Capernaum

Dir. Nadine Labaki, 2018

IMDb entry – trailers, cast & crew, trivia, and more

Reviews:

• Peter Bradshaw in The Guardian (2018)
• Peter Bradshaw in The Guardian (2019)
• Imogen Sara Smith in Film Comment

Extras:

• Nadine Labaki on Writers & Company

Story vs. Narrative

Capernaum is told in episodic fashion; very little about the context of Zain’s or Rahil’s situations is explained through dialogue or exposition, and the viewers must piece together for themselves just what is happening. As a result the constructedness of the narrative becomes more important, and that in turn encourages us to explore a little more the notions of story and film narrative, introduced to us in an earlier chapter of this book.

We often use the terms “story” and “narrative” interchangeably, and that is often without consequence. But we can also use them to underscore the difference between story and how a story is told. Story is the “pure” form of a story, story in its natural, pre-narrative state. Narrative, on the other hand, takes the story and moulds into a narrative. It takes the story out of its pre-narrative state and transforms it by giving it structure and style.

One simple analogy for understanding this difference is to think about milk and a bottle of milk. Milk is just simply milk – a white liquid:

A bottle of milk is still milk, and we’ll often refer to it as just milk, not bottle of milk (e.g. “pass me the milk”). But the bottle also provides form and function to the liquid milk, allowing us to transport and to drink milk:

So it goes with story and narrative. Narrative gives form to story; it structures and presents the story in a certain way that allows us to comprehend and consume (“drink”) the story.

The reason for this digression and the accompanying, slightly clunky analogy is to stress the constructed nature of storytelling. Narratives are constructions, and reminding ourselves of this helps us develop a more analytical approach to narratives. By examining how the narrative is constructed, we begin to understand how the story is being told, and how we’re being manipulated, often in a good way, by the storyteller to understand the story on their terms. Storytellers, that is writers and filmmakers who create narratives, want to communicate something to us through those narratives. They spend a great deal of time on fashioning those narratives, and we would be doing them a disservice if we didn’t make an effort to understand how they were telling the story they’re telling.

One final point to make about story vs. narrative can be illustrated by René Magritte’s famous painting “The Treachery of Images.” The painting of a pipe with the caption “Ceci n’est pas une pipe” (= this is not a pipe) illustrates the difference between an object and the representation of the object (in this case, a painting of the object). A similar relationship exists between story and narrative. Narrative is a representation (or construction) of the story, but not the story itself; it exists separate from the narrative. We know this because we can recall the story without having the narrative (e.g. a film) in front of us. In fact, if we watch a film and then recount the story of the film to someone who hasn’t seen it, we’re simply creating a new narrative from the same story. Again, all of this serves as a reminder (or in Magritte’s case, almost as a warning) not to lose sight of the fact that the representations of things or stories aren’t the things or stories themselves. As noted above, being mindful of this enables us to become more sophisticated analysts of film narratives.

The Filmmaker as Activist

Nadine Labaki is a socially-engaged filmmaker, and Capernaum is probably the most activist of her films. She has made clear in interviews that her reason for making Capernaum was to explore and bring to light the plight of children in Lebanon, in particular impoverished children who are at the mercy of a system structured in such a way that just getting papers documenting one’s existence is a major hurdle. In her interview with CBC’s Writers & Company, Labaki was very clear about her motivation:

I spent the last four years going to court, wanting to understand: how does the system work? How does the system try to find a solution for these kids or try to find structure for these kids? What happens when a kid like that is facing abuse or neglect? Where does she go?

Capernaum tries to answer these questions through its fictional characters. The story relayed by the film is an amalgam of the many stories that Labaki gathered in her research. And while she is keen on creating awareness with the film, she also wants the film to go beyond mere depiction:

I don’t want this film to just be a film. I want it to go beyond that. I think politics and art are not two different things anymore. They shouldn’t be two different things anymore, and more and more artists should be involved in politics. I think art is the only way for politics to change its perspective or to explore alternative thinking. This is what we need — we need alternative thinking to really find solutions.

It’s that intentionality that makes this film a work of activist cinema. Labaki wants the film to be part of a solution, to instigate the change that will create a solution. We can criticize this as naive (as I do in one of my answers in the student questions below), but we should also respect the genuine commitment to social change that the film embodies.

Student Questions

Q. My question is regarding the significance with the scene of the man placing the file in a room full of them. Is this somewhat a nod to hundreds of other cases with children living in similar circumstances to Zain?

A. That’s how I read it, too. It’s not just that there are thousands (not hundreds) of files in that room, but it’s the way the room is filmed: you feel claustrophobic in those narrow passageways with files looming over you, looking as if they’re ready to fall in over you. Plus the way that Zain’s case is “filed” makes you wonder if it could ever be found again. All of this combines to evoke the impossibility of the system ever coming to grips with the size and scope of the problem. The hopelessness of the situation is distilled visually in this one scene.

Q. Throughout the whole movie, the performance by the main protagonist, Zain, bothered me. I found it odd that he only had one expression, a look of anger and sadness. Would someone in Zain’s situation really be like that? It scares me to ponder on it but it intrigues me as well. At the very end, when Zain smiles for the passport photo, it shifted my perception of the movie; the pain, the suffering, the victories and defeats of Zain felt more impactful and meaningful because of that smile. I ask myself again and again, was that the only time Zain smiled and did Zain every feel happy?

A. The actor playing Zain wasn’t a professional actor; he was indeed a refugee living in Lebanon. Zain’s smile at the end hits the viewer with such force because it really is the only time that he smiles with genuine warmth. His whole face changes, and the impact of that on the viewer, who has only seen a Zain who weighed down with anger and frustration, is all the more forceful. We have never seen Zain happy until that moment. Even during the title credits sequence, when we see Zain playing with other children, the playing emulates war, and though some of the children may be laughing, Zain isn’t.

Q. I want to learn more about the very end of the film, when it shows Zain smiling for the first time in the movie. What is the symbolism behind freezing the frame on his citizenship picture?

A. There’s no symbolism here. The smile simply reflects the momentous change in Zain’s fortunes that come with becoming documented. While we’re not sure if Zain will have to complete his sentence in prison (the film remains silent on that), we do know that the documentation will make life easier for him in the future. And given the happy ending for Rahil (reunited with her baby, but we’re unsure where that’s happening – is she at an airport about to be deported to Ethiopia?) that precedes this scene, the viewer is encouraged to dwell on the happiness of the moment and not to worry about details like Zain’s prison sentence.

Q. The tone of the ending is confusing to me, and I’m not sure about the reality of what is implied. From what it seems like, both Zain and Rahil are on their way to becoming properly documented as Zain gets his ID photo at the end of the film and Rahil is given her baby. Why would this happen? Is it simply due to the publicity Zain generated from his court case?

A. The film doesn’t answer those questions directly for us. But then, it hasn’t addressed any of those questions very directly throughout the whole narrative. The viewer is tasked with relying on their own imagination to fill in those kinds of blanks. And though we don’t know the particulars of the resolution (we’re left to make our own guesses, for example that the publicity helped his case), I think the main goal of that resolution is to end the film on a note of hope. Otherwise, as Labaki has pointed out in various interviews, including the one with CBC’s Writers and Company linked at the beginning of this chapter, the film would be unwatchable if too much reality were on display. The implication is that the reality is that the happy endings are elusive in the real lives of the people caught in the situations described in the film.

Q. I’d like to learn more about the culture surrounding the film.

A. Read up on Lebanon’s history and on the history of migration in the eastern Mediterranean since the 1980s. Lots of material out there on the events and tragedies that have resulted in the dislocation of millions of people.

Q. What is your opinion on the purpose of the making of Capernaum, was it for entertainment or educational purposes?

A. Labaki makes clear in interviews that she made Capernaum as an activist filmmaker; she wanted to effect change with this film by educating people about the plight of undocumented children in Lebanon. For that reason I would say the primary purpose of the film was educational or activist. But Labaki also elected to tell this story by means of a fictional narrative, not as a documentary. This doesn’t mean necessarily that there’s a desire to entertain, but certainly it indicates an effort to use fiction to do what fiction does so well: to move us as viewers, to create in us a space of empathy that allows to feel in a small way the pain and trauma that people experience. A good story will speak to our human condition and raise fundamental questions about how we as humans experience life in particular social or cultural contexts.

Q. Is it possible for outsiders to make multi-layered cinematic statements about cities and cultures? Do you have to have lived in the space to understand it and translate it to film, or does an outsider’s view also hold value in narrative and spatial construction?

A. Many would claim that certain stories should only be told by those who have a stake in them or in the society/culture in which they are set; they feel that these stories are often told by outsiders who lack the necessary empathy, or they might argue that for too long, their stories have been told by others and that this has to stop. Personally, I’m less concerned about who tells a story than I am about the story being an honest attempt to portray a reality as perceived by the storyteller. I don’t think it can be considered a given that someone from a particular culture/society can tell a story set in that society better than an outsider to that society. That doesn’t show enough respect for the power of human imagination and creativity.

Q. I found the flashbacks confusing, for example when Zain meets his mom in prison after the scene we see of him in court. but then after the meeting scene we realize that this was a flashback after Zain got arrested. What type of flashbacks were these and how can they be used properly for audiences like me to not be confused?

A. The episodic nature of the film, and the lack of explanatory exposition throughout the film, is intentional. It unsettles us a bit as viewers; it disrupts the smooth flow of narrative and keeps us on our toes because we must repeatedly ask questions of ourselves about what is going on. Simply put, we’re required to piece together the narrative on our own. The confusion we experience as viewers reminds us in the way of just how chaotic the situation being depicted is, and this in turn forces us to reflect more on that situation than may otherwise be the case.

Q. I don’t understand why Zain’s parents can’t stop having children when they know that they’re barely surviving, don’t have the resources to keep the children safe, and have even called themselves “parasites”. Do they think they’re doing good in the world by having so many kids?

A. It does seem to defy logic, but I’m not sure that logic plays much of a role in such a dislocated and dysfunctional society. Though demographic studies have noted (with exceptions, however) that less educated and less economically stable families tend to have more children, the film doesn’t try to explore or explain the reasons this might be so. It’s just presented as part of the general chaos that marks society in Capernaum.

Q. Peter Bradshaw highlights that the film is naive and simplistic. Why is that so many people use a films simplistic nature as a criticism? What is the difference between a bad simplistic film and a good one?

A. Keep in mind that Bradshaw is responding to the film as a critic who sees scores, or even hundreds, of films annually. He is approaching the film as someone well steeped in film criticism and history, and so he is always reviewing film from the perspective of someone who is looking to highlight films that are exceptionally well made. In his view, a bad simplistic film is one that doesn’t use cinematic tools effectively; in the case of Capernaum, he criticized the story’s premise (Zain suing his parents for divorce) as “cloying” when he first reviewed it. But he later revised his review and praised the film’s “passion and compassion”; in doing so, he recognized that some aspects of the film lent it a simplicity that was also a strength.

Q. Do you think these kinds of movies can make a significant difference in the world? In what way and is it enough?

A. No, I don’t, but they can contribute to incremental social change. Sometimes works of fiction (literature and film) can bring attention to an issue that has escaped notice, often because they’re able to dramatize the issue in a manner that moves audiences. And as a result of that, some people will become more engaged in that issue and motivated to advocate for change. But it takes more for a society to undergo fundamental change than just a story calling the attention of some people to the problem. That’s also a lot to ask of a film or a novel.