In the mid-Seventies, a group of young Iraqi artists – Arabs and Kurds – left their country to continue studies in the art academies of Rome and Florence. Things changed dramatically for the worse in the Eighties, and it became too dangerous for them to return.  It still is, and this documentary looks at their art, what they’ve done since, how they look at the world, and what it’s like to be in ‘voluntary’ exile from your homeland.

All the artists here have been successful to a greater or lesser extent, and have felt welcomed in their various adopted countries – Italy, Holland and Sweden – so this is not exclusively the litany of woe we might expect. But there are, inevitably, some sad elements, stories and observations. One of them admits, in fact, that he rarely paints these days precisely because of all the destruction in the Middle East, while another has created an installation in memory of his brother who was executed by Saddam Hussein’s regime.

And then there is Kadhum Al Dakhail, resident in Sweden, who observes that blood-spattered reality is in a sense already a form of graphic ‘artwork’ which it would be superfluous to depict, so he tends to concentrate on less visceral subject matter.  Dutch-based artist Afifa Aleiby specialises in (beautiful) monumental art and representational paintings… Sculptor Fuad Azziz, in Florence, makes striking flat ‘two-dimensional’ figures, as well as illustrating children’s books … The eloquent Resmi Al Kafaji combines Iraqi and Italian memories by showing how the Tuscan hills resemble a woman in robes…  And there are snippets from a couple of theatrical performance pieces.

Mirrors Of Diaspora has a few moments of tedium, and could safely have been pruned a little. But it’s worth seeing – preferably on the big screen – and for the most part it’s illuminating.

While not doing anything new with the concept of an all-consuming virus sweeping the populace, it engages because of the character groundwork laid out in the first act.

A man runs through the snowy wilderness, protected from the cold by the furs on his back. Looking like the very definition of worst for wear, he stumbles into a river before vomiting blood. As far as openings go, it’s certainly one to make you sit up and take notice. It’s also a bit misleading to what The Outbreak is about. Titled Vongozero in its native Russia and based on the book of the same name by Yana Vagner, The Outbreak is less apocalyptic tale and more family-based drama. Think Stephen King’s The Stand but with fewer allegories about God and The Devil.

Set in modern-day Moscow, everyday man Sergei (Kirill Käro) is coming out of a bitter break up with his ex, Ira (Maryana Spivak) – who dangles their son over him like a prize – whilst maintaining a new relationship with his former therapist, Anna (Viktoriya Isakova) and her autistic son, Misha (Eldar Kalimulin). Meanwhile, businessman Lyonya (Aleksandr Robak) is struggling to keep control of his alcoholic and bitter daughter, Polina (Viktoriya Agalakova).

On its own, there’s enough quality melodrama for the audience to dine out on here for months. When Sergei and Lyonya bring their families together for a ‘friendly’ meal, the scene is brilliantly staged as a pantomime of polite small talk masking the disdain certain diners have for each other. It seems obvious that to avoid all future tension, everyone should stay away from each other, but then there’s the superflu that’s running through the country. A virus that sees the government denying all knowledge while simultaneously shutting down schools with children and staff still inside.

While not doing anything new with the concept of an all-consuming virus sweeping the populace, The Outbreak engages because of the groundwork laid out in the first act. Having successfully set up the dynamics of this array of backbiters and genuinely good people, the narrative sees Sergei and his two families, along with Lyonya and his, having to work together as Moscow turns into a plague pit and mysterious armed men attack their homes.

Escaping to the countryside by car, director Pavel Kostomarov manages through the tight confines of their transport to crank up the tension and paranoia that comes with this new diseased territory. Before all this though, Kostomarov teases the oncoming plague in a way that makes it all the more surprising when it finally arrives at Sergei’s doorstep. Things happen in the background; news reports are cut off, and ‘drunk’ people stumble out into traffic. Hidden in their own disputes, the end of the world almost sneaks by our characters.

Perhaps the biggest issue with The Outbreak is the advert that’s tagged onto the end of the film’s cliffhanger finale. Like The First Purge, the film concludes with a promotion of the television series adaptation which presumably continues the adventures of our band of not so merry brothers. It’s certainly not as egregious as The Devil Inside, which ended with a plea to visit a now defunct website, but you may feel a little cheated that you’re not going to be getting any resolution any time soon. That said, what is on show has certainly done its part and shows great promise for future instalments.

This is both a tense film and a rather understated one, with those apparent contradictions exemplified in its subdued and troubled protagonist. The immediate trigger for his distress is an incident in 2002 when a friend of Palestinian youth Ziad (Ziad Bakri) is fatally shot by an Israeli sniper. Shortly afterwards, a passenger in Ziad’s car responds by also shooting someone at random. Ziad takes the fall for his friends, and spends the next fifteen years in prison, where he evidently does it even tougher than we might assume. What happens after his release – and his complex but bottled-up feelings about it – are the meat of the matter in this involving story.

Adjusting to a changed outside world is one of Ziad’s challenges, but of course the sense of disorientation engendered by things like Facebook and a greater range of coffee pale into utter insignificance next to his deeper alienation. Traumatised, haunted by his past and unable to sleep at night, Ziad is unwilling – or possibly unable – to talk about it when approached by a well-intentioned female documentary maker. Nor he can he relate to his family, the friends who welcome him as a returning hero or the exigencies of holding down a job. In one of his less taciturn and more evocative moments, he describes himself as feeling “out of my skin”.

Screwdriver is an intelligently conceived and sustained mood piece, which manages to show the universal in the personal without – for the most part anyway – being an overt propaganda vehicle. (One character even says that such films “only make people feel sorry for us”.) And it’s got that rare virtue, a terrific ending.