The Blue Caftan: Maryam Touzani’s Masterclass in Quiet Subversion
By Cleo Helscher
When the harsh overhead lights came on in my basement classroom after a screening of Maryam Touzani’s The Blue Caftan, my eyes were both dewy and bright. The Blue Caftan (2022, Morocco) is certainly a sad movie, in the traditional sense, but I somehow left for our short break feeling more enlightened than depressed. The emotional ambivalence this film provokes within me seems an apt summation of its ever-subversive quality; while many of its set-ups and tropes feel intimately—in fact, often problematically—familiar, Touzani succeeds in defying these expectations at every turn. The end result is a film as masterfully crafted, quietly precise, and visually stunning as its titular blue caftan.
The Blue Caftan follows the story of Halim and Mina—a married couple who run a traditional caftan store together in Salé, Morocco—as they learn that you must accept the things you cannot change. Halim (Saleh Bakri) is a meticulous and dedicated embroidery artist and tailor with a vested interest in a dying art form. Though his customers complain often and at length about the time commitment his work entails, and threaten to save their money and time by opting for machine-made pieces, Halim is silent and steadfast in his resolve. To keep up with his clientele’s demands, Halim has hired an apprentice: a younger but similarly quiet man named Youssef (Ayoub Missioui). The hiring of Youssef ushers in the beginning of Touzani’s subversive masterwork.
On one of his first days at work, Youssef asks Halim if he can change clothes in the shop. Halim complies easily, and his lingering gaze on Youssef’s bare back might explain why. When Mina (Lubna Azabal) enters the room and catches her husband staring, one might expect her to hurl accusations or initiate a blowout argument; instead, she is reserved, if vaguely hostile. (“Next time, change at home.”) When Youssef begins to apologize, she cuts him off without ceremony—“We’ve no time to waste.” This interaction, which employs subtle subversions in its own right, serves to set up a well-known character trope of queer fiction: an antagonized, overbearing, territorial, and scorned wife. This subversion works twofold—this scene may lead viewers to believe Halim is simply dipping his toe into a desire he’s always worked to keep hidden from himself and Mina. Shortly after, though, Halim makes eye contact with a mysterious man in a bathhouse and follows him into a stall for privacy. This ‘reveal’ of Halim’s homosexuality is incredibly understated, devoid of language or image—Halim communicates in unspoken code and his feet and the feet of another peeking out from under the stall are all Touzani allows us to glimpse of this rendez-vous. For Touzani, what is most unseen and unsaid takes a rightful place at center stage.
From here, the film abruptly cuts to a shot of Mina praying diligently, once again establishing an audience’s presumption that Mina’s commitment to Islam must eventually come into conflict with Halim’s homosexuality. When (especially Western) audiences see queer representation and religion in the same film, it can look a bit like Chekhov’s gun; in Touzani’s rendition, however, no shots are fired, no blood is shed. Mina accepts both Halim—“I don’t know any man as pure as you. As noble. And I’m proud to have been your wife”—and her religion. The false dichotomy we’ve come to know so well collapses. Likewise, despite his sexuality, Halim’s love for Mina is never doubted, never falsified. He certainly loves her, if differently than we, and maybe she, would expect. Love abounds, in all forms.
Some things in the film, however, are inevitable, entirely un-subvertible—and yet, even the portrayal of these moments feels like a stark contrast to mainstream, dramatized depictions of death. Throughout the film, Mina’s health declines, and audiences learn that her breast cancer can no longer be treated beyond pain management. In one of the film’s final scenes, Halim replaces her traditional white cotton shroud with the embellished blue caftan—yes, the one he’s worked on the whole time—sacrificing its substantial revenue and any credibility with his customers to bestow this special piece on the one he loves above all else.
This ending is both quietly devastating and cautiously uplifting—in the literal and metaphorical sense. As Halim and Youssef hoist Mina’s body onto their shoulders and begin presenting her through the streets, we understand that, though Halim’s love for Mina will persist beyond the boundaries of death, she is no longer all he has, no longer “always there.” Earlier in the film, he said she was “like a rock,” an analogy that perfectly encapsulates Mina’s complex role in Halim’s life. While her constancy and love kept Halim grounded and stable, it also held him back from fully embracing his desires. The untimely death of one’s spouse typically signals an ending, but, as Touzani makes clear in her final shot, Halim’s life is far from over; in some ways, he’s just beginning.
(Halim and Youssef visit a café together in the film’s final shot)
