Lessons in geography are one of main benefits derived from viewing the rich slate of foreign films offered at the 48th edition of the Mill Valley Film Festival (“MVFF”). Representing the Mideast, Iraq and Iran are consistently situated, whereas Tunisia's inclusion is common, especially in the broader Middle East and North Africa (“MENA”) context. The exact definition of the Middle East varies, but Iraq is a core Middle Eastern country, and Iran is also frequently included. Tunisia, located in North Africa, is often considered part of the wider MENA region due to its shared cultural and historical ties with the Middle East. Muslim-majority populations link all three countries, though while sharing this foundation, significant distinctions exist between these nations, including their specific religious affiliations, ethnic composition, and geopolitical locations. Further, Iraq and Tunisia have Arabic as an official language and a significant portion of their population speaks Arabic, whereas Iran's official language is Persian (Farsi), not Arabic. The narrative goals of cinema unite them all.
It Was Just An Accident (2025)—Tim Grierson synopsizes in his MVFF program capsule: “One of the world’s great filmmakers, writer-director Jafar Panahi has twice been imprisoned by the Iranian government. He has also been the Golden Lion winner at Venice (The Circle) and the Golden Bear winner at Berlin (Taxi). He now adds Cannes’ Palme d’Or to his honors for this revenge thriller infused with moral complexity, dark humor, and unmistakable rage that begins with a mechanic kidnapping a visitor to his shop. Vahid (Vahid Mobasseri) is convinced that Eghbal (Ebrahim Aziz) is the security officer who tortured him years earlier after authorities blindfolded and detained him. When Eghbal insists Vahid has the wrong man, Vahid invites several friends victimized by the same man to verify his identity. Panahi, informed by his own experience, melds the personal with the political to craft a gripping and powerful genre piece that is both deeply critical of Iran’s repressive regime and bitingly funny.”
“He who seeks revenge digs two graves.” So goes the Confucian fortune cookie, which cautions that vengefulness is destructive and ultimately harms the person seeking it as much as—if not more than—the intended target. The implication is that the pursuit of revenge can be all-consuming, leading the person seeking it to take self-destructive risks and suffer mental and emotional consequences, let alone initiate a cycle of destruction that harms both revenger and the target. Rather than suffer a fruitless endeavor, forgiveness and letting go provide peace of mind. At least, that’s the ideal.
But being tortured is not something easily forgiven, let alone forgotten. The impulse to push back is deeply entrenched. But if you torture others as they have tortured you, have you not abdicated your humanity by becoming the evil that has victimized you? Vahid finds himself in that position when he captures Eghbal and, literally, wants to bury him alive. Eghbal, however, introduces reasonable doubt and so Vahid seeks out others who have been victimized by Eghbal to confirm identification. But it has been so many years. None can completely and confidently identify him. One can remember his voice. One can remember the squeak of his prosthetic leg. They all argue about what’s to be done; argument augmented by mordant humor. But it’s the film’s final scene, the sound of the squeaking prosthetic, that says all there is to say about whether or not the horrors of the past can be buried once and for all.
Negotiating, cajoling, begging, at times even stealing, Lamia, her pet rooster Hindi, and her friend Saeed range a day in the city, offering finely-drawn glimpses of Baghdad in the early aughts (with murals of Saddam Hussein painted on nearly every wall), contrasted against the impoverished but tranquil marshes where Lamia lives with an infirm grandmother. She and Saeed frequently play a game where they try to outstare each other; a practice in perseverance and focus, essential to surviving the rain of American bombs as Hussein’s dictatorial regime nears the end of its 24-year run.
The welcome North American premiere of Erige’s Promised Sky offers a feminist slant on the tangled distinctions of status between immigrants and refugees; a contradistinction born from the geopolitical pressures tormenting humankind on our planet in our current moment (let alone our immediate nation). The key difference is that a refugee is someone fleeing persecution, war, or violence who cannot return to their home country, requiring international protection. In contrast, an immigrant is a person who moves to another country voluntarily, not under threat, often for reasons like economic opportunities, education, or to join family. Whereas the dream of a refugee is to become a legal immigrant, the fear of an immigrant is that their status can capsize, much like the boats that carry the desperate to foreign shores, or the targeted communities of the United States.
The three Ivorian women in Promised Sky, and their child charge, pursue various strategies to negotiate their relocation to Tunisia, but share frustration and fear when those strategies fail. If the core meaning of a promise is the insurance of a future outcome, a binding expectation, or an offered pledge signifying a future reality, what do these women see when they stare into a sky of broken promises? It hardly takes a stretch of the imagination to conjoin their suffering to those of the Mexican and Latin American refugees / immigrants hunted down by Trump’s ICE regime.
