International cinema has an irresistible new pair of reprobates: middle-aged brothers who can do no right in their lives and no wrong before the camera. Barat (Faegh Mohammadi), who is famous in his native Kurdistan as a singer and woodwind player, combines the styles of the Hell's Angels and the world-music circuit. Proud owner of a motorcycle and sidecar, he dresses in a traditional belted robe accessorized with a blue headcloth and wraparound shades, the possession of which requires him to parade about with his matinee-idol chin stuck imperturbably in the air. He's the slicked-back bachelor of the pair; whereas chubby Audeh (Allah-Morad Rashtian), a singer and drum-banger, behaves in the excited manner of a man with seven wives, thirteen daughters and the halo hair of Gene Shalit.

Whenever these two stand side by side, playing their instruments and crying out old Kurdish tunes, Marooned in Iraq bounces into crazy, impudent life. Written and directed by the Iranian Kurd Bahman Ghobadi (whose first feature was the well-received A Time for Drunken Horses), the film revels in the cluelessness, vanity and open-throttle talent of Barat and Audeh: characters who seem like overgrown kids most of the time, but who become so outsize when they perform that the camera has to back off and give them room. When I close my eyes and recall Marooned in Iraq, I picture Barat and Audeh in a low-angle medium shot, motorhead hipster next to teddy bear, as they wail away at somebody's wedding. I envision mountain roads under a crisp blue sky, fields of snow, crowds of children, a shack that houses a steamy cafe.

I also see a vast refugee camp, its lanterns dotting a midnight valley; I make out a ravine in dim afternoon light, where dozens of women are sobbing over a mass grave. And I hear, mixed in with the soundtrack music, the swoosh and boom of jet planes going on bombing runs.

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