There is a belief among Mongolian nomads about camels. It is said that when one shuns her newborn colt, she must be wooed with music. If the musician can make her cry then she will resume nurturing her offspring. This is the backbone of Byambasuran Davaa’s dramatised documentary about Mongolian shepherds and their uptight dromedary. In a remote corner of the Gobi desert it is springtime and all has gone well except for one reluctant mother who refuses to care for her albino colt. Modern methods to re-educate the wanton camel have failed and with nothing to loose, the family calls upon tradition. Two sons are sent to the nearest town to find a musician in the hope it will make a difference. It’s an exciting journey to civilization where one boy gets his first taste of television. He urges his brother to buy such a device even though it would cost the family dearly; many, many camels, assuming they even had electricity to run it. Music for the erring camel was now a personal issue. The Weeping Camel is a most unlikely heart-warmer for this first-time director and his cast of non-professional actors. Shot as a pseudo-documentary, improvised verite creates its own unexpected charm: there’s a similarity to The Cup’s story of soccer-mad Tibetan monks with which The Weeping Camel shares an appealing oddness. Set against stunningly beautiful landscapes and Mongolia’s extraordinary culture, The Weeping Camel is a quiet film that prefers to tell its story in a circumspect fashion to create one of those rare treats of cinema - small but perfectly formed. // COLIN FRASER