It is 17th century Turkey, and Eflatun’s son has just died. A miniature artist, he finds solace in painting the face of his dead son, not in the customary Ottoman style, but in that of the heathens.
This is the image that haunts the film, an emotive inked out sketch of lost childhood and a father’s pain. For anyone else this is pure catharsis. For an Ottoman Muslim artist, however, it is suicide.
When the Sultan gets wind of his commissioned artist’s occidental leanings, he summons Eflatun to court, commissions him with atask tantamount to an execution. He must accompany a group of soldiers to execute the rebel Prince Daniel, before painting the dismembered head on the return journey.
Ever the coward, Eflatun wimps and whines to his trusty companion that he cannot make the journey for fear of what may happen. The surrounding countryside is swarming with rebels, and with a small dispatch of the Sultan’s men, the chances are, they will not make it back alive.
Eflatun does not have the courage to undertake this perilous task, nor the guts to severely injure his hand to render his commission redundant. It is only after a brief skirmish on the way to Daniel’s stronghold that he actually plucks up the courage to slash his hand. But to no avail, his superior, who also happened to be at military academy with him, throws him a bandage and assures him that he is not going anywhere but onwards.
It is at that point that an opening is forged in the plot, transforming it into a love story. From the midst of the Cappodocian village comes Layla, who claims to be the daughter of a trader murdered by the rebels. After much insisting, the Sultan’s band agrees to take her with them on the road.
During the journey, Eflatun and Layla bond as they share their plight. This strong and innovative plot holds together well. Taking the form of a journey Dervis Zaim has employed an effective technique to punctuate the scenes: that of animated figures in miniature style riding across an ancient map.
Although for anybody familiar with Monty Python this might diminish the film’s sentimentality, for others, it will do the opposite, imbuing the story with an air of antiquarian romance.
In a multi-peak twist of events, the couple ends up under Daniel’s mercy. One step away from getting the prince’s forgiveness, Eflatun is assigned with yet an impossible task.
The idealistic rebel leader happens to be a great fan of occidental renaissance art and had had a European artist paint a portrait of himself with his son. In the background hangs a mirror containing the image of his grandfather. Daniel wants Eflatun to repaint the image in the mirror, changing his grandfather to the Muslim Messiah, the Mahdi.
Breaking into a fit of tears and epileptic hysterics, Eflatun says he cannot fulfill his orders. Losing consciousness he dreams of his son guiding him to a hope of a better life. Meanwhile, in an act of desperation, Layla has cut and paste an image of the Mahdi, not from a Frankish drawing, but from a miniature scroll found in his backpack.
The Mahdi painting is meant to inspire the masses to follow the rebel. In yet another twist of events, the couple ends up under the mercy of the Turkish ruler after Daniel’s death. But Eflatun and Layla will live on, combining miniature paintings with the “heathen style he used to avoid – implying a more progressive fusion between East and West, or reflecting a plea for a 21st century dialogue between the two sides.
However, for all the beauty of the Turkish countryside and the stirring soundtrack, it is difficult to feel real empathy for Eflatun. He yelps, gulps and sleeps his way through every man’s ultimate test: the chance to save his lover’s skin. Bravery is certainly not a prerequisite for empathetic characters, but a bit of inner courage wouldn’t have gone amiss. Instead of a decent spread of personality, in this film the audience is dealt a duff hand. Zaim, has made a cinematic illustration comparable to one of his character’s miniatures: Intricate, finely composed, but absent of any real sympathetic characters.
