The World of Movies: State of Dogs
Written by Rachael Crawley
The World of Movies is a series that explores global cinema, drawing on films from many countries, industries and eras. This week, we consider life from new perspectives in Mongolia.
State of Dogs.
May contain spoilers.
Content warning: This movie portrays the death of animals, which is discussed in this article.
Stray dogs are generally overlooked. Wary of bites and disease, we stay away (though some rescue efforts exist). Many of these creatures die young, from accidents or illness or any combination of problems. On an extraordinary day, however, State of Dogs (Peter Brosens/Dorjkhandyn Turmunkh, 1998) pauses to consider the life of one animal, and its place in modern Ulaanbaatar.
The animal in question, Baasar, lives a lonely life and longs for a home. One day, he is killed by a city-hired “hunter”, whose job is to limit the stray population. His soul lingers after his death. In Mongolian tradition, a dog may return to life as a human. Feeling hurt and betrayed by people, Baasar does not move on. He is given the chance to “travel” around the city, and it is here that we begin to see the film’s real subject. While he is the focus, the world of this film is much bigger than Baasar.
As Baasar reflects on his life, we are taken through various aspects of contemporary Mongolia, starting on the steppe and country life. Local events are seen through Baasar’s eyes. He is no “talking dog” – his motivations are shown to us by the narrator. It is notable that the narration never loses sight of the dog as a character, though he is infrequently seen. Various customs are explained, but they are always framed within the dog’s understanding. When he is separated from his family, the story shifts to its urban setting.
State of Dogs.
This concept could easily come off as silly or clunky, but in the capable hands of its directors, it is so much more. The narration is written with great detail and poetic devices, and provides a timeless, dreamy quality. While the dog’s inclusion distances us enough to lend the narrative some mystery, it is still clear enough for a viewer to understand. The film is strongest, perhaps, when there is no narration at all. The cinematography and music together are more than enough to mesmerize. (That said, its chief drawback is that it can sometimes get dragged down in pace.)
The story is anchored firmly in its setting. It features traditional Mongolian music for much of its score. The premise is contextualized with poetry and legends. The narration frequently invokes Baasar’s connection to the land, before and after death. We are shown many examples of daily life and local landmarks. (Baasar often lends his commentary to the scenes.) And yes, there are ample views of the landscapes surrounding Ulaanbaatar. The city, by contrast, feels isolated and foreboding, and its images are rather stark – though Baasar does manage to uncover some of the stories within.
Though it plays with the genre, the movie presents itself as a documentary – in fact, it competed as such in multiple film festivals. While delivered through a fictional conceit, it combines surrealist elements and centuries of history, all to present us with a detailed vision of Mongolia in the transitional period of the 1990s. Its unique perspective allows the story to remain focused, but leaves room to consider the bigger picture.
Rachael Crawley holds a Master's Degree in Film and Photography Preservation and Collections Management from Ryerson University, and has worked with film in Canada and in Europe. She adores language and cinema, and how these subjects interact with each other.