Lost in Translation
Last night I went to the Pacific Film Archive to see a recent documentary by the Algerian but French-born director, Yamina Benguigui.
The Perfumed Garden “is a journey into the myths and realities of sensuality and sexuality” in the “Maghreb” countries of North Africa—that is, Morocco, Algeria and Tunisia. Her title derives from a classic erotic text from Tunisia, “the Arab world’s Kama Sutra,” according to Benguigui. The text, which was written by an Islamic scholar and imam, was considered a fit subject for “scientific” study prior to the Arab expulsion from Andalusia (in ____). As the Arab world subsequently contracted, more conservative forces held sway over matters both sacred and secular.
But Yamina’s documentary wasn’t the least bit dry. Fairly explicit if romantic clips from Egyptian films of the ‘40s book-ended contemporary interviews with Arab women and young people in Marseilles and the Maghreb countries. Young people of both sexes offered frank comments of their life experience, conforming or not to strict Islamic code, and of their discrimination as expatriates in France. Benguigui’s video footage took us to a “hamam” (steam bath) and a beauty parlor, where women of various ages and experiences detailed chapters of their lives. An Algerian man in the audience doubted that one woman, who described having had five husbands (serially), could possibly be from his country. The filmmaker, who was present and fielding questions, stated in French,
You’ve learned something tonight.
Whether it was the complexity of my comment, or the result of Yamina’s having both a French translator and a PFA curator, who felt the need to restate questions (inaccurately) "for the benefit of those in the back rows," a misunderstanding occurred. I noted that a woman in the beauty-parlor scene who lamented a recent abandonment by her husband was not comforted by a younger woman’s singing her a similarly themed song in a lovely voice. Surprisingly, each of the other women present by turns started bawling. I thought that this exquisitely intimate moment defied intention and expectation, privileging us passive spectators. I asked,
Could the filmmaker comment? My actual meaning lost in translation, Yamina began defensively protesting that this is what happened and she had to film it. She had not expected that the older woman—after lamenting first at the hamam—would still be grieving at the beauty parlor. I was relieved to be able to clarify my comment: Yamina’s attractive face cleared of consternation and her French translator remarked, surprisingly,
But that’s a complement!
[Yamina Benguigui’s latest documentary, about the Maghreb diaspora in Europe, will appear as part of the upcoming San Francisco Film Festival.]
posted by Paul at 1:24 PM
A Timely Riff on Work (after Doris Lessing)
Methodically sweeping his wand, which emits hot pressurized water, along the seams of the library’s raised white granite that edges the landscaping, the maintenance man cleans both square-patterned façade and sidewalk. He pauses longer and presses the nozzle closer to a resistant bit of defilement. From my 3rd-floor window he takes up just two, 2’x 2’ sidewalk squares. He’s wearing steel gray pants, black shoes, and shirt and mittens the color of taupe. From this angle he noticeably bulges in the midriff, where his shirt strains the buttons. The flesh of his cranium is adorned with several patches of steel wool and he sports a close-trimmed white beard. Besides his tool—the misty silver wand attached to a black rubber hose—his appearance is offset with gold, wire-rimmed glasses.
He works methodically and well. His job is maintenance, which must be done periodically, perhaps daily, because this edge of San Francisco’s Civic Center is where the homeless congregate with their few belongings, where office workers leave bits of uneaten lunch and where pigeons improvise their Pollock drippings. Even given that the city has provided him a decent salary and benefits, his occupation allows stultifying little variance. Where must his mind travel as his hand and eye lock mechanically on the appointed task?
Though just maintaining the urban environment for those who utilize these facilities—who won’t see him, won’t recognize his function, only its lack—isn’t he a human being, created in God’s image, just like the corporate chairman whose haloed eye stares from atop the dollar’s pyramid? Does the one who utilizes his intelligence devising a house of cards for personal gain better serve the public interest? Does the GNP adequately measure the well being of a people? As you strain for ever greater productivity, using your time on earth attempting to please the chairman, as you seek ever more numerous products to consume, ignoring the toxic waste mountain in the next room, what kind of world will you leave the children—or the children’s children to the 7th generation?
Profit the corporate heads, management consultants, tax accountants, lawyers, brokers and lobbyists to come unto me, for I am Mammon. Your P&L statements and balance sheets will attract investors, even as infrastructures collapse. Weapons’ factories once again are geared for full production, driving the economy and distributing further wealth to the already worthy, because if lacking enemies we can manufacture them—old “evil empire” morphs to current “axis of evil,” composed of reprobate countries, which the president now identifies (to bipartisan respectful, if muted, applause).
posted by Paul at 3:17 PM
