An outsider's point of view does not necessarily guarantee an objective perspective on an event; however, *Once Upon a Time in the Middle East*—which approaches the 2003 Iraq War through the eyes of a Chinese migrant living there—manages to maintain an appropriate distance from both "sides" of the conflict. In fact, the screenplay—written by director Wen Muye, Lang Qunli, and Wei Zhong—does not even specify that the action takes place in Iraq. It is unnecessary: on one hand, the story’s fictionalized narrative aligns almost perfectly with historical events; on the other, the goal is not to analyze the war in terms of governments, politics, or state strategies.
No, this is a deeply human story that views everything and everyone—above all else—from that perspective. In this sense, the film is anti-war to its core, portraying the conflict as a black hole that drags everyone into its inherent horrors, forcing them to confront the worst in others and in themselves. Perhaps the only hope lies in making it out the other side while retaining, at least in part, one's own humanity.
Director: Muye Wen
Writers: Qunli Lang, Muye Wen, Wei Zhong
Stars: Teng Shen, Qiming Jiang, Peter Daniel Adams
That is the challenge facing Xu Fu (Shen Teng), a chef whose restaurant in China burned down—injuring a customer—leaving him with substantial debt and a ruined reputation. With his mother and daughter depending on him, Fu decides to travel to the fictional city of Bahata (clearly a stand-in for Baghdad) in that unspecified Middle Eastern country to look for work. His plan is to stay there for two years, earn enough to settle his debts and raise capital for his next project, and then return home to resume his life.
The plot actually begins at a point closer to the present day: an older Fu attempts to return to that Middle Eastern country for reasons that remain unclear, carrying the baggage of a past stay that had linked him—at least potentially—to terrorist acts during the war. The veteran chef notes that he was exonerated by the U.S. government, yet this serves as a warning that dark times lie ahead.
It certainly doesn't seem that way at first; Fu’s story prior to the 2003 U.S. invasion is bright, cheerful, and filled with vibrant characters—not to mention the scenes where the chef prepares and serves exquisite-looking dishes. He lands a job as head chef at a Chinese restaurant in the city center, where the manager, Ma Junsheng (Jiang Qiming), is delighted to have a fellow Chinese national on board, and the owner—a government official named Zaid (Sherif Sabby)—hopes that Fu’s insistence on cooking authentic Chinese cuisine (as opposed to the American fusion style he so despises) will lead to success.
That success exceeds all expectations. It reaches the point where Junsheng plans to marry his girlfriend—a teacher at a local orphanage—and Zaid is able to afford cancer treatment for his daughter. Fu’s own plans also seem to be on the right track, but then, the televised threats from U.S. officials against the country’s regime—and allegations of its connection to the 9/11 attacks—become a reality.
While the film’s departure from actual historical events might be somewhat disconcerting during the first act, that issue fades into the background once the war breaks out. The rest of the story becomes a blend of harrowing imagery—it is impossible to ignore the impact of the scene where a building, repeatedly struck by rockets, collapses and fills the streets with rubble—and a deep cynicism regarding the many ways people profit from the conflict for their own ends, alongside the inherently dehumanizing nature of war.
Everyone is affected: from Zaid, who is soon forced to turn to the black market—controlled by a corrupt U.S. military officer—to obtain medication for his daughter, to a war orphan named Seif (Omar Sharif), whose only home was destroyed during the invasion and who now lives in the restaurant alongside other displaced children. Fu tries to gather everyone he can, teaching Seif to cook and serve alcohol to U.S. soldiers desperate for a drink in a country under prohibition; he does this partly to make more money much faster, but also—as he bonds with Seif and with Tony (Aarif Lee Zhi-ting), a tormented Chinese-American soldier—because he truly sees the best in people.
Shen, primarily a comedic actor, delivers a nuanced performance as a man who evolves from professional and personal obstinacy to reveal the depth of his compassion—a quality tested at every turn of Fu’s harrowing story. That story encompasses unimaginable loss, imprisonment by both the U.S. military and a terrorist group, and the helplessness of witnessing children indoctrinated to die for a cause they cannot possibly comprehend. The fact that the group is led by a man—played by Ahmed Salim—for whom the chef initially feels pity (having seen him tortured at that U.S. facility) illustrates the narrative's complexity, as well as the profound sense of disillusionment regarding the endless cycles of dehumanization inherent in war.
It is a devastating story that, at times, seems devoid of hope—such as when a character’s tragic fate proves to be merely the start of an even deeper descent, leading to the loss of all sense of self; it is a work unafraid to show the raw cost of conflict (though Wen may slightly soften the impact of certain moments with one or two unnecessary, manipulative montages, parts of the story are too brutal to lose their potency). The victories of compassion are often small.
Is that enough—if not for physical survival, then to preserve some sense of humanity amidst the senselessness of war? *Once Upon a Time in the Middle East* constantly poses this question through its story and characters; and while the film’s ultimate answer might seem unlikely or overly optimistic, it is undeniably the only possible answer for a movie that, at its core, believes in the basic decency of people. In any case, it is an answer of great emotional power.
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