Taking as its subject the horrific plight of guttersnipe children in the slums of Beirut, Capharnaüm is the kind of film of which a superficial reading might suggest miserablism at best, and "poverty porn" at worst. Comparisons to film such as Slumdog Millionaire (2008), Trash (2014), and The Florida Project (2017) are probably inevitable, albeit not very informative if one wishes to parse the film. Instead, it's much more useful to view Capharnaüm in the tradition of classic Italian neorealist pictures such as Ossessione (1943), Roma città aperta (1945), and Ladri di biciclette (1948), albeit far more pessimistic than any of them.
The third film from Lebanese writer/actress/director Nadine Labaki, Capharnaüm is written by Labaki, Michelle Keserwany, and Labaki's regular writing partner Jihad Hojeily (Labaki's husband Georges Khabbaz and the film's producer and composer, Khaled Mouzanar are both credited with "screenplay collaboration"). Presenting a milieu in which people are utterly discardable, the film depicts children who are literally bought and sold for a few chickens; 11-year-old girls who are married off so their family can afford the rent; babies who are fed on ice cubes covered in sugar; refugees who roam the streets; mental illness which goes untreated; and people without a Lebanese identity card who don't officially exist. The film works because it never feels like it's exploiting, patronising, or trivialising the poverty and misfortune it depicts, never attempting to manipulate the audience into feeling a preconceived emotion. On the contrary, it's matter-of-fact, and notable for just how unsentimental it is. However, it's also deeply humanist, with genuine compassion in its DNA and a quiet rage at its core, born partly from an inherent sense of authenticity; shot in the style of cinéma vérité, it uses non-professional actors whose lives are not dissimilar from the characters they play. There are some problems, of course - the framing device of a trial is poorly conceived and distracts from the superior filmmaking surrounding it, the ending is disappointingly didactic, and the litany of hardships endured by the main character does get a little over-the-top. However, this is undeniably impressive filmmaking, as harrowing and angry, as it is solicitous and respectful.
The film tells the story of Zain El Hajj (Zain Al Rafeea), a young boy from the slums of Beirut serving a five-year prison sentence for, as he puts it, "stabbing a son-of-a-bi-ch." Neither he nor his parents, mother Souad (Kawsar Al Haddad) and father Selim (Fadi Yousef), know Zain's exact age, as he was never officially registered, and therefore has no birth cert. As the film begins, Zain is brought before a judge, as he has decided to sue his parents for bringing him into the world despite not being able to care for their already numerous children. The film then flashes back several months, showing Zain running away from home after failing to prevent his parents selling his beloved 11-year-old sister Sahar (Cedra Izzam) to the landlord Assad (Nour El Husseini). Seeking refuge in a rundown amusement park, he meets Rahil (Yordanos Shiferaw), an Ethiopian refugee working as a cleaner. Taking pity on him, she agrees to let him stay with her in exchange for him looking after her one-year-old son Yonas (an absolutely astounding performance by Boluwatife Treasure Bankole) when she's at work, and the trio quickly form a close bond, until one day, Rahil doesn't return home.
Thoroughly uplifting stuff, am I right? The title of the film is a French word (alternatively spelt Capernaum). The term was originally the name of a Biblical fishing village on the northern shore of the Sea of Galilee, which is mentioned multiple times across all four gospels, as a place where Jesus performed several miracles. However, it's best known from Matthew 11:23, when Jesus curses the village for its lack of faith in him. Later on, however, the word came to be used in French literature to signify a state of chaos and disorder. The current dictionary definition is, "a confused jumble; a place marked by a disorderly accumulation of objects".
From an aesthetic perspective, Labaki wisely keeps things simple and functional, eschewing any directorial gymnastics, with the aesthetic design perfectly chosen to convey the story she wishes to tell. Adopting a documentarian style, cinematographer Christopher Aoun sticks to handheld cameras and, for the most part, natural lighting. The scenes on the streets of Beirut are especially impressive, with Labaki shooting most of the material from roughly Zain's height, or slightly lower. This allows the scenes to adopt a heavily focalised and subjective view of the world, without having to resort to less elegant POV shots. Chadi Roukoz's sound design is also superb in these exterior scenes, with the soundtrack crammed with car horns, shouting, crying, laughter, dogs barking, airplanes flying overhead, traffic on the streets. It's an aural overload, conveying how the massive city is overwhelming Zain, and again, tying us to his subjectivity. Placing us not just in Zain's world, but, crucially, in his subjective interpretation of that world, Labaki draws us to him, allowing us to view the world partly as outraged adults, but also as sharers in his experiences.
Zain is no saint; he's a rough, foul-mouthed thief, but he's also the most inherently honourable character in the film. Labaki could easily have used Zain to attempt to elicit unearned pity, but instead, she is far more interested in examining the day-to-day survival of children like him. One of his most salient characterises is his practical-minded solutions to the challenges he faces, and in this, we're encouraged to respect how he responds to his situation rather than pity him for being in such a situation in the first place. The film adopts something of the same manner; much like Zain, it's tough-minded and practical, and just as his hardened exterior is completely authentic, so too is the film's quiet anger.
Labaki sets the tone for the film to come in the very first shot, as we see Zain, filthy dirty, in only his vest and underwear. It is subsequently driven home multiple times that life is almost worthless in this place - Sahar is sold for some chickens, Rahil is encouraged to sell Yonas in return for forged migrant documents, one man brags, "I can buy a human for 500". This is a world in which people think of children in the same way as they think of commodities, with the notion of adults protecting children subservient to that of adults looking at children in a cold transactional manner. In such a place, Zain somehow manages to retain his sense of empathy, although he too is infected with the concept that everything is transactional, as his pragmatism illustrates to him that materialism is the order of the day. However, although he suppresses his sense of compassion, he does not completely extinguish it, nor would he want to. In a world where adults are reprehensible, and children their innocent victims, Zain is the story's moral compass, exhibiting a humanity far in excess of any kindness than has ever been shown to him.
In terms of problems, there are a few. The framing device of the trial, for example, is awkwardly realised, and for the most part, serves only to interrupt the far more compelling story of Zain, Rahil, and Yonas. Additionally, not only do the scenes in court come across as more heavily scripted than everything else, but they also depict something that couldn't happen (as Labaki herself has acknowledged, children can't sue their parents for giving birth to them). Obviously intended as a means to dramatize how Zain wants a voice, it is nonetheless a narrative contrivance that gets in the way of the far more accomplished filmmaking seen elsewhere. Surrounded by the more naturalistic realism of the rest of the film, the court scenes stand out because they feel like a plot machination. The third act in particular, which focuses primarily on the trial, strays into something Labaki has deftly avoid everywhere else; didacticism. Elsewhere, there is something of a sense that Labaki overloads the story, pushing just one too many hardships on Zain, as she attempts to cover a plethora of topics (including, but not limited to domestic violence, the migrant crisis, human trafficking, paedophilia, child labour, education, the justice system), and on occasion, the film feels like it's going to collapse under the weight of human suffering and thematic nihilism. This is a shame because some of the best scenes are those involving Zain and Yonas just going about their day, and if Labaki had had the confidence in these quieter moments, she might have scaled back on the socio-political content.
Never feeling exploitative, nor glorifying the poverty at its centre, the film isn't even especially sentimental, depicting scenes with a raw matter-of-factness, that were they featured in a Hollywood movie would be in slow-motion, with string music telling us to "Cry now". The conclusion is disappointingly didactic, and the journey there harrowing and exhausting. However, in the last shot, Labaki dares to offer a very cautious bit of optimism, and ultimately, the takeaway is not despair, but compassion. Just as Zain finds a humanity within himself that should be long dead, the film finds a moment of optimism amidst the chaos, and encourages the audience to cling to it.
The third film from Lebanese writer/actress/director Nadine Labaki, Capharnaüm is written by Labaki, Michelle Keserwany, and Labaki's regular writing partner Jihad Hojeily (Labaki's husband Georges Khabbaz and the film's producer and composer, Khaled Mouzanar are both credited with "screenplay collaboration"). Presenting a milieu in which people are utterly discardable, the film depicts children who are literally bought and sold for a few chickens; 11-year-old girls who are married off so their family can afford the rent; babies who are fed on ice cubes covered in sugar; refugees who roam the streets; mental illness which goes untreated; and people without a Lebanese identity card who don't officially exist. The film works because it never feels like it's exploiting, patronising, or trivialising the poverty and misfortune it depicts, never attempting to manipulate the audience into feeling a preconceived emotion. On the contrary, it's matter-of-fact, and notable for just how unsentimental it is. However, it's also deeply humanist, with genuine compassion in its DNA and a quiet rage at its core, born partly from an inherent sense of authenticity; shot in the style of cinéma vérité, it uses non-professional actors whose lives are not dissimilar from the characters they play. There are some problems, of course - the framing device of a trial is poorly conceived and distracts from the superior filmmaking surrounding it, the ending is disappointingly didactic, and the litany of hardships endured by the main character does get a little over-the-top. However, this is undeniably impressive filmmaking, as harrowing and angry, as it is solicitous and respectful.
The film tells the story of Zain El Hajj (Zain Al Rafeea), a young boy from the slums of Beirut serving a five-year prison sentence for, as he puts it, "stabbing a son-of-a-bi-ch." Neither he nor his parents, mother Souad (Kawsar Al Haddad) and father Selim (Fadi Yousef), know Zain's exact age, as he was never officially registered, and therefore has no birth cert. As the film begins, Zain is brought before a judge, as he has decided to sue his parents for bringing him into the world despite not being able to care for their already numerous children. The film then flashes back several months, showing Zain running away from home after failing to prevent his parents selling his beloved 11-year-old sister Sahar (Cedra Izzam) to the landlord Assad (Nour El Husseini). Seeking refuge in a rundown amusement park, he meets Rahil (Yordanos Shiferaw), an Ethiopian refugee working as a cleaner. Taking pity on him, she agrees to let him stay with her in exchange for him looking after her one-year-old son Yonas (an absolutely astounding performance by Boluwatife Treasure Bankole) when she's at work, and the trio quickly form a close bond, until one day, Rahil doesn't return home.
Thoroughly uplifting stuff, am I right? The title of the film is a French word (alternatively spelt Capernaum). The term was originally the name of a Biblical fishing village on the northern shore of the Sea of Galilee, which is mentioned multiple times across all four gospels, as a place where Jesus performed several miracles. However, it's best known from Matthew 11:23, when Jesus curses the village for its lack of faith in him. Later on, however, the word came to be used in French literature to signify a state of chaos and disorder. The current dictionary definition is, "a confused jumble; a place marked by a disorderly accumulation of objects".
From an aesthetic perspective, Labaki wisely keeps things simple and functional, eschewing any directorial gymnastics, with the aesthetic design perfectly chosen to convey the story she wishes to tell. Adopting a documentarian style, cinematographer Christopher Aoun sticks to handheld cameras and, for the most part, natural lighting. The scenes on the streets of Beirut are especially impressive, with Labaki shooting most of the material from roughly Zain's height, or slightly lower. This allows the scenes to adopt a heavily focalised and subjective view of the world, without having to resort to less elegant POV shots. Chadi Roukoz's sound design is also superb in these exterior scenes, with the soundtrack crammed with car horns, shouting, crying, laughter, dogs barking, airplanes flying overhead, traffic on the streets. It's an aural overload, conveying how the massive city is overwhelming Zain, and again, tying us to his subjectivity. Placing us not just in Zain's world, but, crucially, in his subjective interpretation of that world, Labaki draws us to him, allowing us to view the world partly as outraged adults, but also as sharers in his experiences.
Zain is no saint; he's a rough, foul-mouthed thief, but he's also the most inherently honourable character in the film. Labaki could easily have used Zain to attempt to elicit unearned pity, but instead, she is far more interested in examining the day-to-day survival of children like him. One of his most salient characterises is his practical-minded solutions to the challenges he faces, and in this, we're encouraged to respect how he responds to his situation rather than pity him for being in such a situation in the first place. The film adopts something of the same manner; much like Zain, it's tough-minded and practical, and just as his hardened exterior is completely authentic, so too is the film's quiet anger.
Labaki sets the tone for the film to come in the very first shot, as we see Zain, filthy dirty, in only his vest and underwear. It is subsequently driven home multiple times that life is almost worthless in this place - Sahar is sold for some chickens, Rahil is encouraged to sell Yonas in return for forged migrant documents, one man brags, "I can buy a human for 500". This is a world in which people think of children in the same way as they think of commodities, with the notion of adults protecting children subservient to that of adults looking at children in a cold transactional manner. In such a place, Zain somehow manages to retain his sense of empathy, although he too is infected with the concept that everything is transactional, as his pragmatism illustrates to him that materialism is the order of the day. However, although he suppresses his sense of compassion, he does not completely extinguish it, nor would he want to. In a world where adults are reprehensible, and children their innocent victims, Zain is the story's moral compass, exhibiting a humanity far in excess of any kindness than has ever been shown to him.
In terms of problems, there are a few. The framing device of the trial, for example, is awkwardly realised, and for the most part, serves only to interrupt the far more compelling story of Zain, Rahil, and Yonas. Additionally, not only do the scenes in court come across as more heavily scripted than everything else, but they also depict something that couldn't happen (as Labaki herself has acknowledged, children can't sue their parents for giving birth to them). Obviously intended as a means to dramatize how Zain wants a voice, it is nonetheless a narrative contrivance that gets in the way of the far more accomplished filmmaking seen elsewhere. Surrounded by the more naturalistic realism of the rest of the film, the court scenes stand out because they feel like a plot machination. The third act in particular, which focuses primarily on the trial, strays into something Labaki has deftly avoid everywhere else; didacticism. Elsewhere, there is something of a sense that Labaki overloads the story, pushing just one too many hardships on Zain, as she attempts to cover a plethora of topics (including, but not limited to domestic violence, the migrant crisis, human trafficking, paedophilia, child labour, education, the justice system), and on occasion, the film feels like it's going to collapse under the weight of human suffering and thematic nihilism. This is a shame because some of the best scenes are those involving Zain and Yonas just going about their day, and if Labaki had had the confidence in these quieter moments, she might have scaled back on the socio-political content.
Never feeling exploitative, nor glorifying the poverty at its centre, the film isn't even especially sentimental, depicting scenes with a raw matter-of-factness, that were they featured in a Hollywood movie would be in slow-motion, with string music telling us to "Cry now". The conclusion is disappointingly didactic, and the journey there harrowing and exhausting. However, in the last shot, Labaki dares to offer a very cautious bit of optimism, and ultimately, the takeaway is not despair, but compassion. Just as Zain finds a humanity within himself that should be long dead, the film finds a moment of optimism amidst the chaos, and encourages the audience to cling to it.