16th Annual Boston Turkish Film Festival
March 16–April 2, 2017
The Museum of Fine Arts
It could be any society in the world—ruled by dictators,
oligarchs, or elected officials—for all societies have class divisions. The
society we watch in 61 Days, directed
by Yüksel
Aksu, happens to be Ula, Turkey, in the 1970s, so we witness propaganda
songs and daily routine in an almost utopian village celebrating Ramadan. In
the surrounding countryside, poor workers raise and harvest the tobacco crop.
They sing and make music during and after their backbreaking labor, reminiscent
of slave songs in the United States, for in any society with an oppressed
element, music lifts the collective spirit, as does belief in a God and
following religious codes, in the case of this movie, Islam.
We don’t need to know Turkish
history of the 70s, as the class divide in 61
Days is a universal, as is the character Karan’s (Yilmaz Bayraktar) attempt to unionize
the field hands. His father owns their labor and takes the largest share of
profits, ensuring their poverty. Karan mixes with the farm hands, brings them
cases of soda while explaining their exploitation. At night, he and his
communist friends paint red slogans on village walls. But the workers aren’t yet
ready to form a union—they fear “communism”—but they like Karan and welcome his
fraternal leadership.
The protagonist of the movie is
Adem (Berat
Efe Parlar), the son of field hands, who at the beginning of the movie graduates
from elementary school with honors, along with Berna, his rich classmate with
whom he shares a childhood love. Adem’s mother proclaims to her fellow field
hands, “He’ll be a doctor! He’ll be an engineer!” Instead, Adem insists on
working for the local soda seller Cibar (Cem Yilmaz), who spouts Ataturk and
religious slogans as part of his mentoring role to the boy. Adem pedals the soda
cart from town center to the Aegean seaside, calling out, “Soda! Soda!”
Village life and the soda
apprenticeship set the scene for Adem’s journey in this movie: he has potential
and ambition, he’s a protégé of both Karan and Cibar, who represent opposite
ends of the sociopolitical spectrum—activism vs. tradition. The backdrop is
Ramadan with its meanings and month of fasting. Adem listens to the local imam (Macit Koper) preaching
essential codes of conduct—such as not eyeing women lasciviously or lying. Such
sins result in having to double the fast to 61 days. Children aren’t allowed to
fast, but many do for a few symbolic hours in order to appease their longing to
participate in Ramadan’s requirements (though later we see adult practitioners
cheating on their fast). Adem secretly takes on the adults’ total fast, which
leads to moments of delirium, with animation, as he pedals the soda cart for
miles in scorching weather. Viewers may watch his grueling effort and think
about the effect of religious indoctrination on children’s imaginations.
The movie has some trouble because
of its dual genre: comedy and drama. Village life plays out delightfully: the
scenes of peasant life and village hubbub at the open market surrounded by
shops create an idyllic community. The mosque scenes and imam’s preachings are
laced with humor, such as when the townsmen beg the imam to switch the prayer
hour so they can watch the last game in the World Cup. That scene of villagers
under a makeshift roof in the town square, cheering at the TV rigged in front
of them, becomes even funnier when we see one man on the rooftop holding up a
tall antenna. Overall, the villagers know and accept each other, their
positions in society, and the rote role of religion in their lives. Their intimacy,
even in the mosque, exudes warmth and cohesion. In a way, the people are
caricatures, never deeply developed, which fits the comedy’s light mood and aura
of blemishless village life. So, when the movie turns suddenly serious with the
class issue leading to tragedies, the mix of genres may disrupt the artistic
continuity for some viewers—a similar shift happens in Robert Benigni’s comedy/drama Life is Beautiful (1997).
The outstanding parts of 61 Days
for foreign audiences are its constant ethnic music, all varieties of it; its rich
portrayal of the landscapes and cultural habits of rural villagers in
southwestern Turkey in the 70s (harvesting tobacco by lamplight); and the
exposure to a child’s experience of Islam and Ramadan. The movie’s light,
ironic touch, its playful humor and caricature fall into conflict with the serious
class-divide and political material, which then affect a maudlin ending.
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