In keeping with flat two-dimensional format, the images are distilled into black and white with all shades of grey in between. The textured backgrounds, varied styles and an eye for details -the dancing puppet, the curl of cigarette smoke, falling jasmine petals all breathe life into this coming of age story amid the backdrop of a Islamic revolution in Iran.

As a child we see a feisty little Marjane practicing her Bruce-Lee moves and reciting commandments as a ‘future prophet’ to her progressive politically-minded parents and equally no-nonsense head-strong grandmother. With the fall of the Shah regime and the repressive regime that follows, Marjane and her family experience not only curbed personal freedoms but see first hand the repercussions of political restrictions. A moving scene with her imprisoned Uncle Anoosh reveals how this young girl has to deal with issues of injustice and a changing political landscape.

Growing into adolescence she seeks the delights of western contrabands – a Micheal Jackson lapel pin, a ‘Punk is not Ded’ leather jacket and heavy metal. Fearing that her headstrong ways would land her into jail or worse, her parents send her off to Vienna. Here we see her adrift, disconnected from her Western counterparts and nursing heartbreak. We follow her back to Iran where things have gone from bad to worse.

The film is exceptionally brilliant at pointing out the absurd restrictions of the regime – woman prohibited from running, a fully clothed model for a ‘life drawing class’-which gain greater poignancy in scenes where a party turns fatal and young boys are promised paradise in return for martyrdom on the battle field.

With the bracketing of the film with scenes of an expatriate Marjane at the airport longing to return, it captures a sentiment familiar to all Iranians – nostalgia for their homeland but the inability to live there. As a film, Persepolis treats you to a heady mix of warmth, humour, and an interweaving of memoir, history and fantasy. Most of all it shows you how people have no choice but to get on with life even in the most repressive circumstances, and that they continue living without losing a sense of self.

While I applaud the film for its sensitive portrayal and well told personal story enmeshing the political, I was left feeling a little uneasy. Where was the lyrical cadence of Farsi? The peppering of every phrase with an endearing jaan? There might have been logistical reasons (the film was funded by and made in France where Satrapi now lives), but even so, it created a distance. It was only the few scenes of Farsi writings that placed you back into that landscape.

And while Iranian repression (as well as those in other Islamic states) is a twisted interpretation of Islam, I couldn’t help but feel a little dread that this film would only add to the simplistic understanding of Islam equals bad and West equals good.

I saw The Aquarium at the SF film festival where Yousry Nasrallah was in attendance to take questions after the screening. Starting with:

“In the dining table scene, was the man in white, the ghost of Leila’s dead father?”
“No”, explained an amused Nasrallh, “he’s just the bearer. Though I do like your interpretation”

Speaking about the title and locale of the Aquarium, Nasrallah explained that it was the back drop for a number of love songs from films in the 50s. He was merely tweaking a tradition that held cultural resonance with Caiorites.

The character of Leila held particular fascination of the audience with her outward risk-averse liberated front which masked a repressed inner life. Sexual repression, societal norms and politics of the female body play out in Leila’s own life as well as in the secretive clinic sequences.

“That’s the terrifying thing about repression, you erase it, pretend it didn’t happen to you. This plays out again in the rape scene where you only see the victim and hear the mother’s voice. So while she undergoes a hymen reconstruction surgery, she can never talk about what happened to her. Like fish with no memory.” said Nasrallah.

He envisioned the film as an examination of memory and movement, as though all the characters were moving through water in a trance like state – seeing things but never touching anything.

Nasrallah spoke about the climate of fear that most Egyptians are born in and the conditioning that they are groomed into. “It was only post 9/11 that you [Americans] experienced fear but we have been indoctrinated to be afraid.”

Callers on Leila Bakr’s (Hend Sabry) talk show, Night Secrets, reveal their deepest, darkest secrets. She tries to help them grapple with their fears while trying to cope with her own failings. Leila masks her constant struggle with sexual repression (shown as a lovely black and white silent film), and while she seems liberated she makes only hesitant steps towards independence.

Youssef ( Amr Waked), a loyal listener and anesthetist, is similarly fascinated by others lives -whether on the radio, or the mumblings of his anesthetized patients. His nocturnal wanderings, penchant for sleeping in his car, clinical detachment towards father and lover, and his own dark secret make him seem cold , distant and emotionally drained. While both are rich and successful professionals , their lives seem circumscribed by careers, emotionally empty and though they recognize this, they seem overcome by apathy.

Nasrallah extends these voyeuristic wanderings to imbibe the film with political shadows of present Egypt. Big Brother is never far off , especially in the scene with protesters of the Khifaya (Enough) movement, the police seem to out number the protesters. Political and social repression, corruption and the politics of fear make their presence felt throughout the film.

Shot in enclosed yet visible spaces-glass walls in the recording studio, the descent from an old fashioned elevator, the scenes at the aquarium and in the concrete grotto, Youssef sleeping in his car, all showcase the film as one giant fish bowl. Even the movements of the characters is reminiscent of little fish making way for a big fish.

Nasrallah also tried some innovative techniques such as having his secondary characters break in to Bretchian alienation device of talking to the camera. Through these ramblings we are meant to get an insight into the protagonists. Some how, it didn’t work for me. It seemed very grafted on, very Euro-cool. The Arabian nights silent film worked better, perhaps because it was situated more in a local sensibility.

See Q&A with Yousry Nasrallah.

Fallen Angels, created from out takes of Chung King Express, essentially feels like its extension. Only, for some reason, probably because it seemed more fluid, I thought it came before rather than after Chung King Express.

In signature Chistopher Doyle style, the frenzied camera work captures the pulsating MTV rhythms in unabashed colours and intimacy and sets the backdrop for the characters adrift and alienated in their own worlds. Shot almost entirely at night, these nocturnal characters come alive under a cover of darkness. We see vignettes of their lives and a strong presence of absence. Their search in unconsummated affairs, unrequited love and unattainable release are efforts to fill this vacuum.

While the plot is merely a thin outline and the lives of the characters too too glamorous to be believed, the emptiness resonates. The self proclaimed lazy assassin (Leon Lai) leaves logistics to his fabulously dressed female ‘partner’ (Michele Reis). Though they have met only twice and communicate through fax, she harbours and acts upon feelings for him that are far from professional. She cleans his apartment (in shiny vinyl dresses and fishnet stockings I might add), examines his trash and hurts when he leaves. He attempts to break away from his past only to find it comes to reclaim him in a re-encounter with a blond haired woman (Karen Mok), a lover from a former life.

Other characters include an ex-con turned nocturnal ‘store-keeper’ (Takeshi Kaneshiro), who ‘re-opens’ closed shops and coerces customers and owners alike. Enacted with an innocent charm Kaneshiro infuses his role with a childlike curiosity that makes you pine along with him as he deals with his first brushes with love and loss.

As their intersecting lives come to play out in their subjective world views, whether in claustrophobic apartments, late night eateries, noodle houses or gambling dens, Hong Kong is a distinct character within the film. At once vibrant and distant, seen though a hallucinatory gaze and enveloped in nostalgia for the now.