Last Man in Dhaka Central (The Young Man Was, Part 3)

A pilot is trapped in a crumbling, abandoned airport. Naeem Mohaiemen's first fiction film is based on when his father was stranded without a passport in Athens' Ellinikon International Airport for nine days in 1977.

In an empty hospital in Kolkata, India, a man faces protocols of blood, a subtly discriminatory office, and a vacant operating theater. His mind is on a loop of the last months of his wife’s life, when a quiet argument developed. When is the end of pharma-medical care, whose life is it anyway?

Grace emerges from Naeem Mohaiemen’s collaboration with Maine resident Karen Wentworth, the second person in the state to legally secure medicine for a dignified end-of-life process. Documenting her daily routines, the film offers a tender and hopeful reflection on autonomy and mortality while posing the question: What does it mean to accept a body’s decline?

September 1977. The Japanese man speaks in halting English; the Bangladeshi negotiator, with the clipped confidence of an army officer. A color scheme suggests order in the exchange: green, red, and the occasional white. The Japanese Red Army had attached to the Palestinian cause, and through that to an idea of global pan-Arabism. The hostage terrain was not an "Islamic Republic," as the hijackers thought, but a turbulent new country ricocheting between polarities and imploding in the process. Instead of being the willing platform for the Japanese Red Army's ideas of "Third World revolution," the actual Third World hit back in unexpected ways, turning the hijackers into helpless witnesses. An eight-year-old watches the television screen with growing confusion-the screen shows an unmoving control tower for hours on end, and he wants his favorite show to start again.

Exploring the revolutionary left in 1970s Bangladesh through a series of inter-connected vignettes, which draw on Jean-Paul Sartre, Joschka Fischer, Rote Armee Fraktion, and the Sarbahara Party.

Through a Mirror, Darkly examines the turbulent 1970s, a decade of hopeful rebellions and catastrophic disappointments, via flashpoint moments when American students protesting domestic racism and overseas wars were met by state violence in May 1970. As the Vietnam War came to its bloody end, for the American media, the memory of four American students shot dead at Kent State University was sometimes as emotionally charged as the millions of deaths in Vietnam. In the decades that followed, a memorial community has formed around the “four dead in Ohio.” Yet while the deaths of students Allison Krause, Jeffrey Miller, Sandra Scheuer, and William Schroeder at Kent State, Ohio, are remembered, not many recall Phillip Lafayette Gibbs and James Earl Green, two students killed ten days later by police officers at Jackson State College, Mississippi, a Historically Black College.