The Nightingale's Prayer (Doa al karawan, 1959) by Henry Barakat stands as one of the greatest works of classic Egyptian cinema. The story, adapted from a novel by Taha Hussein, The Nightingale's Prayer is an epic love story filled with betrayal, tradition and murder.
The story follows Amna, a young, pretty Bedouin girl in Egypt who moves to the city with her mother and sister upon the insistence of her uncle, who wishes the women to escape the tainted name left by their womanizing father. Fascinated by, though fearful of, the city life, Amna and her sister, Hanadi, find jobs as housemaids in separate homes. Hanadi works for a respected engineer who seduces her by making her believe he was in love with her. When their mother learns of this, she notifies their uncle to take the girls back to their village.
However, the uncle has his own plan in mind and murders Hanadi in the desert to hide her sins from the villagers. Filled with rage, Amna returns to the city to find the engineer Hanadi fell in love with. What she finds is a womanizer who has seduced a long line of unsuspecting housemaids. Amna decides to work for the engineer and kill him to avenge her sister. But Amna realizes it is more difficult to murder than her uncle made it seem, and as she grows closer to the engineer (who remains nameless throughout the film) she finds her feelings for him change in a very unexpected way.
In the first half of the film, the story follows a traditional formula of moving from the rural to the city. Like many stories with this setup, the family that moves must change or sacrifice something to adapt into their new environment. The mother refuses to do either and sticks to tradition, while Amna and Hanadi quickly embrace city life. It is unclear what is more to blame for Hanadi's death--the mother's devotion to tradition in notifying her brother-in-law or Hanadi's embrace of sexual freedom--but the devastation that follows indicates that moving from the village to the city is a complex transition.
Following the death of Hanadi, Amna's adventures are just as much a search for revenge as it is an internal struggle. What makes The Nightingale's Prayer so powerful is the richly complex growth and development of its characters. Amna's development from young and naive villager, to fierce and determined avenger, to confused and torn lover is heart-wrenching. Faten Hamama's evocative performance is clearly the highlight of the film.
Also, the film's serves as a preservation of Bedouin culture. There are various scenes that are devoted to portraying traditions, values and practices of the Bedouins. The clash between Egyptian city life and village life is a reminder of the vast diversity that exists in the country.
The Nightingale's Prayer does not shy away from difficult subjects--such as poverty, sex and murder--but unlike contemporary, independent Egyptian films, this is in no way an "agenda" film. Nightingale does not seek to teach its audience a lesson about cultural traditions; it is purely an account of the complexities of love and the many forms it can take.
It may seem trivial to make such a distinction; however, the current independent Arab film industry comes with it a stereotype and expectation to make films that address current political and social issues. While many films do just that, its important to remember a that at one time, cinema in Egypt did resemble the "dream factory" that was Hollywood. In retrospect, a film such as Nightingale may seem to be a reflection on social attitudes towards sex and honor killings among Bedouins, but I feel this is an erroneous statement derived from the West's current obsession with political and social issues in the Arab world.
Overall, The Nightingale's Prayer is a lasting masterpiece of Egyptian film making with a worldwide appeal, while still being rooted in Arab culture and tradition.
Click here to watch a scene from the film. Amna and the Engineer relationship is complicated when the Engineer confesses his love, and Amna confesses her true motives.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
The Closed Doors: Exposing the Taboo
Atef Hetata's controversial Egyptian film The Closed Doors (Al Abwab Al Moghlaka) marks a moment in Egyptian cinema where the nation began to more openly acknowledge its tense cultural and religious problems, particulalry those concerning sexuality. The film follows the story of 13-year-old Mohamed, known as Hamada to his mother, as he comes of age and battles with urges he's been taught are wrong and the unsettling idea of his mother as a sexual being.
The film opens with an eye peering through a hole in a wall. The audience soon s
ees that the eye is gazing at a group of girls. As the image continues to grow, we see a young boy, Hamada, distracted in class by the passing girls. His teacher is quick to reprimend him and remind him that he is at school, not at the movies. Hamada is thrown out of class and after closing the classroom door behind him, he is approached by another teacher and told to go to the mosque to escape the hardships of school. Hamada sets off on a walk through his neighborhood, and images of an impoverished Cairo provide the backdrop for the film credits.
Before the credits roll, The Closed Doors, has already given audiences a lot to consider. The image of an eye through a hole in a wall suggests a voyeuristic quality to the film. The camera both stares back at the eye and assumes the eye's vantage point, thus building a twofold relationship between the eye's beholder and the audience. First, the audience is gazing at Hamada, observing and judging him. Next, the audience becomes Hamada, joining in his curiousity of the female form and seeing the world as his inexperienced eyes see it. This relationship persists throughout the film.
Next, there is the remark from the teacher, that this is a class, not a cinema. For Hamada, it is a class pretending to be a cinema, but for the audience, this is a cinema acting as a class. Hamada is being taught literature and writing, but not the things he wants to learn: sex and sexuality. For that, he uses his symbolic cinema in the form of the hole in the wall.
On the other hand, the audience comes to the cinema to experience the sensuality and pleasure of seeing images on the screen. There is a fascinating satisfaction gained from viewing human bodies, particularly beautiful bodies, on the theater screen. This is why movie stars are pressured to be so picture-perfect. However, The Closed Doors closes the door, in a manner of speaking, on this saught-after satisfaction and instead turns every image of beauty and sexuality into one of tension and discomfort. The human body is feared and uncertain in The Closed Doors, for this is the way Hamada interprets it.
Finally, in the opening sequence, Hamada closes the door behind him when he leaves his class. This act seperates him from the boys and teacher inside the room and leaves a void for another door to fill. When one door closes, another opens. In this case, the next door opens towards religion. Hamada closes the door on his education and takes another step towards the door to Islam. And this is where we meet him at the start of the film, and from this point on Hamada will bounce back and forth in his beliefs, struggling with his growing sexuality that has changed his perception of the world.
One way to read through The Closed Doors is to examine the role of doors, both literal and metaphorical. There are in fact many doors in the film that dictate the fate of Hamada and his mother.
As a metaphor, the door is an in-between place and a barrier. It can be used to hide behind or block others out, or it can be removed to bring people together. It can be the threshold for something great, or something devastating.
In that respect, the characters are constantly situated near doors in the home or at school or even car doors. The doors serve as either a separation between two types of people--man and woman, mother and son--or as a barrier to keep things hidden and safe.
For example, when Hamada accidently sees his mother changing in her room, he quickly closes the door to protect himself from seeing her and to protect her from being seen. The door is being used to hide and protect his mother, but at the same time, it was by accidently opening the door that Hamada caught a glimpse of her undressed. The door is neither friend nor foe for Hamada and it is clear that no door remains closed forever.
For the film itself, the door it opens is the one blocking any public discourse on sexual practices or issues, such as incest or extra-marital sex, both of which are major elements of The Closed Doors. Hetata opens the door with a shocking and riveting drama that is rich with metaphors and yet tragic in its realism.
The film opens with an eye peering through a hole in a wall. The audience soon s
ees that the eye is gazing at a group of girls. As the image continues to grow, we see a young boy, Hamada, distracted in class by the passing girls. His teacher is quick to reprimend him and remind him that he is at school, not at the movies. Hamada is thrown out of class and after closing the classroom door behind him, he is approached by another teacher and told to go to the mosque to escape the hardships of school. Hamada sets off on a walk through his neighborhood, and images of an impoverished Cairo provide the backdrop for the film credits.Before the credits roll, The Closed Doors, has already given audiences a lot to consider. The image of an eye through a hole in a wall suggests a voyeuristic quality to the film. The camera both stares back at the eye and assumes the eye's vantage point, thus building a twofold relationship between the eye's beholder and the audience. First, the audience is gazing at Hamada, observing and judging him. Next, the audience becomes Hamada, joining in his curiousity of the female form and seeing the world as his inexperienced eyes see it. This relationship persists throughout the film.
Next, there is the remark from the teacher, that this is a class, not a cinema. For Hamada, it is a class pretending to be a cinema, but for the audience, this is a cinema acting as a class. Hamada is being taught literature and writing, but not the things he wants to learn: sex and sexuality. For that, he uses his symbolic cinema in the form of the hole in the wall.
On the other hand, the audience comes to the cinema to experience the sensuality and pleasure of seeing images on the screen. There is a fascinating satisfaction gained from viewing human bodies, particularly beautiful bodies, on the theater screen. This is why movie stars are pressured to be so picture-perfect. However, The Closed Doors closes the door, in a manner of speaking, on this saught-after satisfaction and instead turns every image of beauty and sexuality into one of tension and discomfort. The human body is feared and uncertain in The Closed Doors, for this is the way Hamada interprets it.
Finally, in the opening sequence, Hamada closes the door behind him when he leaves his class. This act seperates him from the boys and teacher inside the room and leaves a void for another door to fill. When one door closes, another opens. In this case, the next door opens towards religion. Hamada closes the door on his education and takes another step towards the door to Islam. And this is where we meet him at the start of the film, and from this point on Hamada will bounce back and forth in his beliefs, struggling with his growing sexuality that has changed his perception of the world.
One way to read through The Closed Doors is to examine the role of doors, both literal and metaphorical. There are in fact many doors in the film that dictate the fate of Hamada and his mother.
As a metaphor, the door is an in-between place and a barrier. It can be used to hide behind or block others out, or it can be removed to bring people together. It can be the threshold for something great, or something devastating.
In that respect, the characters are constantly situated near doors in the home or at school or even car doors. The doors serve as either a separation between two types of people--man and woman, mother and son--or as a barrier to keep things hidden and safe.
For example, when Hamada accidently sees his mother changing in her room, he quickly closes the door to protect himself from seeing her and to protect her from being seen. The door is being used to hide and protect his mother, but at the same time, it was by accidently opening the door that Hamada caught a glimpse of her undressed. The door is neither friend nor foe for Hamada and it is clear that no door remains closed forever.
For the film itself, the door it opens is the one blocking any public discourse on sexual practices or issues, such as incest or extra-marital sex, both of which are major elements of The Closed Doors. Hetata opens the door with a shocking and riveting drama that is rich with metaphors and yet tragic in its realism.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Lemon Tree: Solitude in the Middle East
Eran Riklis's most recent film, Lemon Tree (Etz Limon), is a collaboration between Israeli and Palestinian creative forces that observes the strained relationship between these two peoples.
Salma (Hiam Abbass) is a widow who lives for her lemon grove, which she tends to with the help of her friend Abu Hussam (Tarik Kopty). However, after the Israeli Defense Minister, Israel Navon (Doron Tavory) and his wife move in next door, her grove is declared a security risk and most be uprooted. Salma hires young lawyer Ziad (Ali Suliman) to sue the Israeli government for the right to keep her lemons.
The film is based on a true story and tackles the touchy subject of Israeli destruction of Palestinian homes. Riklis isn't new to controversy, having directed the critically acclaimed film The Syrian Bride (2004) about a family living in the disputed territory of the Golan Heights.
Riklis claimed that Lemon Tree would be his last say on the matter, so to speak, regarding the Middle East conflict. He definitely plays it safe in the film with characters that are all victims, and yet all villains at the same time. They are all wrong and all correct, with perhaps the exception of Salma, who is the innocent doe trapped in the midst of brutality.
Instead of pointing blame, Riklis rather contemplates the notion of loneliness. All his characters are lonely, having either built walls around themselves (both figuratively and literally) or had walls involuntarily built around them.
Salma lives alone with her lemon grove. A widow, her children are too busy or too far away and strict cultural tradition forbids her from associating with men, as demonstrated by the character Abu Kamal (Makram Khoury).
Her counterpart would be Mira, the wife of the Defense Minister. After moving to the border with her husband, she is left at home while he works, surrounded by guards and hardly able to look out her window without an official escort.
Over time, Mira learns to pity and empathize with Salma. Although the two only meet once and speak only a few words to each other, an unlikely bond forms between the two women, both bound by restrictions and loneliness.
Salma does not win her case, but the judge amends the orders so that only half her trees are chopped down. As Ziad points out, this is actually a great victory since it is the first time an Arab suing the Israeli government has managed to change anything at all. She may be a hero to all Palestinians fighting to keep their land and homes, but the stark image of a half- barren lemon grove feels more like the glass is half empty, not half full.
The Defense Minister himself is unaware of his loneliess, convincing himself throughout the film that he is justified to order the descruction of the lemon grove and ignoring the warning signs of his wife's growing isolation. By the end of the film, he is more alone than any other character: his wife has left him and the wall he was eager to have built around his home blocks any visitors, intruders or any signs of life.
So who is to blame for this perpetual unhappiness? It would be easiest to try and blame the Defense Minister, but was he not simply doing the job assigned to him? Salma seems like the most obvious victim, but her reluctance to compromise or negotiated is matched only by the Israeli government.
As it were, the biggest culprit here is a collective failure to communicate. It is as if Riklis wants us to acknowledge the suffering of all parties involved, from the hapless and young soldier keeping watch over the lemon grove to the widow about to lose her entire livelihood, as though these are all equal forms of suffering so that there is no right or wrong side to the conflict.
Frankly, this is a higly political and safe stance to assume. While at first it seems Riklis is being bold and controversial, Lemon Tree proves to be less explosive and more meager.
This is not to say Riklis has not made a good point. His characters have gotten so caught up in a history's worth of conflict and failed diplomacy that they have forgotten how to simply speak to each other. Indeed, the volatile Palestinian-Israeli confict could do with a mediator or two, but Lemon Tree only points out this fact and does not try and offer a solution.
In regard to aesthetics, Lemon Tree has Riklis's familiar romantic-realist style filled with long takes, location shooting and topped with a dreamy quality that laces certain scenes, such as in the court room where the camera revolves slowly to capture the poetic words of Abu Hussam.
Photo Caption: L to R Tarik Copty, Hiam Abbass and Ali Suliman in Lemon Tree
Photo courtesy of lemontreemovie.com
Salma (Hiam Abbass) is a widow who lives for her lemon grove, which she tends to with the help of her friend Abu Hussam (Tarik Kopty). However, after the Israeli Defense Minister, Israel Navon (Doron Tavory) and his wife move in next door, her grove is declared a security risk and most be uprooted. Salma hires young lawyer Ziad (Ali Suliman) to sue the Israeli government for the right to keep her lemons.
The film is based on a true story and tackles the touchy subject of Israeli destruction of Palestinian homes. Riklis isn't new to controversy, having directed the critically acclaimed film The Syrian Bride (2004) about a family living in the disputed territory of the Golan Heights.Riklis claimed that Lemon Tree would be his last say on the matter, so to speak, regarding the Middle East conflict. He definitely plays it safe in the film with characters that are all victims, and yet all villains at the same time. They are all wrong and all correct, with perhaps the exception of Salma, who is the innocent doe trapped in the midst of brutality.
Instead of pointing blame, Riklis rather contemplates the notion of loneliness. All his characters are lonely, having either built walls around themselves (both figuratively and literally) or had walls involuntarily built around them.
Salma lives alone with her lemon grove. A widow, her children are too busy or too far away and strict cultural tradition forbids her from associating with men, as demonstrated by the character Abu Kamal (Makram Khoury).
Her counterpart would be Mira, the wife of the Defense Minister. After moving to the border with her husband, she is left at home while he works, surrounded by guards and hardly able to look out her window without an official escort.
Over time, Mira learns to pity and empathize with Salma. Although the two only meet once and speak only a few words to each other, an unlikely bond forms between the two women, both bound by restrictions and loneliness.
Salma does not win her case, but the judge amends the orders so that only half her trees are chopped down. As Ziad points out, this is actually a great victory since it is the first time an Arab suing the Israeli government has managed to change anything at all. She may be a hero to all Palestinians fighting to keep their land and homes, but the stark image of a half- barren lemon grove feels more like the glass is half empty, not half full.
The Defense Minister himself is unaware of his loneliess, convincing himself throughout the film that he is justified to order the descruction of the lemon grove and ignoring the warning signs of his wife's growing isolation. By the end of the film, he is more alone than any other character: his wife has left him and the wall he was eager to have built around his home blocks any visitors, intruders or any signs of life.
So who is to blame for this perpetual unhappiness? It would be easiest to try and blame the Defense Minister, but was he not simply doing the job assigned to him? Salma seems like the most obvious victim, but her reluctance to compromise or negotiated is matched only by the Israeli government.
As it were, the biggest culprit here is a collective failure to communicate. It is as if Riklis wants us to acknowledge the suffering of all parties involved, from the hapless and young soldier keeping watch over the lemon grove to the widow about to lose her entire livelihood, as though these are all equal forms of suffering so that there is no right or wrong side to the conflict.
Frankly, this is a higly political and safe stance to assume. While at first it seems Riklis is being bold and controversial, Lemon Tree proves to be less explosive and more meager.
This is not to say Riklis has not made a good point. His characters have gotten so caught up in a history's worth of conflict and failed diplomacy that they have forgotten how to simply speak to each other. Indeed, the volatile Palestinian-Israeli confict could do with a mediator or two, but Lemon Tree only points out this fact and does not try and offer a solution.
In regard to aesthetics, Lemon Tree has Riklis's familiar romantic-realist style filled with long takes, location shooting and topped with a dreamy quality that laces certain scenes, such as in the court room where the camera revolves slowly to capture the poetic words of Abu Hussam.
Photo Caption: L to R Tarik Copty, Hiam Abbass and Ali Suliman in Lemon Tree
Photo courtesy of lemontreemovie.com
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Paradise Now Part 2: Self-Reflexivity
In my last post on Paradise Now, I argued that Abu-Assad had given a voice to a previously silent character, the terrorist. The story comments in many ways on the current political crisis in the Middle East, but the film is also a self-reflexive work that comments on cinema and media as they operates in the Middle East.
The most indicative scene is where Said and Suha discuss cinema over tea at her home. Suha asks Said if he likes movies and he responds by saying that Nablus does not have a movie theater, and the only theater he has ever been to was one he help set on fire. This dialogue helps establish two important points about the perception of cinema in the West Bank.
First, cinema is not accessible to Palestinians due to lack of infrastructure. Said does mention that movies are available on tape in Nablus, but the experience of watching a film in a theater is relatively foreign to him. Cinema is, perhaps, a foreign art form to Palestine. By setting a movie theater on fire, Said destroys not just a building but a symbol of something foreign and imperialistic. It is possible to deduce that Said's destruction of the theater reflects a larger rejection by the Palestinian people of cinema as a whole.
Nonetheless, media does exist in Nablus. Two scenes in the film take place at a video store that rents out tapes of suicide bombers' final messages and the confessions of collaborators before they are killed. In this way, media has become incorporated with the conflict. Suha is shocked and disgusted by these video rentals, though she does not know that Said himself had recorded his own video hours before.
The idea of taping these messages is to make them immortal, so that the stories of the terrorists and collaborators will live on. The videos also help to distribute the messages to a large audience. These two points are also goals for cinema as a whole: to make stories eternal and to distribute them to a mass audience. But in this case, videos are manipulated for political purposes and exploitation. This is not to say that certain cinemas, such as Hollywood, do not have political agendas or exploit for a profit. In fact, many theorists would say all Hollywood films have some form of agenda, and mainstream films have profited from exploiting people and situations for as long as cinema has existed. The only difference is that the video rental store is straightforward in its purpose and uses all real people. The videos achieve the same end as cinema but without the seductive illusion created from cinema magic.
Going back to Said and Suha's initial conversation, there comes a point where Said is also unable to name a genre of film he enjoys. He asks Suha if a "boring" genre exists, since that is what his life is like. Said feels that no current genre of film relates to his life or is fit to tell his story. Indeed, perhaps no genre or style of cinema in existence is suited to tell the Palestinian narrative and become part of the developing Palestinian cinema.
While Abu-Assad may be reflecting on cinema's failure to attract or accurately portray Palestinians, he is himself attempting to construct a Palestinian cinematic identity. Paradise Now is painfully aware of its task at hand.
In the end, Said and Suha can come to no conclusion about Said's interest in film. She, being born and raised outside of the West Bank, is too removed from the situation in Palestine to understand his apathy towards cinema. Their conversation eventually escalates to a debate about how to fight the occupation and the two realize they do not see eye to eye, and arguing is futile.
In addition to its address of the Middle East conflict, Paradise Now meditates on the role, if any, of cinema and media in Palestine as it attempts to construct a Palestinian style to make cinema an effective art form in telling the Palestinian narrative.
The most indicative scene is where Said and Suha discuss cinema over tea at her home. Suha asks Said if he likes movies and he responds by saying that Nablus does not have a movie theater, and the only theater he has ever been to was one he help set on fire. This dialogue helps establish two important points about the perception of cinema in the West Bank.
First, cinema is not accessible to Palestinians due to lack of infrastructure. Said does mention that movies are available on tape in Nablus, but the experience of watching a film in a theater is relatively foreign to him. Cinema is, perhaps, a foreign art form to Palestine. By setting a movie theater on fire, Said destroys not just a building but a symbol of something foreign and imperialistic. It is possible to deduce that Said's destruction of the theater reflects a larger rejection by the Palestinian people of cinema as a whole.Nonetheless, media does exist in Nablus. Two scenes in the film take place at a video store that rents out tapes of suicide bombers' final messages and the confessions of collaborators before they are killed. In this way, media has become incorporated with the conflict. Suha is shocked and disgusted by these video rentals, though she does not know that Said himself had recorded his own video hours before.
The idea of taping these messages is to make them immortal, so that the stories of the terrorists and collaborators will live on. The videos also help to distribute the messages to a large audience. These two points are also goals for cinema as a whole: to make stories eternal and to distribute them to a mass audience. But in this case, videos are manipulated for political purposes and exploitation. This is not to say that certain cinemas, such as Hollywood, do not have political agendas or exploit for a profit. In fact, many theorists would say all Hollywood films have some form of agenda, and mainstream films have profited from exploiting people and situations for as long as cinema has existed. The only difference is that the video rental store is straightforward in its purpose and uses all real people. The videos achieve the same end as cinema but without the seductive illusion created from cinema magic.
Going back to Said and Suha's initial conversation, there comes a point where Said is also unable to name a genre of film he enjoys. He asks Suha if a "boring" genre exists, since that is what his life is like. Said feels that no current genre of film relates to his life or is fit to tell his story. Indeed, perhaps no genre or style of cinema in existence is suited to tell the Palestinian narrative and become part of the developing Palestinian cinema.
While Abu-Assad may be reflecting on cinema's failure to attract or accurately portray Palestinians, he is himself attempting to construct a Palestinian cinematic identity. Paradise Now is painfully aware of its task at hand.
In the end, Said and Suha can come to no conclusion about Said's interest in film. She, being born and raised outside of the West Bank, is too removed from the situation in Palestine to understand his apathy towards cinema. Their conversation eventually escalates to a debate about how to fight the occupation and the two realize they do not see eye to eye, and arguing is futile.
In addition to its address of the Middle East conflict, Paradise Now meditates on the role, if any, of cinema and media in Palestine as it attempts to construct a Palestinian style to make cinema an effective art form in telling the Palestinian narrative.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Paradise Now: Voice for the Voiceless
No discussion of contemporary Arab cinema would be complete without analysis of Hany Abu-Assad's Golden Globe-winning and Academy Award-nominated film Paradise Now. This film represents a huge artistic and financial success for Arab cinema, and investigating the reasons why it attained such success reveals many great possibilities for the region. It was popular and grossed fairly well both within the Middle East and abroad, enjoying a long run in American theaters as well. It's success at film festivals and award shows helped put Middle Eastern cinema on the map and solidified it as a viable competitor in the global film market.
All of this success is especially shocking considering the film follows the point of view of two would-be suicide bombers--a perspective not typically shown and one that most audiences are reluctant to empathize with.
A film's protagonist is by nature someone for audiences to empathize and connect with. Without a relatable protagonist, a film cannot go very far. This has created a certain understanding with audiences so that before a film even begins, they know they are about to embark on a journey with the protagonist, and by the end of the film should feel more connected to the character. So for a terrorist to be given such powerful access to people's hearts is a bold and unexpected accomplishment.
But by taking this risk, Abu-Assad humanized a character that is often relegated to being portrayed as a loud, obnoxious, and unintelligent background character whose purpose is only to be "taken down" by the film's hero (Think the Libyan terrorists in Back to the Future, or Salim Abu Aziz in True Lies).
In comparison to past Hollywood terrorists, Khaled (Ali Suliman) and Said (Kais Nashif) in Paradise Now are a huge departure from the hegemonic stereotype. The two are childhood friends who, aside from their radicalism, lead very normal lives--or as normal as they can as Palestinians in the West Bank.
Khaled has trouble holding onto a job, Said fights with his younger brother, and their families are constantly looking for better and cheaper water filters. These are all seemingly trivial and mundane elements of everyday life, but Abu-Assad intentionally highlights these things to humanize his characters before introducing any indication of terrorism.
When the two men are finally approached for their mission, the focus of the film always remains on their personal struggle in going through with the attack. Islam is mentioned in the film as merely a fact of radicalism, not the source or motivation for it. Khaled and Said's family history and personal experiences are the things that have led them to violence.
While Abu-Assad was careful to portray terrorist activities in an accurate fashion, going so far as to have militants supervise a scene where the men record their farewell messages on video, this realism only contextualizes the characters. Paradise Now is a purely character-driven narrative that delves into the psyche of the two terrorists.
What emerges is desperation, confusion, and identity crisis. As Khaled says, they are dead if they stay alive or go through with the attack, indicating a severe desperation. The two seem to have lost a will to live but still have a will to resist, raising an interesting paradox in extremism.
To challenge these beliefs is the character of Suha (Lubna Azabal). She is a Palestinian born in Morrocco, educated in France and now returned to her parent's hometown. It is revealed that she is the daughter of a famous martyr, though she resents the glory her father received and takes a decidedly pro-peace and pro-diplomacy stance. In a memorable conversation with Khaled, Suha claims that there is no paradise; it exists only in their heads. In response, Khaled says that he would rather have paradise in his head than live in hell on Earth.
Abu-Assad uncovers the humanism behind radicalism in Palestine. There is no clear message in Paradise Now and I do not believe Abu-Assad is trying to preach to his audiences. Rather, he is educating them and giving a voice to the voiceless. Abu-Assad has complicated the Western stereotype of the uneducated and unkempt religious fanatic that has allowed Hollywood to vilify Arabs without any remorse.
Paradise Now trailer:
Photo Caption: Said (Kais Nashif) and Khaled (Ali Suliman) wait patiently to carry out a suicide bombing in Paradise Now.
All of this success is especially shocking considering the film follows the point of view of two would-be suicide bombers--a perspective not typically shown and one that most audiences are reluctant to empathize with.A film's protagonist is by nature someone for audiences to empathize and connect with. Without a relatable protagonist, a film cannot go very far. This has created a certain understanding with audiences so that before a film even begins, they know they are about to embark on a journey with the protagonist, and by the end of the film should feel more connected to the character. So for a terrorist to be given such powerful access to people's hearts is a bold and unexpected accomplishment.
But by taking this risk, Abu-Assad humanized a character that is often relegated to being portrayed as a loud, obnoxious, and unintelligent background character whose purpose is only to be "taken down" by the film's hero (Think the Libyan terrorists in Back to the Future, or Salim Abu Aziz in True Lies).
In comparison to past Hollywood terrorists, Khaled (Ali Suliman) and Said (Kais Nashif) in Paradise Now are a huge departure from the hegemonic stereotype. The two are childhood friends who, aside from their radicalism, lead very normal lives--or as normal as they can as Palestinians in the West Bank.
Khaled has trouble holding onto a job, Said fights with his younger brother, and their families are constantly looking for better and cheaper water filters. These are all seemingly trivial and mundane elements of everyday life, but Abu-Assad intentionally highlights these things to humanize his characters before introducing any indication of terrorism.
When the two men are finally approached for their mission, the focus of the film always remains on their personal struggle in going through with the attack. Islam is mentioned in the film as merely a fact of radicalism, not the source or motivation for it. Khaled and Said's family history and personal experiences are the things that have led them to violence.
While Abu-Assad was careful to portray terrorist activities in an accurate fashion, going so far as to have militants supervise a scene where the men record their farewell messages on video, this realism only contextualizes the characters. Paradise Now is a purely character-driven narrative that delves into the psyche of the two terrorists.
What emerges is desperation, confusion, and identity crisis. As Khaled says, they are dead if they stay alive or go through with the attack, indicating a severe desperation. The two seem to have lost a will to live but still have a will to resist, raising an interesting paradox in extremism.
To challenge these beliefs is the character of Suha (Lubna Azabal). She is a Palestinian born in Morrocco, educated in France and now returned to her parent's hometown. It is revealed that she is the daughter of a famous martyr, though she resents the glory her father received and takes a decidedly pro-peace and pro-diplomacy stance. In a memorable conversation with Khaled, Suha claims that there is no paradise; it exists only in their heads. In response, Khaled says that he would rather have paradise in his head than live in hell on Earth.
Abu-Assad uncovers the humanism behind radicalism in Palestine. There is no clear message in Paradise Now and I do not believe Abu-Assad is trying to preach to his audiences. Rather, he is educating them and giving a voice to the voiceless. Abu-Assad has complicated the Western stereotype of the uneducated and unkempt religious fanatic that has allowed Hollywood to vilify Arabs without any remorse.
Paradise Now trailer:
Photo Caption: Said (Kais Nashif) and Khaled (Ali Suliman) wait patiently to carry out a suicide bombing in Paradise Now.
Monday, April 13, 2009
A Man in Our House: Nationalism in Egyptian Cinema
I would like to look at another Henry Barakat (Days and Nights) movie, the 1961 film A Man in Our House (Fi Baitina Rajul) starring Omar Sharif. Like Days and Nights, A Man in Our House features a love story that is threatened by social and political elements beyond the lovers' control and ultimately reinforces traditional morals. However, A Man in Our House features a prominent political message concerning nationalism and patriotism and glorifies the Egyptian resistance to British colonialism, which ended in 1954.
Sharif is Ibrahim Hamdy, a young Egyptian university student and revolutionary who assassinates the prime minister as part of the struggle for freedom. Ibrahim hides from the police by taking refuge in the home of an apolitical fellow student, Mohie, and his family, who risk their own safety to help him.
The father of the family must battle with his obligation to keep his family safe and his sense of duty to his country to protect Ibrahim. He ultimately decides to take in Ibrahim, who quickly becomes another member of the family and an honored guest. A romance emerges between Mohie’s sister, Nawal, and Ibrahim, though Ibrahim tries to reject his feelings because he feels guilty for putting the family in danger.
Their plan is severely threatened when Mohie’s cousin, Abdel Hamid, accidentally discovers Ibrahim. He blackmails the family by threatening to expose their secret if they do not approve of his marriage proposal to the eldest sister, Samia.
Barakat weaves together the political and personal in his narrative. The family’s troubles are also the country’s problems and Sharif’s roles are both an uninvited guest and a wanted felon. This suggests that every Egyptian, even the most apolitical family, is a member of the struggle against colonialism.
Ibrahim's arrival to the house represents an interruption of daily life. The family is forced to examine their role in the revolution and decide what side they are going to take. He is the stranger entering the personal sphere and during his visit, he leaves an impression on everyone in the house.
The film also takes place during Ramadan, a fact that is often mentioned by the characters, and religious morals play a large part in the story. In Days and Nights, religion was almost non-existent. By making Islam so prevalent in A Man in Our House, Barakat makes his film a more uniquely Egyptian work. Themes of resistance and revolution are nothing new in cinema, so by inserting elements of everyday Egyptian life, such as religion, Barakat marks his film as a nationalist work.
A Man in Our House does not spend much time providing context for the events taking place. Indeed, the film was made in the middle of the Gamal Abdel Nasser years in Egypt and the Egyptian revolution was still fresh in people's memories. Barakat overtly embraces Nasser's theory of Arab nationalism and anti-colonialism and observes how these affect the average person trying to lead a normal life.
As also demonstrated in Day and Nights, subtlety is not Barakat's strong point. His middle-class-influenced moral and political messages are made very clear in the film's characters. The Egyptian police are seen abusing and mistreating political prisoners, nearly torturing Mohie to death. The fact that Abdel Hamid is uneducated, having dropped out of college, is repeatedly referenced when discussing his rudeness and immorality.
Essentially, Barakat suggests that a good person is also a nationalist. Resistence is the greatest virtue in the film, so much so that Ibrahim's romance with Nawal is sacrificed for freedom and Ibrahim becomes a martyr for his cause.
Just as Egypt fought to free itself from British colonials, Egyptian cinema struggled to create its own identity separate from Hollywood and other Western cinema. This decolonization of cinema is a problem that persists throughout the Middle East and is just as much an issue today as it was immediately following the Egyptian revolution. As stated in my last post, Palestinian director Elia Suleiman employs a blend of black humor and absurdity to reflect Palestinian reality and this style contributes to the development of a national cinema. This week, we see that Barakat calls upon religion and Egyptian middle-class morals to distinguish his cinema and represent basic elements of everyday life.
This question of national identity in cinema is one I will address more in the future. However, it is clear that the story of a physical resistance in A Man in our House creates the opportunity for artistic and psychological resistance to colonized art.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Divine Intervention: Humor as Resistance
This week, I wanted to build from the last post on Chronicle of a Disappearance to discuss another Elia Suleiman film: Divine Intervention.
Released in 2002, Divine Intervention was Palestine's official entry for the Academy Awards. However, the film was rejected because the Oscars only consider films from countries recognized as a nation by the United Nations, which Palestine was not. This would later be contradicted when Hany Abu-Assad's film Paradise Now is nominated for Best Foreign Language Film in 2006.
Released in 2002, Divine Intervention was Palestine's official entry for the Academy Awards. However, the film was rejected because the Oscars only consider films from countries recognized as a nation by the United Nations, which Palestine was not. This would later be contradicted when Hany Abu-Assad's film Paradise Now is nominated for Best Foreign Language Film in 2006.
Much like Chronicle of a Disappearance, Divine Intervention is composed of a series of short vignettes of the everyday life of Palestinians. It is a surreal black comedy that frequently switches between fantasy and reality.
Scenes are as simple as a long take of a man opening his mail in the morning, to an elaborate sequence involving a red balloon with Yasser Arafat's face on it inexplicably inflating and floating across the border.
Suleiman continuously pulls his audience in many directions, and the rapid shifts in tone and style are often humorous, but in a strange and nonsensical way.
In the films climax, a group of Israeli soldiers are doing target practice with cardboard cutouts of Arab woman. After shooting two rounds in a choreographed dance routine, one of the cutouts comes alive. This "Arab ninja" repels bullets, flings stones at rapid speed, and conjures up a shield in the shape of Israel and Palestinian territories, which she uses to destroy a helicopter after taking out the entire group of soldiers.
This represents the daydream quality of Divine Intervention. Suleiman's forays into the surreal are moments of wishful thinking, such as the "Arab ninja" who single handily takes down soldiers without any guns or sophisticated weaponry. Suleiman captures the spirit of Palestinian resistance to occupation through fantasy and surrealism.
This leads to the greater question of cinematic resistance in an occupied region. Suleiman is a Palestinian-Israeli and his films are made in both Israel and Palestine. So would his film be considered part of Israeli cinema or Palestinian cinema? Arguments can be made for both, however, it is generally accepted that Divine Intervention is clearly a work of Palestinian cinema because of its subject-matter, director, and actors (most of whom are non-professional and are friends or family of Suleiman).
For me, what makes Divine Intervention a Palestinian film is its cinematic style. Suleiman combines low-budget techniques, such as long-takes and amateur actors, with special effects to create his absurdist vision of reality. There are infinite interpretations of each of the vignette's possible political or social meaning, but the bottom line is that Suleiman is trying to make us laugh.
In an interview, Suleiman says that his inspiration for his films are small things that make him laugh. He takes these simple things, such as a story of his lead actress (Manal Khader) ignoring the commands of Israeli soldiers and just walking past a checkpoint to get into Jerusalem for a lunch date, and amplifies them to the status of the impossible. She reenacts this story in the film , but Suleiman pushes reality into fantasy, and with a glance from her piercing eyes, the soldiers' watch tower topples as she struts past.
The humor in this scene is understated and dark. There is no dialogue, no jokes, and no physical humor. The humor exists in the very notion of a Palestinian woman developing unseen powers to take down a checkpoint. In a country where being Palestinian is a disadvantage and some would say relegates a person to the status of second-class citizen, Suleiman's retelling of Manal's story is painfully wishful.
But Suleiman does this not just to tease Palestinians or indulge escapism. The comedic tone and surrealism of Divine Intervention make it a more digestible reading of the Palestinian situation in Israel and seemingly less bold or agitating. However, Suleiman never loses sight of the social and political issues that shape Palestinian lifestyles and his stories are rooted in this reality. Thus, it is through humor that Suleiman appeals to human emotion to tell stories and give insight into the Palestinian situation.
Scenes are as simple as a long take of a man opening his mail in the morning, to an elaborate sequence involving a red balloon with Yasser Arafat's face on it inexplicably inflating and floating across the border.
Suleiman continuously pulls his audience in many directions, and the rapid shifts in tone and style are often humorous, but in a strange and nonsensical way.
In the films climax, a group of Israeli soldiers are doing target practice with cardboard cutouts of Arab woman. After shooting two rounds in a choreographed dance routine, one of the cutouts comes alive. This "Arab ninja" repels bullets, flings stones at rapid speed, and conjures up a shield in the shape of Israel and Palestinian territories, which she uses to destroy a helicopter after taking out the entire group of soldiers.
This represents the daydream quality of Divine Intervention. Suleiman's forays into the surreal are moments of wishful thinking, such as the "Arab ninja" who single handily takes down soldiers without any guns or sophisticated weaponry. Suleiman captures the spirit of Palestinian resistance to occupation through fantasy and surrealism.
This leads to the greater question of cinematic resistance in an occupied region. Suleiman is a Palestinian-Israeli and his films are made in both Israel and Palestine. So would his film be considered part of Israeli cinema or Palestinian cinema? Arguments can be made for both, however, it is generally accepted that Divine Intervention is clearly a work of Palestinian cinema because of its subject-matter, director, and actors (most of whom are non-professional and are friends or family of Suleiman).
For me, what makes Divine Intervention a Palestinian film is its cinematic style. Suleiman combines low-budget techniques, such as long-takes and amateur actors, with special effects to create his absurdist vision of reality. There are infinite interpretations of each of the vignette's possible political or social meaning, but the bottom line is that Suleiman is trying to make us laugh.
In an interview, Suleiman says that his inspiration for his films are small things that make him laugh. He takes these simple things, such as a story of his lead actress (Manal Khader) ignoring the commands of Israeli soldiers and just walking past a checkpoint to get into Jerusalem for a lunch date, and amplifies them to the status of the impossible. She reenacts this story in the film , but Suleiman pushes reality into fantasy, and with a glance from her piercing eyes, the soldiers' watch tower topples as she struts past.
The humor in this scene is understated and dark. There is no dialogue, no jokes, and no physical humor. The humor exists in the very notion of a Palestinian woman developing unseen powers to take down a checkpoint. In a country where being Palestinian is a disadvantage and some would say relegates a person to the status of second-class citizen, Suleiman's retelling of Manal's story is painfully wishful.
But Suleiman does this not just to tease Palestinians or indulge escapism. The comedic tone and surrealism of Divine Intervention make it a more digestible reading of the Palestinian situation in Israel and seemingly less bold or agitating. However, Suleiman never loses sight of the social and political issues that shape Palestinian lifestyles and his stories are rooted in this reality. Thus, it is through humor that Suleiman appeals to human emotion to tell stories and give insight into the Palestinian situation.
Divine Intervention theatrical trailer:
Photo Caption: Director Elia Suleiman holds a red balloon with Yasser Arafat's face in Divine Intervention.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Chronicle of a Disappearance: Avante-Garde Palestine
So far, the films I have been discussing are, more or less, part of popular cinema. Some, such as Rana's Wedding, exhibit strong elements of art-cinema, though it still follows a traditional narrative format. In contrast, Elia Suleiman's first feature film, Chronicle of Disappearance (1996), is experimental and abstract in its representation of daily life in Nazareth.
Suleiman directs and stars in this non-narrative examination of a man (Suleiman as himself) who returns to Nazareth after a self-imposed exile in New York. The film is on a quest to discover what it is like to be Palestinian.
The film is segmented into three parts, composed of vignettes of everyday life. Some stories are decidedly incongruous and abstract, while others are more straight-forward in their message. It is hard to classify Chronicle of a Disappearance, as it transcends any notions of genre or plot. It is part fiction and part autobiographical, blending truth and fantasy in hope of uncovering meaning.
The camera rarely moves throughout the film, which is composed mostly of long takes. The audience gets a medium or long shot perspective of any given scene and only sees it from one vantage point; the film is virtually devoid of close-ups. This distances the audience from what takes place on screen and creates a sense of voyeurism.
Some critics have described it as a black comedy because of its nihilistic tone set amongst humorous short tales. I would agree with this label and add that it is a minimalist film in its visual style and cinematography and a psychological drama in its content. The film is best approached by trying to analyze and decipher its parts first, and then synthesizing them to uncover Suleiman's overall message, if there is one at all.
Each scene in Chronicle of a Disappearance is richly symbolic, contributing to the film's absurdity. For example, a wooden camel figurine falls down in a Palestinian-owned souvenir shop in Nazareth. The store owner keeps trying to set it back upright, only for the camel to fall down repeatedly. He leaves for a moment and returns with some tape to prop up the camel, though after he walks out of the frame again, it falls down once more and the scene is over.
This scene can be correctly interpreted for simply what it is--merely a moment in the banal existence of a shop owner who never gets any customers--or it can be read through a metaphorical lens. The camel falling down is a problem for the shop owner that keeps occurring again and again, a metaphor for the problems facing Palestinians generation after generation. By trying to use tape to prop up the camel, the shop owner is using what he thinks is a quick and clever solution for his problem. However, the audience sees the camel fall down again, proving that the problem lies in the camel itself and needs more than a "band-aid" fix.
The film was made following the signing of the Oslo Accords, an agreement signed by Israel and the PLO in 1993 that established the Palestinian Authority, but left out many key issues in the conflict to be addressed at a later time (for more information on the Oslo Accords click here). In light of this historical context, the camel scene can be read as a criticism of the superficiality of the Oslo Accords and its inability to address many of the long-standing issues concerning Palestine.
Of course there is nothing explicit in the camel scene to suggest this is the correct reading, which is one of the more frustrating aspects of Chronicle of a Disappearance. Audiences watch a film expecting to gain some sort of meaning and enlightenment by the end of it, but with Chronicles of a Disappearance, Suleiman betrays this long-standing agreement between film and spectator, and we feel just as lost and unsatisfied by the end of the film as we did when it first began.
Perhaps this was an attempt to reflect the loss and disappointment of the Palestinian people. On the other hand, it could be a comment on the futility of defining Palestinians, or maybe simply the futility of life as a Palestinian.
Suleiman's experimental style is appropriate when applied to his subject-matter: the absurdity and nihilism of Palestinian reality. He forgoes traditional film techniques and creates a cinematic grammar unique to Palestine, which he continues in his next feature film, Divine Intervention, released in 2002.
Without a doubt, Suleiman is the shining example of the avante-garde operating in the Middle East.
Photo Courtesy of Arab Film Distribution
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Days and Nights: An Example of Classic Egypt
My last post examined a recent Egyptian film filled with stories about various problems affecting contemporary Egypt. To contrast, I am providing some analysis on an older film, the 1955 film by Henry Barakat Days and Nights (Ayyam w layali) starring the legendary Abdel Halim Hafez.Days and Nights follows a very standard formula for 1950s Egyptian romantic melodramas. A young man falls in love with a beautiful girl, but something about him prevents him from being with her. In this film, it is because he takes the blame for an accident caused by his step brother's drunk driving.
Family, responsibility, dignity, and the dangers of drinking are all prominent themes of the film, which does nothing to hide its moral messages. The dialogue is often very pointed, sometimes even contrived, in communicating the "right" point of view.
In the film, Yehia (Hafez) is a university student whose mother divorced his father because he was a drunk. She remarries to a single father, and then realizes her new husband does not treat her two sons equally, favoring his son over Yehia.
Yehia spots the gorgeous Samia (actress Iman) and the two fall in love. However, Yehia's brother hits and kills a man while driving drunk but refuses to turn himself in, leaving Yehia's best friend to be wrongly accused of the crime. Yehia pleads with his stepfather to do the right thing and tell his brother to confess, but his stepfather demands Yehia stay quiet to repay him for raising him.
Frustrated with the injustices, Yehia seeks out his biological father for advice. Yehia proceeds to confess to the hit-and-run, landing himself in court and causing Samia's mother to forbid her from seeing him. At the last minute, Yehia's mother turns in her stepson and takes back her ex-husband, restoring her family unit.
The story preaches honesty, taking responsibility for one's actions, and respecting family as the basic social unit. However, this is not what the film is "about." Ultimately, it is a romance-musical designed to be a box-office hit with mass appeal. The insertion of so many moral messages is reflexive of cinematic trends of the time. Most classic Egyptian films--like many Hollywood films of the time--reinforced the status quo in society.
With that said, Days and Nights is most notable for its incredible soundtrack, featuring several of Hafez's best songs, such as the timeless ballad "Ana Lak Ala tool." However, this is not to say that it does not push boundaries. The film opens with a birth scene, portraying Yehia's mother laying in bed after giving birth, something that may have been problematic in Hollywood at the time.
In terms of aesthetics, Days and Nights is a perfect example of the majority of classic Egyptian cinema. The film uses a style generally known as Classic Hollywood Realism, which entails narrative-oriented editing with predominantly medium shots. There is no experimental or montage editing and one could say the film "plays it safe" stylistically.
One of the biggest criticisms surrounding popular Egyptian film in the 1950s is that it was essentially trying to copy Hollywood style to recreate its success in Egypt rather than form a unique cinema for itself. I would like to argue against this statement and claim that the themes and genres popular in 1950s Egypt were in fact a reflection of the cultural climate.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
The Yacoubian Building: The Modernist Paradox in Egypt
Egypt is, without a doubt, the most prolific Arab nation in terms of film production. The old Egyptian classic melodramas and musicals are recognized and appreciated throughout the Middle East. Today, Egyptian films are increasingly focused on a number of social and political issues. However, heavy censorship in Egypt is a major obstacle, though filmmakers are finding ways to slowly overcome boundaries.The 2006 film The Yacoubian Building (Omaret yakobean) by Marwan Hamed and starring Egyptian legend Adel Imam stands out as a breakthrough in censorship and conservative ideals. The film broke box office records in Egypt and was the nation's official entry for the Academy Awards.
Based on a bestselling novel by Alaa Al Aswany with the same name set in 1990, The Yacoubian Building tells the stories of the tenants of the film's namesake and uses the building, an actual building in Cairo, as a metaphor for modern Egypt. The characters face a slew of social problems--poverty, religious radicalism, sexual harrasment, aging, homesexuality, adultry, abortion, drugs, political corruption, police brutality--and each of their morals is put to the test, and most of them fail.
The depiction of modern Egypt is scathing, to say the least. Very little redemption or hope for Egypt's future is presented.
The depiction of modern Egypt is scathing, to say the least. Very little redemption or hope for Egypt's future is presented.
The film tackles so many issues that it would be futile to attempt to analyze all of them here in this blog. I will most likely return to this film in the future to analyze more specific themes, but this entry will focus on a prevailing theme that I believe is exemplified by each of the characters' personal story: the fear that social progress will ruin tradition and humanity. This is also known as the modernist paradox.
The tenants of the Yacoubian Building all want change. Soad (Somaya Al Khashab) lives with her mother and siblings in a shanty on the roof of the building. She wants to make more money, but cannot hold a job because she rejects the sexual advances of her bosses to maintain her honor. Her mother tells her a woman can learn to tolerate a certain amount of harassment and still keep her dignity and make money. This story represents Egypt as a place where people must forgo their morality in order to make money and survive.
Soad clings to her beliefs in the face of a society that has moved far past her notions of honor. She is at odds with the world around her. At one point, she gives in to her boss and allows him to dry hump her in a back room. Everyone else is unbothered by this, but Soad is crushed and represents a victim of modernity. In this case, the modernism is an immoral and evil thing.
Zaki Al Dessouki (Adel Imam) is the Yacoubian Building's oldest tenant and an heir to a Pasha. In one scene, he drunkenly proclaims to Soad that Cairo had gone to the dogs, that it was once a city greater than Paris but was now full of buildings that were "slums on the top and deformed in the basement," a reference to the poor people that lived on the roof and the morally empty rich tenants inside. Zaki demands a return to the old glory of Egypt, a proclamation that is fitting to be made by one of the greatest actors in Egyptian cinema.
Despite their drastic age diffrence, Zaki and Soad marry at the end of the film, serving as the film's only ray of hope. The two represent a merging of old and new, rich and poor, Muslim and Coptic. The audience is left to believe that through their marriage, Zaki and Soad are preserving the dream of transforming Cairo, since every other subplot ends tragically.
The Yacoubian Building is an attempt at a sweeping portrayal of contemporary Egypt that is a landmark in terms of breaking boundaries in cinema, but it also suffers from trying to cram too much into one film.
Each of the subplots is just as important as the next, and depth and insight into the issues is sacrificed to preserve screen time. Nonetheless, this is a crucial film to see to get a more honest and humanist representation of Egypt and an introduction to the social perceptions of a variety of issues.
The tenants of the Yacoubian Building all want change. Soad (Somaya Al Khashab) lives with her mother and siblings in a shanty on the roof of the building. She wants to make more money, but cannot hold a job because she rejects the sexual advances of her bosses to maintain her honor. Her mother tells her a woman can learn to tolerate a certain amount of harassment and still keep her dignity and make money. This story represents Egypt as a place where people must forgo their morality in order to make money and survive.
Soad clings to her beliefs in the face of a society that has moved far past her notions of honor. She is at odds with the world around her. At one point, she gives in to her boss and allows him to dry hump her in a back room. Everyone else is unbothered by this, but Soad is crushed and represents a victim of modernity. In this case, the modernism is an immoral and evil thing.
Zaki Al Dessouki (Adel Imam) is the Yacoubian Building's oldest tenant and an heir to a Pasha. In one scene, he drunkenly proclaims to Soad that Cairo had gone to the dogs, that it was once a city greater than Paris but was now full of buildings that were "slums on the top and deformed in the basement," a reference to the poor people that lived on the roof and the morally empty rich tenants inside. Zaki demands a return to the old glory of Egypt, a proclamation that is fitting to be made by one of the greatest actors in Egyptian cinema.
Despite their drastic age diffrence, Zaki and Soad marry at the end of the film, serving as the film's only ray of hope. The two represent a merging of old and new, rich and poor, Muslim and Coptic. The audience is left to believe that through their marriage, Zaki and Soad are preserving the dream of transforming Cairo, since every other subplot ends tragically.
The Yacoubian Building is an attempt at a sweeping portrayal of contemporary Egypt that is a landmark in terms of breaking boundaries in cinema, but it also suffers from trying to cram too much into one film.
Each of the subplots is just as important as the next, and depth and insight into the issues is sacrificed to preserve screen time. Nonetheless, this is a crucial film to see to get a more honest and humanist representation of Egypt and an introduction to the social perceptions of a variety of issues.
Photo Caption: Somaya al Khashab and Adel Imam dance together in The Yacoubian Building.
Monday, February 9, 2009
The Simpsons: Animated Muslims in "Mypods and Boomsticks"
While this is primarily a film blog, I feel that there are some TV-related issues that are worth discussing.
In a November 30, 2008 episode of the hit show The Simpsons entitled "Mypods and Boomsticks, " the Simpson family get new neighbors, who happen to be Muslim. While Bart befriends the son, Bashir, and Homer gets suspicious of the family and invites them over for dinner to investigate.
In typical Homer Simpson fashion, he insults the family, calling Allah "Oliver" and the Quaran the "Carona," and accuses them of being anti-American. Homer later goes to their house to apologize and discovers what he thinks is a plot to blow up Springfield mall. Turns out the father is a demolition expert overseeing a controlled demolition.
While this episode does not stand out in terms of comedy, the jokes being less inspired than other episodes, the representation of Muslim characters as normal, everyday Americans is refreshing. Even the mother of the family is animated wearing a veil.
The overall moral lesson of learning to understand and accept thy neighbor is somewhat forced and contrived. Nonetheless, it is encouraging to see such a popular show tackle the issue of Islamophobia. The use of comedy underscores the severity of the problem, but makes it more accessible. Muslims on The Simpsons is just a small example of how Arabs and Muslims are slowly permeating all areas of the entertainment industry.
The new kid, Bashir, faces school bullies:
Homer investigates Jack Bauer stlyle:
Videos Courtesy: http://www.hulu.com/
In a November 30, 2008 episode of the hit show The Simpsons entitled "Mypods and Boomsticks, " the Simpson family get new neighbors, who happen to be Muslim. While Bart befriends the son, Bashir, and Homer gets suspicious of the family and invites them over for dinner to investigate.
In typical Homer Simpson fashion, he insults the family, calling Allah "Oliver" and the Quaran the "Carona," and accuses them of being anti-American. Homer later goes to their house to apologize and discovers what he thinks is a plot to blow up Springfield mall. Turns out the father is a demolition expert overseeing a controlled demolition.
While this episode does not stand out in terms of comedy, the jokes being less inspired than other episodes, the representation of Muslim characters as normal, everyday Americans is refreshing. Even the mother of the family is animated wearing a veil.
The overall moral lesson of learning to understand and accept thy neighbor is somewhat forced and contrived. Nonetheless, it is encouraging to see such a popular show tackle the issue of Islamophobia. The use of comedy underscores the severity of the problem, but makes it more accessible. Muslims on The Simpsons is just a small example of how Arabs and Muslims are slowly permeating all areas of the entertainment industry.
The new kid, Bashir, faces school bullies:
Homer investigates Jack Bauer stlyle:
Videos Courtesy: http://www.hulu.com/
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
"Rana's Wedding" Part 2: Rana the Rebel
After spending time discussing Rana as an allegory for Palestine, I would like to address a couple other issues in Rana's Wedding.
The film is in many ways a social issue film. Its presentation of marriage traditions in Jerusalem are critical, and in some cases, presented in a humorous light.
Part of Rana's problem is that her father left her with two choices: leave to Egypt or stay behind and marry one of the men on a pre-approved list of potential husbands. She was left with almost no say in the matter. Of course, Rana defies her father and chooses the man she wants.
The film is in many ways a social issue film. Its presentation of marriage traditions in Jerusalem are critical, and in some cases, presented in a humorous light.
Part of Rana's problem is that her father left her with two choices: leave to Egypt or stay behind and marry one of the men on a pre-approved list of potential husbands. She was left with almost no say in the matter. Of course, Rana defies her father and chooses the man she wants.
In a scene where the women are sitting in the living room singing before the ceremony, one older lady remarks that she hopes it is all over soon since what is going on is disgraceful. This demonstrates how Rana is defying custom and traditions.
In her actual wedding, Rana is more of a bystander as her husband-to-be and her father shake hands to make the marriage official. By marrying the man she loves, though, Rana reclaimed control over her life and at one point goes to visit one of the men on her father's list out of curiosity, and laughs with a childish playfulness. She is laughing in the face of the things that tried to oppress her.
Rana's Wedding is a remarkably layered film that demonstrates Hany Abu-Assad's emerging style as a director. I highly recommend it as a spectacular example of a art cinema-popular cinema hybrid in the Middle East.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Rana's Wedding: Rana as an allegory for Palestine
Hany Abu-Assad's second film, Rana's Wedding (Al qods fee yom akhar), has been described by some as a moving story about life under occupation, finding true love despite violence and the intertwining of personal and political issues. While this description is valid, I feel it only begins to scratch the surface of this layered story.
Released in 2002, Rana's Wedding is rich with symbolism. But the most important of them is Rana herself as an allegory for Palestine. This is the topic I will be focusing on in this post. There are many other interesting themes and issues regarding style in Rana's Wedding, so I will be doing two posts on this film.
The story takes place in a day and follows Rana (Clara Khoury) as she searches for her boyfriend, Khalil (Khalifa Natour), and the two rush to get married before her father leaves for Egypt later that day. On her journey, Rana must deal with roadblocks, Israeli soldiers, a funeral procession, bureaucratic red tape, and cultural traditions.
Traveling through Jerusalem is itself a huge task, thanks to the numerous roadblocks in the city. At one location, Rana passes by a conflict between Israeli soldiers and young boys who are throwing rocks at them. The boys, none older than 13 or 14, are poorly dressed and have only small stones as weapons. The soldiers are adults armed with guns, which they use against the boys and injure one. This instance is symbolic of Palestine's weakness in the face of the well-equipped and well-funded Israeli Defense Force. Rana, as the state of Palestine, can only look on, and though she tries to take part in the fight by throwing a stone, she is not prepared to fully come to the people's defense. This represents the Palestinian governments lack of power and inefficiency in preventing civilian death.
Later in the story, in the film's most poignant scene, a funeral procession walks past Rana carrying the body of a person we assume was killed from violence related to the occupation. The procession is interrupted by sounds of gun shots and Rana frantically locks herself in a car. Inside, she writhes in anxiety and stares directly into the camera, pleading with it and screaming in anger, though her screams are silent, muffled by the car. The camera has now become a character and moves around the car, Rana always following it as if it were a person.
Rana is Palestine, suffering in a vacuum. She is there to be watched, like an animal in a cage, and the camera indulges in her pain, turning it into entertainment for us as the audience. Abu-Assad is saying here that Palestine is suffering in front of the whole world, who watches with an occasional interest, though they never truly hear the cries of the Palestinians.
Rana looking into the camera lens is a technique known as direct address where a film becomes aware of itself and breaks the fourth wall, a technique often associated with the French New Wave. This is one of two instances of direct address in Rana's Wedding. These instances are temporary deviations from the narrative and drastically stand out from the rest of the film. This indicates that Abu-Assad wanted these scenes to be remembered, and he was most likely trying to convey an important message through them.
In the second instance of direct address, Khalil jokes around in front of a security camera, which the audience has assumed the point of view of, and he mimes out a fight where he is repeatedly punched, yet he walks away defiantly in the end. Khalil is mocking the absurdity of the security camera and his pantomime is meant to insult the camera, and thus insult Israel's watchful eye.
Finally, as Rana is preparing for her hastily organized wedding, she and her friend, Mary, gaze outside a window as an Israeli demolition crew tears down a house. Rana remarks that they are destroying a home on the day she wants to build one. Facing the camera, Mary tells her not to worry, because the house will be rebuilt the next day.
This line is a remark on the resilience of Palestine. Not only has there been a great amount of physical destruction in Palestine, but the people themselves have had their spirit crushed and hope sometimes feels very impossible under occupation. Mary is saying here that no damage Israel inflicts is permanent and the Rana's future, Palestine's future, can always be rebuilt.
Rana is not simply a Palestinian, but she is all of Palestine. Rana's Wedding reminds me of the German film The Marriage of Maria Braun Rainier Fassbinder. Maria's aggressive sexuality and lust for power reflect Germany's rise and fall before, during and after World War II. Both these films are two examples of a woman as the nation, a common symbol that has appeared throughout film, literature and theater.
Photo Courtesy: www.ranaswedding.com
Released in 2002, Rana's Wedding is rich with symbolism. But the most important of them is Rana herself as an allegory for Palestine. This is the topic I will be focusing on in this post. There are many other interesting themes and issues regarding style in Rana's Wedding, so I will be doing two posts on this film.
The story takes place in a day and follows Rana (Clara Khoury) as she searches for her boyfriend, Khalil (Khalifa Natour), and the two rush to get married before her father leaves for Egypt later that day. On her journey, Rana must deal with roadblocks, Israeli soldiers, a funeral procession, bureaucratic red tape, and cultural traditions.
Traveling through Jerusalem is itself a huge task, thanks to the numerous roadblocks in the city. At one location, Rana passes by a conflict between Israeli soldiers and young boys who are throwing rocks at them. The boys, none older than 13 or 14, are poorly dressed and have only small stones as weapons. The soldiers are adults armed with guns, which they use against the boys and injure one. This instance is symbolic of Palestine's weakness in the face of the well-equipped and well-funded Israeli Defense Force. Rana, as the state of Palestine, can only look on, and though she tries to take part in the fight by throwing a stone, she is not prepared to fully come to the people's defense. This represents the Palestinian governments lack of power and inefficiency in preventing civilian death.
Later in the story, in the film's most poignant scene, a funeral procession walks past Rana carrying the body of a person we assume was killed from violence related to the occupation. The procession is interrupted by sounds of gun shots and Rana frantically locks herself in a car. Inside, she writhes in anxiety and stares directly into the camera, pleading with it and screaming in anger, though her screams are silent, muffled by the car. The camera has now become a character and moves around the car, Rana always following it as if it were a person.
Rana is Palestine, suffering in a vacuum. She is there to be watched, like an animal in a cage, and the camera indulges in her pain, turning it into entertainment for us as the audience. Abu-Assad is saying here that Palestine is suffering in front of the whole world, who watches with an occasional interest, though they never truly hear the cries of the Palestinians.
Rana looking into the camera lens is a technique known as direct address where a film becomes aware of itself and breaks the fourth wall, a technique often associated with the French New Wave. This is one of two instances of direct address in Rana's Wedding. These instances are temporary deviations from the narrative and drastically stand out from the rest of the film. This indicates that Abu-Assad wanted these scenes to be remembered, and he was most likely trying to convey an important message through them.
In the second instance of direct address, Khalil jokes around in front of a security camera, which the audience has assumed the point of view of, and he mimes out a fight where he is repeatedly punched, yet he walks away defiantly in the end. Khalil is mocking the absurdity of the security camera and his pantomime is meant to insult the camera, and thus insult Israel's watchful eye.
Finally, as Rana is preparing for her hastily organized wedding, she and her friend, Mary, gaze outside a window as an Israeli demolition crew tears down a house. Rana remarks that they are destroying a home on the day she wants to build one. Facing the camera, Mary tells her not to worry, because the house will be rebuilt the next day.
This line is a remark on the resilience of Palestine. Not only has there been a great amount of physical destruction in Palestine, but the people themselves have had their spirit crushed and hope sometimes feels very impossible under occupation. Mary is saying here that no damage Israel inflicts is permanent and the Rana's future, Palestine's future, can always be rebuilt.
Rana is not simply a Palestinian, but she is all of Palestine. Rana's Wedding reminds me of the German film The Marriage of Maria Braun Rainier Fassbinder. Maria's aggressive sexuality and lust for power reflect Germany's rise and fall before, during and after World War II. Both these films are two examples of a woman as the nation, a common symbol that has appeared throughout film, literature and theater.
Photo Courtesy: www.ranaswedding.com
Friday, January 23, 2009
Caramel: Social Issues and Female Melodrama
The first film I will attempt to deconstruct is Nadine Labaki's 2007 film Caramel (Sukkar banat).This film enjoyed significant success for a very limited distribution in the United States and was Lebanon's official entry into the foreign film category of the Academy Awards. This success in the West is due in part to its positive depiction of Arab women and themes of female empowerment. Labaki's strong-willed and intelligent characters challenge Western stereotypes of the oppressed and restricted Arab woman. Thus, Caramel is very much a "West-friendly" film.
Caramel tells the story of five Lebanese women who are connected by a beauty salon, the only place they feel comfortable enough to discuss and air out their problems and grievances. Layale (Labaki) is the salon owner who is stuck in a dead-end affair with a married man. Her coworker Nisrine (Yasmine Al Masri) is about to marry a Muslim man and chooses to undergo hymen reconstruction surgery to hide the fact that she is not a virgin. Rima (Joanna Moukarzel) also works at the salon and is coming to terms with her attraction to women. Salon frequenter Jamal (Gisele Aouad) tries to fight aging and menopause as she attempts to make a career as an actress after her divorce. And finally there is Rose (Siham Hiddad), an older woman who finds love for the first time in her life but sacrifices it all to take care of her mentally unstable older sister.
In terms of genre, Caramel falls into the category of melodrama. More specifically, it is a female melodrama and social issues film. In Hollywood, the social issue film, which reached its height in the 1950s, is most often hybridized with other genres. For example, the film Juno deals with the social issue of teen pregnancy, but it is also a comedy. Caramel seems to be following this pattern by combining a story of everyday people with everyday problems that stem from cultural issues of tradition, inter-religious marriage and public decency. Notably absent is any reference to politics or violence, the two things an average audience may expect to find in Arab movies.
Also interesting about Caramel is its unique style. Labaki employs a lot of very expressive techniques, seen in her use of melodramatic music, bright color schemes and dramatic visual composition. At the same time, Caramel has elements of cinema-verite such as the "hand-held" camera feel and documentary style of Jamal's audition for a commercial. Furthermore, the film is shot almost entirely on location and employs mostly non-professional actors, techniques most often associated with neo-realism and third world cinema.
While the style of Caramel is difficult to categorize, there is no questioning the affect the film has on audiences. Dialogue in the film is very limited, so most of the story is told through action and subtle facial expressions. Jamal sits in a bathroom stall pouring nail polish on a maxi pad, a seemingly pointless and nonsensical action, but from the carefulness with which she arranges the pad in the trash can and the pained look on her face during her audition, the audience puts the pieces together and realizes she is faking her period so no one will know she is menopausal. This desperate and pathetic attempt to hide her age can speak to viewers of all ages who have ever felt inadequate in comparison to someone younger, older, prettier, smarter or faster.
Labaki's characters are dealing with organic human problems that transcend borders, race and religion. However, Lebanon is itself an important character. The religion of culture of Beirut comes alive in the film, and indeed at one point, a religious processional honoring the Virgin Mary interrupts life in the salon as the priest comes in to bless the business.
Caramel is a must-see for its stereotype-shattering portrayal of Lebanese women, experimental style and cultural study of contemporary Lebanon.
Here is the trailer for Caramel:
Photo Courtesy: Ya Libnan
Photo Caption: L to R Gisele Aouad, Yasmine Al Msri, Joanna Moukarzel and Nadine Labaki in the film Caramel.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Welcome! (My first post)
Hello everyone. Welcome to The Arabic Film Blog, a destination for in-depth and critical analysis of Arabic language films from the Middle East, Arabs and Arab-Americans in Hollywood, the depiction of Arabs in American film, and more.
This blog is a first attempt for me. My vision is to share my opinion and observations of trends, themes, and techniques in Arab film making along with news and events concerning Arabs in Hollywood. My hope is to help define Arab film making and figure out where it fits in global cinema.
At the moment, there are few, if any, film scholars who are doing any serious research into Middle Eastern cinema, despite the fact that many Arab nations have seen extensive growth in cinema production thanks to more available resources and a greater interest in the art.
While I will try and include as many relevant news stories as possible, this is by no means a news source but rather a place to find meaning and analysis behind current events in Arab film and how these things affect Arab cinema.
I can make no promises where this blog will go: it is many ways an experiment for me. But I hope you will join me in my quest to discover and learn about Arab cinema.
This blog is a first attempt for me. My vision is to share my opinion and observations of trends, themes, and techniques in Arab film making along with news and events concerning Arabs in Hollywood. My hope is to help define Arab film making and figure out where it fits in global cinema.
At the moment, there are few, if any, film scholars who are doing any serious research into Middle Eastern cinema, despite the fact that many Arab nations have seen extensive growth in cinema production thanks to more available resources and a greater interest in the art.
While I will try and include as many relevant news stories as possible, this is by no means a news source but rather a place to find meaning and analysis behind current events in Arab film and how these things affect Arab cinema.
I can make no promises where this blog will go: it is many ways an experiment for me. But I hope you will join me in my quest to discover and learn about Arab cinema.
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