Capernaum: the ordinary in the streets
An overcrowded messy apartment, congested Lebanese streets and jargon, hunger and devastation, a tale of dimensions and desperation, Capernaum (2018) by lebanese director Nadine Labaki is an exquisite recount of the many truths that lie on the streets of communities in which fairness does not seem to exist. The story follows Zain (Zain Al Rafeea), a perhaps twelve-year-old boy who is imprisoned and wishes to sue his parents for giving birth to him, and the travesties that he underwent that led him to pursue this cause. A story of love, despair, pain, dysfunctionality and neglect, this film represents a microcosm composed of few of the many issues that constantly threaten society.
One of the first traits that can be identified in Zain’s character is his respect and love for his sister, Sahar (Cedra Izzam). He quickly acts upon her menstruating for the first time, telling her that they cannot let their parents find out, otherwise they will “give” her to Assad (Nour El Husseini), the owner of the shop Zain works at and also landlord of their apartment. “But he gives me ramen noodles and licorice!” Sahar replies. At this point, early on the film, we as an audience understand two major things; the theme that is being dealt with is the prevalence of child marriage as a substitute of money, for interpersonal conflict resolution or to release economical burden, and also that Zain has, for an unknown reason, a wider and more mature understanding of how the world around him functions. This attitude of his, to not to conform to the norms and to stand for what he believes is right is what drives the rest of the film.
An adult more often than not, the character of Zain is beautifully used as a device to navigate this and other issues that surround the streets of the city he lives in. That is when the word dimension comes into place; Labaki very cleverly uses interwoven narratives to demonstrate the dangers of an ignorant and disadvantaged society, and makes conscious decisions on how and when to show these elements. For example, for most of the film everything feels universal; other than the spoken language being arabic, one could assume that this scenario could take place pretty much anywhere, and I dare say that is her statement. However, she also chooses to refer to specific places such as Syria, Beirut and Sweden, drawing attention to the fact that this is indeed occurring in these locations.
When Zain meets Rahil (Yordanos Shiferaw), another theme comes into place; illegal immigrants. The theme in particular takes the universality of the film to a new level, given that Lebanon has the highest ratio of refugees in the world. Hence, the struggles depicted are representative of the life of a significant portion of the population, as opposed to being outstanding and isolated events. Rahil’s lifestyle poses more risks to her than to anyone Zain had met before, and regardless, she tries to earn an honest living in order to keep her son safe and send money back to her mother in Ethiopia. This contrast in between Rahil and Zain’s parents is very interesting, given that despite the opportunities that Zain’s parents virtually have, they are overall portrayed a lazy family that make a living the dirty way, not sending their kids to school and not even registering them as citizens. With not much to share, Rahil decides to take in Zain, who takes care of her baby Yonas (Boluwatife Treasure Bankole) while she is working; this relationship will bring back Zain’s paternal side back and will continue to drive the film’s plot. For most of the film, Rahil and Zain seem to be the only two characters that make adult and responsible decisions, and the only time where Zain gets to be a child is when he is with her. This is a powerful idea that reflects the level of psychological burden kids in situations of neglect have to face in order to survive.
The themes of child neglect takes place in different forms; the most obvious one is Zain’s family, but there is also his friendship with the Syrian refugee girl who sells things on the street, as well as the unfortunate and unintentional instance of Rahil not coming back home. Zain then is forced to explore the world of drug making and trafficking, as well as finding his way to Aspro (Alaa Chouchnieh), a commerciant who is also involved in under-the-table businesses, so that he can work out a way to Sweden as a refugee. While walking in the middle of this chaos, an aerial shot of the city tracks down Zain’s steps; at first I thought this had to do with emphasizing how Zain is so small in relationship to the vastness of the city and its troubles, but as the camera zoomed out and the rooftops all seemed so similar, with wires, tyres and trash all over, I understood it was more about emphasizing how this is not an extraordinary situation; there are thousands, if not millions people in this city who are in the exact same place, same position and same danger as he is.
The fact that all of this is narrated in retrospective from a courtroom is, in my opinion, no accident. Labaki’s commentary is not only about the street situations but also on how justice acts — or does not, for that matter- upon these cases. There was little evidence of any investigation behind Zain’s first arrest, and there is also a middle close up of his case file squeezed in between dozens of other files which will probably not be opened again. The courtroom situation allows for different perspectives to be explored and understood, and at times, the audience can empathize with even the most despicable characters because it is evident that they are all victims of the circumstances. When Zain’s father gives his statement, it is hard not to be moved and feel bad for him, and it is probably Rahil’s characters that brings more perspective into this. As an audience, we want all of them to work fairly and to provide for their families; we think “Agh, their lives would have been way easier if they had tried to work honestly!”, but the inevitable truth is that this is easier said than done, and that there is no easy solution to making ends meet among chaos, corruption, poverty and desperation.
Capernaum is not only a commentary but a magnifying lens to the reality of what most of the world looks like. Labaki’s intent is to make us uncomfortable, uneasy and moved, as such it presents a strong fearless criticism against the justice system. A society in which women are disempowered from birth, in which children are used as currency, in which one has to flee their own country in order to have a roof and food on the table, and in which one has to live okay with all of that. Zain wasn’t mistaken when he claimed that, indeed, “Life is dog shit. Life is a bitch”.
