Seven Samurai In Hollywood

“Seven Samurai” by Akira Kurosawa

There is no way I can write objectively, reasonably, or critically about “Seven Samurai”, Akira Kurosawa’s masterpiece. I fell in love with Kurosawa around the same time I fell in love with arthouse and foreign cinema, and I held up “Seven Samurai” as almost the holy grail of film. For that reason, I kept putting off watching it because I wanted to save it for the right time, whatever that means. In the end, it has taken me over 15 years to finally watch it, and so the 15 years of expectations and anticipation I brought into watching it were absurd and unfair to any film. I don’t feel it’s fair to even give an assessment of the film, as it cannot really compare to the effect watching “Rashomon” had on me at 23 as I was just discovering the world of film beyond the mainstream action blockbusters of my youth. It’s also strange because Kurosawa was one of my main entry points into the idea of cinema as more than entertainment, but as a true art form. However, the reality is that “Seven Samurai” is very clearly made to be a piece of popular entertainment, even at 3 and a half hours long. That’s not to say it’s not art, it clearly is, but it’s much less arthouse than the films Ozu was making at the time, and less arthouse than other works of Kurosawa. In fact, I believe that is why Kurosawa and “Seven Samurai” continue to have such a high standing in film history, because of his ability to fuse popular entertainment with an artistic quality that perhaps was not before seen at that level. 

That brings up the most salient point about Kurosawa, which is that he set the template for so much of Hollywood after 1950, and did so most effectively and effortlessly with “Seven Samurai”. Many of the most popular and most successful Western films of all time, a quintessentially American genre, were remakes of or inspired by Kurosawa films. George Lucas has admitted how much inspiration he took from Kurosawa for Star Wars. There is one sword fight in “Seven Samurai” in particular that looks exactly like some of the most famous light saber battles in Star Wars, from the stance and posture of the combatants to the framing and tension building. The realism and chaos of the epic final battle in “Seven Samurai”, mirrored in the dynamic and chaotic way it was shot and edited, was a big change for the time and influenced countless war films that came after it. The way it brought an eclectic cast of characters together one by one to team up and fight a common enemy despite their differences has been echoed in endless action films, and can still be seen today in movies like The Avengers and the Fast & Furious series. Kurosawa was slightly controversial in Japan in his day for being too Western in his filmmaking style, but the reality is that he kind of set the standard of style that the Western mainstream film industry would copy, consciously and unconsciously, from his first film until today. 

The last thing that makes it harder to appreciate the true mastery of “Seven Samurai” when watching it today is that it is impossible to pick up all of the powerful social commentary if you are not well versed in Japanese history and culture. Of course, the commentary is weaved into a narrative whose themes and ideas are universal, which gave his films mass appeal around the globe. But to miss the specificity of what he was trying to say about Japan and Japanese culture is to miss the the full power and force of his message and how radical it was at the time. To portray samurai as anything other than the trope of noble and honorable warrior was revolutionary at the time. To give respect to the farmers and validate their grievances against the samurai was to push back against the caste system that dominated Japanese society throughout its history. To allow a farmer to become a samurai, and to allow a samurai to fall in love with a farmer, these were incredibly taboo ideas at the time, especially for a country as conservative and honorific as Japan. We can watch these things today and understand them in the context of the film as unusual, but we cannot even come close to grasping how significant those images up on the big screen were for the Japanese people in 1954. While someone like Ozu may have been commenting on Japanese society by reflecting it in his films, Kurosawa was directly challenging it by putting up a fantasy of what could be, and I’m sure what he thought should be. 

There are a few other aspects of this film to highlight that are quite remarkable. At a time when dynamic and complex camera movement was incredibly challenging, practically speaking, due to the equipment available, so much so that really no other films outside of America were using it heavily, Kurosawa managed to employ a ton of incredibly smooth and effective dynamic camera movements throughout the film, especially in the aforementioned epic and influential final battle. To master something no one else was doing around most of the globe is to show what an innovator he was. It was also very uncommon in Japan at the time to film outside of studio designed sets where a director had complete control and good working conditions for the actors and crew. Yet for “Seven Samurai”, Kurosawa insisted on building a town out in the countryside and working in difficult weather conditions to bring an added level of realism and authenticity to the production. I cannot imagine the challenge it created in fulfilling his vision, but it was worth the effort, and is among the best examples of something Kurosawa came to be known for, which is the use of dynamic movement in the background or foreground of his frames created naturally by weather to add texture and mood to scenes. This includes things like heavy rain, wind blowing dust in the air, and rustling trees and hair and fabric. I watched a YouTube video one time comparing classic Kurosawa scenes and the life this use of weather added to his frames to the coldness and lifelessness of modern action and superhero films shot mostly with green screen due to static or artificial backgrounds in nearly every shot, and “Seven Samurai” is a great example of this. 

When I started this essay, with the conflicted feelings I had after watching this film, I honestly had no idea what I would write and thought perhaps this would be the shortest one yet. However, I was clearly inspired by the audacity of Kurosawa and “Seven Samurai” upon reflection and upon learning so much new information about the film in my research of it. Watching it at 38 after watching so many hundreds of films, it just didn’t hit me viscerally the way it may have had I watch it at 23 like “Rashomon”. It also didn’t strike me emotionally the way “The Music Room” and “The Passion of Joan of Arc” have in this film writing journey so far. That brings me a hint of sadness given how long I’ve been waiting to watch it. It also makes me eager to watch other Kurosawa films I haven’t seen yet that don’t bring that level of expectation with them and see how they strike me. Most notably “Ikiru”, starring the fabulous Takashi Shimura, who was incredible as the lead Samurai Kambei in “Seven Samurai”. Regardless of “Seven Samurai” not living up to the insane standards I set for it in my mind 15 years ago and held on to, it is undeniably a masterpiece of cinema that any serious cinema fan should watch immediately, as well as anyone wanting to learn about the history of film and see where so much of Hollywood entertainment got its start. If your favorite movie of all time was made by Hollywood and was wildly successful and popular, chances are it was in some way influenced by “Seven Samurai”. Now that’s a tough legacy to live up to! 

Burning Youth

“Burning” (2018) by Chang-Dong Lee

It’s been 4 days since I watched “Burning”, by Chang-Dong Lee, but the images from the film are still seared onto my brain. I don’t normally like to leave such a long gap between watching a film and writing about it, but the hazy quality time places over memory somehow seems to match this film perfectly. Remembering every detail of the film feels like arguing against it’s own existence, because everything is up for question and remembering every detail won’t help you get any closer to the truth. Watching it feels like the end of a long wasted day alone on a deserted island with only an anxious mind for company, staring at a purple and blue horizon well after the sun has gone down with an unquenchable yearning in your heart. If you find the abstract, ambiguous way I am compelled to write about this movie pretentious or annoying, “Burning” is probably not the movie for you. For everyone else, I highly recommend you let it’s warm waves wash over you.

There is a story, of course, a mysterious love triangle between 3 young adults who barely know each other. Except that it is not a romantic or erotic film, and while there is a mystery, the film isn’t particularly interested in solving it, only exploring it. And frankly, it’s not entirely clear what is the intention or motivation of any member of the triangle in question. So, you may be asking, what the hell is the point of this film? I think it’s really about the loneliness of the modern age, the aimless nature of a generation with fewer job opportunities, inauthenticity shaped by a social media culture, and an inability to truly connect with other people. That may sound like it’s a film looking down on the younger generations, but it is actually one of great empathy for a youth culture constantly misunderstood and misrepresented in media. The way these characters behave is shaped by the world they live in, our world. They are underemployed and drifting, seeking for meaning, seeking for connection, all without a clue how to go about it. No one taught them how to cope in this world, because everyone from the older generations lived their youth in a completely different world, and they are blind to the difference. 

Jongsu, Hae-min, and Ben

This is a good moment to pause and acknowledge something important about generational gaps. Every new generation rebels against the older generations, and the older generations tend to have trouble understanding the new generation, which can lead to looking down on them. However, what is happening in the modern age that is different than the past is that the rate of change (of technology, society, scientific discovery) has accelerated so rapidly that we have crossed a threshold where the world is fundamentally, rather than incrementally, different than it was one or two generations ago. In my lifetime we have shifted from no internet and almost no global awareness outside of our own country, to ubiquitous internet and constant awareness and connection to every corner of the world. I think we do not acknowledge and talk about the impact of that change enough, and how much more complex and challenging the world has become to navigate practically, mentally, and emotionally. Throw on top of that things like the opioid crisis, looming automation takeover, climate change, and many other dire issues that are hanging over the younger generations, and the argument that they are just lazy or weak or narcissistic sounds absurd. They are desperately trying to cope with an information overload that gives them a bleaker outlook than previous generations. The media and governments could control information much more easily in the past, so what people had to take in, process, and deal with was comically small compared to today. It has gotten to a point where I don’t think we fully understand the emotional and mental burden of the modern world on the human brain, and the youth of today are growing up knowing nothing but that world. 

Getting back to “Burning” and loneliness, the most interesting thing about our main character Jongsu is the way he allows himself to be drawn into more and more awkward social situations out of a combination of politeness and loneliness. He runs into a girl from his hometown in the city, but he doesn’t recognize her because, as she says, she had significant plastic surgery. He falls for her because she’s pretty and she shows a desire for his attention and affection. Jongsu presents as incredibly aloof, he does not know how to flirt or express affection, but the moment a girl he barely remembers flirts with him he falls in love because his longing for connection is so overwhelming. Soon Ben enters the picture out of nowhere, cool and confident and rich, and he is always with Hae-min. Jongsu is left feeling confused and hurt because he senses he has lost Hae-min romantically, but he never expresses his feelings, and instead just hangs around with Ben and Hae-min trying to understand them; what is their relationship to each other, and what is his relationship to each of them. They form an instant constellation, as if seen from Earth, where it is impossible to tell how close or far apart the stars really are or what is the true nature of their relationship to one another. Three ambiguous lives sharing ambiguous space for an ambiguous amount of time.

There is a core mystery that arises, but as the movie isn’t particularly interested in solving it, neither am I. Instead, I am fascinated by the way the movie combines the aesthetics and style of a mystery/thriller with those of an arthouse film, and uses that combination to create a mood which transmits the existential angst of our main characters. We don’t need to know all the details of what happens to feel what the characters feel, to be lost in a world of vast natural beauty and splendor yet feel trapped and suffocated by it. There are a few scenes in the film where characters are chasing fleeting moments of illumination, literally, moments of passing or fading sunlight or flames, mirroring their futile efforts to hold onto any meaning or substance in their lives. Hae-min dances topless in the dusk after sunset by the countryside with her arms outstretched towards the heavens trying to satisfy her ‘Great Hunger’ for knowledge of the universe. Jongsu dreams of standing as a boy in front of a burning greenhouse, the flames violent and vivid against the black country night. Everything for them feels so big and unattainable, even when it’s right in front of them.

Steven Yeun as Ben

Ben represents for Jongsu and Hae-min everything they think they are searching for, but everything about Ben is unreal, illusory. They chase Ben’s manufactured life the way so many young people chase the manufactured lives they see on Instagram, and it just leaves everyone feeling sad and inadequate. How do young people deal with life when they are made to constantly feel like they are not enough? Rather than comparing to the past, can we acknowledge the rapidly changing world and the challenges it presents? Because that is the future, constant change. The young people of today are pioneers and explorers, figuring out how to cope in an ever shifting social and technological landscape for the benefit of future generations who, let’s be honest, they probably won’t understand! Sorry, after all that searching, I thought it would be fun to end on a joke. 

Cyclist Out Of Sight

“Death of a Cyclist” (1955), by Juan Antonio Bardem

This image in the opening moments of “Death of a Cyclist” is so powerful for how perfectly it sets the viewer up for what’s to come, for what it represents thematically, and for the way it demonstrates how visual simplicity can highlight and heighten what always matters most: story. As we open, Juan and Maria are driving home on a country road at dusk, and they hit a cyclist. Juan gets out of the car and runs over to the cyclist to check on him and finds he is still alive. There is so much we learn here about these characters, like how Juan feels genuinely concerned for the wellbeing of the cyclist, while Maria feels concerned only for her own wellbeing. This reveal sets up their dynamic for the whole movie in a clever, yet subtle way, and sets up the personal stakes for each character.

This image does more than set up the characters, however, it also sets up the thematic exploration of the film. By keeping the cyclist just out of the frame, it sets up the game of ‘out of sight, out of mind’ the characters will attempt to play, which we all know ends with obsession of thought rather than freedom from thought. Things are always worse when we cannot see them, and letting our imagination run wild with what could happen always ends up worse than just accepting reality and facing consequences. In the image, Juan is right up in the face of this reality, while Maria stays lost back in the distance so she can avoid seeing it. It foreshadows clearly that Juan and Maria will always be pulled in two different directions based on their priorities and will struggle to stick together through this horrible situation.

Finally, this image shows the power of simplicity in visual storytelling. Nowadays, filmmakers have access to the most amazing equipment, the most amazing visual effects, and to mountains of money, so they are pretty unlimited in the visual imagery they can put up on the big screen. However, this little black and white film from 1955, when none of those things existed, proves that sometimes what you don’t show and what you don’t see are more powerful than what you do show. They didn’t show the car hitting the cyclist, and they didn’t show the cyclist’s body. Obviously they could have done both, and with the limited resources of the time, it may have looked bad, or they may have done a wonderful job, but that doesn’t matter. The director knew that not showing it would be more unsettling for the audience, leaving us to imagine it. More importantly, he knew everything I already talked about, that it was the right visual choice for this particular story to subconsciously implant all the themes of the movie into the viewer’s mind right from the start. Film is a visual medium, and this is masterful visual storytelling from J.A. Bardem.

The reason I chose to focus a majority of this essay on one image from the beginning of the movie is because it really does tell you everything about the characters, about the visual style of the film, about the type of story to come, and about the director’s approach to telling that story. To my mind there is no need to talk in depth about other parts of the film to let you know what it is about or to explore the ideas that will be presented. And to me, as someone who admires and respects the power of visual storytelling above all else, there is no greater sign of a master filmmaker than being able to set up and encapsulate an entire story in one simple visual right at the start of a film. And I have talked many times about the importance of “show, don’t tell” in visual storytelling, but this film highlights the natural extension of that philosophy for a deeper level of visual storytelling, which is “imply, don’t show”.

The best way to explain both is to talk about the inverse method which many films use. It is so frustrating when a film uses character dialogue or voiceover narration to tell you everything that is happening, has happened, or is going to happen. It is a sign that the writer, director, or both do not trust the audience to follow the story so they spell everything out. It is also frustrating when a film doesn’t spell it out with words, but shows you every little bit of action and everything that happens and leaves nothing to the imagination. Viewers are smart enough to infer what might be happening out of frame if given proper context and visual cues, or through character action/emotion. Feeling the need to “tell” or to “show” everything in a film is not just a lack of trust in the audience, but also a lack of trust in the actors and the creative team behind the film, including a filmmaker possibly not trusting themself. Ok, now let me step off of my soapbox for a second and say of course there is always a place for “showing” and “telling”, and it depends on what kind of film is being made, what are the goals of the filmmaker, and how creatively it is done. The point of my holy diatribe is just that it should not be done out of fear or laziness or lack of imagination, but out of thought and choice.

Let me wrap up this essay by getting back to the film in question, and briefly highlighting a few more notable aspects of the film I really appreciated. There is some really standout editing at points that surprised me and felt innovative for the time period. There is one match cut for instance, where two male characters in love with the same woman are smoking in different locations at the same time, and the film cuts from a medium close up of one of the men blowing out smoke into the empty space out of frame to a medium close-up of the smoke of the other man’s cigarette being blown into the face of the woman. The shots and the cut are so perfect that it all appears to be one man in one place, and the ethereal movement of smoke across not only the screen but across space is just a beautiful example of the magic of cinema. The movie also touches on the political climate of Spain at the time, that is so relatable to today as well, highlighting the impact of wealth inequality not just on society, but on our conscience if we try to ignore it, as we have. There could be a whole other essay just on that topic. It is a theme also contained in that opening image, as the victim is on a bicycle while Juan and Maria are in a car; and also we can see Juan and Maria and how fashionable and attractive they are, while the poor working class victim is kept out of view so as not to upset us.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Eyes Without A Phoenix

Nina Hoss in “Phoenix” (2014), by Georges Franju

In this film essay journey, I planned to watch and write about a movie a week. However, after watching “Eyes Without a Face” by Georges Franju last week, I found myself without anything to say. Every time I tried to write, nothing really stood out as important for me to write about with that film. This week, having no idea there were any similar themes between the two films, I watched “Phoenix” by Christian Petzold. I don’t know whether to call it intuition, serendipity, or just dumb luck, but I am really glad that I didn’t write about “Eyes” last week, because the main theme of that film is addressed in “Phoenix” as well, but in a much deeper, more complex, and interesting way. The simplest way to say it is that both of these movies are about identity, but of course our identity is tied into so many other things, both superficial, like beauty, and incredibly deep, like personal values. They both understand identity is not just what an individual thinks about themselves or how they see themselves, but also about what other people think about you and how they see you, and how the individual takes in those perceptions. The biggest difference between the two, and the real failing of “Eyes Without a Face” for me, is that while “Phoenix” focuses more heavily on the philosophical questions about identity and the feedback loop of how others’ views affect your own, “Eyes” unfortunately focuses more on the superficial aspect of beauty and its implications on self-worth and worth to society. While I find that topic incredibly valuable to explore, I found the way it was explored in “Eyes” not that impressive compared to the many other films in which you can see it examined. For instance, I felt that “Phoenix” explored it better, and yet it was a much smaller part of that film’s focus and attention. With that out of the way, I myself will focus most of my attention now on “Phoenix” and it’s strange beauty. 

Lost Identity in “Phoenix” and “Eyes Without a Face”, side by side

As we begin, Nelly is returning home to Berlin from the concentration camps after World War II with heavy bandages hiding her disfigured face. Immediately we learn that what she worries about most is that if no one can recognize her face, what happens to her identity, and who does she become? Since Nelly is most concerned with her physical facial appearance, I will start there with this question of beauty and what reflects back to us from society. During a consultation with her doctor, he asks if she wants her old face reconstructed, or a new face. Of course Nelly wants to be herself again, but the doctor warns her that it might never match her memory, thus causing her pain, and as part of the appeal of a new face which he offers is the beauty of the different faces she could choose and how in fashion they are. His goal is not about identity at all, he only sees value in aesthetic beauty so that is what he recommends to her. Later, when Nelly is driving with one of her family members after her new face is revealed, she expresses concern over whether she will ever look like herself again, and they reassure her that she looks beautiful. This family member also shows that she places the most value on aesthetic beauty by believing that is the only thing about which Nelly is concerned. However, for Nelly, is it about matching the old image of her, the only one the world knows, because anything less than that leaves her unknown to the world, and thus to herself. It is so heartbreaking to see these people who supposedly care about her reduce Nelly to her beauty and send her the message, as we always have to women, that it is her only value because it is the number one way they identify her.

After Nelly has returned home and started healing, she starts to seek out her husband Johnny to find out if he still alive. The problem is that with so little left to hold onto about her old life now that her sense of safety and freedom has been thoroughly shattered, she begins to define her identity entirely by her relationship with Johnny and beings to fixate on him. If Johnny can recognize her, then she will be herself again. But he doesn’t. And it wounds her deeply. But she cannot let go. So she follows him. And he notices her following him. He says she looks a bit like his dead wife and asks her to pretend to be herself so they can collect her inheritance and split it. This is where things get really interesting as she heads into a hall of mirrors trying to find out which image of her is the real her. Johnny tells her what to wear and how to be and who to be, and she follows because Johnny is now the judge of how much like herself she is. So now she is reconstructing her identity not on her own perception of it but on how Johnny sees her. Johnny is defining Nelly. This is such a brilliant way to represent the way that, for much of history, women were defined by the men they were with, and often times, they defined themselves that way as well because it was easier than dealing with the constant cognitive dissonance between who they are and who society demands they be while knowing that they don’t have the power to change it. Nelly is so much more than how Johnny sees her, but her desperation to cling on to her old self forces her to do whatever is necessary to be the Nelly that Johnny remembers. 

This film stays very narrowly focused on Nelly’s personal search for an identity, so while the movie is set in Berlin just after the war, all of that heaviness serves mostly as a backdrop for her story. However, it is obvious these questions about identity that Nelly is exploring are impacted by and reflected in the same questions about Germany’s identity after the war. Nelly can never again be the Nelly from before the war because she can never again feel quite as safe or quite as free in the same way Germany can never again be the Germany from before Hitler because it can never forget it committed genocide. And Germany is a great example for Nelly because rather than try to pretend it could go back to being the old Germany, it made a conscious effort to continually remind itself and the world that an atrocity did happen, and thus Germany needed to be different so it would not happen again. Nelly also needs to accept the reality of what happened and understand she is different, and to find her identity now she has to let go of the old one. And this is something we all struggle with I think, the idea that identity is fixed, when in fact it can be very fluid. We all love to have strong values and beliefs and personality traits because we feel like those things give us a strong identity. The struggle is when we hold onto some of those things even in the face of a new reality that is screaming at us that it is time to let go of an outdated part of ourselves that no longer serves us and evolve with the world around us. 

I could go on forever about these themes, and there is much more intrigue to the story that I have not touched on, but I’ll wrap up with some brief thoughts about the visuals, performances, and direction in the film. The entire film I felt so comfortable being in the hands of a director so clearly in control of every aspect of the film that it was hard to pick out everything he was doing, but I could feel it. The visuals are not flashy, but so haunting, often due to their simplicity and uncluttered nature. The above image, for instance, of the fragmented mirror in rubble showing two reflections of Nelly is so simple and clear in its implication, yet packs so much more than meets the eyes inside of it. The movie is loaded with less overt but equally powerful imagery throughout the film. Nina Hoss as Nelly gives an almost numbing performance, in that it’s almost too much to take in the totality of what she is going through, yet we can see it in every moment through her physical performance, so you almost become numb watching her to avoid the pain of her reality, just as her character is avoiding it. The supporting performances were good, but this film lives and dies on Nina’s performance and she carries every bit of this movie, its philosophical exploration, and its emotional devastation. If you, like me, sometimes hesitate to watch movies about really heavy topics like the Holocaust and World War II, I urge you not to avoid this movie because it is beautiful, meaningful, and only brings in the heaviness of the circumstances surrounding Nelly in service of Nelly’s personal story, which is really a self-love story.

Art in Close-Up

Hossain Sabzian and Moshen Makhmalbaf in ‘Close-Up’ by Abbas Kiarostami

This seminal documentary-narrative hybrid film by Abbas Kiarostami holds a special place in Iranian cinema, documentary cinema, and among hardcore film fans for how it discusses the art of film and the meaning it can hold for an average Joe’s life. Our average Joe is Hossain Sabzian, an impoverished family man who is accused of fraud for impersonating a famous filmmaker to take advantage of a wealthy family in Tehran. The details of the case and even the method of storytelling by Kiarostami are secondary to Hossain’s story and the way he tells it, such is his screen presence. Of course those other factors are interesting to discuss when dissecting this film, but they pale in comparison to the words of Hossain in defense of himself and his actions. Even in America, the land of the free, we have major systemic injustices that create far fewer opportunities and options for certain segments of the population, no matter how much we want to tout it as the land of opportunity where anyone can be anything. Yes it is true, but certain people have a much easier path to that anything than others based on race, gender, religion, wealth, and many other factors. When you get outside of America, the disparity of opportunity is often much greater, as it can be in Iran. 

Hossain represents the have-nots, a poor working man struggling just to afford enough to eat for his family. He is also a deeply feeling man who finds relief in the cinema of filmmaker Mohsen Makhmalbaf, a cinema that uniquely captures the struggle of the working class in Iran and reflects the struggle of Hossain’s own life. Hossain’s appreciation for Makhmalbaf’s art even provides him a reason to live and to keep on struggling. He dreams himself of being a filmmaker and providing the same kind of relief to millions of other people who are struggling so much so that he pretends to be Makhmalbaf one day on a city bus ride when talking to a mother of two young men interested in film. What starts as a lark for Hossain turns into something much more, a fleeting moment of dignity and respect in a sad and lonely life. So he continues to play his role of a lifetime, visiting the Ahankhah family, promising a role in his new movie to one of the sons, and scouting their house as a location for a future film. When he borrows money from the family which he knows he cannot repay, he crosses a line that brings his ruse to an end, and he states in court his willingness to accept responsibility and be punished for his deception. However, his words in defense of his actions provide the heart of “Close-Up”, as his face is shot in close-up pouring his heart out to the court and the camera.

Essentially, the legal question at the heart of the case is, “what constitutes fraud?" Was it Hossain’s intention to deceive the Ahankhah family, and was it for personal or financial gain? But there is an even more interesting philosophical questions beneath the case: “what do human beings need to survive?” In regards to the question of fraud, Hossain argues that it was never his intention to deceive the family, and although he did borrow money, he was not attempting to gain anything from the family. He really had a desire to be a filmmaker, but did not feel he had the means or opportunity to become one, so posing as Makhmalbaf was the only way to be a filmmaker in his mind. When he saw the way the family respected and admired him, he did not want to give up that role and he did not want to let them down. This gets to the question of human need. In his daily life, people do not listen to Hossain, they do not respect his opinion, and they do not pay him special attention because he does not matter in society. What is a man to live for if he has no dignity, no respect, and no appreciation from the society around him? 

When Hossain was with the Ahankhah family, they would do whatever he told them to do to prepare their house for filming, the sons would listen to his advice on how to make it in the film industry, and they appreciated his presence in their lives. Everyday after he would leave their house he would instantly return to his reality as a nobody that was almost invisible to the world around him. The characters in the films he loved so much from Makhmalbaf were poor, working class, struggling nobodies who became really meaningful to people around the country by virtue of being a subject of a work of art. Likewise, Hossain's meaningless life was suddenly given meaning by this new role as director. But what’s more than that, art imitated life, because Hossain’s actions became the subject of a film and he himself became a character who became a symbol of the same struggles explored in the films he loved. Going back to human need one more time, I believe this film is actually an argument that art is a human need. Art and stories give us the strength to carry on by relating to us and providing the inspiration that things can change and things can get better. Stories have been with us basically as long as language, and they help us to understand the world and our place in it. Art gives expression to our innermost feelings and our deepest humanity, connecting us to one another. For Hossain, a life without art would be a life with only struggle, a life without hope. 

The final scene in the film is of his hero Makhmalbaf picking him up and driving him by motorbike to go visit the Ahankhah family together. In the end, a movie was made at their house, and Makhmalbaf came to their home to speak to them. So, is Hossain a fraud, or a film prophet?