. There are scenes without conversations - at times in silence without music - just our eyes following him with audible ambient sounds. These are poignant, subtle captures of what's going on within him, reacting to situations at hand.

We continue on to "The Funeral Arrangements." Bahman is researching for an Iranian funeral documentary for a Japanese TV production. We follow and eavesdrop on him: at the shop where they sell elaborate lighting installations for funerals or weddings; visiting a terminally ill artist who's delighted to be in the film experience; at a fellow artist's abode and his many cats… Again, through conversational exchanges, including a subliminal TV broadcast we hear while Bahman dozes off on the couch, we are presented with facets of Iranian culture and politics. Sentiments are not spared: we see glimpses of his bride in white gliding by in recall, and him sitting by his mother reading Edgar Allen Poe's "A Fable of Silence" in reality.

"Throw a Stone in the Water" - finality is a beginning. I felt E.A.P's poetry in "Song," "Spirits of the Dead," and "Sonnet of Silence" conveyed Bahman's inner light. I'm appreciating the beauty of E.A.P.'s words.

Bahman, in a silent way, ingeniously took us through ordinary activities yet included a lot of content more than meets the eye. Three acts in 1 hr. 33 mins. filmically expressed. It does not do him justice to be quoted as "an Iranian Woody Allen" - the impact of just mentioning W.A.'s name may conjure up different notions in people's heads. Bahman Farmanara is his own artist, philosopher, filmmaker.

This extraordinarily bizarre film is a triumph of the crushingly

personal. Bahman Farmanara, an Iranian filmmaker thwarted in

his attempts to make movies for twenty-two years, made his

comeback with this autobiographical fragment that literally defies

all genre rules--it falls between every imaginable classification

stool. Its sole resemblance to other, more celebrated films of the

"Iranian New Wave" is in its acute meta-ness.

Farmanara, playing himself in the most pained self-portrait of a

director since Lucio Fulci's CAT IN THE BRAIN, finally gets a

project past the Iranian censors: a documentary for Japanese TV

on Iranian burial rituals. In what at first seems either like a ripoff of

Woody Allen, or a parody of TASTE OF CHERRY, Farmanara uses

this morbid premise as an excuse to rehearse his own death and

burial. What springs from this neurosis is neither funny, exactly,

nor poignant. It dances to the beat of its own drummer, as elusive

and smokelike in tone as a short story by Bruno Schulz or isaac

Babel. One cannot say that Farmanara has shed all the rust of

those twenty-two years; or, frankly, that his phlegmatic

performance--he looks like Harold Bloom feeling the weight of

world literature on his shoulders--works. But as an exemplar of

making movies as the voicing of individual feelings and beliefs,

SMELL OF CAMPHOR goes to the head of the class.