Hearing the Calling

Wednesday, September 24, 2025

For several days, and again this morning over coffee, I’ve had my mind on an old movie that I’ve chosen to watch more than once: Bagdad Café (1987). Like Sounder, which I recently wrote about, it’s stayed with me longer than most films. Maybe because of the quiet desert roads, which feel oddly familiar against my own Central Oregon landscape—wide spaces, moments of isolation, and the surprising ways “connection can arrive.”

Each time I’ve watched, I’ve sensed there’s more going on beneath the story’s surface. At first glance, it appears to be a lighthearted, eccentric comedy with superb acting. However, upon reflecting on its story and characters, I’m convinced that it’s an allegory—and one worth sharing.

On its surface, Bagdad Café is quirky and offbeat, full of small mishaps and comic misunderstandings. Yet behind the humor lies something larger. The setting is a dusty, broken-down café in the Mojave Desert, the sort of place most would drive past without stopping. Into this place come two women: Jasmin, a German tourist, after suddenly being abandoned by her husband, and Brenda, the café’s owner, after being left behind by her husband. Both women are prickly, suspicious, and in their own ways exiled and alone.

At first, the café is a mess—disordered, tired, going nowhere. But slowly, almost imperceptibly, Jasmin’s presence begins to change it. She cleans, she listens, she performs small acts of magic. Brenda resists at first, then softens. Before long, the café is transformed from a tired outpost into a place of beauty, music, and connection.

One image that lingers with me is of Brenda’s husband, who, after leaving, keeps watching the café through binoculars. He has walked away, yet can’t resist observing from a distance. To me, this is part of the allegory. He represents those who see but never engage—hovering on the edge of transformation but unwilling to step into it. His gaze is controlling, even possessive, yet powerless. In contrast, Jasmin—the German, or true outsider—enters fully and brings renewal. The binoculars make the husband an emblem of distance, without connection, reminding us that healing comes only when we dare to join in, not when we stand back and watch.

The cast itself reinforces this sense of something larger: a German tourist, a Black American café owner (played by a British actress), an American painter (played by a once-famous film star), and an assortment of desert drifters. This gathering suggests more than coincidence—it’s also a picture of cultures meeting, colliding, and creating something new together. In that sense, the movie’s haunting refrain “I am calling you” can also be heard as a call across borders, an invitation to connection that transcends nationality, language, and race.

Other details I can’t shake involve Brenda’s children. One is a young father determinedly practicing classical piano in that unlikely setting. His grand piano in that battered desert café feels almost surreal, yet it deepens the allegory: aspiration in unlikely soil. His music insists that beauty and culture belong everywhere—not just in gilded concert halls, but even in a dusty roadside outpost, if someone dares to press the keys.

Then there’s Brenda’s teenage daughter, restless and intent on leaving. She represents another answer to the calling: not to stay and transform, but to escape in search of something better. Her choice is human and understandable, yet it contrasts with Jasmine’s quiet decision to remain and renew. Together, the piano player and the daughter remind us that when the call comes, each of us must answer in our own way—by staying and creating, or by moving on. Either way, the call cannot be ignored. Both children become transformed by the café’s changed atmosphere and remain connected to it.

The more I think about it, the more Bagdad Café feels like a parable of renewal. The café isn’t just a diner—it stands for the barren places we all sometimes inhabit, whether in spirit or in life. Jasmin, the German stranger, becomes an unexpected redeemer, bringing grace without asking for much in return. Brenda, toughened and skeptical, is the everywoman—ready for renewal if she dares to trust.

Threading through it all is the film’s haunting song, Calling You. The lyrics drift in like a voice from beyond:

A desert road from Vegas to nowhere … I am calling you.

For me, that refrain is the heart of the film—maybe hope itself speaking, maybe spirit, or simply the mysterious force that draws us toward one another when we feel lost. Whatever its source, the call is unmistakable. It reminds us that life doesn’t end in the wasteland. Something new can bloom, even in the dust.

These days, I am struggling to find my footing in a competitive environment among strong coworkers. I’m recalling this movie and its message, likely because it’s calling me to stay open to the possibility of renewal, even though I sometimes feel inclined to shut down.

Maybe the movie’s refrain—I am calling you—and its use of magic, aren’t just for the characters in a quirky old film. Perhaps those are calling all of us, tugging gently, if only we allow ourselves quiet moments to hear.

—Diana