Jonas Poher Rasmussen | 1hr 30min
There is something lost in the reconstruction of old memories that can be difficult to put your finger on, but in Flee, Jonas Poher Rasmussen’s animated documentary about the escape of his friend, Amin, from Afghanistan as a young man, it is often what is left missing that evokes more powerful emotions than anything else. The interviews that Rasmussen conducts often look more like therapy sessions, as he asks Amin to lay down and close his eyes to try and piece together the sequence of events that, in the years since, have tangled around each other in threads of confusion, grief, and regret.
The two provide their own live-recorded voices in these scenes, speaking authentically as friends with years of history behind them, though like every other character in this film they are animated, purposefully concealing Amin’s identity. It is this persistent dedication to a hand-drawn style that lets the few glimpses of live-action archival footage hit particularly hard, momentarily lifting us beyond one man’s perspective to ground this piece in the raw, unfiltered reality of 1990s Afghanistan.
There is an inherent clash between animations and documentaries in their distinctly divergent approaches to depicting truth on film, and as such there is good reason that few filmmakers have attempted to combine the two. Waltz With Bashir is the big one in this niche genre, within which documentarian Ari Folman attempted to recover lost memories from his time fighting for the Israeli Defence Force in the Lebanon War, and in similarly blending both subjective and objective understandings of the past, Rasmussen manages a comparably fluid examination of historical truth.
Contained within Amin’s story are smaller narratives, some passed onto him through second-hand sources, some he has tried to suppress, and others which he fabricated for the purpose of disguising his identity as a refugee. It is in these moments that the film’s dominant graphic-novel style of animation seeps away, and is replaced by rough black-and-white sketches, swirling around as faceless figures and abstract formations that seem to come from a dark, traumatised subconscious. As the frames flip by at a lower, jittery rate and strokes of paint run across the screen, Rasmussen creates a visual evocation of an unsettled psychological state that could never be captured through live-action footage alone, sending us to those same dark places that Amin is verbally recalling.
As emotionally caught up in his past as Amin often is, we also find a clear-minded perspective in his storytelling when it comes to the process of discovering his own sexuality. Being queer in 90s Kabul was not just considered sinful, but was not spoken of at all, and when he was running for his life there was barely time to consider how his sexual attractions fit into any broader social context. In the present day though, Amin lives openly as a gay man, and even as he recognises the disadvantage that he was put at growing up, he also possesses the ability now to look back and laugh with affection at his younger self’s confusions.
Within the present day, Rasmussen chooses to pick out a very specific section of Amin’s life to follow alongside his personal recounts, eavesdropping on conversations with his partner about house hunting. Their petty squabbles and shared joys become part of our understanding around who Amin has become today, but even more significantly they become the basis of direct narrative parallels between his past and present. Where he was once forced to move as a necessity of survival, now it is entirely his own choice, giving him the sort of power over his future that he once considered unimaginable. Not all memories are depicted as being equal in Flee, though in Rasmussen’s efforts to piece them together through animated reconstructions, we gradually begin to see Amin as a complex accumulation of his stories in all their varying degrees of subjectivity.
Flee is currently playing in theatres.