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Movie review

Facing jihadi terror in Oscar nominee ‘Timbuktu’

COHEN MEDIA GROUP/Cohen Media Group

An eland runs across the sand, golden, graceful, and terrified. A Toyota pickup truck speeds in pursuit, filled with jihadists firing Kalashnikovs and flying the black flag of Islamist fanatics. The Mauritanian-born Abderrahmane Sissako, one of the great filmmakers of sub-Saharan Africa, does not need to resort to propaganda in “Timbuktu” (nominated for a foreign language film Oscar) to denounce fanaticism. He has poetry. With subtlety, irony, and even humor, he gradually prepares the viewer for the horror to come.

With rough, fortress-like structures that look like they are part of the desert itself, the Malian city of the title (actually Oualata, in Mauritania; Timbuktu, though liberated by French troops, was too dangerous for filmmaking) possesses an antiquity and solidity that defy the invaders’ weapons and delusions of grandeur. The residents passively resist the arbitrary laws announced daily by megaphone and enforced by armed moral watchdogs. No smoking, music, or laughter is permitted. Women must wear shoes and gloves in the marketplace. When a fishmonger decries the stupidity of wearing gloves in her trade, she is “taken away.”

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But they are not cowed; even their brightly colored clothes, a startling contrast to the dun surroundings, rebuke the tyranny. Especially in the case of Zabou (Kettly Noel), the local sibyl, who struts about in a peacock-colored gown with a rooster on her shoulder. Imperious and possibly insane, she insults the Arab foreign fighters with seeming impunity. And in a scene reminiscent of the end of “Blow-Up,” the neighborhood kids defy the ordinance against soccer by playing an imaginary game without a ball.

But the greatest reproach to their authority is the gentlest. Outside of town, Kidane (Ibrahim Ahmed) lives by the river with his wife, Satima (Toulou Kiki), his daughter, Toya (Layla Walet Mohamed), and Issan (Mehdi AG Mohamed), the boy who tends their cattle. Their low-slung tent is furnished sparsely but with exquisite taste. The group lies on a lush carpet while Kidane plays the guitar. Even the teapot is a perfect shade of azure. Shot with long horizontal compositions that contrast with the jagged horizontals and diagonals of the city, it offers an idyllic alternative to the urban despotism — marred only by a quarrelsome fisherman who tangles the water with his nets.

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In short, it’s probably too good to last. Meanwhile, Sissako achieves the daunting task of humanizing the villains by playing on audience expectations and preconceptions. What looks like the setup for an execution turns into a discussion about the merits of generic pharmaceuticals. A bellicose argument among warriors about who defeated whom is not about battles but about the World Cup (those who dictate the rules do not necessarily live by them). And a jihadi commander (who secretly smokes) beams with delight when he finally masters the manual transmission in his truck.

They are just people, too, apparently. How then are they capable of such abominations? The power of intolerance and righteousness, and the impious belief that they possess divine authority. “There is only one God that I worship,” warns one of their victims. “He’ll dispense justice.” It hasn’t happened yet.


Peter Keough can be reached at petervkeough@gmail.com.