Flickering between shots of a red-light district in India and the wide-open eyes of young girl, Born Into Brothels poses a difficult question from its very beginning: Whose film is this, anyway? Who is shaping and interpreting the vibrantly horrifying images onscreen, the two Western filmmakers or their Indian protégés, eight children who have been given film cameras to document their lives in Calcutta's brothels? The answer lies somewhere in between, lending Brothels a sort of awkward brilliance; the film is an unforgettable and uncomfortable glimpse into despair and the (sometimes) transcendent power of art to forge connection -- and escape.

I still remember the first words I heard in Cambodia.

“Man!” said my taxi driver, in a fluent display of Americanese. “It's hot!” He jumped in the car and cranked up some Western slow jams. The bass line thumped through the humidity, an incongruous soundtrack for the images unreeling outside the window: grannies wearing traditional checked scarves, skinny oxen, the swirl and crunch of Phnom Penh's battered motorcycles, the occasional ancient car.