Anjali Singh (translator), 2006

I’ll have what they have at the Satrapis, family gatherings that are less deadly and more dead-funny.

Marjane Satrapi illustrates the private lives of her female relatives, as shared and heard routinely after lunch, when the ladies shooed off their guys and congregated around a pot of samovar. Anything that speaks about what women gossip about in post-revolutionary Iran just screams “x3 juiciness” compared to The Real Housewives of XYZ. Embroideries will satisfy the lustful eyes and dirty minds with candid stories that identified Satrapi’s community (the clash between the orthodox and the diaspora of middle class Iranians), with a pinch of French’s chic humor (reminded me of tart, ticklish films like Le Nom des gens / In the Name of Love, 2010 or Ils se marièrent et eurent beaucoup d’enfants / Happily Ever After, 2004).

The vignettes in Satrapi’s book may help you survive your own tell-all session. Instead of confessing your sins just Scheherazading your way out, with a tale for all the VIP ladies to drool over. “I read funny story about a girl in Iran, you know, where they have this whole bedspread-duvet test on the consummation night. Well, this girl wasn’t a virgin no more and over there it’s pretty much you pass or you’re passed over. In panic, the girl consulted her matured, worldly friend, who wisely instructed her to hide a razor blade within reach, pretend to shriek in pain, and then slash her thigh a little for blood. When the time came, the girl was so nervous that she started screaming well before the gentleman had undressed, and her hands shook so bad, she ended up cutting his testicles.” The VIP ladies would laugh for a whole minute, then they would nervously ask what happened to this ball slasher criminal in the end. Then you’d tell them the happy ending.       

The art is frugal but bold, the text a little bit difficult to read for me. Max entertaining. I contribute happily to this brave author’s royalty, will buy all of her books and watch her films.