Behind the Sun
by James Christopher

The real beef of the week is provided by Walter Salles, a Brazilian director who can turn casual horror into unspeakable joy. He did this with Central Station, an Oscar-nominated road-trip about a boy in search of his family. He does it again in Behind the Sun, a film set in the baking badlands of Bahia in 1910. Like Hearts in Atlantis, this is a coming-of-age story, but the young boy, Pacu (Ravi Ramos Lacerda), has only his native wit to unscramble the dilemma that consumes his family. I love this film almost as much as Miramax head Harvey Weinstein, who thinks it could solve all Middle East problems if someone else could fund the cinema seats.

An ancient blood feud, between two sugar-cane families scratching a living in the desert, fuels the violence. There is a fatal elegance to this crazy ritual. Once the blood of a dead man's shirt turns yellow, it's time for the next in line to pick up a gun and avenge. Fierce pressure from grim fathers and grieving widows puts unholy pressure on the luckless sons. But the prejudice that feeds these wounds is blind. Ask the yoked oxen who walk in endless circles crushing cane until they drop.

Raoul Ruiz's ambiguous little chiller, Comédie de L'Innocence, isn't in the same league. There are endless little mysteries in this Parisian chamber piece, but they're distracting rather than gripping. A small boy (Nils Hugon) starts believing that a total stranger (Jeanne Balibar) is his mother. And she agrees. His real mother (Isabelle Huppert) is devastated, but intrigued. The precocious nine-year-old oils the queasy suspense with knowing little smiles and mocking insights. Huppert is strained; Balibar is enigmatic. It's artfully shot, as one would expect from the director of Time Regained. And the mystery is titillating enough to puzzle Solomon. A tease rather than a trauma.