This unusual war film, based on the novel of the same name that won the Prix Goncourt 2008, was brilliantly adapted to the screen by author Atiq Rahimi (Earth and Ashes, 2004) himself, in collaboration with his friend, the legendary scenarist, Jean-Claude Carrière.
In Persian folklore, there exists a magic black stone, Syng-e-saboor (the Patience Stone), to which one can confide everything. The stone listens, soaking in all the words, the secrets, the miseries, until it finally explodes, and on that day, one is instantly delivered of all one's sufferings and worries.
In ruined Kabul, rival bands of mujahidin are fighting like rabid dogs over the remnants of the city. In this apocalyptic world, a man lies comatose on a mattress in a bare room of his house. His wife kneels next to him, fingering her prayer beads and talking to him. She recalls episodes of her life. Her voice, timid and hesitating at first, affirms itself. She finally lets bitter words, crazy words, holed up far too long, escape from her inner self. She heckles Allah and his Hell, insults men and their never-ending wars, curses her warrior husband, a hero vanquished by his male pride, his religious obscurantism, his hate of the other, and goes as far as to reveal her most inner thoughts and secrets. In doing so, she frees herself from the marital, social and religious oppressions she has been enduring the whole of her life. Once quietly praying, now she screams. Once living in silence and self- sacrificing abnegation, she emerges now as a human being, a woman.
The adaptation to the screen was a significant challenge, given that it is a tragic huis clos taking place in the sick room, which The Woman (we never learn any of the characters' names) only occasionally leaves. The book is a monologue by a woman to a dying man. Its delivery is straightforward: the voice speaks as if the woman is writing. Translating this narrative to the screen was something else, and the challenge depended on the choice of a very special actress whose theatrical talent would allow her to embody the role of The Woman on whom the whole film so critically depends. Rahimi chose the young Iranian actress, Golshifteh Farahani. Born in Iran after the revolution, she knows what it means to live in a phallocratic society. This was not a sine qua non pre-condition for the part, but it was certainly an asset. She was the leading woman character in Ridley Scott's Body of Lies (2008). At first, Rahimi hesitated to cast Farahani in the part of The Woman because of her physical beauty. Indeed, she is beautiful, and in the film she even makes wearing the chadri (the "tent" that covers some Afghan women from head to toe) look elegant! In the continuous face-to- face with the spectator, Farahani demonstrates the majesty and flame worthy of an ancient Greek tragedienne.
Within the four walls of the room, Farahani's voice and face do wonders. In a searing, provocative, and passionate performance, she gives a star performance of a kind rarely seen anymore. Revealing the ambiguities of her character with a liberating and disconcerting sweetness, she carries her difficult role to a level of truth which seems impossible to achieve. All by herself, she anchors this story at the heart of reality, offering the birth of her free speech to the twilight world that required her silence.
The Aunt (Hassina Burgan), a wise old prostitute, presides over a bordello whose ambiance is like a feminine calm in the middle of the storm. Inside its walls are all the things men don't understand. In this role, Burgan's acting is on the mark, conveying calm and wisdom. Nothing much can be said about Hamidreza Javdan, The Husband, except that he remains perfectly still, except for the heart pulse in his jugular and his slow breathing, for practically the entire film, probably a first in the annals of film!
Most of the film was shot in Morocco, with some outdoor scenes filmed on location in Kabul under the pretext of filming fighting quails, one of Afghan men favorite pastimes. Since most of the film is interior shots, where space is limited, Rahimi was keen to have a camera in constant motion: with few exceptions, the camera is always kept moving, in order to offset the threat of staginess in The Woman's monologues.
The film is the result of the collaboration of many talented people, each an expert in his own field, starting with Thierry Arbogast (6 Césars), the celebrated photography director responsible for almost all of Luc Besson's films; Hervé De Luze's (3 Césars) editing is seamless, and no small reason for the film's success; Max Richter's soundtrack is discreet, and yet has a strong presence, acting as intermezzos between monologue sequences, and adding to dramatic suspenseful moments in the film. The soundtrack consists of metallophone sounds mixed with string instruments (or perhaps electronic keyboarding).
In Patience Stone, Rahimi breaks all of the Afghan taboos – social, cultural, sexual and religious. "When I wrote the novel, I wanted to put myself in the shoes of an Afghan woman to bare her desires as well as her suffering," he said. In this respect, he also becomes the Patience Stone, gathering and reinventing the pains and hopes of the martyrs, of all the Afghan women of the shadows, in order to give them a memory, their struggles forever synonymous with truth and freedom. In a country like Afghanistan, in order for an oppressed woman to finally speak, Rahimi first had to paralyze the oppression of the system. As such, The Husband symbolizes this whole patriarchal, repressive system, which is now paralyzed and injured. And because of it, The Woman can finally blossom and flourish, and she becomes intensely symbolic: "The voice that emerges from my throat, it is the voice buried for thousands of years."
In Persian folklore, there exists a magic black stone, Syng-e-saboor (the Patience Stone), to which one can confide everything. The stone listens, soaking in all the words, the secrets, the miseries, until it finally explodes, and on that day, one is instantly delivered of all one's sufferings and worries.
In ruined Kabul, rival bands of mujahidin are fighting like rabid dogs over the remnants of the city. In this apocalyptic world, a man lies comatose on a mattress in a bare room of his house. His wife kneels next to him, fingering her prayer beads and talking to him. She recalls episodes of her life. Her voice, timid and hesitating at first, affirms itself. She finally lets bitter words, crazy words, holed up far too long, escape from her inner self. She heckles Allah and his Hell, insults men and their never-ending wars, curses her warrior husband, a hero vanquished by his male pride, his religious obscurantism, his hate of the other, and goes as far as to reveal her most inner thoughts and secrets. In doing so, she frees herself from the marital, social and religious oppressions she has been enduring the whole of her life. Once quietly praying, now she screams. Once living in silence and self- sacrificing abnegation, she emerges now as a human being, a woman.
The adaptation to the screen was a significant challenge, given that it is a tragic huis clos taking place in the sick room, which The Woman (we never learn any of the characters' names) only occasionally leaves. The book is a monologue by a woman to a dying man. Its delivery is straightforward: the voice speaks as if the woman is writing. Translating this narrative to the screen was something else, and the challenge depended on the choice of a very special actress whose theatrical talent would allow her to embody the role of The Woman on whom the whole film so critically depends. Rahimi chose the young Iranian actress, Golshifteh Farahani. Born in Iran after the revolution, she knows what it means to live in a phallocratic society. This was not a sine qua non pre-condition for the part, but it was certainly an asset. She was the leading woman character in Ridley Scott's Body of Lies (2008). At first, Rahimi hesitated to cast Farahani in the part of The Woman because of her physical beauty. Indeed, she is beautiful, and in the film she even makes wearing the chadri (the "tent" that covers some Afghan women from head to toe) look elegant! In the continuous face-to- face with the spectator, Farahani demonstrates the majesty and flame worthy of an ancient Greek tragedienne.
Within the four walls of the room, Farahani's voice and face do wonders. In a searing, provocative, and passionate performance, she gives a star performance of a kind rarely seen anymore. Revealing the ambiguities of her character with a liberating and disconcerting sweetness, she carries her difficult role to a level of truth which seems impossible to achieve. All by herself, she anchors this story at the heart of reality, offering the birth of her free speech to the twilight world that required her silence.
The Aunt (Hassina Burgan), a wise old prostitute, presides over a bordello whose ambiance is like a feminine calm in the middle of the storm. Inside its walls are all the things men don't understand. In this role, Burgan's acting is on the mark, conveying calm and wisdom. Nothing much can be said about Hamidreza Javdan, The Husband, except that he remains perfectly still, except for the heart pulse in his jugular and his slow breathing, for practically the entire film, probably a first in the annals of film!
Most of the film was shot in Morocco, with some outdoor scenes filmed on location in Kabul under the pretext of filming fighting quails, one of Afghan men favorite pastimes. Since most of the film is interior shots, where space is limited, Rahimi was keen to have a camera in constant motion: with few exceptions, the camera is always kept moving, in order to offset the threat of staginess in The Woman's monologues.
The film is the result of the collaboration of many talented people, each an expert in his own field, starting with Thierry Arbogast (6 Césars), the celebrated photography director responsible for almost all of Luc Besson's films; Hervé De Luze's (3 Césars) editing is seamless, and no small reason for the film's success; Max Richter's soundtrack is discreet, and yet has a strong presence, acting as intermezzos between monologue sequences, and adding to dramatic suspenseful moments in the film. The soundtrack consists of metallophone sounds mixed with string instruments (or perhaps electronic keyboarding).
In Patience Stone, Rahimi breaks all of the Afghan taboos – social, cultural, sexual and religious. "When I wrote the novel, I wanted to put myself in the shoes of an Afghan woman to bare her desires as well as her suffering," he said. In this respect, he also becomes the Patience Stone, gathering and reinventing the pains and hopes of the martyrs, of all the Afghan women of the shadows, in order to give them a memory, their struggles forever synonymous with truth and freedom. In a country like Afghanistan, in order for an oppressed woman to finally speak, Rahimi first had to paralyze the oppression of the system. As such, The Husband symbolizes this whole patriarchal, repressive system, which is now paralyzed and injured. And because of it, The Woman can finally blossom and flourish, and she becomes intensely symbolic: "The voice that emerges from my throat, it is the voice buried for thousands of years."