Not to commit racial profiling or anything, but when I go to an Iranian film I expect it to be brilliant — even if the director is actually a Kurd. And Bahman Ghobodi (A Time for Drunken Horses, Marooned in Iraq) delivers once again in a tragic story unfolding along that desperate Kurdish no-man's-land that is the Iraqi-Turkish border. During his career as a filmmaker in Iran, Ghobodi has learned the Iranian director's ingenious way around various Islamic Production Code strictures in making films about children. But that doesn't make Turtles Can Fly a story for children — no more than is Graveyard of the Fireflies — another devastating "children's story" involving American ordinance. In this story we meet "Satellite," an artful dodger in a refugee camp slum. Satellite excells at the necessary survivor skills of bargaining and bluff: he's a master of the mine-based economy. Overseeing a rag-tag army of refugee urchins, Satellite trades the mines they dig out of the scruffy landscape for a semblance of the good life. But he prefers American-made mines, going so far as to pick a fight with an armless orphan who dares to suggest all mines are the same. In fact, Satellite loves all things American, lacing his conversation with English phrases and Hollywood references he's snatched from the air as the local television techie. Thus with an American invasion of Iraq imminent, Satellite finds himself at the height of his power. The community hangs on his every word as he surfs (too slowly for the elders!) past "the forbidden channels" to translate the latest war news.

This film has much to say about competing visions — especially concerning their accuracy in the present or as true visions of the future. The airwaves seem clogged with promises: from Baath party vows to make Iraq a paradise to tv channels offering an alternate paradise in Western consumerism. The armless boy, Henkov, is also reputed to be able to have the gift of prophecy and events seem to back up that reputation. Viewers will be even more won over by Henkov's loving care of little Risa — an adorable toddler who, significantly, is blind. The shot of Risa crying pathetically against a barbed wire fence is only one of many images that will be etched forever into the mind of those with eyes to see. Indeed, like so many filmmakers based in Iran, Ghobodi has a knack for snatching unforgettable images from the region's ongoing wars. As striking as shots of the prosthetic limb parachute-drop in the film Kandahar is the sight in this film, for example, of dozens of refugees holding aloft television antennae like so many kites on a hillside.

Meanwhile, Henkov's sister Agrin is a haunting and haunted beauty who catches the eye of Satellite. Yer her own eyes have already seen too much: they hold a fathomless pain, like the eyes of the Afghan girl on the famous National Geographic cover photo. Agrin's beauty, like that of this film, is overshadowed by an almost unbearable sadness. Events rupture the fragile peace Satellite has made in an already-apocalyptic world in a climax that leaves all the promises seem as broken and useless as the armored vehicles in the military junkyard where the children play. Thus to say this is not a film for children only underscores a tragic irony: that there are still some lucky children out there whose innocense might somehow be protected by shielding their eyes from a movie about children not so lucky.

Finally, a film about the romantic and exciting world of subway workers! Well, not exactly. Romantic and exciting, yes. But not quite subway workers as we know them — nor so far-removed from the real world as you might expect. Indeed, for some viewers, the Blade Runnerish vibe of Kontroll will create expectations for a post-apocalyptic sci-fi movie; these will only get in the way of enjoying what's really here. This film is primarily about atmosphere and dynamic. If you take the film on its own terms, it's a delight; if you keep wanting it to be something different than it sets out to be, you may be disappointed. The atmosphere is that of the techno-netherworld of the Budapest underground, served up in one cool shot after another — as if the director first spent a year scouting the subway for great angles, then came up with a story to fit them. The best shots are scattered throughout the film, so there's always a stunning new vista: The endless escalators. Views above and below the platforms. In the tunnels, on the tracks, and in the trains. And while Kontroll's cinematography is a real treat, it's the art direction which is the film's essential brilliance. First-time director Nimrod Antal managed to create and sustain that unified and coherent "Other" world look usually seen in mega-budget projects — simply by staging all his scenes in the subway system. The claustrophobic atmosphere is tweaked by some unexpected visuals and narrative twists, and enhanced by a rock-and-roll soundtrack.

Of course, artificial environments always tend to throw basic humanity into sharp relief, and this film eschews heavy narrative for truth-in-the-moment glimpses of various social dynamics: the worlds of friendship, co-workers, and civil servants in a tough job that somebody has to do are evocative and universal. The central conceit plays off contemporary "Homeland Security" buzz, raising the threat level on subways and so making armbanded "Kontroll" officers part of the underground lanscape. We get to know the varied characters on one such team in an odd-angled Cops or NYPD Blue sort of way, following them from the duty call at the "precinct" through several typical days' work. And the crap these guys have to put up with! Passengers who forget their tickets or passes. People who just want to make trouble — either in mischievous-hacker fashion (like the infamous troublemaker "Bootsie") or in a more serious way: there's always jerks who feel like they're above the law, or just plain hate whoever's job is enforcing it. Then there's the rumors of a mysterious "pusher" loose in the system, and hints of "control" — or lack of it — that effect everyone, even the Kontroll officers themselves. One can follow the threads of narrative or theme so dangled, and perhaps even tease out some political allegory, if you're so inclined. For myself, the way into this film was to accept the ground rules and just ride with it to the end of the line, enjoying the view along the way.

Moolaade arrived at CIFF riding high on Oscar predictions and praise from recent Toronto Film Festival screenings. The film is written and directed by 81-year-old Sembene Ousmane, considered the father of African cinema, and certainly the father of cinema in his native country of Senegal. The subject is a hot topic that may tend to simultaneously repell and provoke sympathy from most viewers: female genital mutilation, aka FGM, aka "female circumcision." That last is a bit of a misnomer since, unlike male circumcision, this kind aims to deliberately surpress or even destroy sexual response in its victims. One rationale is that women who have no interest in sex are less likely to engage in unauthorized kinds. In many cultures, FGM is seen as a part of initiation into womanhood, making a young woman eligible and ready for marriage. FGM is usually done under the most primitive conditions, often with no anaesthetic or antibiotic. There are local — increasingly apalling — variations, and the consequences are both psychological and physical. Some girls die from FGM, or related infections; many experience a range of problems for the rest of their lives. According to Amnesty International,

"An estimated 135 million of the world's girls and women have undergone genital mutilation, and two million girls a year are at risk of mutilation — approximately 6,000 per day. It is practised extensively in Africa and is common in some countries in the Middle East. It also occurs, mainly among immigrant communities, in parts of Asia and the Pacific, North and Latin America and Europe."

Another rationale for female genital mutiliation is the belief that the practice is vital to maintaining cultural identity for certain societies; hence to challenge this tradition involves an attack on the society itself. In Moolaade, the tradition is challenged by a woman named Collé Ardo. Some years ago, Collé refused FGM — called "Purification" in her village — for her only daughter, Amsatou, and now finds herself granting asylum to four young girls who have heard about this refusal, and come to her for protection. Moolaade is not just an advocacy film about a perceived injustice (though it certainly is that, with arguments for and against FGM making up much of the dialogue.) Yet unlike films which seem more about emulating Hollywood expectations than genuinely depicting local culture, Moolaade immerses the viewer into a society full of often complicated mysteries and manners — a society shot through with taboo. Thus when Collé pulls a cord across her doorway and declares a "Moolaade" — which means "protection" — even those who disagree with her stance on "Purification" have no choice but to honor the boundary. Within that sanctuary, the girls are safe so long as Collé does not utter "the Word", something she has no intention of doing. But when her husband comes home from a business trip to find his second wife (of three) has thrown the village into an uproar, the stage is set for a showdown between Traditional Values and individual human rights.

After so many films in which globalization and mass media are viewed as the cause of so many of the world's ills, it's interesting to see one in which both are viewed as potential cures. The village elders seek to clamp down on rising female insurgency by confiscating the women's radios; a pile of burning radios makes for a contemporary analogue to many a burning pile books. The radios, and television, represent outside values upsetting the local mores. Several characters, who have been outside the village, bring to bear in different ways this larger perspective. These include Mercenaire, the womanizing general store operator and Ibrahma, son of the tribe's head man, who was educated in Paris but slips back into local habits upon coming home. Among the words brought from the outside world is the news that the Koran does not, after all, require purification. Indeed, FGM predates Islam, is not practiced by the majority of Muslims, and has been practiced by non-Muslims.

Moolaade is filled concepts and practices that will seem strange to Western viewers; much of the remaining space is devoted to conducting the central debate — thus in a couple spots the plot jumps abruptly. Yet this is a solid and vitally-important film: every culture has much to teach outsiders, and sometimes one of the things cultures teach is the limits of tolerance and diversity: female genital mutilation is the classic test case against cultural relativism and this film is not afraid to call an evil what it is.