London itself is foreign to Elizabeth (Blethyn), let alone the area where her daughter lived, starting with the halal butcher who owns the flat (Roschdy Zem), the kind bearded man who helps her with her phone. Add her growing personal anxiety and London in shock, and the pace is set for mounting grief and anguish. This anchored woman with property represents the diametric opposite of the lanky ageing Ousmane (Sotigui Kouyaté), who lives a quasi-nomadic life, for years far from home working in France, searching for himself perhaps (remissions of remote workers in Europe are how many families survive back home), just as Elizabeth has found herself amid her lettuces and donkeys in Guernsey. Great to see Sami Bouajila again (as the imam in London), he has aged gracefully. Typical of Islam how the youngish imam calls the towering world-weary Senegalese grandfather "my brother". Respect and affection have many faces, and in this case a discipline that eludes many of the Christian faith. In my house hardworking youths from Mali Senegal Guinea and Gambia pray to Allah separately, each with their own method, but the quiet dignity is palpable. As for Elizabeth and Ousmane, lives overlap often unbeknownst to us. The person you have loved now for a decade may have sat opposite you on the bus when you were both teenagers, without your knowing, or served you at the local café. Later the strands of that tapestry of life may reconnect, who knows (photos of missing loved ones taped to walls). With his stick, trying to navigate the panic and bureaucracy of the overloaded hospitals, Ousmane finds solace in walking through the park and stops to "greet" a mock orange in full bloom (he's a forester by profession), breathing in its fragrance. And at nightfall he finds an African-run café, sitting in silence with his tea and watching a confused and confusing world rush by outside the window. The next day he bumps into the imam again who has made inquiries and shows him the photo of the son Ali he last saw at 6 years old. Imagine the feelings of seeing that young face so full of life, and also the fear of being dismissed as obsolete by this youth with his European schooling and career promise. When she finally meets Ali's father, Elizabeth won't even shake the hand he so gracefully offers. Fear of the Other and the unknown is nothing new for him, and he shrugs off her diffidence and responds with infinite patience and even tenderness toward her, seeing her as a parent like himself. She calls the police on this tired old man with the idea that the son might have some involvement in the bombings, and the interrogation presumes the boy is jihadi. We should remember the total chaos and panic in the aftermath of the bombings, the frenetic search for clues, and the possibility of further bombings. In such conditions our suspicion of everything alien to our narrow lives escalates. And so on: the halal butcher who minds his own business just to survive, the islamic police investigator who struggles with his mandate to hassle Muslims. If you deign to see this story, please watch very closely, there are so many subtle touches, including the first time Ousmane comforts Elizabeth with his hand on hers in the travel agency (1:10:20), a gesture extremely rare for a Muslim man. Bouchareb's film is an essay in (in)tolerance. The surge of joy that their children might be holidaying in France segues into the cold corridor of grief at the truth. Momentarily united in hope, suddenly distanced by grief. Impeccable acting on all fronts. No Anniston and Pitt here, just faces in close-up that show the lines of age and real suffering that is life itself. The cinema world will miss Kouyaté's towering majesty.
Review of London River
