True story: I was named after the Archangel Michael. When I was born, a name for me had yet to be decided upon. My grandmother, noting my birthdate was the archangel’s feast day, suggested “Michael.” It stuck. It hasn’t gotten me any free lunches or anything, but when you spend your entire childhood in a parochial school system and you are named after the angel who took out Satan in the Book of Revelation, you walk the halls with a certain swagger.

In Mr. Kaplan, a delightful comedy making its Toronto premiere at the Toronto Jewish Film Festival, the titular character’s first name is Jacob. He was named after Jacob of the Old Testament; that’s the same Jacob who wrestled with a being many believe to be the Angel of God, and whose name was changed by God from Jacob to Israel.

Mr. Kaplan (Héctor Noguera), now 80 years old, has carried with him the weight of his name throughout his life, and he feels he has never lived up to it. Despite his 50-year marriage and a beautiful family, that weight is never heavier than when he finds himself without a driver’s license due to the parking lot fender-bender that led to the eye exam that exposed his vision problems. This namesake of a religious hero becomes reduced to being dependent on rides from family, or from family friend and disgraced ex-cop Wilson (Néstor Guzzini) … until Mr. Kaplan has an epiphany.

His granddaughter mentions during an innocuous  conversation an old German man who owns a bar; she and her friends refer to that man as “The Nazi.” Kaplan dismisses it at first, but after a news report reveals that another Nazi was captured elsewhere in the world, Kaplan turns amateur sleuth and starts following the bar owner. Without a license, Kaplan must rely on Wilson to help him get around. His young friend and driver, having formal police training, assists Kaplan on his quest to capture the German and transport him from Uruguay (where they live) to Israel, where he will stand trial for his war crimes.

The last thing I expected from Mr. Kaplan, the funny creation of writer/director Álvaro Brechner, was a buddy picture. Then, once I realized I was getting a buddy picture, I certainly didn’t expect to get one with terrific humor and considerable emotional depth.

The film starts out as a humorous mediation on unfulfilled destiny and an assessment of self-worth, with a wonderful opening sequence. Kaplan and his wife arrive at a wedding reception where their names are not on the guest list, so they are denied entry. It turns out to have been a simple oversight, but it reduces them, and more so him as the alpha male. Already in a fragile mental state, Kaplan overreacts to a conversation that includes his admission that he cannot swim, so he attempts to jump off the high diving board at the country club where the reception is taking place. The whole sequence not only smartly and funnily sets up Kaplan’s driver’s license conflict, it’s also a great illustration of how director Brechner understands visual humor.

As the film progresses, Brechner continues to show his directorial prowess for comedy. He uses certain zooming and panning devices that have been used in countless buddy action pictures and thrillers before, but never to be taken seriously here. Because Kaplan is a man who is overreaching to begin with, the gag is that the shots are overreaching too. They work every time.

Then, as Wilson becomes more involved, and the investigation is less about him just driving and more about him actively participating, a backstory on him is offered that adds great pathos to his character. It also gives Wilson more than just a sidekick role; the character has real skin in the game, and the film expands beyond being about Kaplan’s destiny fulfillment mission and includes Wilson’s shot at redemption. The laughs continue throughout as both men have familial ramifications for their actions, and just about every bit of it is entertaining.

The third act caps off this wonderful film with a twist I didn’t see coming, yet one that never feels contrived.

There are no bad performances in Mr. Kaplan, but the film is unquestionably owned by Noguera, with a great turn by Guzzini. Nidia Telles as Kaplan’s wife and Nuria Fló as his granddaughter also give fine performances.

I know what it’s like to be named after a major biblical player, and while it hasn’t weighed on me the way it has weighed on Jacob Kaplan, well, let’s just say I’m not 80 yet. I suppose it could still happen.

Not only have the films of the Toronto Jewish Film Festival taken me to a variety of points along a historical timeline, they have also taken me to numerous places around the world. Locations featured in the films I’ve screened include Israel, Palestine, Romania, and Hollywood. This next offering finds a familiar point in history—World War II—but a new location: Italy. Making its Canadian premiere is the documentary My Italian Secret: The Forgotten Heroes. Writer/director Oren Jacoby’s documentary tells of the plight of Italy’s Jewish community during World War II from several perspectives.

The first perspective is a history of the time. This is narrated by Isabella Rossellini and features considerable historical footage and photos, as well as dramatic reenactments of some events. These pieces also feature interviews with several people who lived in Italy during the war and were either persecuted or protectors.

The second perspective belongs to select Italian Jews who lived in Italy during the war. These are the most personal moments of the film, of course, as these film participants return to Italy for the doc, some for the first time since the war. They visit old houses and offer personal anecdotes, and some are reunited with family members of those who rescued them.

The third perspective comes from the memoir of famed Italian cyclist and Tour de France champion Gino Bartali. Excerpts from that memoir are read by actor Robert Loggia. Bartali, in addition to being adored by the sports fans of his country, played a critical role in aiding Italian Jews during the war.

These three perspectives are woven, with the occasional crossover (such as when Rossellini narrates part of Bartali’s tale) to present the full story.

However, director Oren Jacoby is his own film’s worst enemy. My Italian Secret: The Forgotten Heroes covers interesting subjects, such as Italy’s unique position on Jews (Italian Jews received different treatment than Jews from other countries); or the Italian doctor who made up a disease so he could keep Jews in the hospital for protection; or the Bartali story, which not only showcases a Tour de France champion secretly working against the Nazis by hiding Jews, but also recounts that same champion working with the Catholic church to help Jews escape Italy. Then there are the stories of those who lived, and returned, to tell their stories.

All of it is set up to be fascinating, compelling stuff. And yet…

Each tale is presented in such a way that the stories not only interfere with each other—thus preventing the film from establishing any kind of narrative flow—they also appear incredibly lifeless on the screen. This is no reflection on the stories themselves, of course, or their subjects, but on how they are told by Jacoby. These people lived in harrowing times, resorting to hiding in basements and sleeping with the thought that each day could be their last, yet Jacoby does nothing to create any sense of drama, despite there being very real drama in these stories.

Other technical decisions are curious and hampering as well, particularly Loggia’s reading from Bartali’s memoir, which lacks much connection to the subject, and Joel Goodman’s score, which sounds as if it recognizes the dullness of the material and tries to force a little aural drama into each scene.

My Italian Secret: The Forgotten Heroes is an opportunity missed. Rather than recognize and present fascinating material, the film instead plays like passages from a history text read aloud to a class.

Making its Canadian Premiere at the Toronto Jewish Film Festival is Orange People. Hanna Azoulay Hasfari, one of the film’s stars, also wrote the script and this film marks her directorial debut.

This drama focuses on three generations of Moroccan Israeli women. Zohara (Rita Shukrun) is the matriarch and something of a psychic. She sits outside her home and people pay her to “dream” of what their future will be. Her daughter, Simone (Esti Yerushalmi), appears to have this gift as well, although she calls it narcolepsy and takes medication for it. Zohara’s sister, Fanny (director Hasfari), is the family’s black sheep, having been gone for 16 years; she shows up unannounced. Zohar, Simone’s daughter, is a high school student who does not have the gift…at least not yet. Rounding out the family is Simone’s husband, Jackie (Yoram Toledano), a police officer.

At its core, Orange People is a redemption tale. Zohara, who was a child bride in an arranged marriage a long time ago, has the greatest need for redemption not only because what she is facing is the most serious of everyone’s ordeals, but because she doesn’t have much time left on this earth. Simone’s shot at redemption is making a success out of the small restaurant she owns, a task made more difficult when Russian competition opens across the street. For Fanny, redemption is needed for transgressions that occurred 16 years earlier. Zohar, the teen, has no need for redemption, but she’s certainly learning what it looks like.

Hanna Azoulay Hasfari’s sophomore screenplay and freshman directorial debut is a rough outing. She has a good story foundation and a keen eye for blocking and framing shots, but she struggles to fully develop her ideas. This not only hinders the story, it’s also harmful to the characters. By the film’s closing credits, not enough substance was left on-screen to make us care how it ends.

I recently noted that the first five Toronto Jewish Film Festival entries I’ve had the privilege to screen have strong historical themes. (I list the first four in my intro to the fifth, The Dove Flyer.) What I didn’t notice until now is that four of them are dramas (of varying weights) and the fifth is a documentary; it’s all been serious stuff. The only reason why I noticed it now is because Self Made, the Shira Geffen written/directed film making its Toronto premier at the Festival, had me laughing early and often—until it didn’t (in a very good way).

The film opens with a woman sleeping in bed. There is only faint ambient noise in the distance. Suddenly—BOOM! The bed collapses and the woman falls to the floor, hitting her head in the process. Her name is Michal (Sarah Adler) and she is an Israeli feminist artist of considerable celebrity. The bed incident creates two problems that are more intertwined than she realizes at the time. The first is that the blow to the head has affected her memory considerably. The second is that she needs a new bed.

Meanwhile, in Palestine, Nadine (Samira Saraya) lives a life mostly opposite of Michal. Neither feminist nor artist, the single woman walks to and from her factory job every day as hip-hop blares through her ear buds (even when she’s being inspected by soldiers at a border checkpoint). She keeps to herself in her travels, with one truly peculiar trait: she leaves a trail of metal screws in her wake between the checkpoint and work.

The paths of these two women cross when Michal is assembling the replacement bed she ordered from an Ikea-like all-assembly-required store. There is a screw missing; she was supposed to get five but she only received four. When she calls to complain she is eventually told the person who counts the screws and puts them in little bags will be fired for the error. That person is Nadine.

This is the first of three times the paths of these women will cross.

Self Made is a wonderful film thanks to Shira Geffen’s clever and remarkably layered screenplay. The patience she shows as a storyteller is grand. There isn’t a reveal in the film that feels like it’s rushed onscreen to generate that feeling of a payoff. Questions pop up early and are answered gradually and organically. Those two words can also summarize Michal’s path.

The artist, stricken with amnesia, remembers just enough that she isn’t thrown into a panic and sent scrambling for answers. Instead, she tries to hide her condition (thankfully her husband is away on business, although there’s a story there too) and learn about herself through conversations with the endless parade of people who appear at her home: from the media to the furniture delivery people to a chef whose approach to preparing crabs needs to be seen to be believed. This approach allows the viewer be both witness to, and participant in, Michal’s self-rediscovery. It’s a great way the film connects with the audience.

Nadine’s life, on the other hand, has no clutter, but it is no less tumultuous. Not only has she lost her job, she has no husband, something that gnaws at her mother to the point the matriarch wants to send Nadine away to live with family in Kuwait. The man she might have the best shot with, her neighbor, has a reputation as something of a player (a great example of a tiny detail that is important later, by the way). And then there’s that trail of screws. (That’s addressed too.)

For all of the laughs—and there are plenty of laughs—in the first two acts, the film takes a turn for the surreal in the third. Oddly plausible circumstances bring these two women together at the checkpoint. While there, the identities of Michal, the famous Israeli feminist artist, and Nadine, the anonymous Palestinian unmarried (former) factory worker, are inadvertently swapped. What happens after that is completely unpredictable and worthy of an immediate second watch.

Geffen’s direction is incredibly confident, and her choice to tell the two characters’ stories by essentially weaving them and alternating between them until the two are together (then doing the same once they part company), is the director’s masterstroke.

The screenplay for Self Made (a terrific title) reminds me of screenplays like Pulp Fiction and The Usual Suspects in that it is intricately designed, wildly unique, never boring, and requires considerable attention be paid to it. In this era of “elevator pitch” ideas—films that can be summarized and sold in seconds—it is refreshing to know films are still being made (globally, and by women) that require a complete commitment to the entire film, not just the idea of it.  Self Made is worth committing to.

All the Toronto Jewish Film Festival entries I’ve had the privilege to screen (so far) have had strong historical themes. Dancing Arabs is set in late-’80s/early-’90s and offers references to the Gulf War. Closer to the Moon dramatizes real events that occurred in Romania in the late 1950s. The history of comic books in Israel is the subject of the decades-spanning documentary Hebrew Superheroes. And the Second Lebanon War is a considerable circumstance in Haven. Another Festival entry steeped in history—this one making its Canadian premiere—is The Dove Flyer. The film is a fictionalized drama that uses the historical exile of 130,000 Iraqi Jews in 1950-1951 as its main plot.

The film opens with Iraqi police storming the apartment of Salman (Igal Naor), looking for a cache of weapons they think is hidden there. They find nothing, but that doesn’t stop them from incarcerating Salman’s brother Hazkel, a journalist by day and leader of the underground by night. The underground’s mission is to organize transport for Jews out of Iraq and into Iran, with passage to Israel being the final destination. Hazkel’s arrest shatters his young wife Rachelle (Yasmin Ayun), and sets a series of events that forces teenager Kabi (Daniel Gad), Salman’s son, to become a key player in the underground movement.

While navigating the treacherous sociopolitical waters of the times, Kabi, a high school student, must go undercover to see his uncle in prison. He must also contend with a young friend who is leaning towards Communism (as opposed to the underground-friendly Zionism), manage two romances, and resist being swayed by several competing idealogical forces, all of which happen to be on the Iraqi-Jewish side of the fence, just in different sections.

So often, films run longer than they need to effectively tell their story. The Dove Flyer, though, is a film where the run-time could have—and should have—been twice as long. The story of real-life exile of 130,000 Iraqi Jews, some of whose families had lived in that region for over 2,500 years, is epic in scope. There’s so much story to be told here that even a simple adaptation should strain against the 108 minutes allotted. Once director Nissim Dayan, who cowrote the screenplay with Eli Amir (author of the novel on which the film is based), takes that hearty history and populates it with no fewer than seven significant characters and a handful of secondary players, the story becomes too much to manage in the context of that run-time. It’s unfortunate, because what’s told is compelling, well-acted, and beautifully lensed.

The film’s opening is perfect. Not only does it establish the granular conflict of Hazkel’s arrest and what that does to his family, it also sets an overarching, conflict-drenched, anti-Semitic tone that carries throughout the picture. The opening is jolting and commands your attention. But as characters and their interests/concerns get introduced, The Dove Flyer becomes super-saturated with too many important people and too many key moments.

What’s frustrating about this is that it’s all interesting and worthy of further development. But because so much happens, some scenes transition with a sense of ending abruptly just to get to the next scene. While other scenes begin with the assumption that the viewer will fill in any gaps the director doesn’t have the time to detail. This creates a feeling of being cheated out of something better.

At the center of The Dove Flyer is Kabi, the one character who interacts on some level with every other character in the film. He crosses paths with law enforcement. He follows his father’s orders while considering the advice of the men his father directs him to, even though what those men suggest often conflicts with his father’s intentions (or his own). He manages relationships with the emotional women in his life; his mother, his uncle’s wife, and his best friend’s sister. And he becomes the underground’s greatest asset, as he is utilized as the go-to person to both infiltrate the jail to communicate with his uncle and help scurry people out of Iraq.

Everyone does fine acting work, but Gad is the true star of the film, appearing in just about every scene. He is perfect for the role. His clean-cut appearance complements the altruism he shows in his character, while his youthfulness is the perfect mask for his character’s enhanced maturity. Also worthy of mention is Uri Gavriel, the actor who plays Abu Adwar, the father of Kabi’s best friend. His character attempts to manage an opposing point of view concerning the flight from Iraq, as well as Kabi’s greater intentions, his son’s interest in Communism, and the intentions of his teenage daughter. Abu Adwar balances these well and transitions through them effortlessly.

Shai Goldman’s cinematography is also worth calling out. There’s a great sharpness to every image that is consist along all lighting levels and color palates, even if those color palates are shrewdly limited. That sharpness is then muted; it isn’t softened, but rather there’s always a sense that something in the Iraqi air won’t let colors shine the way they should. It makes for effective, oppressive visuals.

The finished product that is the The Dove Flyer (also known as Farewell Baghdad) is a net-positive viewing experience, but a longer run-time would have better-served this drama. In fact, with Kabi at the core and so many other characters in his life, this is structured to be a terrific televised miniseries. If that ever comes to be, I’m tuning in.