A Syrian refuge in Helsinki

Time was Finnish director Aki Kaurismaki was one of the hottest names of the festival circuit, having made his big splash with Leningrad Cowboys Go America (1989), a movie he followed with the equally praised The Match Factory Girl (1990). No longer the next big thing in international cinema, Kaurismaki -- now 60 -- has been plugging along for several decades, building a filmography that consists of movies that support his distinctive voice. Almost every description of a Kaurismaki movie involves the word "deadpan." His cigarette-smoking characters are people whose muted emotional responses make them difficult to read, and Kaurismaki supports them with a stable camera that doesn't attempt to examine every corner of every room. Kaurismaki survives as an artist because, in his case, deadpan isn't the same as moribund. Life in a Kaurismaki movie may be drab and dreary, but it's still life. In The Other Side of Hope, Kaurismaki examines the relationship between immigrants and their often reluctant hosts. Syrian refugee Khaled (Sherwan Haji) arrives in Helsinki hoping to be granted asylum. Khaled's story contrasts with that of the dour Wikstrom (Sakari Kuosmanen), a man who leaves his alcoholic wife, unloads his shirt business and -- thanks to some luck at the card table -- puts together enough money to buy a restaurant. It's obvious from the start that the restaurant qualifies as a loser, but Wikstrom persists, even -- at one point -- trying to go trendy by serving sushi. The joke: He doesn't sushi from a Baltic herring. The restaurant's meager staff and its various failed attempts to reinvent the business are presented in Kaurismaki's dryly funny style. The movie's two threads (a refugee looking for a home and an established man trying to create a new life) come together when Khaled, having been denied asylum, escapes a detention center and lands a job at Wikstrom's restaurant. Kaurismaki dealt with issues of immigration in La Havre (2011), but he's clearly not done with the subject. Credit Kaurismaki with dredging compassion and even a bit of heroism from places where we least expect to find it and from people who, at first blush, don't seem capable of breaking through their isolation.

Decency trumps the law in 'Le Havre'

Director Aki Kaurismaki's movie about a shoeshine man and an illegal immigrant is nothing less than a joy.

I’ve been aware of the work of Finnish director Aki Kaurismaki since 1989’s Leningrad Cowboys Go America. Kaurismaki specializes in movies that move deliberately through sparse environments often populated by marginalized members of the working class.

So what would happen if this Finnish director decided to make a film in France? Those who see Kaurismaki’s Le Havre will find out – and you'd do well to be among them.

First off, note that Kaurismaki's movie is named after a city, a port in northwestern France that has known its share of industrial decline. Not surprisingly, Kaurismaki confines his camera to parts of the city that are not likely to enhance its appeal among tourists: a modest home in a back alley, a bar that’s less than commodious and the city’s docks.

Moreover, the movie’s main character is a down-on-his-luck shoeshine man (Andre Wilms), who plies his trade at Le Havre’s railroad station.

Despite its sometimes dreary settings, Le Havre is anything but depressing. In a quiet and undemonstrative way that challenges all the slam-bang notions of commercial cinema, Kaurismaki celebrates the simple decency that brings Wilms’ Marcel into contact with a boy from Gabon (Blondin Miguel).

Miguels’ Idrissa escapes from the police when they open a shipping container that’s being used to smuggle illegal immigrants out of Gabon. Idrissa had been traveling with his grandfather, who was aiming for London, where he hoped to reunite the boy with his mother.

For Marcel, helping Idrissa involves little hesitation; he simply does what he deems necessary, hiding Idrissa and making efforts to help him reach London.

Idrissa becomes Marcel's responsibility, even though the shoeshine man's wife (Kati Outinen) is hospitalized amid dire forecasts about her prospects.

Marcel’s endeavors win the support of many of the neighborhood locals, including the woman who runs the bread store and the guy who sells produce, folks who normally fret over how much money Marcel owes them.

True to the movie’s unembellished spirit, Idrissa is neither unbearably cute nor strikingly handsome. He’s an ordinary kid who sometimes ignores Marcel’s pleas that he not leave the house.

Marcel, of course, knows that there are those who would turn Idrissa in. He also fears that a local detective -- a dour-looking Jean-Pierre Darroussin – won't rest until he finds the kid who eluded the authorities that took Idrissa's fellow travelers into custody.

Le Havre adopts a particularly interesting attitude about illegal immigration. Rather than stoking the fires of lower-class resentment, Kaurismaki shows us characters that favor a relaxed approach to the law, perhaps because they don’t always view it as an ally and perhaps because they simply want to do the right thing.

And, oh yes, Kaurismaki finds a way to include the work of aging French rocker Roberto Piazza -- also known as Little Bob – in the movie. Little Bob brings a strange but invigorating exuberance to the proceedings.

Kaurismaki seems to have decided to reward Marcel’s decency with a near-miraculous end-of-picture twist that would have capsized a more manipulative movie. Le Havre, on the other hand, stays afloat because Kaurismaki seems to think that if a thing is worth stating, it will survive understatement.

If Le Havre is a fantasy, so be it. What could be more pleasing (or quietly instructive) in these wretched times than a fantasy in which people behave decently, going the extra mile for someone in need of help? Without resorting to emotional blackmail, Kaurismaki warms the heart. His movie encourages us to respond to kindness.