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Title: Booye kafoor, atre yas (2000)
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| Cast overview: | |||
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Ebrahim Abadi | ||
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Dariush Asadzade | ... | (as Daryush Assadzadeh) |
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Firouz Behjat-Mohamadi | ... | Memorial Sign Rental (as Firouz Behjat Mohammadi) |
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Valiyollah Shirandami | ... | Homayouni - The Actor (as Vali Shirandami) |
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Hossein Kazbian | ... | Abdollah (The Servant) |
| Reza Kianian | ... | Dr. Arasteh (The Attorney) | |
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Mahtaj Nojoomi | ... | Bahman's Sister |
| Parivash Nazarieh | ... | Farzaneh | |
| Roya Nonahali | ... | Woman Hitch-Hiker | |
| Bahman Farmanara | ... | Bahman Farjami | |
Death surrounds Bahman, a director who hasn't made a film in 24 years (he can't get past the censors). He's working on a documentary, for Japanese TV, on Iranian burial practices. On the anniversary of his wife's death, a hitchhiker tells him a story of spousal abuse and infant mortality, he discovers that someone has been buried in his plot next to his wife, and he needs the help of his attorney, a well-connected fixer. He dreams of death, even as he investigates it for his film. His niece's husband, a well-known writer, fails to return home; he searches hospitals for an unclaimed body. His heart disease is flaring up. Is he prepared for death? Is that all that's left? Written by <jhailey@hotmail.com>
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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.