[Viola Shafik] Arab Cinema History and Cultural I(BookFi.org)

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Arab Cinema

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VIOLA SHAFIK

Arab Cinema HISTORY AND CULTURAL IDENTITY

The American University in Cairo Press Cairo New York

To the memory of my mother Elfriede Laux and with gratitude to my stepmother Ingrid Offterdinger

Copyright © 1998 by The American University in Cairo Press 113 Sharia Kasr el Aini Cairo, Egypt This is a revised and expanded version of Der arabische Film: Geschichte und kulturelle Identitdt, published by Aisthesis Verlag Bielefeld, 1996 Third printing 2003 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Dar el Kutub No. 1916/98 ISBN 977 424 475 3 Printed in Egypt

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

vii

Names, Titles, Dates, and Credits

viii

Introduction

1

1. The History of Arab Cinema

9

Encounter with a new medium — Production during the colonial period — Cinema and resistance — National film making and the state - Education and know-how - Hollywood or socialism The crisis of the public sector - Censorship —Cinema artisanal and coproduction - Diversification in the satellite era

2. Artistic Roots of Arab Cinema

47

Image and symbolic arrangement — The theater — Language and the art of narration - Music

3. Cultural Identity and Genre

121

The literary adaptation — La dame aux camelias: an example of cultural repackaging - Realism - History in Cinema Cinema d'auteur

4. Conclusion

209

Notes

215

Bibliography

233

Index of Titles

245

Index of Names

250

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank Ibrahim al-Ariss, Marie Claude Behna, Professor Gabriele Braune, Professor Joachim Colmant, Dr. Karin Horner, Boudjemaa Kareche, Dr. Verena Klemm, Professor Albrecht Noth, Professor Muhammad Kamil al-Qalyubi, Kamal Ramzi, Professor Ella Shohat, Professor Robert Stam, and Magda Wassef. My thanks also to the many filmmakers and cineastes who have helped me. The research that led to this book could not have been accomplished without the financial support of the Studienstiftung des Deutschen Volkes. I am also very grateful to the Cinematheque Algerienne, the Algerian Cultural Institute, and the Institut du Monde Arabe in Paris. My special thanks go to my husband Onsi Abou Seif for his precious comments, and my sisters-in-law Nawal and Busayna (Souheir) Abou Seif, for their constant and loving support.

Names, Titles, Dates, and Credits

The Arabic transcription used here is a simplified version of that applied in the Encyclopedia of Islam (London, 1960). Titles of films from the Maghreb are given in French as well as Arabic where these titles differ. Names of persons are not strictly transcribed, but given as commonly cited. Occasionally, where this form departs markedly from the Arabic, a closer transcription is added in parentheses. In the transcription of Egyptian names and notions the usual dj is replaced by the letter g (as in 'garden'), since this corresponds more closely to Egyptian pronunciation. Colloquial expressions are transcribed according to the same principle, but taking into consideration phonetic differences. Thus, in transcribing the Egyptian vernacular, for example, the 'hamza' (') replaces the letter 'qaf (q). The date in brackets following film titles normally indicates the year of release and not that of production. The year of production is only mentioned when a film was not distributed until several years later. If two dates are given, divided by a slash, they refer to a screening season. Unless otherwise credited, all photographs are from the author's personal collection.

INTRODUCTION

The Arab world is not, as is often perceived, a monolith, but is made up of different communities, peoples, states, and governmental and societal forms. Neither does it form linguistically, ethnically, or culturally an unchallenged unity. The majority of its inhabitants adhere to Islam, but other religions are represented in the region, including Judaism, Christianity, and Islamic sects such as those of the Alawites and Druze. On the linguistic level little unity exists; in addition to the languages of ethnic minorities like Berbers, Nubians, ^nd Kurds, the Arabic language itself has split into a huge variety of local dialects. To include such a heterogeneous region in a single study is problematic even when the subject is confined to a relatively clear phenomenon like feature film production. In light of the existing local differences that result, even in the field of cinema, from national character and the political situation of each Arab country, French publications in particular have increasingly tended to speak about Arab cinemas (les cinemas arabes) rather than one Arab cinema. In spite of this, the book touches on more or less all the relevant Arab countries. Although the Arab-Muslim lifestyle and popular culture have developed different local contours, they still possess in many cultural fields a common topography, in particular in so-called high culture—the classical language, science, theology, and the arts of the elites. Furthermore, most Arab countries possess a comparable history regarding colonialism and dependency on foreign powers. Comparisons and juxtapositions may therefore give way to a deeper understanding of cinematic production in each particular country if differences and similarities are taken consciously into consideration.

2

Introduction

This book concentrates only on full-length feature film productions. Although it is not confined geographically or temporally, it cannot deal equally with all Arab countries. Egypt, for example, was the first Arab country to create a national cinema industry, and its production still exceeds, at least in quantity, those of other Arab nations. In the examination of the economic structures of Arab cinema, Egypt will occupy center place because its commercial production served partly as a model for Lebanon, Syria, and Iraq. Its description also serves as a model in other respects; the Lebanese film industry, for example, functioned until the outbreak of civil war in 1975 in a similar way to the Egyptian industry. Algerian cinema will be another main focus. With its until recently exclusively socialist economic structure, it serves on the artistic as well as the economic level as the counterpart of the Egyptian film industry, and will therefore also be used as a model. The extensive inclusion of some film-producing countries, however, was hampered on a very practical level—not all relevant films were accessible. During the period of viewing (1990-1992) Iraq was at war, and life in Lebanon had not yet normalized after the long civil war. Another difficulty lay in the general distribution system, for with the exception of commercial Egyptian movies, older works or films not included in the commercial circuit are rarely available on tape; a fact that prevented detailed and repeated viewing. It was not only these obstacles that made it necessary to limit the number of films under examination. A more positive consideration was that the reviewing of a smaller number of films allows a more exact analysis of each. Thus, the films included were chosen from the works available according to their relevance to the questions of cultural identity raised by the research.

Theoretical basis Little attention has so far been paid to the subject of the cultural identity of Arab cinema. Even among the remarkable number of Arabic and French publications.1 I do not know of one work that deals with this issue in a sufficient and extensive way. The few Arabic publications dealing, at least according to their titles, with the topic, such as Hawiyat al-sinima al-°arabiya (The identity of Arab cinema, Beirut, 1988) by Samir Farid and al-Hawiya al-qawmiya fi-l-sinima al-carabiya (The national identity of Arab cinema, Beirut, 1986)2 edited by cAbd al-Muncim Tulayma, do not offer more than an anthology of short studies and articles. With few exceptions these are

Theoretical basis

3

confined to the question of national identity—meaning the role and effect of nationalism and national liberation movements on Arab cinema—and do not touch on the question of cultural identity. Moreover, the texts are very often dominated by a dichotomy between commercialism and critical social commitment, which leads to a neglect of the influence of popular culture in the form and content of commercial cinema. The film industry's mass production is mainly perceived as alienated: its critics frequently contrast it with the realistic, politically committed cinema that seems to guarantee cultural authenticity. Thus, the socially critical and anti-imperialist attitude of realism is interpreted as a direct expression of true national identity, a concept which needs further verification. Almost none of the studies deals systematically with the formal means of arrangement alone, or with the rooting of Arab cinema in preceding arts; there is little attempt to define the relation between cinema and music, theater, fine arts, and literature. Examinations of this sort are undertaken only in an anthology edited by Hashim alNahas, al-Insan al-misri cala al-shasha (The Egyptian on screen, Cairo, 1986). It includes texts such as cAbd al-Hamid Hawas's "alSinima al-misriya wa-1-thaqafa al-shacbiya" (Egyptian cinema and popular culture), which touch at least generally on the influence of traditional culture on the audio-visual media. Some other publications that may serve as an introduction to the subject are included in Georges Sadoul's edition of The Cinema in the Arab Countries., published in Beirut in 1966. There are contributions on the relation between the fine arts, language, music, popular theater, and film. In addition, there are some specialized Arab magazines of interest, in particular the Algerian Les 2 ecrans (The two screens), which offers some valuable studies, like Reda Bensmaia's article "Cinema algerien et 'caractere national'" (Algerian cinema and national character), which examines the relation between film and language in Algeria.3 The only geographically and historically comprehensive analysis of Arab film making that includes elements of Arab-Muslim culture is presented by Lizbeth Malkmus and Roy Armes in Arab and African Film Making. Although cultural identity is not her main subject, Malkmus's treatment of Arab cinema makes the connection between cinematic arrangement and cultural heritage, while trying to describe structural phenomena such as the epic, the comic, the heroic, and the metaphorical. Malkmus's approach is mainly structuralist; she presents specific 'patterns' that she considers most typical of Arab cinema, without clearly specifying historical periods, regional differences, or genres. As a result her study often fails to introduce the film-historical and political context.

4

Introduction

It is remarkable that many authors tend to define identity or national affiliation merely by analyzing the story line of a film and its inherent 'message.' While my own research does not completely abandon this method, recognizing as it does the importance of the 'story' to the discourse of a work, it will also consider the film as film, which means examining the technical and artistic methods of mise en scene, editing, visual composition, and so on. Extensive examination of these will show the extent to which Arab cinema is rooted in socalled Arab-Muslim culture and what are known as traditional or native arts. This will enable us to address the question of cultural identity on a formal level. An examination of different Arab film genres will also allow an 'intertextual' perspective, as suggested by Robert Stam in his article "Third World Cinema," which proposes that films be compared with other artistic works and means of expression, such as literary movements. At the same time a contextual approach will help to elucidate the connection between cinematic works and historical and political events.4

Culture and identity Film as a medium was invented in the West and is connected to a quasi-industrial form of production that mainly relies on the division of labor and on mass production and distribution. The industrial nations of the northern hemisphere still play the leading role in the technical and artistic development of the medium, and their products have always dominated the Arab market and simultaneously served as a model and rival. In spite of its seventy-year history, and because its existence is based on a Western technique, Arab cinema is frequently criticized as evidence of Westernization and acculturation. Its consideration inevitably touches on the relation between ArabMuslim culture and the West, and raises questions about notions of authenticity and acculturation, tradition and alienation, and the roots of these relations and ideas. The history of the West since the end of the Middle Ages may be seen as a continuous journey of discovery to the terra incognita of other cultures. Once tracked down, these cultures have been either idealized, dominated, or destroyed. The encounter with the alien entailed its (partly symbolic) incorporation, exclusion, or eradication. Apparently objective scientific disciplines contributed to the 'consumption'—or better the analytic inclusion and exclusion—of recently discovered cultures. Historical and cultural discourses were formulated, based on the construction of the 'Other.'5 In spite of the

Culture and identity

5

actual exchange that took place between the north and south of the Mediterranean over thousands of years, Islam is still perceived in the West as a totally strange culture. Cultural goods from the West, which in the meantime have spread in the so-called Orient, are often unquestioningly referred to as 'imported,' and their adoption as cultural adjustment. What hides behind this notion is the belief in culture as an undivided possession. It serves, as does the term 'intellectual property,' to increase the value of the original over the copy, and to enhance the importance of the original 'proprietor' vis-a-vis the hew one. The idea of the commercial film making of the so-called Third World as an imitation of Western models derives from a comparable concept and is supported by Western as well as Arab film critics. The following description of commercial Egyptian film making, significantly enough published in Arabic and written by the French critic Claude Michel Cluny, author of the Dictionnaire de cinemas arabes, serves as evidence: Egypt has assumed cinema in the same way as it has assumed other techniques and products. They were offered to it by a mechanized West, which is dominant thanks to its economic power and its ideological and cultural influence. Although the 'cineastes' from Cairo and Alexandria were the first, they did not approach the real Egypt. For almost half a century they remained strangers to their own culture. Instead they allowed themselves to be dominated by scarcely analyzed European ideas, whose mystery they had not yet solved. In order to develop their 'national' film making they relied on the arrangement of vulgar images (cabaret) or spectacular ones (literature, theater, songs). . .6

Arab critics have also perpetuated the idea of unilateral cultural import: In these countries—which did not know the era of industrial mechanization, or the painted, animated, or fixed image; or evocative acoustics or movements defined by volume and space; or the alternation of a figurative narration and everything of the life of people, their work, their pain and joy reproduced through this bold visual technique—how was the intrusion of this art apprehended, understood and adopted—an art marking this century on the level of direct contact with, at one and the same time, a worked out and didactic culture and the imaginary and its implied narrative discourse?7

The idea of cinema as an alien cultural element, implanted in an 'authentic,' quasi-virgin Arab culture, has to be questioned in the same way as the notion of cultural 'authenticity.' A culture can only be authentic if all its features spring from a particular environment

6

Introduction

and develop according to its specific conditions. Therefore authenticity can only exist within an impermeable cultural environment, cut off from foreign influences. The countries of North Africa and the Middle East have never formed a closed and secluded cultural environment: "The history of the region is one of polyglot empires, mixing together peoples, cultures, religions, and languages."8 The popular cultures as well as the high cultures of these countries serve as evidence of this. The culture of the region must be considered as the result of a dynamic relation of power, formed along several axes: first, the relation between syncretic popular culture and elitist high culture; second, between the different regional 'cultures' of various peoples and ethnic groups, religions, and languages; and third, between the indigenous culture as a whole and the influences that stem from other cultural environments. Even apparently 'authentic' movements like present-day fundamentalism or nationalism do not invalidate this model. Despite the parameters of Arabic language and Islam having, since national independence, been pushed increasingly into the foreground to serve as a starting-point for cultural purification and preservation, the idea of a pure Arab-Muslim culture is a myth. Nationalism and Islamic fundamentalism, which may be considered as movements of purification,9 are rather the product of modern mass culture and are shaped by mass movements and ideologies. In the frame of this newly appearing cultural structure, whose development has been decisively supported by the mass media, the cultural model of traditional society has become increasingly invalid, as has the differentiation between high (elitist) and popular culture.10 Arab culture is penetrated now by a new dynamic, which has invalidated inherited dialectics and exchange processes. Daily life and living conditions in the Arab countries have become increasingly dominated by mass production and mass consumption. Traditional ways of communication and former arts, like oral narration or shadow plays, die out and are substituted by mass media. The products of the culture industry are far removed both from elitist arts, produced and consumed by only a few, and from syncretic and heterogeneous popular arts. Unlike popular arts the mass media are characterized by one-way communication that transforms the human being into a passive recipient who only consumes 'culture.' The spread of mass media in the Arab countries, necessarily accompanied by the development of 'consumer culture,' is based on a long process. The first Arabic-language newspapers and magazines appeared as early as the middle of the nineteenth century in some Arab countries. Record players, radios, and tape recorders were

Culture and identity

7

introduced from the beginning of this century. The radio in particular has played an important role in altering traditional ways of organizing leisure time. Not only was it responsible for the spread of a certain genre of music, but it also replaced in many places the traditional story teller (hakawati) of the cafes. Mass culture is characterized by a tendency to force needs into line. Its most urgent goal is consumption. Therefore every expression is transformed into advertising. Means of mass communication dominate more and more every part of culture and "what matters is that the mass cultural machine devalues any cultural expression which is not circulated through it."11 The leading industrial nations still form the driving force of this development. They not only present constantly newer technologies and products, but also create trends and define new market strategies. An example on the international scale is Hollywood's unchallenged monopoly of cinema. Some sociopolitical research speaks in this respect of the domination of the developing countries by the so-called First World. The antagonism between the Third World and the industrial nations, which initiate development, is described as being between periphery and center. The same mechanism is seen to dominate representation on cinema and television screens. In fact, the 'mass mediated culture' of the West has been disseminated all over the East via the media. It is dominated by a cultural concept which crystallizes in what Michael R. Real calls the CWAWMP, the Capitalist, Western, Adult, White, Male, Print-oriented person.12 At the same time, the self-representation of the so-called Third World remains more than marginal. Although the described model of acculturation clearly shows the dependency of the Arab countries and also asserts the view of passively received and unilateral cultural importation, it would be wrong to assume that acculturation has the effect of cultural 'brainwashing.' Western culture, in spite of the consumption of its products, is by no means adopted completely or without any resistance. Rather, the traditional symbolic order of a society, its goods and values are confronted with 'consumer culture' and become deand revalued. "This process is in some instances actively furthered by the intellectuals, the new bourgeoisie, and national elites, with the latter using the media and advertising techniques to package and repackage traditional symbols—in effect the national tradition is selectively interpreted and invented to serve the modernizing and nation-integration aims of controlling national elites."13 The same kind of revaluation and 'repackaging' has likewise taken place in the field of cinema. Imagery, technique, and the 'language' of

8

Introduction

the media have been adopted, but transformed according to the regionally prevalent cultural and social system. This book sets out to describe and investigate this dynamic process.

Most Arab countries did not produce films before national independence. In Sudan, Libya, Saudi Arabia, and the United Arab Emirates, production is even now confined to short films or television.1 Bahrain witnessed the production of its first and only full-length feature film in 1989. At the end of the 1970s the Kuwaiti director Khalid Siddiq shot two full-length features, one of them a coproduction with the Sudan. In Jordan national production has barely exceeded half a dozen feature films.2 Algeria and Iraq have produced approximately 100 films each, Morocco around seventy, Tunisia around 130, and Syria some 150. Lebanon, owing to an increased production during the 1950s and 1960s, has made some 180 feature films.3 Only Egypt has far exceeded these countries, with a production of more than 2,500 feature films (all meant for cinema, not for television). The film medium was invented in the West at the end of the nineteenth century, by which time significant parts of the Middle East and Maghreb were already considered as British and French protectorates. Two decades later the two superpowers had, through the Sykes-Picot agreement, divided almost the whole Arab world between them.4 The result was long-lasting political and economic dependency, which, except in Egypt, considerably hampered the creation of national film industries and the development of an Arab film culture. The Arab market was flooded by European products, important areas of the economy were dominated by foreign investors, and native entrepreneurs were hardly able to survive. The Arab countries were also dominated in the cultural realm. Particularly in the French protectorates and colonies the oppression of indigenous culture was enforced with the help of legal restrictions.

10

The History of Arab Cinema

At the same time the acculturation of the native population was imposed by a one-sided offer of education.

Encounter with a new medium In 1896, only a few months after the first screening in Europe had taken place, films by the Lumiere brothers were shown to an exclusive Egyptian audience. The screenings took place in the Tousson stock exchange in Alexandria, in the Hamam Schneider (Schneider Baths) in Cairo and elsewhere.5 Screenings of Lumiere films were also organized in the Algerian cities of Algiers and Oran.6 In Tunis, the Tunisian Albert Shamama (also known as Shemama Chikly) organized a similar event in 1897. In the same year presentations took place at the Moroccan royal palace in Fez.7 In 1900, films were screened in the Europa Hotel in Jerusalem.8 The introduction of special sites for screenings did not take long to follow. In 1896 the first cinematographe was established in Algiers.9 One year later the Cinematographe Lumiere in Alexandria was offering regular screenings. It "became common in Egypt to present films during theater performances.10 In 1906 the French company Pathe constructed in Cairo the first regular cinema on Egyptian soil. Apart from this, two more cinematograph.es were to be run in Cairo and in Alexandria.1l In Tunisia the Omnia Pathe started to work in 1907.12 One year later Egyptian Jews opened a cinema in Jerusalem called the Oracle.13 In Oran, Algiers, and other Algerian cities in which the European population were concentrated, the first regular cinemas were constructed in 1908.14 During the colonial period in Algeria few native Algerians went frequently to the movies. This was not the case in Egypt, however, where cinemas soon offered films with Arabic translations.15 By 1908 there were already five cinemas in Cairo and Alexandria.16 Little more than two decades later nearly all the Arab countries had at least a dozen theaters. The spread of the medium did not proceed smoothly everywhere, however. In Saudi Arabia cinema was not generally accepted until the 1960s and 1970s, after King Faisal had dealt with the objections of Muslim religious scholars.17 Even so, there are still no movie theaters run in Saudi Arabia.18 Until 1962 cinemas were also prohibited in North Yemen because of religious suspicions, despite the enthusiasm of the political and religious leader Imam Ahmad, who liked to record his journeys with a movie camera.19

Production during the Colonial Period

11

Production during the colonial period In general, the first movie theaters in the Arab countries were owned by foreigners or by immigrant European minorities. In the same way, film production initially remained confined to foreign and non-native investors. Early in their activities in cinema Louis and Auguste Lumiere sought shootings in the so-called Orient—Algeria and Egypt, for example. Palestine—the 'Holy Land'—also attracted many Western cameramen at the turn of the century; not only the Lumiere company but also Thomas Edison had films shot in Jerusalem.20 In 1905 an immigrant Frenchmen, the pied-noir Felix Mesguich, shot several short films in Algeria on Lumiere's behalf, and in 1906 traveled with his camera to Egypt.21 A year later he witnessed the French invasion of Morocco.22 In Egypt, the only Arab country able to develop a national film industry during the colonial period, native production started with news films. In 1909, for example, an Egyptian is supposed to have filmed the funeral of the Egyptian leader and patriot Mustafa Kamil.23 In the following years the number of news films and short fiction films produced in Egypt continued to grow.24 In 1917, with the assistance of the Banca di Roma, Italian investors established a film company in Alexandria. Far from European competition, they considered the period of World War I a good opportunity to exploit the native market as well as the pleasant weather conditions. After the production of three short films, however, the company went bankrupt.25 The main causes were the poor quality of the films and the producer's lack of knowledge about the host country. One of their films, for example, was banned by the authorities because it showed Quranic verses in Arabic upside down.26 Many short fiction films made in the following years by Europeans were shot in cooperation with Egyptian actors. The actor-turneddirector Muhammad Karim acted in the films of the Italian company and was the first Egyptian actor to appear on screen.27 Amin Sidqi and the popular theater actor cAli al-Kassar appeared in Bonvelli's film, The American Aunt (al-Khala al-amrikaniya), shot in 1920.28 The next year saw the screening of Victor Rosito's long film, In the Country of Tutankhamun (Fi bilad Tut cAnkh Amun), shot by the Egyptian cameraman and director Muhammad Bayyumi.29 In 1923 Bayyumi directed the adaptation of the popular play The Clerk (alBashkatib) with Amin cAttallah and his troupe. Bayyumi had at that time already shot and directed some other short films in Alexandria.

12

The History of Arab Cinema

The first short films directed by natives in the other Arab countries were made in the same period. Albert Shamama (Shemama Chikly), who had organized the first screenings in Tunisia, directed the short fiction film Zuhra in 1922, and two years later the first Tunisian (silent) full-length feature film, The Girl from Carthage (cAin alghazal, literally 'the eye of the gazelle'; La fille de Carthage), in which his daughter played the main part.30 In Syria the first native full-length feature film, The Innocent Accused (al-Muttaham al-bari'), was presented in 1928. It was produced by Ayyub Badri, who also played the main part and directed the film.31 In Lebanon the first feature film, The Adventures of liyas Mabruk (Mughamarat Ilyas Mabruk), was directed in 1929 by the immigrant Jordano Pidutti.32 One of the first full-length feature films produced (not directed) by a native Egyptian was entitled Layla and released in 1927. The Turkish director, Wedad Orfi, had persuaded the theater actress c Aziza Amir to produce the film. After a quarrel with Orfi, Amir had Estephane Rosti direct the film in his place. The film was a great success. In the same year appeared A Kiss in the Desert (Qubla fi-1-sahra')? by Ibrahim Lama, a South American of Lebanese origin who had settled in Egypt together with his brother, the actor Badr Lama. In contrast to other Arab countries, where production remained limited to some scattered pioneer works, production in Egypt increased steadily. Starting from 1928 an average of two feature films were shot annually. In 1932 the first two sound films (whose sound still had to be recorded in Paris) appeared almost simultaneously, Sons of Aristocrats (Awlad al-dhawat) by Yusuf Wahbi and The Song of the Heart (Unshudat al-fu'ad) by Mario Volpi. The foundation of the Egyptian film industry was laid in 1934/35 when the Misr Bank, under the management of Talaat Harb, established the Studio Misr. The following decade witnessed the rapid development of the film industry. By 1948 six further studios had been built and a total of 345 full-length features produced.33 In the years after World War II, cinema was the most profitable industrial sector after the textile industry.34 Between 1945 and 1952 Egyptian production reached an average of 48 films per year, a number comparable to today's production.35 The reasons why Egypt alone succeeded in establishing a national film industry are various. Egypt had a dynamic multicultural life in which native Egyptians always played an important role, and which remained relatively undisturbed by colonial authorities. Particularly after the national upheavals of 1919, native Egyptians developed a

Production during the Colonial Period

13

Layla the Bedouin (Layla al-badawiya, Egypt, 1937) by Bahiga Hafiz (courtesy Cultural Fund, Ministry of Culture, Cairo)

stronger interest in the medium and combined it with well established arts like popular musical theater. Numerous theater directors, actors, and actresses, such as cAziza Amir, Assia Daghir, Fatima Rushdi, Bahiga Hafiz, Yusuf Wahbi, cAli al-Kassar, and Nagib al-Rihani worked at the end of the 1920s and in the course of the 1930s as producers, scriptwriters, or directors. Popular plays like The Clerk, Kish Kish Bey (1931) and Why Does the Sea Laugh? (al-Bahr biyidhhak lih? 1928) were fixed on celluloid because of their huge success on the stage. In 1930 the tireless Yusuf Wahbi, actor, producer, and director all in one, furnished a first, albeit modest, studio, in order to produce the Muhammad Karim's adaptation of the novel Zaynab.36 It was not only artists and enthusiasts who invested in cinema. Beginning in the 1920s, nationalist-oriented entrepreneurs led by Talaat Harb, founder of the Misr Bank, worked to develop an independent national industry. In 1925 Talaat Harb decided that

14

The History of Arab Cinema

A Robert Scharfenberg set for I Can't (Ma'darsh, Egypt, 1946) by Ahmed Badrakhan (courtesy Cultural Fund, Ministry of Culture, Cairo)

cinema was a good investment opportunity and established the Sharikat Misr li-l-Sinima wa-l-Tamihil (Misr Company for Cinema and Performance), which was intended to produce advertising and information films. In 1934 he built the Misr Studio, which was inaugurated a year later. It was equipped with a laboratory and a sound studio, and employed several European specialists, among them German director Fritz Kramp and set designer Robert Scharfenberg. At the same time the studio sent young Egyptians on scholarships to Europe—directors Ahmad Badrakhan (Badr Khan) and Niyazi Mustafa, for example, were among its beneficiaries.

Production during the Colonial Period

15

The eager support given to the medium by native capital was neither accidental nor isolated. From 1922 Egypt was formally independent (although British occupation terminated de facto in 1952). An increasing Egyptianization became visible in many fields and was expressed partly in the struggle against foreign dominance in the economy. In 1937 the Egyptian government abolished the Capitulations, which entailed special legal rights for Europeans. In 1942/43, in the context of measures taken to provide work for Egyptians holding high school or university degrees, Arabic was declared obligatory for companies' written communication. From 1946 all company name plates had to be written in Arabic. One year later a law was promulgated fixing the ratio of employed Egyptians to 75 percent of all employees and 90 percent of all blue-collar workers, and the share of Egyptian capital to 51 percent of all capital.37 A comparable development would have been unthinkable in the French colonies and protectorates. Even in those countries that were not considered, like Algeria, as an integral part of France, the French authorities forced the acculturation of natives at the expense of indigenous culture. In Algeria—which in 1933 already had 150 theaters,38 more than Egypt in the same period39—not a single feature film was shot by a native director before independence in 1962.40 The same is true of Morocco before independence in 1954. Syria's weak economy precluded the existence there of wealthy and powerful entrepreneurs like Talaat Harb who might have initiated an industrial organization for cinema production. Furthermore, the artistic life of the country had been weakened since the end of the nineteenth century, when various talented Syrian artists and intellectuals had emigrated to Egypt because of political and social restrictions at home.41 Syrian film makers had always to withstand political pressures; in 1928 French authorities hindered the completion of Ayyub Badri's film, The Innocent Accused (al-Muttaham al-bari'), because the female protagonist was a Muslim girl. Badri had to change the character and repeat the shooting, and of course suffered considerable financial losses.42 The presentation of cAtta Makka's silent film, Under the Sky of Damascus (Taht sama' Dimashq), was blocked in 1932 when the producer was accused of not having paid the fees for the pre-recorded music that accompanied the film.43 In the French colonies the hindering of native efforts to produce was part of a general framework of cultural and economic politics. In Algeria indigenous culture was excluded by strict measures and regulations. Already in the middle of the last century authorities prohibited the traditional and popular shadow plays.44 Arab culture was not furthered in schools. Pupils were taught only in French and

16

The History of Arab Cinema

the communication of Arab culture was confined to traditional Quran schools. Modern secular Arab institutions for education did not exist. The proportion of Algerian pupils in secondary schools did not exceed 16 percent although the Algerian population of the country was ten times greater than the French.45 Thus the cultural life of most Algerians, already impoverished by colonialization, was socially marginalized. Their access to cinemas, which were generally concentrated in the Pieds Noirs settlements, remained slight for economic and cultural reasons. Egyptian films, exported to the whole region since the mid-thirties, were only screened in a few remote suburban or provincial cinemas. In the early 1950s they were burdened with immense taxes. In that period only seventy Egyptian films were distributed in Algeria along with 1,400 Western films.46 This does not mean that the Maghreb did not see any cinematographic activities before independence. On the contrary, an industrious colonial cinema developed early. From 1919 French directors were shooting films, like Mektoub by J. Pinochin and D. Quintin (1919), Allah's Blood (Le sang d'Allah)47 and In the Shadow of the Harem (Dans 1'ombre du harem, 1928).48 These works used the Maghreb as an exotic backdrop full of palm trees, camels and belly dancers. They conveyed a heavily distorted image of North Africa as "a sunny land ripe for adventure, where the Arabs are happy monkeys praising Allah for sending them the civilizing influence of French colonialism."49 During the 1920s and 1930s France was striving to strengthen its position in Morocco and Tunisia even further. Colonial cinema started to represent fierce fights and battles with "evil Arabs."50 When national consciousness started spreading throughout North Africa, particularly after the revolt of May 8, 1945, in which thousands of Algerians were killed, colonial films were eager to avoid any contact with social and political realities in the colonies. In this period censorship advised film makers to avoid images of "looting Arabs and armed settlers."51 In order to confront the spreading spirit of revolt and at the same time to convey to the natives a positive image of France and of "the role and benefits of France in this country [Algeria] in the cultural, social, economic fields, etc.,"52 after 1945 the colonial authorities went on the offensive. They started, together with the French army, to use cinema as a means of propaganda. For this reason they established in Morocco the CCM (Centre Cinematographique Marocain) and in Algeria several units like the SAC (Service Algerien du Cinema), the CNC (Centre National de la Cinematographic) for production and the SDC (Service de Diffusion Cinematographique)

Production during the Colonial Period

17

for distribution. The short films produced and distributed in Algeria, which were partly furnished with commentaries in the colloquial language, fell into several categories: documentaries on Algeria, on France and its colonies, and on achievements in industry and crafts; information films on the Muslim world and on Islam; films containing medical and pedagogic advice53 as well as political propaganda. The last, which showed the 'appeasement' of Algeria while presenting the resistance fighters as criminal outlaws54 had an unintended side-effect. The miserable conditions of life for the native rural population became visible in the images of successful military actions.55 These propaganda films were distributed through the system of cine-buses, trucks equipped with projectors and sent touring through the countryside, where in 1948 they reached around 465,000 spectators with some 250 screenings.56 The French did not confine their aggressive strategies to propaganda films. In 1946 they established the Studios Africa in Tunisia as well as the Studios Souissi, in a suburb of Rabat in Morocco. The latter was supposed to constitute the basis of a North African 'Hollywood,' whose productions were required to form a counterweight to Egyptian cinema. Indeed several Arabic-language feature films were produced in 1947 under French direction, particularly in Souissi, among them Serenade to Maryam (Maczafa muhda ilia Maryam; Serenade a Meryem), The Cobbler from Cairo (Iskafi alQahira; Savetier du Caire), and The Seventh Gate (al-Bab al-sabic; La septieme porte).57 Before the studios in Morocco and Tunisia were established, postproduction was usually done in Europe. But after World War II a complete technical infrastructure developed, including laboratories. Owned exclusively by Frenchmen, it was of no use to the natives after independence. Shortly before the withdrawal of the French from Tunisia in 1954, the Studios Africa, where hitherto fifty-six films had been produced, were transferred out of the country.58 The total number of colonial films produced in the Maghreb is considerable. Until independence in 1956 more than 100 feature films were shot in Morocco. In the same period about eighty films of the same kind were produced in Algeria and more than twenty in Tunisia (not including thousands of folkloric or propaganda documentaries).59 By contrast, natives had directed only nine feature films.60 Nevertheless the European 'orientaleries de bazar,'61 because they were often marked by a contempt for the conditions of life and aspirations of the Arab population, were not able to compete with Egyptian cinema for the favor of the Arab audience, and Egyptian

18

The History of Arab Cinema

film witnessed at that time a real boom.62 This becomes most evident in the insufficient representation of natives. Only six Arab actors played any parts worth mentioning in the 200 feature films that were produced in the Maghreb up to 1954. The Algerian actress Kelthoum,63 who later played the lead role in Mohamed Lakhdar (Muhammad al-Akhdar) Hamina's The Wind of the Aures (Rih alAuras, 1966), was one of them. She acted in The Seventh Gate (1947) by Andre Zvoboda, of which two versions were shot in Morocco, an Arabic and a French one.64 The cinematographic representation of the indigenous population in North Africa functioned in a similar way to Zionist film making. During the first decades of Zionist film making, which started before the foundation of the state of Israel, Palestinians were pictured above all as barbaric, violent villains, to be met with arms and weapons.65 Another strategy was simply to deny their existence. Film makers depicted the land alone and its transformation into a blooming paradise at the hands of Jewish settlers.66 Such films gave weight to the image of a "country without people for a people without a country." A more 'human' representation of Palestinians in Israeli cinema has appeared only since the 1980s in the work of a few liberal film makers.

Cinema and resistance With the exception of Egypt, Arab nations had almost no opportunity to represent themselves or their culture by means of cinema until national independence. The various national resistance movements were among the first to recognize the latent possibilities of the medium to support and express national self-assertion and liberation. French and Zionist propaganda challenged Algerians and Palestinians to produce counter-representations (partly also counter-propaganda) on the national as well as on an international scale. In 1957, three years after the FLN (Front de la Liberation Nationale) had declared the war of liberation in Algeria, a group of Algerians in the Tebessa region founded the first cinema unit, Groupe Farid, which was politically linked to the Wilaya 1 (military district of the Aures mountains). Rene Vautier, French director of Algeria in Flames (Algerie en flammes, 1957) and Sakiet Sidi Youcef (1958), and feature film director Ahmed Rachedi (Ahmad Rashidi) belonged to this group.67 In 1958 the Tebessan unit was annexed to the Ministry of Information of the provisional Algerian government residing in Tunis, and given the name Service du Cinema National. It aimed at collecting

Cinema and resistance

19

Dawn of the Damned (Fadjr al-mucazabin, Algeria, 1965) by Ahmed Rachedi (ONCIC (former) I Ministry of Culture, Algiers)

the largest possible amount of images and material on the "fight of the people, the atrocities of colonialism, and the hardships of Algerians," and to use them for enlightenment and propaganda.68 The cinema service constituted the nucleus of the various public organizations that were entrusted after independence with the production of films. Among those who entered cinema through the service was Mohamed Lakhdar Hamina, the director of The Chronicle of the Years of Embers (Waqa'ic sanawat al-djamr, 1974), and later a prizewinner at Cannes. In the case of Palestinian film making, cinematographic activities also developed in connection with armed struggle, started by exiled Palestinians after the defeat of Egypt, Syria, and Jordan by Israel in 1967, and the subsequent Israeli occupation of further Palestinian territories. Between 1967 and 1968 Mustapha Abu cAli, Hany Jawhariya, and Sulafa Jadallah founded in Jordan a film unit that was annexed to the Palestinian organization Fatah. After the Black September in 1971—the Jordanian massacre of Palestinian refugees and resistance fighters—the group moved to Beirut where, in spite of being equipped with only the most simple means, it continued producing documentaries about the situation of the Palestinians until 1975. Other Palestinian organizations, like the PFLP (Popular Front

20

The History of Arab Cinema

for the Liberation of Palestine), the PDFLP (Popular Democratic Front for the Liberation of Palestine) and the arts and culture section of the PLO began to produce films. Politically and financially, conditions were unfavorable. Cut off from Israel and the occupied territories, they documented military actions and life in the refugee camps. Some film makers even risked their lives; Hany Jawhariya was killed by a bullet in 1976 during the Lebanese Civil War.69 The activities of the various cinema departments came to a total halt after the Israeli invasion of Beirut in 1982, and a great part of the Palestinian cinema archive disappeared. Then, after the organization's move to Tunis, the cinema department of the PLO changed its policy and started financing coproductions with Western film makers while drastically limiting its own production. Unlike the images of the first Algerian unit, the films of the Palestinian fedayeen (fida'iyyuri) did little to influence world public opinion, though they served the mobilization of Palestinians, Arabs, and leftist Europeans as well as the documentation of Palestinian history and culture.

National film making and the state Independence represented a sort of catalyst for national film making, even in those Arab countries that did not resist or did little to fight European occupation. In the first ten years after their independence Algeria, Syria, Iraq, and Lebanon each produced one or two feature films a year.70 By 1965 Iraq was producing up to three films and Lebanon fifteen films a year. Rapid development in the costly film industry in most countries, with the exceptions of Morocco and Lebanon, was furthered by public investment. On the socialist model, production and distribution were entrusted to a state enterprise. The introduction of the public-sector cinema (al-qitac al-°am) did not proceed everywhere on the basis of a socialism dictated from above, as happened in Egypt, Iraq, and Algeria. In Syria and Tunisia, for example, film makers and critics themselves demanded state intervention. The first effective measures the young states took were in distribution. The dominance of Western imports was considered the biggest obstacle to national production; American and European imports prevailed in the film market at the time of the Arab countries' independence, together with a few Egyptian imports. (Not even in Egypt did the Egyptian share of production exceed 20 percent of all distributed films.)

National filmmaking and the state

21

In Syria, from independence in 1946 until 1969, only three or four distribution companies were responsible for the country's import. In 1969 the Syrian film organization (Mu'assasat al-Sinima)., which was founded in 1963, assumed the distribution monopoly. Of the some 450 films = imported annually, approximately one third were American, while the rest were mostly Egyptian films along with a few European titles.71 A similar division also existed in other countries, only in the Maghreb the share of French titles was far larger and the Egyptian smaller. More than ten years after independence, between 1966 and 1969 the share of American and European films was still around 60 percent in Tunisia and Morocco, while the common share of Egyptian and Indian features did not exceed 24 percent.72 Two different strategies were developed to undermine the monopoly of Western agencies, which in some countries would dictate films to cinema owners by block-booking. The first strategy consisted in monopolizing importation via public institutions, and the second in nationalizing the distribution network. In Egypt all cinemas were nationalized in 1963, and in Algeria in 1964. Five years later the Algerian ONCIC (Office National pour le Commerce et 1'Industrie Cinematographiques; al-Diwan al-Watani li-1-Tidjara wa-l-Sinaca alSinima'iya) assumed a total monopoly over distribution. This step resulted in the boycott of the American majors (Metro-Goldwyn Mayer, United Artists, etc.) and the French Gaumont-Pathe. Whereas in the case of Algeria, Western agencies finally gave in in 1974, in Tunisia they were able to ignore for a long time the 1969 decree that had assigned the monopoly to the SATPEC (Societe Anonyme Tunisienne de Production et d'Expansion Cinematograph! que). Besides the SATPEC, seven Tunisian companies and six Western agencies were active until 1972.73 Not until 1979 could all Western companies be convinced to allow themselves to be represented by the SATPEC on the Tunisian market.74 However, it soon became apparent that the monopoly of the state could not change the basic dependence on foreign products. The share of Western films after the monopolization of distribution by the ONCIC in Algeria changed only insignificantly in favor of Arab production. In 1978 the share of Western films was nearly 55.5 percent and thus still the largest, whereas Arab films, including four Algerian works, constituted only 18.8 percent.75 The annual production in Algeria at that time did not exceed three films, quite insufficient to meet national needs. Centralized importation has proved to have certain advantages, such as making it possible more effectively to control taxes and other fees from imported films and to reinvest them in home production.

22

The History of Arab Cinema

In Syria and Algeria the public sector still uses a proportion of the income from the distribution of foreign films for its national production. However, the monopoly of the state has also caused serious problems: in the long run, owing to insufficient financial means and the incompetence of state officials, the level of imported films decreased considerably, as did the technical standards of projection and movie theaters.76 Public investment in production proceeded only sluggishly. Years, sometimes even decades, passed before the public sector met the high costs of constructing and furnishing studios, acquiring technical equipment and laboratories, and training professionals. In Tunisia, it was not until 1968, fully eleven years after its foundation in 1957, that the SATPEC celebrated the completion of its Gammarth studios, which provided production facilities including studios, sound editing, film editing, and a laboratory.77 During the 1960s the national film organization in Syria started to run a temporary laboratory in rented rooms; the planned studios and technical institutions on specially acquired grounds have never materialized.78 Until recently, Algerian film makers were forced to develop their color material abroad; it was not until 1991 that the country acquired a modern color laboratory.

Education and know-how It was not only financial and technical insufficiencies that created problems in founding national film industries, but also the lack of technically qualified professionals. Most of the states made inadequate provision for the training of cineastes; as a result dependence on the West and the former USSR has continued. In the 1930s Talaat Harb responded to the need for outside expertise by hiring technical consultants from Europe, and this policy was to some extent imitated elsewhere. The Syrian film organization, for instance, followed the Egyptian example during the 1960s, though with much less success. Under the supervision of the Yugoslav director Bosko Vulinich79 the organization initiated its first production, The Truck Driver (Sa'iq al-shahina, 1968). Syrian technicians were thus given some experience, but the results were only moderately successful. The first steps taken by Syrian film makers within the confines of the national film organization did not meet with much success either—the first film directed by the Syrian Muhammad Shahin was never finished. Public sector production improved first during the early 1970s through the employment of several non-

Education and know-how

23

Syrian directors like the Iraqi Kaiss al-Zubaidi, the Lebanese Borhane Alaouie (Burhan cAlawiya) and the Egyptian Taufik Salih, who made the most remarkable Syrian films of that period. It was only during the 1980s that qualified Syrian directors and scriptwriters took over; these included Mohamed Malas, Samir Zikra, Usama Muhammad, Raymond Butrus, and cAbd al-Latif cAbd al-Hamid, all of whom were trained in Moscow. Algerian cinema today, even after thirty years of existence, still lacks qualified technicians in the fields of sound, camera, lighting, set design, and production management. The country runs no institutions that could teach these professions. A film school established in 1964, the Institut National du Cinema, was closed down three years later.80 It is not clear whether this was for bureaucratic reasons or due to the anxiety that its sixty professional graduates would remain jobless.81 Mouny Berrah states that the real reason was that the school "had become a forum for ideological debate and a site of protest."82 Algerian film makers and technicians usually receive their training in Europe, mostly in France or Belgium. The same applies to the cineastes of the rest of francophone North Africa. The Moroccans Ahmed Maanouni and Jilalli Ferhati and the Algerian Merzak Allouache (Mirzaq cAlwash) worked for a while in French film productions. Hamid Benani studied at the French film school IDEC. The Tunisians Mahmoud Ben Mahmoud, Nouri Bouzid, Nejia Ben Mabrouk, and the Algerian Brahim Tsaki studied in Brussels. The Algerian Mohamed Lakhdar Hamina was one of the few directors trained in an East European country, the former Czechoslovakia. Souheil Ben Baraka and the Tunisian producer Ahmed Attia acquired their skills in Italy. Not only inhabitants of the Maghreb studied in Paris; other Arabs, including the Egyptians Taufik Salih and Hussein Kamal and the Lebanese Borhane Alaouie, also studied there. The Palestinian Michel Khleifi received his degree in Brussels and the Iraqi Kaiss al-Zubaidi in Babelsberg, in the former East Germany. The Egyptian director Youssef Chahine (Yusuf Shahin) was one of the very few who were trained in the United States. Only Egypt and Iraq have solved the problem of training satisfactorily. In Iraq, a cinema department was established in the University of Fine Arts in the late 1970s, and in the 1980s it was furnished with the most up-to-date equipment.85 Among the teachers was the Egyptian director Taufik Salih. Already in 1945 a private film school had opened in Cairo,84 but it survived only a short while. Then, in 1959, the Ministry of Culture established the Higher Film Institute that still provides the country

24

The History of Arab Cinema

with the necessary young professionals, be they technicians, set designers, scriptwriters, or directors. Almost all Egyptian directors who started working after 1959 have graduated from this school. Together with the limits set by a commercial and industrial orientation, the Film Institute is responsible for the relative homogeneity and continuity of Egyptian film making, both in form and content.

Hollywood or socialism In spite of nationalizations, Arab film making has constantly been dominated by the mechanisms and standards of the cultural industry introduced by Egyptian producers. With the advent of sound, the Egyptian film industry started the commercial exploitation of popular Egyptian songs and singers whose music had already spread by radio and record all over the Arab world. The appearance of the famous musician Muhammad cAbd al-Wahhab or the singer Umm Kulthum gained the first Egyptian sound movies a decisive advantage, and hampered the development of other Arab film industries.85 Beside the musical, two other genres, melodrama and farce, joined temporarily by adventure ('bedouin') films, led to the success of the Egyptian film industry. In general, early films contained an accumulation of comic situations and events, fairy tale stories in the style of the Arabian Nights, or sentimental and often unlucky love stories, which were mostly interspersed with music or dance. In the course of the boom that started in the late 1940s with the end of World War II import restrictions, a new popular formula crystallized. It was shaped by an entertaining mixture of genres that borrowed from all kinds of films from farce to melodrama, and had an obligatory happy ending. Dance, in particular belly dance, as well as music and songs were considered indispensable. Elements of the American music hall film moved into Egyptian cinema. The adaptation of successful Hollywood productions was quite common and during the 1950s and 1960s the spectrum widened as new genres like the police film and melodramatic realism made their appearance. During the 1970s and 1980s the latter developed to become 'social drama,' a kind of action film with a tendency to social critique. In the same period, characteristics of the Asian karate film were adopted by some directors while the old genres like farce, melodrama, and musical increasingly retreated. At the same time Egyptian film was to be used as a vehicle for advertising spots. The so-called entrepreneur cinema (sinima almuqawalat)*6 developed a special category of films, ordered by international distributors and produced by minor companies within a very

Hollywood or socialism

25

Anwar Wagdi (left) in The Big Lapse (al-Zalla al-kubra, Egypt, 1945) by Ibrahim clmara (courtesy Muhammad Bakr, photogapher, Cairo)

short time period, on a very low budget, and with second-rate actors. Films of this sort are mainly distributed on video and only exceptionally reach movie theaters. The nationalization of the Egyptian film industry during the Nasser era could not change its basic commercial structure. In any case, the activity of the public sector in the field of production lasted only a few years and was terminated by the partial reprivatization initiated under Sadat in 1971 (which, however, did not include the studios and laboratories. They have remained state property up to date). Three years later the huge success of Take Care of Zuzu! (Khalli balak min Zuzu!) by Hasan al-Imam, the master of Egyptian melodrama, signaled the revival of purely commercial Egyptian cinema.

26

The History of Arab Cinema

Publicity poster for Rebels on the Sea (al-Mushaghibun fi-1-bahriya, Egypt, 1992) starring Fifi Abdu, directed by Nasser Hussein

The period of state ownership brought about only a partial and temporary rise in technical and artistic standards. In spite of efforts to promote a national film culture, exerted particularly by Tharwat c Ukasha during his period in office as minister of culture, production remained dominated by the maxim of rentability. In order to prevent the loss of foreign markets, the products of the national film organization followed the same commercial guidelines as the private sector, which meant that they retained stars and popular features. Although the production of realist and patriotic films also spread among mainstream directors, art films that attempted to develop a specific national film language, like Chadi Abdessalam's (Shadi cAbd alSalam) The Mummy (al-Mumya', 1969; also known as The Night of Counting the Years}, remained exceptional. All the popular genres created by Egyptian cinema throughout its history share the absolute determination to entertain and the permanent readiness to compromise in line with the oft-recited motto algumhur cayiz kida (colloquial: 'the audience wants it like this'). The Egyptian film industry lives like Hollywood on the image of its sometimes very famous stars. With their assistance, particularly that of the popular singers, Egyptian cinema at the beginning was able to overcome an important obstacle hampering the inter-Arab exchange of movies: the distinct dialects of the Mashriq and Maghreb, i.e., the

Hollywood or socialism

27

eastern and western part of the so-called Arab world. The continuous consumption of Egyptian mass production caused the audience in many regions to acquire at least a passive knowledge of the Egyptian dialect. This process gained the distribution of Egyptian films an advantage that Arab competitors from Tunisia, Algeria, and Syria could attain only exceptionally. With the video boom that started in the 1970s the market for Egyptian cinema shifted more to the Arab south-east. Already in 1959, 155 of a total of 222 exported 16-millimeter prints were sent to Saudi Arabia.87 (These films were of course designed only for private screenings.) The introduction of electronic media in the Gulf states resulted in an increasing consumption of the Egyptian mass product, whereas in the Arab west, demand for Egyptian movies declined rapidly in some places, not least because of increasing home production in these countries. Indeed, between 1980 and 1989 the share of Egyptian films in Morocco did not exceed 3 percent and in some years, like 1988, not even one film was imported from Egypt.88 This development forced the Egyptian film industry into an increasing dependency on distribution companies from the Arabian Peninsula. There were discussions in the 1970s about investments by Saudi Arabian businessmen, who wanted through a kind of joint venture to take over the public companies with their studios; such investments have failed to materialize, however, because of protest by cineastes. Yet many Egyptian producers take up production loans offered by distributors from the Gulf states—mainly those who can fix the selling price and thus the budget of a film according to the popularity of the cast.89 For this reason actors' fees are enormous in comparison to the total budget. The average budget of an Egyptian feature film at present is approximately LE750,000 (LE = Egyptian pounds), i.e., about US$230,000. Up to LE300,000 may have to be spent on fees for the stars, which means that little remains for props, set, costumes, transport, and wages. The Egyptian model was followed in almost all Arab countries. Immediately after independence, private entrepreneurs were in many cases to make use of Egyptian know-how. In Syria several privately produced films were directed by Egyptians in the 1960s and 1970s, including works by Hilmi Rafla and cAtif Salim. Commercial Syrian cinema still follows Egyptian concepts today; the latest works of the Syrian comic Doureid Laham have been well received by Egyptian audiences, and show the same mixture of social criticism, verbal comedy, musical inserts, and theatrical performances as many Egyptian feature films. In the first stage of production in Iraq, from 1945 to 1951, private

28

The History of Arab Cinema

Iraqi producers undertook various coproductions with Egypt and Lebanon. Successful Egyptian directors, including Ahmed Badrakhan, Niyazi Mustafa, and Ahmad Kamil Mursi directed some of these works.90 Egyptian melodramas were so acclaimed by audiences that in the first period after independence at least a dozen melodramas were shot there.91 They scarcely differed from Egyptian products: "It is always love that holds the first place, spiced with mean seductions, rapes, adulteries, prisons, dead persons, suicide, and mental illness, on the background of dark misfortune molding the pleasant victim."92 In the Maghreb too, film makers showed much interest in this genre. The Tunisian Omar Khlifi made pointed use of the Egyptian formula in his work, particularly in Screams (Surakh; Hurlements, 1972), which dealt with the situation of women in the countryside. His social criticism came wrapped in a rather melodramatic plot, in order to provide the audience with what it was used to.93 In Morocco, a number of feature films inspired by the Egyptian musical were produced, such as the first full-length Moroccan film Life Is a Struggle (al-Hayatu kifah; Vaincre pour vivre, 1968) by Mohamed Ben Abderrahmane Tazi and Ahmed Mesnaoui starring the singer Abdelwahab Doukali and Silence Is a One Way Street (al-Samt itidjah mamnuc; Silence, sens interdit; 1973) by Abdallah Mesbahi with Abdelhedi Belkhayat.94 Lebanon, however, had the closest relation to the Egyptian center of production. Not only did it export some of its greatest stars to Egypt—including Asmahan, Farid al-Atrash, and Sabah—but it also constituted the most important trade center for commercial Egyptian cinema. Until the 1970s, Lebanese distributors monopolized the export of Egyptian films. The Lebanese film industry was even able to compete with the 'Hollywood on the Nile.' In the context of the broad economic upswing in Lebanon after World War II, private entrepreneurs became increasingly interested in cinema. They established several studios and shared in film productions. From 1953 until 1962, twenty-four feature films appeared; in the following eight years there were no less than 100.95 This sudden boom was an indirect result of the nationalization of the Egyptian film industry in 1963, which led Egyptian, Syrian, Lebanese, and Jordanian producers to withdraw from Egypt and invest in Lebanon instead.96 Lebanese cinema not only followed the same entertaining formula as its model, but even developed in cooperation with Egyptian film makers and actors. A slim majority of Lebanese feature films (54 out of 100) that were produced between 1963 and 1970 used Egyptian

Hollywood or socialism

29

dialect for the dialogue. A further twenty films contained a linguistic mixture allowing each actor to speak his native tongue. Only twentytwo films used the Lebanese dialect exclusively.97 The development of a national character for Lebanese cinema started only in 1975 with the eruption of civil war. This, together with the partial reprivatization of the Egyptian film industry, led to a rapid reduction in Lebanese production, and gradually Lebanese cinema came out from under the shadow of its Egyptian mentor.98 In the socialist-oriented Arab countries the public sector became the godfather to a politically committed, modernist, 'Third Worldist' cinema99 that consciously created a distance from the products of the 'dream factory' of commercial cinema. The Egyptian director Salah Abu Seif wrote in 1965: Now that the revolution has expressed in the National Charter a global vision of history and of the future in a solid revolutionary context, it is imperative to see how weak our films are on the analytical and political level. It is now the task of the state to create on the basis of the Charter a mature cinematographic world where man's struggle against fatal social conditions and his striving to change his destiny are expressed.100

In practice, cineastes and functionaries all too often equated noncommercial cinema with ideological indoctrination, transforming the medium into a basis for political propaganda: As socialist cinema sides with the struggle of all progressive powers against the enemies of the people, in particular colonialists, capitalist exploiters, feudal landowners, reactionaries, bureaucrats, arrivistes, and deviators . . ., it should denounce them incessantly and work for their destruction.101

Neither distributors nor audiences acclaimed the agitprop of 'socialist' cinema. In Algeria until 1972 almost all feature films dealt with the war of liberation. Scores of works spoke in favor of the agrarian revolution, i.e., the land reform ordered by the Algerian president, Boumedienne. The limited success of this immensely politicized cinema forced functionaries and film makers to change their attitude. Many directors started to give these didactic subjects commercial packaging in order to convince audiences. One of the very few exceptions that succeeded in breaking even was the comedy Hassan Terro (Hasan al-tirru, 1968) by Mohamed Lakhdar Hamina, where the popular Algerian comic Ahmed Rouiched portrayed a cowardly resistance fighter. Rouiched's series of Hassan films that followed, among them The Escape of Hassan Terro (Hurub Hasan altirru, 1974) by Mustapha Badie (Badic) and Hassan Taxi (1982) by Mohamed Slim Riad (Muhammad Salim Riyad) were to use the same farce-like style found in commercial works from the Mashriq.

30

The History of Arab Cinema

Publicity poster for Let Us Climb the Mountains (Li-nascad ila al-djabal, Algeria, 1989) by cAbd al-cAziz b. Mahdjub

Commercialism in state productions was largely imposed by officials of the ONCIC. The director Ahmed Rachedi, who managed this public organization from 1967 to 1973 and shot in the same period his resistance film The Opium and the Baton (al-Afyun wa-l-casa, 1969), made deliberate compromises in order to satisfy the taste of the audience: "I do not support festival films. There is no cinema without a large audience. It is probably for this reason that I made concessions in The Opium and the Baton."102 The

The crisis of the public sector

31

substantial battle scene in this film, the French nude in Rachedi's All in Wonderland (Ard al-sarab, 1978) and the casting of the Egyptian star clzzat al-cAlayli as the main actor in Monsieur Fabre's Mill (Tahunat M. Fabre, 1983) are examples of such concessions to the audience. Several works on the war of independence borrowed from commercial genres, and thus became a sub-category of the American western. The heroic Algerian resistance fighters (mudjahidun) establish law and order; totally alone (one against all) the partisan accepts the challenge of his evil adversaries (Frenchmen and native feudal lords). Like the protagonist of The Outlaws (al-Kharidjun can alqanun; Les hors la loi, 1969) by Tewfik Fares, he lives the life of a noble outlaw in the wilderness, equipped with a horse, a sombrero, and a hunting rifle. The Algerian resistance fighter tries to speak and to roll his shoulders like the outlaw of the American film. He even learns judo; you only ask yourself where. In order to have the actor's studio expression he pulls faces. Denying his own person to the utmost, the peasant in the bush strives to walk like a GI: the way he wears his hat and machine gun, everything is there except the result.103

A similar style can also be found in the sole Algerian feature film that deals with the Palestinian question, We Will Return (Sanacud, 1971) by Mohamed Slim Riad. This urged Hala Salmane to ask how it was possible to denounce Western imperialism in its Zionist version with such a peculiarly American film language. "I wanted audiences to identify with my heroes. The Americans have succeeded in getting the whole world to admire the heroes of their westerns and their war films. Why should we not do the same?" answered the director.104

The crisis of the public sector Unsurprisingly, the contradictory demands of the public sector's task resulted in crisis. In Syria, Egypt, and Algeria, this was mainly expressed in decreasing production rates. During the 1970s the Syrian public sector produced one or two feature films a year (nineteen in total). In the 1980s there were only eight feature films. The private sector, on the other hand, produced an average of eleven films annually between 1970 and 1979.105 In Egypt, the number of productions decreased continuously after the foundation of the National Film Organization and reached its lowest level since the 1940s in 1967 with thirty-two films. The

32

The History of Arab Cinema

number of feature films then remained at around forty films per year and did not increase until 1974. The film organization never made more than thirteen feature films a year.106 Corruption and nepotism contributed to the wasting of public money. In 1971, when Sadat started reprivatization, the debts of the film organization are reported to have reached seven million Egyptian pounds. This forced the public sector to withdraw completely from the production of fulllength feature films.107 In Iraq, where no private production has been carried through since 1977,108 the Revolutionary Council decided in 1980 to found the semi-private company Babylon in order to stimulate film production.109 The Iraqi Film and Theater Organization (al-Mu'assasa alc Amma li-1-Sinima wa-1-Masrah), created in 1959, had produced from 1969 to 1983 only sixteen feature films.110 In Algeria, the socialist production model was also caught in a crisis. In 1984 the ONCIC was so indebted that it had to be divided into two organizations with different functions, the ENAPROC (Entreprise Nationale Algerienne de la Production Cinematographique) and the ENADEC (Entreprise Nationale Algerienne de la Distribution Cinematographique). They were connected only loosely under the supervision of the new CAAIC (Centre Algerien pour 1'Art et I'lndustrie Cinematographique). Although in 1985 the CAAIC started reprivatizing cinemas, its financial troubles were still so great at the end of the 1980s that it had no foreign exchange at its disposal either for imports or for the post production laboratory work abroad. Jean Pierre Lledo's film Lumiere, for example, shot in 1988, had to wait four years to be completed. In order to surmount the chronic lack of foreign exchange, the organization coproduced five of its seven films shot after 1989 with other countries, including France, Bulgaria, Tunisia, and Burkina Faso. It also produced one film with the help of the Algerian ENPA (Entreprise Nationale de Production Audiovisuelle). This organization, founded in 1986 by the RTA (Radio-Television Algerien), has been competing since 1988 with the CAAIC in the field of feature film production. From 1988 until 1992, it produced no less than eighteen feature films meant for broadcasting, which included six coproductions. Only recently have private production companies been allowed to work in Algeria. Film makers such as Merzak Allouache and Malek Lakhdar Hamina, director of Autumn October in Algiers (Kharif uktubar al-Djaza'ir, 1992), who were able to find financial partners abroad, started to make use of this opportunity. Moreover, the FDATIC (Fonds de Developpement de 1'Art et de I'lndustrie Cinematographique) awards production subsidies in order to stimulate film economy.

Censorship

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The Tunisian and Moroccan economic system has turned out to be more effective than the socialist model. At no time in either country did the state monopolize production and distribution. During the 1970s the Tunisian SATPEC produced only a few films. In 1974 and 1975 the society fell into deep financial trouble due to its being "torn beween its commercial vocation and the demands of the Ministry of Culture."111 Since the beginning of the 1980s, the SATPEC has been content to support private production with up to 30 percent of the budget.112 The subsidies are given mainly as services. In a small country like Tunisia, a feature film can never actually pay for itself, no matter how much public support it receives. Tunisian producers increasingly look for foreign coproducers and buyers, especially in the West. Pursuing this policy, they have in recent years been able to secure at least half of the country's production. In Morocco a comparable model helped to improve production rates. As in other Arab countries, private distributors prefer not to invest their capital in Moroccan productions. Therefore, the state has tried to further film production through a special film fund supplied by taxes. In 1956, two years before independence, a fund had been created, the Fonds Nationales d'Expansion de la Cinematographic. Its influence remained minor at the beginning. Productions were undertaken only by the Service du Cinema, founded in 1944 by the colonial authorities and the CCM (Centre Cinematographique Marocain). Their production consisted mainly of short films. Because of bureaucratic obstacles and trade monopolies held by foreign companies, both institutions were for a long time unable to contribute to the development of national cinema. Since the film fund or the Fonds de Soutien a 1'Expansion de I'lndustrie Cinematographique was restructured and enabled to give awards reaching up to 50 percent of the film budget, the number of Moroccan feature films has increased considerably.113 While the country had produced only eighteen films from 1968 to 1979, thirtythree films were produced between 1980 and 1986, since the introduction of the award.114

Censorship In spite of many Arab states' withdrawal in recent decades from involvement in cinema, official dominance has remained unchallenged in at least one respect. All Arab governments, be they capitalist or socialist, have reduced the medium's freedom of expression through legal restrictions.

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The History of Arab Cinema

In most Arab countries, film projects must first pass a state committee, which grants or denies permission to shoot. Once this permission is obtained, another official license, a so-called visa, is necessary in order to exploit the film commercially. This is normally approved by a committee of the Ministry of Information or a special censorship authority. The most important taboo areas kept under state surveillance are religion, sex, and politics. A summary of the Egyptian law of censorship issued in 1976 may clarify this: 'Heavenly' religions [i.e., Islam, Christianity, and Judaism] should not be criticized. Heresy and magic should not be positively portrayed. Immoral actions and vices are not to be justified and must be punished. Images of naked human bodies or the inordinate emphasis on individual erotic parts, the representation of sexually arousing scenes, and scenes of alcohol consumption and drug use are not allowed. Also prohibited is the use of obscene and indecent speech. The sanctity of marriage, family values, and one's parents must be respected. Beside the prohibition on the excessive use of horror and violence, or inciting their imitation, it is forbidden to represent social problems as hopeless, to upset the mind, or to divide religions, classes, and national unity.115

In general, criticism of Islam is not allowed, this being the official state religion in most Arab countries. By extension, a positive representation of atheism is not appropriate. Even the overtly secular Algerian cinema attacks only maraboutism and practices of popular Islam, steering clear of orthodox Muslim conviction. National unity is maintained not through a just representation of different native religions but through the exclusive representation of Muslim conditions of life and convictions. Although there are many Christian directors working in Egypt—including Youssef Chahine, Samir Seif, Khairy Beshara, Daoud Abd El-Sayyed, and Yousry Nasrallah— Christian characters hardly ever appear on the screen, and then mostly in minor roles. The representation of Jews is also frowned upon.116 In Lebanon, the sole Arab state with a non-Muslim president, the confessional structure of the country found expression on the screen. In order to preserve national unity in 1943 the so-called National Pact (al-wifaq al-watani) fixed an equal division of political posts among Christians and Muslims. Following the same principle, commercial Lebanese film makers during the first period of Civil War at the end of the 1970s and beginning of the 1980s, tried to divide their main roles, positive and negative, as equally as possible among Muslim and Christian actors.117 The taboo on sex arises from the moral code of Arab-Muslim culture. In some countries, like Iraq, even the representation of

Censorship

35

prostitution is prohibited.118 In other countries, only the exposure of the human body—including the realist representation of sexual intercourse or birth—constitutes a taboo. Transgressions in a few Algerian and Tunisian films are the only exceptions, which thereby emphasize the rule. Algerian cinema in particular, despite its apparently progressive and revolutionary attitude, is profoundly prudish. According to Algerian critic Mouny Berrah, only one Algerian feature film, Layla and Her Sisters (Layla wa-akhawatiha; Leila et les autres), shot in 1977 by Sid Ali Mazif, contains a kiss.119 The few violations of rules occurring in Algerian cinema, like the undressing of the female protagonist in Mohamed Slim Riad's South Wind (Rih al-djanub, 1975)120 are mainly based on pedagogic intentions to challenge and educate the audience, whereas in Tunisia they are the result of Western coproduction. The European market offers to film makers and producers alternative financial and spiritual spaces, which help them to face the pressure of domestic censorship. An example is Ferid Boughedir's Halfaouine (Halfawin: cAsfur al-sath, literally, 'the bird on the roof,' 1989). The film contains scenes of a Turkish bath, where almost bare women can be seen bathing. The freedom Boughedir managed to force out of censorship is by no means typical. During the same period, director Nouri Bouzid had to accept several cuts in his film Golden Horseshoes (Safa'ih min dhahab, 1989) before it received permission for public screening. The scenes that had to be sacrificed contained images of sexual intercourse and a sequence showing the methods of torture used by Tunisian policemen.121 Overt political censorship also occurs, especially of any direct criticism of the political leadership. In Egypt from 1971 to 1973, after Sadat's seizure of power, all films that addressed the 1967 defeat by Israel were prohibited. This affected, among others, Shadows on the Other Side (Zilal cala al-djanib al-akhar, 1973) by Ghaleb Chaath and The Sparrow (al-cUsfur, 1971) by Youssef Chahine. In 1986 the Egyptian director Atef El-Tayeb had to change the final scene of his film The Innocent (al-Bari'). Images of a young man whose military service required him to work in an internment camp of the Central Security Service had to be removed because they showed him, machine gun in hand, rebelling against the authoritarian and inhuman methods used in the camp. Depending on its ideological orientation, social criticism may also be prohibited. In pre-Nasserist Egypt, and in Morocco during the 1970s, representations of social abuses had to take censorship into account. In Iraq, the glorification of feudalism and capitalism, and negative or racist representations of "the people's struggle against

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The History of Arab Cinema

colonialism or imperialism" are prohibited.122 In Algeria, where censorship was decreed in 1967,123 a higher commission worked to make the content of films produced by the ONCIC correspond with the socialist orientation and the guidelines of foreign affairs fixed by the National Charter.124 This commission, appointed by the Ministry of Culture and Information, was the sole arbiter of whether a project could be produced. As no private production companies existed at that time, authors and film makers were automatically forced to use self-censorship. At the beginning of the 1970s some of them lodged a complaint in a common manifesto presented to the Ministry of Information.125 The same commission also had the task of maintaining 'Arab-Muslim customs.' Vague notions like 'public order' and 'good morals'126 and the prohibition of 'things that do not correspond to what is commonly accepted' and 'embarrass the audience'127 have turned the laws of censorship into an unpredictable official weapon. Non-socialist governments also practice economic censorship. In Morocco, for example, this is exerted by withholding public film awards, which are essential for home productions.128 This means of censorship is hardly contestable and is perhaps more serious than the direct official censorship exerted in other Arab countries. Film makers and producers circumvent restrictions in various ways. In the case of Atef El-Tayeb's The Innocent., two different versions were made, one for the domestic market and another for export. (In Iraq such a solution would not have been allowed.) Another strategy is to encode a message or action stylistically, for example, through the use of various forms of antiphrasis. In his films, Alexandria Why? (Iskandariya lih? 1978) and Alexandria Now and Forever (Iskandariya kaman wa kaman, 1991), the Egyptian director Youssef Chahine veils the homoerotic inclination of his protagonist by representing sexual desire as murderous hatred or by replacing a man with a woman with masculine behavior. Hamid Benani's use of the Moroccan flag in Wechma (Washma, literally 'tattoo,' 1970), which is placed ironically on the coffin of the protagonist whose death was caused by unjust and authoritarian social conditions, constitutes such an antiphrasis.129 Another tactic is to distort the representation through distance, irony, and ambiguity, as is common in film satires. In Syrian director Samir Zikra's The Events of the Coming Year (Waqa'ic al-cam al-muqbil, 1986), for example, a state official's speech is constantly repeated by a parrot. In Doureid Laham's film, The Report (al-Taqrir, Syria, 1986), a balance set up in a court hangs lopsided. The trial, however, is not 'real,' but takes place in the protagonist's dream.

Cinema artisanal and coproduction

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The Report (al-Taqrir, Syria, 1986) by Doureid Laham

Cinema artisanal and coproduction Despite these various economic and political restrictions, an artistically ambitious and individualist tendency has emerged in Arab cinema since the 1970s. The works of the 'New Arab Cinema' cannot be assigned to any one category or genre. They range from observant portrayals of social conditions to autobiographical stories and avant-garde art movies. In contrast to commercial or socialist cinema, some currents of the New Cinema employ unconventional stylistic forms and transgress taboos. This change of direction in Arab cinema resulted in part from an intellectual reorientation following Egypt, Jordan, and Syria's defeat in the 1967 Six Day War. The gradual disillusionment with and subsequent renunciation of nationalist and Pan-Arab ideology led to the alienation of many intellectuals from the national political leadership, whose inefficiency was exposed. Accusations were made of totalitarianism and state paternalism. Even so, some films made in the new spirit were produced by state enterprises. They are marked not only by an unconventional style but also by a deviation from official ideologies and political discourses, as can be seen in films such as Omar Gatlato (cUmar qatlatu al-rudjla, 1976) and Adventures of a Hero (Mughamarat

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The History of Arab Cinema

The Events of the Coming Year (Waqa'ic al-cam al-muqbil, Syria, 1986) by Samir Zikra

batal, 1976) by the Algerian Merzak Allouache, or The Half-Meter Incident (Hadithat al-nisf mitr, 1981) and Stars in Broad Daylight (Nudjum al-nahar, 1988) by the Syrians Samir Zikra and Usama Muhammad. The unconventionally distant and ironic tone 'of these films was a counter to the prevailing political conformism in public production. However, artistically ambitious individualist directors were not always able to work within the framework of the public, and even less the commercial, production system. In order to escape economic and political constraints, they adopted various strategies. In some cases they returned to a pre-industrial production mode, avoiding as much as possible the division of labor. This turned the film makers into "truly orchestrated people playing several roles: scriptwriter, dialogue-writer, director, editor, and in some cases even principal actors. By assuming several functions the film maker in the end becomes omnipresent and his way of working that of a craftsman [artisanal]."130 One characteristic of the craftsman's way of production is the search for financial sources that might allow the film maker greater freedom. In Morocco in the 1970s a film makers' collective, Sigma 3, was formed and produced members' films in rotation, including

Cinema artisanal and coproduction

39

Wechma (1970) by Hamid Benani. But financial problems soon led to the group's collapse.131 Many auteur film makers, including the Moroccans Hamid Benani, Jilalli Ferhati, Nabyl Lahlou, the Lebanese Maroun Baghdadi, Borhane Alaouie, Jocelyne Saab (Sacb), Heiny Srour and Randa Chahal (Shahhal), and the Egyptian Youssef Chahine, have founded private production companies and sought foreign coproducers to help finance their projects. For some film makers who were driven into exile by occupation, political oppression, or civil war, coproductions still represent the sole means of finance. The Palestinians Michel Khleifi, Rashid Masharawi, Elia Suleiman, and the already-cited Lebanese directors would not have been able to realize their works otherwise. Arab art movies and auteur films sometimes attract great interest from the West but are often hardly distributed in their own countries. This was the case, for example, with the Moroccan films Wechma by Hamid Benani, A Thousand and One Hands (Alf yad wa yad, 1972) by Souheil Ben Baraka, and El-Chergui (al-Sharqi, 1975) by Moumen Smihi.132 In Tunisia, only a few auteur films, like Nouri Bouzid's Man of Ashes (Rih al-sadd, 1986), gained the favor of their native audience. Nejia Ben Mabrouk's Sama (The Trace, 1982), coproduced with the German television channel Zweites Deutsches Fernsehen (ZDF), is a classic of Arab cinema but is still waiting for distribution in Tunisia. The same situation applies to some Lebanese films shot by independent directors during the civil war, including Encounter in Beirut (Bayrut al-liqa', 1981) by Borhane Alaouie, Lay la and the Wolves (Layla wa-1-dhi'ab, 1984) by Heiny Srour, and The Razor's Edge (Ghazal al-banat, 1985) by Jocelyne Saab. For all its artistic qualities and its refusal of mere industrial forms of production, the so-called New Arab Cinema is not at all independent. The system of financing with cultural funds and the support of television channels, which is common in Europe, exists in the Arab countries only to a small degree. Television stations are normally run by the state and serve as an official mouthpiece. With the exception of the Algerian RTA, which produced Assia Djebar's experimental semi-documentary, The Nuba of the Women of Mont Chenoua (La nouba des femmes de Mont Chenoua, 1976) and Farouk Beloufa's Nahla (1979), which are among the most outstanding examples of Algerian cinema d'auteur, no Arab television station has offered any help to native art-cinema. On the contrary, critical and unconventional films are heavily censored before broadcasting or not accepted at all. In order to finance their films, independent film makers have only two options: to rely either on public subsidies or on foreign

40

The History of Arab Cinema

producers. A feature film can hardly pay its own high production costs, primarily because the Arab countries suffer from a considerable lack of cinemas. In 1970 no more then 107 cinemas existed in Iraq.133 Six years later there were 322 movie-theaters in Algeria,134 and in 1991 only seventy-seven cinemas were running in Tunisia135 These numbers greatly surpass the UNESCO ideal of seventy cinemas per one million inhabitants.136 A comparison between Egypt and former West Germany, which has a comparably large population, provides some context. In 1983 West Germany possessed no less then 3,664 cinemas137 in contrast to Egypt, where in 1986 there were only 267.138 Public film organizations, as well as private producers, increasingly consider coproduction or the advance sale of European rights a good way to lower production costs and save hard currency. Although Pan-Arab cooperation might have been expected in this respect, coproductions between the competing Arab film industries and producers are in fact exceptional. Only Algerian organizations—the former ONCIC, the CAAIC, and the ENPA—turned out to be flexible. They coproduced two politically critical films by the Egyptian Youssef Chahine and various north- and black-African productions, including films by the two Tunisians Brahim Babai and Taieb Louhichi (Tayyib al-Wuhaishi). The Maghreb states, in particular Morocco, have many years of experience in coproduction. They have offered services mainly to foreign, primarily Western, producers and film makers. Images shot in the country by foreigners are seen as useful advertisements for tourism.139 In 1977, a new phase of coproduction started in Morocco with Blood Wedding (cUrs al-damm) by Souheil Ben Baraka, adapted from Garcia Lorca's drama. This introduced the production of Moroccan films with the support of Western capital. Ben Baraka's preceding film, A Thousand and One Hands (1972), had been a commercial flop at home,140 but was highly considered at European festivals, giving Ben Baraka the chance to finance his work through coproduction. His films, however, became increasingly alienated from the Moroccan context, as he started using European actors to satisfy his Western audience. In The Petroleum War Will Not Take Place (Harb al-bitrul Ian taqac, 1975), he approached the style of an American political thriller. For a while, the film was denied screening permission in Morocco. More recently, Moroccan film makers such as Jilalli Ferhati, Mohamed Ben Abderrahmane Tazi, and Farida Ben Lyazid have managed to remain faithful to Moroccan themes and audiences at the same time as making use of foreign capital. The Tunisian SATPEC also offered services to foreign projects

Cinema artisanal and coproduction

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Halfaouine (Halfawin: cAsfur al-sath, Tunisia, 1989) by Ferid Boughedir

during the 1970s, but according to Ferid Boughedir, the results were disappointing to the organization. Some European producers embezzled the SATPEC's share in the profit and withheld its name in the credits. Fernando Arrabal's production Viva la muerte was one of the few successes. Arrabal paid back four of sixty million (old) francs to the SATPEC. According to Boughedir, who worked as an assistant in Arrabal's film, he did so only because he was planning another coproduction.141 As in Morocco, a new phase of coproduction has started in Tunisia, with an improvement of industrial structures and a rise in production. From 1980 to 1992, Tunisians produced twenty-six feature films, twice as many as in the preceding decade. Half of these were financed by coproduction.142 Only in three cases were the foreign partners Arab companies. Tunisian producers like Hassan Daldoul and Ahmed Attia have increasingly pre-sold rights to European television stations, mainly the German ZDF, French La Sept, and British Channel Four. Films financed in this way include Nouri Bouzid's Golden Horseshoes, Ferid Boughedir's Halfaouine, the short film sampler, The Gulf War and After (Harb al-khalidj wa bacd), and Chichkhan by Mahmoud Ben Mahmoud and Fadhel Jaibi (Fadil Djucaybi). On a technical level, Tunisian cinema has equaled Western standards. Ferid Boughedir's Halfaouine was so successful that it was not only broadcast abroad but released in the cinemas of several European countries.

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The History of Arab Cinema

The Tunisian police film Chichkhan (Shish Khan; Poussiere de diamants, 1991) is an example of the negative effects European financing has on style and content. Although the story is set in Tunisia, the Italian mafia is as much present as the protagonist's entirely European way of life. A connection with Tunisia can only be seen in language and setting. The rest is a multicultural assortment that, ironically, was not appreciated by European audiences. In other coproductions, adapting to consumers outside the Arab countries is more subtle. Although the Tunisian Nacer Khemir works hard to employ elements of classical Arab-Muslim culture in his film The Lost Necklace of the Dove (Tauq al-hamama al-mafqud, 1990), by quoting and alluding to Arab visual art and literature, his representation can also be seen as a colorful and exotic Thousand-and-OneNights picture-book. Similarly, Boughedir's Halfaouine (Haifawin; cUsfur al-sath, literally, 'the bird on the roof,' 1989) contains numerous exotic and folkloristic elements. The director uses the awakening sexual curiosity of his adolescent protagonist to introduce the observer into the 'mysterious' world of Arab women, to which, according to the film, men have no access. The images of the Turkish bath in particular are reminiscent of the harem subjects of nineteenth century orientalist painting in Europe. Buyers' requirements also greatly influence the arrangement of products. Gulf money coming into Egyptian cinema since the 1970s has brought with it a noticeable prudishness. Egyptian film makers and producers have gone to great lengths to satisfy particularly the extremely conservative censorship of Saudi Arabia. While Hussein Kamal's My Father Is up the Tree (Abi fauq al-shadjara) drew crowds in 1969 because of its supposedly 100 kisses, today there is hardly a single kiss to be seen. However, in the 1990s an increasing Egyptian tendency toward European coproductions has also appeared. Apart from Youssef Chahine's most recent spectacles, The Emigrant (al-Muhagir, 1994) and Destiny (al-Masir, 1997), the projects of young directors such as Yousry Nasrallah, Asma' al-Bakri, Radwan al-Kashif, Khalid alHaggar, and cAtif Hatata have received Western support. However, European coproductions tend to be less successful at the box office than native commercial films, particularly in Egypt. At the same time, coproduced films have succeeded in representing Arab cinema abroad while marginalizing Arab mainstream cinema, not in quantity but in terms of quality and evaluation. In this way, Western hegemony over regional productions has been reinforced on the financial and on the ideological levels. Today, it is primarily the

Diversification in the satellite era

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Western audience, curators, and producers who are in a position to evaluate and define the international status of Arab films.

Diversification in the satellite era In Egypt, the interest in coproductions is related to the most recent crisis of a film industry whose production rates have fallen dangerously: eighteen full-length feature films in 1994, twenty-five in 1995 and twenty-two in 1996, from an average of around sixty a year at the end of the 1980s. The industry's chronic lack of investment has been exacerbated by a sudden growth in the electronic entertainment industry. In 1994 alone, five television productions were released in movie theaters, competing heavily with film industry products. This boom, which also affects the advertisement sector, has caused a serious shortage of studios, equipment, and technicians. In 1995, 80 percent of cinema studios were rented to television and advertisement productions. One reason behind this situation is the advent of satellite television in the early 1990s. Two dozen Arab channels, including those of the Egyptian ERTU (Egyptian Radio and TV Union), are run in the Arab world and Europe and in the last few years have multiplied the need for new Arab programs. The film industry, however, is unable to profit from this development. Due to insufficient trade regulations, Egyptian movies are sold and aired for ridiculous prices, mostly just a few hundred US dollars, thus seriously undermining future production. Not only Egyptian cinema is struck by a deep crisis. Because of the persisting trade boycott on Iraq, it has become almost impossible for Iraqis to obtain raw stock in order to shoot films. The last Algerian full-length feature film, Bab El-Oued City (Bab al-Wad Huma) by Merzak Allouache, was made in 1994, and its shooting in Algiers took place under very difficult security conditions. Since then, with most Algerian cineastes sentenced to death by the Islamists and voluntarily exiled, local production has come to an almost complete halt. However, the 1990s have also been characterized by an immense diversification of the social-groups represented. In 1995, one of the first Berber-language films, Machaho (Once upon a time, 1995) by the Algerian Belkacem Hadjadj, was released in France. Two years earlier, A Silent Traveler (1993) by the Iraqi-Kurd Ibrahim Salman, was produced in the Netherlands and shot in Greece. This is the first full-length fiction film by an Iraqi director to use Kurdish for its dialogue and to address Arab-Iraqi repression in northern Iraq. New

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The History of Arab Cinema

The Mountain (al-Djabal, Palestine, 1991) by Hanna Elias (courtesy Institut du Monde Arabe, Paris)

directors also appeared in Israel and the occupied territories, including Hanna Elias,, Nizar Hassan, Norma Morcos, and Omar alQattan, most of whom are working on documentaries. Rashid Masharawi, however, gives a fictional insight into life in the refugee camps in The Curfew (Hatta ishcar akhar, 1993) and Haifa (1995). Elia Suleiman attempts in his short fiction Homage by Assassination (1992) and his full-length feature Chronicle of a Disappearance (1997) to deconstruct Western and Arab discourses related to Palestinians. In Egypt since 1987, Coptic directors have started to direct religious feature films, most of which are produced by the Coptic Orthodox Church and a few by Protestant institutions. The majority of the sixteen such films made by the end of 1996 portray the lives and ordeals of Egyptian saints and martyrs. They are supposed to be distributed only within the churches, thus creating a sort of confessional counter public. In terms of diversification, Lebanon has undergone the most extraordinary development. Several feature film coproductions and dozens of short films have been shot, mostly on video, by young directors from various religious and ethnic backgrounds, including Lebanese-

Diversification in the satellite era

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Armenians. Examples are the documentary portrayals by Mohamed Soueid and Jayce Salloum's film essays such as This Is Not Beirut (Hadha laysat Bayrut,. 1994). Most recent features are characterized by visual and narrative experimentation, such as Dima al-Joundi's Between You and Me, Beirut (Bayni wa baynik Bayrut, 1992), Jean Claude Codsi's (Qudsi) The Time Has Come (An al-awan, 1994), and Samir Habashi's The Tornado (al-Icsar, 1994). They are all inspired by painful experiences of civil war and returning to a destroyed Lebanon. This diversification and the appearance of directors representing hitherto marginalized ethnic or religious groups indicates on the ideological level a further disintegration of the common notion of nationhood and Unitarian nationalism. It does not necessarily signify greater pluralism or democracy, for in part it accompanies emergence of counter-nationalisms, i.e., sectarian, confessional, or ethnic identities engendered by the exclusive and at times violent nationalist politics of some Arab governments.143

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ARTISTIC ROOTS OF ARAB CINEMA

Image and symbolic arrangement Image and Islam "A day you don't set eyes on a photograph is as rare as a day you don't get sight of something written," states Victor Burgin.1 The statement is certainly true of any Arab country. Where in former times images of man and beast were regarded as taboo, all sorts of reproductions are now common in daily life. Walking through any large Arab city, you see huge posters and advertising hoardings. Products and packages carry all sorts of images. Even the rulers of the most conservative Arab states allow themselves to be photographed and their image to be widely distributed. Today in the Arab world the audio-visual media represent the most important means of leisure, even though the first Arab television programs were broadcast only in the 1960s.2 Images from around the world penetrate private spheres that were once carefully hidden from the public. Many women of the Arab peninsula, still living in the secluded world of their ancestors, are confronted today with the celluloid copies of screen goddesses from Cairo and Hollywood, and probably make comparisons. Clearly, as Mohamed Aziza puts it, the "process of modernization amounts to the process of acquiring new images."3 But how, to take up a formulation of Mostefa Lacheraf, was visual technical reproduction with all its effects absorbed and digested in a culture that knew neither the modern painting, the animated, nor the fixed image?4 Unlike the Western tradition of painting, Islamic art did not attach

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Artistic Roots of Arab Cinema

much importance to spatial illustration and reproduction,5 and preferred abstract representation.6 Religiously motivated Islamic iconoclasm, prohibiting the depiction of creatures—man and beast, who, unlike plants, carry a 'soul'7—was in principal made responsible for this preference. The Quran itself does not contain unequivocal instructions on the subject. The few verses Muslim legal scholars refer to in their interpretation (sura 34, verses 12-13 and sura 3, verse 43) mainly emphasize God's creative ability (musawwar). In sura 5, verse 92, the faithful are advised to keep away from images, which are works of Satan. However, the images referred to here are literally graven images and idols (asnam)., and the reference is therefore to the practices of pre-Islamic paganism. It seems that there are social and political factors behind the prohibition. As Oleg Grabar indicates, the explicit prohibition of images expressed in some sayings of the Prophet (hadiths) was finally established only in the middle of the eighth century, after the Muslim conquests.8 This was a period when the new faith was fighting for its cultural recognition and to avoid being assimilated into the culture of the recently conquered regions of the former Byzantine empire. The Muslim encounter with the imposing monuments and art of the countries of the Fertile Crescent seems to have produced first admiration and imitation (for example the construction of the Dome in Jerusalem), then an ideologically motivated refusal. As Grabar puts it, "to a Muslim of the early eighth century, images were one of the most characteristic, and in part hateful aspects of Christianity."9 In the time that followed, the illustrative artist was defamed as one who competes with God. One hadith speaks of a heavy punishment awaiting the producer of images. Another one says that no angel will enter a house where images are kept (or where dogs live).10 The existence of a prohibition against images does not mean that no figurative illustrations were in fact made.11 The representation of living beings was common in some secular art, including book illustration, the decoration of private rooms, and arrangements of basic commodities such as textiles and carpets, and in some products of popular art. (Some examples of the latter are the Egyptian sugar dolls sold on the Prophet's birthday as well as wall paintings on the facades of farmhouses, painted on the occasion of its inhabitants' pilgrimage to Mecca.) The prohibition was also circumvented by showing corpses as shadows or by weaving them into a dense landscape or other scenery.12 Similarly, holes were pierced in the figurative dolls of shadow plays to destroy their corporality. It remains true, however, that figurative illustrations in Islamic culture did not form such an influential tradition as was the case in

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the West. Miniatures and wall paintings were not accessible to everybody, but confined to the private use of wealthy people. Unlike in medieval Europe, where paintings reached the people through churches and had a definite pedagogic and indoctrinating function, mosques and Quran schools, until today, use only decorative ornaments and calligraphy.13 Given this state of affairs, it is remarkable that the photographic image was so easily accepted in the Muslim countries. Religious objections were minor, with the exception of those put forward in Saudi Arabia. The legal scholars (culama') of al-Azhar University in Egypt protested in 1927 when the actor and director Yusuf Wahbi announced his intention to assume the role of the Prophet on screen.14 In 1930 they objected again for similar reasons,15 resulting in a general and still valid prohibition against portraying the Prophet and the four righteous caliphs.16 Religious resistance was, however, far more concerned with moral issues and was directed largely against the moral contents of films and their representations. Subjected to particular criticism were erotic love and the consumption of alcohol. In Syria and Lebanon, Muslim organizations temporarily called for keeping women away from screenings. A panIslamic congress held in Karachi in 1952 even demanded that all Muslim states close down their cinemas, but no one followed the call.17 Only in Saudi Arabia are public screenings still forbidden, although television is allowed.18 That photographic illustration has not aroused any serious official religiously motivated disapproval is founded on two common religious justifications. One declares the photographic image to be a sign similar to a formula without any spatial characteristics, based on the following hadith: "Angels do not enter a house where an image is stored except if it is a sign on fabric" (inna al-mala'ika la tadkhulu bay tan fih suratun ilia raqamun fi thaubin).19 In analogy to a pattern, photography is considered a sign and not a creation. The second justification also does not perceive photography as creating anew or giving a soul to things. It declares photography, and in the same way, 'moving images,' as a shadow, reinforcing the power of God, the creator, rather than competing with it.20 These were the arguments the Saudi Arabian King Ibn Saud (d. 1953) used in order to break the resistance of the culama' against photography. He told them photography is "nothing else than a combination of light and shadow presenting God's creation, without changing it."21 As the Saudi Arabian culama' could not find anything wrong with light or shadow, they finally gave in and allowed the use of photography.

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Cinematic conversion of indigenous fine arts Traditional Islamic principles of representation have rarely been applied to Arab cinema. The colorful non-spatial painting of miniatures and the ornamental rhythms of the arabesque, basically structured by light and shadow, almost never found their way to the screen. Nearly all Arab film makers stuck to classical rules of Western art instead. The rules of conventional Western composition were adhered to, even though the encounter with European art had started comparatively late. In Egypt, for example, the first modern art school opened only in 1908,22 a time when cinema was already on the advance. The twentieth century saw not only the spread of three-dimensional realist plastic art and central perspective, but also a confrontation with a new idea of art, based on the dichotomy between fine arts on the one hand and arts and crafts on the other. This conception promoted the artist as an individual genius, and further undermined the position of traditional arts and crafts genres, like miniatures in Algeria and calligraphy in Syria. Increasingly, these were either cultivated on the margins or completely integrated into modern art. The traditionally subdued position of art in the Arab countries may have contributed to the replacement of Islamic types of illustration. As traditional art was mainly supposed to serve decorative ends, it was, unlike poetry and music, seen as a craft. As such, it did not become a subject of theory and research.23 By becoming connected to an artistic elite, Arab fine arts came into conflict with native cinema, which was closer to popular than to elitist art, particularly in its early days. Probably for this reason, modern Arab art did not show any interest in the media and, conversely, film makers were not particularly preoccupied with refined visual aesthetics—unlike in Europe, where artists such as Hans Richter, Man Ray, and Fernand Leger introduced an artistic experimental cinema and helped to enlarge the aesthetic possibilities of the medium. Artistic directions, such as surrealism, futurism, and expressionism were expressed in cinema, and helped create a consciousness among European film makers of problems of visual representation. The first serious efforts in Arab cinema to pay particular attention to visual representation came at the end of the 1960s. The Egyptian set-designer and director Chadi Abdessalam decided that the preoccupation of the short-lived department of experimental film (Wahdat al-Film al-Tadjribi) should be the image. This department, of which he was appointed head in 1968, constituted an under-section of the public documentary film center. Abdessalam is still considered one of

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the most extraordinary Egyptian set- and costume-designers. He worked not only on native costume-films, like Saladin (al-Nasir Salah al-Din, 1963) by Youssef Chahine and Wa Islamah (O, Islam, 1961) by Andrew Marton, but also designed costumes for the Polish film Pharao and an episode of Rossellini's serial Mankind's Fight for Survival^ among others. The short films produced by Abdessalam's department were, with few exceptions, documentaries. Their most important innovation was that they did not comment on the images, a practice that until then had been considered obligatory in Egyptian documentaries. Now the image was supposed to carry the crucial information. Therefore, film makers of the department to whom cAtif al-Bakri, Samir cUf and Ibrahim al-Mugi belonged were submitted to fewer restrictions than usual in their consumption of raw stock for experiments at the Center. Abdessalam's short film, Horizons (Afaq, 1973), depicting without commentary a panorama of contemporary artistic activities in the country, is an example of this production mode. Abdessalam's first and only full-length feature, The Mummy (alMumya', also known as The Night of Counting the Years, 1969), applies indigenous principles of representation. These are drawn, however, from ancient Egyptian art, not Islamic. The film is set in the time of the archaeological discovery of the royal tombs near Thebes in 1881. Following the death of the chief of the Hurrabat tribe, his son Wanis learns that his tribe has been living for generations on robbing tombs. Wanis's older brother refuses to take part in the violation and is soon murdered on the orders of the tribe's elders. The younger brother is left helpless, torn between a sense of shame on the one hand and loyalty to his kinship on the other. He starts asking questions about his pharaonic ancestors. He does not know their history, nor is he able to decipher the signs that they have left on the walls of the old temples. When he discovers that the archaeologists investigating the area do have this knowledge, he decides to betray to them the whereabouts of the tombs. The Mummy treats the relation between contemporary Egyptians and their ancient culture allegorically. The protagonist's wish to take up the challenge of his past is met on the level of visual representation as on other levels. The clear and strict composition of images refers to the monumental statics of old Egyptian sculptures and paintings. The same effect is achieved by the spare, dignified movements of the actors, their relief-like arrangement in front of the rocks, the desert, or in buildings. The use of classical Arabic, which is unusual in Egyptian cinema, reinforces on the linguistic level the impression of monumentalism. However, the visual allusion to past

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The Mummy (al-Mumya', also known as The Night of Counting the Years, 1969) by Chadi Abdessalam

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greatness is not shallow glorification, for it is starkly contradicted on the level of the narration by the painful loss of that very past. By using pre-Islamic artistic traditions for cinema, Abdessalam's work corresponds, on the ideological level, to the pharaonism movement of the 1920s and 1930s, represented among others by the writer Taha Husain and the sculptor Mahmud Mukhtar.24 Abdessalam's artistic starting-point, however, found no successor in Egypt. His next project, on the pharaonic heretic and philosopher Akhenaten, was never realized despite many years of intensive preparation and research. After the partial reprivatization of the film industry and up to the director's death in 1986, no Egyptian producer was ready to finance .Chadi Abdessalam's expensive project. An attempt to make use of the Islamic heritage in visual representation in cinema has so far been made only by the Tunisian Nacer Khemir. In his films Wanderers in the Desert (al-Ha'imun fi-1-sahra'; Les baliseurs du desert, 1984) and The Lost Necklace of the Dove (1990), Khemir revives the legendary Moorish Andalusia. The images he chooses reflect a decisive characteristic of parts of ArabIslamic representation: while the world outside, the landscape and the external appearance of Muslim cities, is characterized by the monotony of the desert and the omnipresence of dust, the interiors and objects of daily life are colorfully decorated.25 Khemir contrasts the clay architecture of an old city in the south of Tunisia with the rich and nuanced colors of the costumes and the tastefully decorated furniture. Particularly in The Lost Necklace of the Dove, Khemir draws on the rich colors of Islamic miniatures, whose variety is enormous. The colored inks of this art form possessed "a range far surpassing our own usual supply of black, blue, or red, and extending to the color of peacocks, of the rose, pistachio and apricot; also ruby red, purple, green, yellow, and white, in addition to many mysterious inks of special qualities whose colors cannot be easily surmised."26 Apart from this careful use of colors, Khemir also exploits the nonspatial qualities of the miniature in his arrangement of film images. This is true for The Lost Necklace of the Dove and for Wanderers in the Desert. According to Khemir, the latter "breaks with traditional Arab cinema, because it is fabricated like a miniature and does not represent a copy of reality."27 In fact Khemir uses miniature paintings as models for set, costumes, and even for the narration, just as miniatures were used to illustrate fictional stories and to depict mythical creatures. This vein of fantasy is translated by the director into fairytale like stories.

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m r/ze Desert (al-Ha'imun fi-1-sahra'; Les baliseurs du desert, Tunisia, 1984) by Nacer Khemir (courtesy Institut du Monde Arabe, Paris)

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In his two feature films, Khemir pays special attention to the correlation between image and language, by questioning the functionalization of the image by language, so common in Arab cinema. Instead of doing a visual 'translation' of political or daily-life linguistic usage, he searches for images that might change linguistic meaning, that could alter the connotations of certain notions. "If we speak of a garden or a palace, it is translated mentally into park and castle."28 Saying the words 'palace' and 'garden' today, most Arabic speakers will hardly imagine the architecture of an Arab palace or the arrangement of an Andalusian garden, but will rather imagine European parks and castles. Khemir's films aim to provide the audience with these lost visual images, to be "a sort of real mirror for what certain texts can say."29

Reality and film image With its preference for abstraction, Islamic art does not equate art and reality, as the ornament shows. The ornament or 'arabesque,' as it was first called during the Renaissance,30 is regarded as the most 'authentic' of all Islamic art genres. The application of the abstract principle of geometry and the work with contrasts, light and shadow, as well as the arbitrariness of the decorated object, give way to rhythmicality and infinite growth of forms.31 In the rhythmic ornament, space rests unrestricted, beginning and ending are intertwined, the contradictions between light and shadow, up and down, are indissolubly connected. Rather than the ornament being bound to a finite vanishing point, the transition to the infinite seems open. The ornament is neither meant to symbolize reality nor to express a concrete metaphysical conclusion. Even during the early days of Islam, Islamic art neglected iconographic significance and chose the peripheral to become the main focus of its artistic representation.32 Thus, the abstraction of the Islamic ornament "is not like a chemical formula, the simplified symbolization of some reality; like certain mathematical abstractions, it is a reality in itself."33 It is because of Islamic art's distance from reality and its refusal of figurative spatial representation that its principles were hardly applied in cinema. Unlike the mechanical photographic image, they are not related to the real. A photograph "presents a pattern of light and shadow . . . showing a strong analogy to the structure of objects that were situated in front of the camera while photographing."34 The 'figurative code'35 resulting from the analogy to the real contributes to 'naturalize' the represented and seduces the audience to equate reality and image.

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The discovery of the central perspective is one of the most important achievements of the European Renaissance and is generally regarded as the first step toward the principle of photography. It constitutes the basis of the figurative code and contributes decisively to the spatial impression of an illustration. Central perspective creates a precisely defined relation between observer and the subject of an image. It helps the observer to assume the represented distances and proportions correctly and at the same time suggests the existence of only one possible point of view. The vanishing point of the image bundles the view of the observer and ties it to a standpoint outside the represented. Hence, one might say that the idea of a space defined by perspective promotes the analytical, 'objective' view and asserts the division between subject and object. "It creates for the—in a way egocentric—observer, who has to fend for himself, an environment that is apparently independent of him. It confronts him with appearances that seem like inanimate objects."36 It gives him not only the feeling that he comprehends reality completely, but also a sense that he is able to control it. The analogy between reality and photography gives the false impression that film images have no significances deviating from the original. Thus, the symbolic potential hiding behind this apparently objective figurative procedure of representation is neglected. The 'rhetorics of the image' formulated by Roland Barthes clarify that not only paintings, but also cinema and photography are equipped with a variety of signs that may be connotated or read. Significance of meaning is produced already by choosing a certain part for an image or a particular time for photographing or shooting.37

The significance of space A beautiful young woman wearing a rural dress escapes through a night landscape. In a great hurry, she storms through fields and meadows, forges ahead in the brushwood. The wind brushes through leaves and branches flickering in the moonlight. Their rustling startles the fugitive. The strong movement of the trees seems menacing, as if someone might step out of their shadow at any moment and block the way of the defenseless woman. The peculiar life of its own that space develops here in Youssef Chahine's Carmen adaptation Lovers' Call (Nida' al-cushshaq, 1960) is a rarity in commercial Arab cinema. More characteristic of many mainstream directors is the conception of photographic image as a pure analogy of the real, bare of any specific significance. Expressive spatial arrangements are exceptional, as are still lives of landscapes,

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inner rooms, or objects. Space, in the sense of milieu or environment, is often used as a simple sign indicating historical or geographic conditions or the social status of characters. Its application as a carrier of atmosphere is restricted to superficial expression without symbolic depth. Love scenes in Egyptian cinema are a good example. Ever since the musicals of singer and musician Muhammad cAbd alWahhab, romantic rendezvous take place on a boat on the Nile, in a park, or in a garden cafe close to the water. One of the most successful Egyptian works of 1991, al-Kitkat, directed by the New Realist Daoud Abd El-Sayyed, an adaptation of Ibrahim Asian's novel Malik al-hazin, is set in the alleys of al-Kitkat in the poor Cairo neighborhood of Imbaba. The blind Shaykh Husni owns an old house there in which several people show economic interest. Yusuf, Husni's son for example, wants to finance his emigration by selling it, whereas the neighbor, a wealthy butcher, dreams of pulling it down and putting up a more profitable building in its place. But to everybody's displeasure, it turns out that Shaykh Husni has pawned his house to a drug-dealer in exchange for a daily supply of hashish. In spite of, or just because of, his handicap, Shaykh Husni succeeds in playing off all parties against each other and denounces their selfish intentions to the whole neighborhood. The alley, with its houses, cafes and shops—which, incidentally, were entirely built in the studio—is closely connected to the action. Its cramped, overpopulated dwellings, its dirty, narrow passages used by the women as kitchen and laundry, the ruins where men drink away their grief at night, and the small garage in which Shaykh Husni and his friends meet secretly to smoke hashish, define the social roles and behavior of the protagonists. Space first of all reflects social conditions, but is never related to a character's psychology. The protagonists' relation to their spatial environment depends mainly on 'objective' measurement and does not go beyond the usage of functional daily life. Space has no life of its own, and nowhere corresponds to the protagonists' subjective perceptions. A slightly different understanding of space is found in films directed by the Algerian Mohamed Lakhdar Hamina. In Chronicle of the Years of Embers (Waqa'ic sanawat al-djamr, 1974), shot in cinemascope, the relation between characters and space is also socially defined, but is marked by a much more intensive correlation than in al-Kitkat. The film opens with ragged peasants standing on their dusty barren land waiting for the rain. The long takes of the cracked and parched earth in the glaring sunlight, of cattle dying of thirst, and of the strained faces of a peasant and his child create deep tension. In one of the next sequences, a peasant's large family is

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Chronicle of the Years of Embers (Waqa'ic sanawat al-djamr, Algeria, 1974) by Mohamed Lakhdar Hamina (ONCIC (former)/Ministry of Culture, Algiers')

gathered at night in its poor clay hut. The only sound is that of the father whetting a tool, while the others crouch silently on the floor. A child gets up and approaches the water bag, wanting to open it. But the heavy bag slips away. Its precious contents pour out on the floor. The depressing atmosphere created by the images of the silent family reaches its peak in losing the water. It is further stressed by the meager furnishings and the dark colors. In Chronicle of the Years of Embers man's environment is not merely a shallow backdrop; rather the film dramatizes the social and environmental conditions of its characters in a highly visual manner. Another, unconventional, use of space, can be observed in Golden Horseshoes (Safa'ih min dhahab, 1989) by the Tunisian Nouri Bouzid. A political prisoner returns to his parents' house after several years of detention. During his night walk through the barely lit rooms and inner yards, he meets its former inhabitants. The homecomer tries to speak to them, to take up common reminiscences. But the

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Sama (The Trace, Tunisia, 1982) by Nejia Ben Mabrouk

figures soon vanish again. They are not flesh and blood, but visions emanating from his memory. The domestic setting of this film embodies a deeper and far more multi-layered meaning than exists, for example, in al-Kitkat or in Chronicle of the Years of Embers. The deserted building visited by the protagonist immediately after his release from prison signifies more than a past home. It rather corresponds to his feelings. His walk through its rooms stands for an attempted return to himself and to his life before his imprisonment. The use of space as an expression of the psychological condition of characters is well known in Western literature and film art. Symbols of this sort are said to be metonymically motivated. The use of the beautiful but eery city of Venice as a symbol of death belongs to this sort of symbolic creation, as in Visconti's Death in Venice (1971) among others.38 The inclusion of metonymically motivated symbolism proves a differentiated comprehension of the image and the mise en scene. In Arab film making it appears mainly in the cinema d'auteur, for example in Sama (The Trace, 1982) by the Tunisian director Nejia Ben Mabrouk. Ben Mabrouk's film tells the story of a young girl, Sabra, who tries to escape the restriction of her family. Sabra spends her childhood in a small provincial house where she has to stay most of the day because she is not allowed to play on the street. The openings of the house define Sabra's relation to the world outside. They open the view onto the world of her father and brothers outdoors and at the same time, protect her from the looks of strangers that could intrude into the family's intimate (female) realm. Thus, the house is always dark. The shuttered windows allow sunlight in as a small, unobtrusive spot at the most. Darkness inside contrasts sharply with the exterior dominated by glaring sunlight that almost blinds Sabra on the rare occasions when she goes out.

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Time passes and Sabra is about to take her school leaving exam and has therefore to move to the capital. After much effort, her mother manages to find some poor accommodation for her. The room she rents in the Casbah (old city) is a dark and gloomy dungeon without windows or electric lights. Locked up with her books in this depressing room and constantly observed by her suspicious landlady the young woman almost suffocates. In this way, the spatial environment corresponds to the inner feelings of the protagonist.

The power of symbols Like figurative illustration, the use of symbols is not common in traditional Arab Islamic art. Symbolic representation, though not allegory, is uncommon not only in the fine arts but also in literary genres like classical poetry. Although Arab poetry is rich with 'images' and metaphors—for a long time it was expected that each verse should contain a complete image39—poets rarely created any meaningful symbolism. Sufi poetry is the only exception, symbolically transferring topics and images of ordinary love poetry to the believer's love toward the Almighty.40 Only Arab fiction and poetry that evolved at the beginning of this century opened up to symbols and mythologies, European, ancient, and indigenous, and integrated them into literary creations.41 In the course of the 1950s, a further development took place,42 touching genres like the realist novel, which started to make intensive use of the myth in particular.43 Via the realist novel various symbols flowed into Arab cinema, as in the Syrian adaptations of the work of the Palestinian realist Ghassan Kanafani, The Knife (al-Sikkin, 1972) by Khaled Hamada, and The Duped (al-Makhducun) by Taufik Salih. The functional spatial arrangement of Arab cinema is juxtaposed with a similarly functional symbolism. Most of its symbols belong either to the metaphorical or the synecdochic type. In the first, an image or an action represents something else, whereas in the latter, one single part represents the whole, as one peasant stands as a representative for his entire class.44 Moreover, in cinema as in literature, the symbolic meaning of an action or an image emerges from the total context. "All filmic connotations result from appropriate associations between different elements of the film . . ., whether they are elements contained in different images (montage), or whether they figure the same 'shot' but succeed one another (camera movement), or whether finally they are in the same shot simultaneously (sometimes called 'editing in the camera')."45

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Muhammad cAbd al-Wahhab in The White Rose (al-Warda al-bayda', Egypt, 1933/34) by Muhammad Karim (courtesy Cultural Fund, Ministry of Culture, Cairo)

Many Arab films connect different elements in a rather unequivocal way in order to fix the symbol's meaning to an unambiguous statement. Such metaphorical symbolism can be observed in an early Egyptian work, the first musical starring Muhammad cAbd alWahhab, The White Rose (al-Warda al-bayda', 1933/34) by Muhammad Karim. The young protagonist (cAbd al-Wahhab) is presented a rose by the daughter of his wealthy employer after he helps her in the garden to collect the pearls of her torn necklace. In the following scene, the young man returns home holding the white rose in his hands and starts to sing, while the girl is shown stringing the white pearls. The objects, i.e., their images, white rose and bright pearls, are thus connected to the protagonists. Moreover, the relation of the characters is defined, as the course of the action shows, through the image of the white rose. In spite of the immense love he feels and even after his ascent as an acclaimed singer, the poor employee relinquishes his desire to ask for his beloved's hand in marriage because of his own inferior social position. Thus, the white rose evokes (in contrast to the red rose) the idea of pure love, innocent of selfish (sexual) intentions. In order to express this meaning, director Muhammad Karim is not satisfied to connect images alone, but calls in an additional and even more unambiguous means of expression, the words of the song "Ya wardat al-hubb al-

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safi" (Oh, rose of pure love), sung by cAbd al-Wahhab while holding the rose in his hands. There is a huge number of films with such unambiguous symbolism. In Youssef Chahine's The Sparrow (al-cUsfur, 1971), set a short while before and during the Six Day War in June 1967, the protagonist, Bahiya, makes several friends, including a young police officer and a journalist. They use Bahiya's house as meeting point, and together they try to uncover a circle of black marketeers who are responsible for the theft of machines from public companies. The trail begins to lead to the highest official levels. During the inquiries, war starts. The friends worriedly follow developments. When, after the defeat, Nasser announces his resignation, Bahiya is the first to hurry out into the street, leading the crowds of demonstrators pleading for their leader to stay. Bahiya is characterized as a kind and upright mother figure who surrounds her friends with care. As the leader of the masses protesting against Nasser's resignation, she collects the few patriots, offers them shelter, and demands a strong national leadership. Bahiya is an ideal figure, a symbol of motherly Egypt. The image of Egypt as a generous, nourishing mother is widespread—"Misr umm al-dunya" ('Egypt is the mother of the world'). Yet, the film also makes it clear that Bahiya represents Egypt in a metaphorical sense: "Masr, ya amma ya bahiya" (colloquial: 'oh, beautiful mother Egypt') are the words of a patriotic song by Sayyid Darwish that introduces the whole film. In Sejnane (1974), the Tunisian director Abdellatif Ben Ammar draws a symbolic connection between the oppression of women in patriarchal society and political colonialism. The story is set in 1952 on the eve of national independence and tells of Kamil, a young highschool student, whose father has become the victim of a politically motivated murder. His father's death leads Kamil to take part in the resistance against French occupation. As a result he is expelled from school, and starts working in a printshop, where he becomes acquainted with Anissa, his employer's daughter. She is drawn to Kamil but is promised by her parents to a man twice her age. Unused to questioning her parents' authority, she accepts her fate. Kamil intensifies his involvement with the workers and the resistance movement, and the film ends with Anissa's wedding shown simultaneously with a scene in which Kamil and his comrades are killed by a hail of bullets from the French army. The bride's defloration is undercut with images of dying rebels. The synecdochic symbolisms of the two strings of action combine to equate patriarchal family structure with murderous colonialism and vice versa.

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The Knife (al-Sikkin, Syria, 1972) by Khaled Hamada (courtesy National Film Organization, Damascus)

Synecdochic and metaphorical symbols reduced to clear statements, as in The Sparrow and Sejnane, are found in the film production of most Arab countries after independence. They often take political or religious themes. In Khaled Hamada's film The Knife, an Arab informer forces a Palestinian girl to become his lover, while her brother decides to escape from Israeli occupation and leave his defenseless sister to the 'rapist.' The discourse of 'raped' Palestine stems from nationalist Pan-Arab rhetorics. In the Egyptian films Give My Heart Back! (Rudd qalbi, 1957) by c lzz al-Din zul-Fiqar and A Man in Our House (Fi baytina radjul, 1961) by Henri Barakat, a young officer from a poor family and a young resistance fighter respectively represent the new order. In Men under the Sun (Ridjal taht al-shams, Syria, 1970), an episode film by, among others, Nabil Maleh, a Palestinian child born in difficult conditions during the flight from the occupiers symbolizes the persistence and decisiveness of his parents, who synecdochically represent his nation as a whole. In Lakhdar Hamina's Chronicle of the Years of Embers, a poor rural family represents the Algerian nation as it lives through the different periods of French colonialism. The juxtaposition of symbols and literal meaning and their subordination to political metaphorism prevailing in the rhetorics of nationalist and socialist leaderships is a clear characteristic of some mainstream and most realist anti-colonial cinema. This tendency may

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be partly rooted in the lack of symbolic representation in pre-colonial Islamic culture but has certainly been strengthened by the authoritarian and didactic concepts of nationalist and revolutionary film making. However, these concepts have been challenged over the last two decades by some critical representatives of the emerging cinema d'auteur, most notably in the work of intellectual Maghrebi directors whose skepticism of the dominating authoritarian and patriarchal system is expressed in the release of symbols into a multitude of meanings. Accordingly, the relation of the individual to image and space is no longer functionally defined but rather subjective and nonconformist, and feeds into a partly deconstructive individualism hostile to any political unitarianism.

The theater The shadow play A plane crashes in the desert; survivors appear from behind the dunes. A tiny uninhabited oasis lies in front of them. What follows is The Beginning (al-Bidaya, 1986), a twelve character piece on capitalism and stalled democracy. The new beginning that the passengers have in this isolated oasis ends with a one-man dictatorship. The businessman skillfully manipulates his companions, and has soon seized possession of the whole oasis with all its food supplies. From now on, the passengers have to serve only his interests. The resistance of a young rebel is soon broken, and only the rescue helicopter that finally succeeds in finding the victims brings salvation from this nightmare. The Beginning, a satire by the early master of realist cinema, the Egyptian Salah Abu Seif, unfolds a good deal of its comedy in the theatrical performance of its protagonists. Costumes, as well as the actors' exaggerated gestures and facial expressions bring out, in a caricatural manner, the major characteristics of their personalities: the greedy businessman with his attache case, the simple peasant in his traditional galabiya., the poor rebellious young man dressed in blue jeans, and the opportunist female doctor wearing thick glasses. They are supposed to represent a cross-section of Egyptian society. Their acting is not intended to portray their psychological states, but to underline their social roles. The plot is only superficially integrated with the oasis setting. At no point does it reflect the inner life of the characters. They are like puppets moving against a colored backdrop.

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The Beginning (al-Bidaya, Egypt, 1986) by Salah Abu Self

The viewer looking for cinematic variety achieved by movement, rhythm, complex spatiality, or atmospheric visual arrangements, will be disappointed. The Beginning presents itself as a piece of illustrated speech theater. Salah Abu Seif s way of handling film is nothing unusual, as it has occurred repeatedly in many Arab films of a commercial cut. In one of his earlier realist films, The Second Wife (al-Zaudja althaniya, 1967), Salah Abu Seif himself pointed out the tradition from which his style is drawn. In the prologue of the film, a traveling entertainer sets up his sunduq al-dunya,46 inviting bystanders to hear his performance, a folk tale, and to watch the accompanying pictures in the box. In the following sequence, Abu Seif introduces his characters first in an animation before shifting to the performance of real actors, thus clearly juxtaposing his film style with the schematized repertory of folk tales. The film goes on to tell the story of an old village mayor, married but childless, who wishes to have an heir to his fortune. He falls in love with the pretty young wife of a poor peasant, who has already given birth to several children and seems to suit the mayor's plans to remarry. When she does not bow to his wishes voluntarily, he tries to blackmail her. He accuses her husband of theft and demands as a

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The Second Wife (al-Zaudja al-thaniya, Egypt, 1967) by Salah Abu Seif (courtesy Muhammad Bakr, photogapher, Cairo)

service in return for his exoneration the divorce of the couple. After a failed escape together, husband and wife accept their fate. The young peasant's wife is married to the mayor against her will, and looks for revenge. She uses the jealousy of his first wife skillfully in order to prevent him from consummating and enjoying his new marriage. When she becomes pregnant by her former husband, the mayor has to recognize that he has lost the game. Inwardly broken, he falls ill and dies. The young peasant woman is reunited with her family, and her child inherits the old man's fortune. Just as in a folk tale, the clever poor outwit the influential and selfrighteous wealthy. The characterization of the figures is similar to that of The Beginning, with stereotyped models defined mainly by their social affiliations. In style and construction, the film refers clearly to the popular narrative scheme set up in its prologue. Sunduq al-dunya relies on schematized, visually abstracted figures, and partly improvised dialogues. It is closely related to the much older and formerly widespread shadow play (khayal al-zil), which is one of the oldest predecessors of theater in the region. Performances were generally accompanied by music47 and presented at private celebrations, on religious holidays and in cafes.48 Normally, the

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figures were made of slightly transparent pieces of leather fixed to long sticks, whose silhouettes were reflected on an illuminated screen. As marionettes and three-dimensional puppets were almost unknown in the Middle East and North Africa,49 the shadow play must be considered the nearest native equivalent to 'puppet' theater. Since shadow play figures, like puppets, cannot make facial expressions or use mimesis, there is little individuality or ambiguity in these performances. The figures are largely prototypes, through which general experiences and knowledge are more easily conveyed than individual ones. Their grotesque characteristics are intensified by their stereotyped, frozen facial expression and by the obvious contradiction between constant movement and actual inanimation.50 Originating in India, shadow play probably first came to the Middle East via Iraq,51 and from there spread to other Arab countries. The earliest written records we have of popular shadow plays, such as the "Crocodile Play" (Licbat al-timsah) and "Alien and Strange" (Gharib wa cadjib), are from fourteenth century Egypt and are very expressive of that environment.52 The form of "Alien and Strange" shows similarities to a classical literary genre, the maqama. During the Ottoman period, Arab shadow play received a new impetus from Turkish Karagoz (Arabic: karakuz or karadjuz), although the Turkish shadow play is probably itself based on the Arab model. Karagoz, which in Turkish literally means 'black eye,' presumably comes from the Arabic Qaraqush, the name of a dreaded comrade-in-arms of Saladin. Qaraqush soon became the subject of Egyptian shadow plays and to this day remains a synonym for arbitrary, unjust despotism.53 From the beginning of the twentieth century, with the introduction of modern theater and cinema, the traditional shadow play has been increasingly threatened with oblivion. Shadow plays may however have contributed greatly to the easy acceptance and spread of cinema in the region. Elements of popular theater are still present in mainstream cinema. Even very recent films like The Cock of the Walk (Dik al-barabir, 1993) by the Egyptian Hussein Kamal relate to puppet theater by using popular proverbs, plays-upon-words, suggestive remarks, and stereotypical overacting. This predilection for caricatural theatrical performances is not limited to Egypt and can be observed particularly in commercial comedies such as the films of Algerian comedian Rouiched or the Syrian Doureid Laham. Similar tendencies appear even in works that may be assigned to so-called New Arab cinema, including Halfaouine by the Tunisian Ferid Boughedir or The Search for My Wife's Husband (al-Bahth can zawdj imra'ati, 1994) by the Moroccan Mohamed Ben Abderrahmane Tazi.

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To some extent this persistence reflects the needs of a partly still illiterate mass audience. However, at least in Egypt, the exaggerated cliche-like style of performance and representation is also rooted in the commercial stardom system and the conditions of production connected to it. Successful films often shape a role, which the star then adopts in following narratives. The industry's exploitation and reproduction of certain topics and story-types lead to frequent repetitions and uniform performances. Stereotypes are often strengthened by characterizing figures by their social roles. This is not confined to farce and comedy, but is used also in realist cinema. It is a tendency that reflects the increasing loss of individuality in modern society.

Beginnings of Arab theater The influence of popular theater genres on cinema was first felt in Egypt, introducing elements of Karagoz, shadow play and fasl mudhik (comic scenes). Some of these genres, like the fasl mudhik, a sort of improvised sketch, were further influenced by European forms of theater, like commedia dell'arte and speech theater. No real dramatic theater developed in the Arab countries before the encounter with European theater. Simpler forms of mimesis were common, including the Shi'ite passion plays (tacziya), storytelling (alhaki), praising (madh), the Maghrebi round theater (masrah al-halaqa) performed at market places,54 and the reciting of maqama poetry. These genres involved the basics of mimicry55 and, with the exception of the maqama, are examples of popular art.56 The comic scene or fasl mudhik in particular, which is closely related to farce, is an important popular predecessor of modern Arab theater. In the middle of the eighteenth century, European travelers reported the existence in Egypt of small troupes, called muhabbazun, who performed the genre in public places and during private festivities. One of the plays observed in 1815 dealt with the exposing of a deceitful camel merchant, another told the story of a foolish European traveler who was led to believe in the generous hospitality of an Arab.57 At the end of the nineteenth century, the fasl mudhik assumed elements of the commedia dell'arte, which was introduced to the country by visiting Italian troupes.58 This means that until the nineteenth century the Arabic-speaking world did not possess a theater in the Western sense. Although Arab scholars and writers of the early Islamic age had access to the records of Greek drama, they did not make any use of it. The reason for this is most probably Greek drama's huge pantheon of gods, goddesses, and half-gods, which cannot easily be reconciled with Islamic

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monotheism. Another important factor may have been the incompatibility of Greek drama with the Islamic philosophy of life. Islam's conviction that man's fate is completely dependent on the will of the Creator, who is the source of all things, made the conflict between human beings and heavenly powers, an element so essential to Greek drama, seem irrelevant.59 The hero of the classic Western drama is an individualist. Spiritual conflicts and involvements with fate constitute his nature. He stands in eternal opposition to divine arbitrariness, to a hostile environment, or to other restrictions. This idea of a dramatic hero is not familiar to the Arab art of narration. Instead of conjuring up conflict between good and evil, known and unknown—indispensable elements in the structuring of drama—Arab poets took just one side, either extolling the pleasures of life or accepting death as an unalterable fate.60 Only rarely did Muslim authors arrange popular, but in their essence dramatic topics (sometimes originated in the pre-Islamic period), according to the principles of drama. An example is Madjnun and Lay la, whose story line resembles that of Romeo and Juliet. However, this does not mean that Arabic-Islamic literature did not engender any dramatic structures at all. It created, for example, the maqama, a fictional genre showing formal similarities to drama. The maqama, literally 'situation,' is considered the most important form of prose in classical Arabic literature and was often written in rhymes. Through the eyes of a fictive narrator, the author described different situations and adventures in the life of his hero.61 Certain scenes involve mimicry, where the protagonists are given monologues and dialogues that express their specific character.62 The maqama, though, had no strict construction like Greek drama and was not performed by actors. The development of a European-style theater in the Arab region started in the middle of the nineteenth century. In 1848 the Maronite Marun al-Naqqash presented the first Arab play in Beirut. It was an adaptation of The Miser by Moliere. Various Syrian and Lebanese writers and directors, who emigrated to Egypt, followed in his footsteps and Arabized a large number of French plays. Genuine Arab dramas, like the original and popular plays by the 'Egyptian Moliere,' Yacqub Sanuc, appeared at the beginning of the twentieth century. Egypt soon became the center of Arab theater. For decades it attracted many talented Syrian and Lebanese artists, leading to the fast growth of various troupes at the turn of the century. Without any state support, they remained largely dependent on the preferences of the audience, who, as quickly became apparent, had not much

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interest in a merely classical European repertoire. Similarly unsuccessful were the dramas of intellectual Egyptian writers such as Ahmad Shauqi, Taufiq al-Hakim, and Mahmud Taymur, published during World War I. By contrast the melodramas and comedies of Yusuf Wahbi, and the vaudevilles of actors Nagib al-Rihani and cAli al-Kassar were saturated with popular elements, and found a ready audience. They were usually accompanied by music, contained suggestive comic dialogues and a more scenic composition. Their characters were drawn from different sources, including the fasl mudhik, commedia dell'arte, shadow play, and Karagoz.63 "The popular theater in Egypt," wrote Landau in 1953, "remains to our day a mixture of the tradition of local humor and showmanship, with a strong flavor of West-European means of enlivening this local tradition. The result is somewhat suggestive of modern burlesque."64

Theater and cinema In most Arab countries, modern native theater developed much later than in Egypt. Syria and Lebanon, in spite of their achievements in translating and Arabizing Western dramas, took some time to recover from the continuous loss of talented artists. In Jordan and Iraq, the development of theater was considerably delayed by British occupation.65 In North Africa, interest in Arabic-language theater was expressed only after World War I, mainly because of French efforts to marginalize indigenous culture.66 Guest performances by Egyptian companies, like those of George Abyad in the 1930s, impelled native endeavors. Rashid Ksentini, for example, presented more then 100 sketches and plays and contributed decisively to the foundation of popular musical theater in Algeria.67 During the 1950s, the comedies and dramas of the Algerian Muhi'1-Din (Muhi al-Din Bash Tarzi) achieved great success,68 while in Tunisia the number of troupes increased drastically after independence, leading to the presentation of more than 500 plays between 1966 and 1971.69 In Egypt, the close relation between popular theater and native film making dates back to the 1920s. The first genuinely Egyptian production resulted from the activities of actors, actresses, and directors of theater. Muhammad Bayyumi's short film The Clerk (alBashkatib) was shot in 1922 and starred Amin cAttallah and his troupe. Lay la, the first widely acknowledged full-length feature film, was made on the initiative of the theater actress cAziza Amir. In 1930, the actor Yusuf Wahbi established the first small studio in Egypt. Plays with public appeal, like Nagib al-Rihani's Kish Kish Bey, were adapted for the screen, and in the course of the 1930s the stars

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Nagib al-Rihani (courtesy Muhammad Bakr, photographer, Cairo)

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c

Ali al-Kassar (courtesy Muhammad Bakr, photographer, Cairo)

of popular Egyptian theater, Nagib al-Rihani, cAli al-Kassar, and Yusuf Wahbi, had a great influence on the developing art of film making. During the pre-World War II era and shortly after the war they appeared in a large number of feature films, but their work was not confined to acting. They also contributed in writing the screenplays and dialogues of their films and, in the case of Wahbi, directed and produced as well. The closeness of some of these artists to folk art is illustrated by the example of cAli al-Kassar. "Continuing the activity of the farce performers and fasl mudhik enactors, al-Kassar had no regular theater of his own, but wandered about in various towns and villages, tuning the audiences' ears to the fine, sharp tongue of the Barbarin."70 In films like Seven o'Clock (al-Saca sabca, 1937) or Lend me Three Pounds! (Salifni talata gini, 1938), both directed by Togo Mizrahi, c Ali al-Kassar appears in the role of a black Nubian, cUthman cAbd al-Basit, the barbari.11 cUthman is a real Karagoz, a notoriously unlucky person, who gets off lightly only at the end of the film. In Seven o'Clock cUthman works as a messenger for a bank in Alexandria. One night, burglars break into his bedroom and steal a sum of money belonging to the bank. When, next morning, cUthman confesses the theft to his employer, he himself is suspected of having committed the crime. Clandestinely, he travels to Aswan in order to pawn a piece of land, but the police are already on his trail. Disguised

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as a peasant woman, cUthman drives back to Alexandria. On the train, he is hired as a servant to a lecherous old gentleman. cUthman is eventually exposed in his employer's house. On his way to the police station, the alarm clock rings. It is seven o'clock: it was all a dream. Several dramatically closed scenes decompose the whole, rather simple and point-oriented, narration. At the beginning of the film c Uthman loses his bicycle while running an errand. A young khawaga72 disappears with the bicycle, which cUthman had parked in front of the bank. cUthman finally finds his bicycle in front of another bank. He starts to recover it, but is stopped by a policeman who accuses him of theft. After some comings and goings, the real thief gets away and the Nubian start his errands again. Another sequence, no less extensive, follows a short while later. c Uthman gets drunk in a pub together with his friend George, a rather corpulent khawaga. The two set off tipsily for home, and manage to confuse the doors of their houses several times. When George eventually settles in his bed, cUthman enters the room and convinces him that he is actually in cUthman's bed. As cUthman is undressing, he hears his wife and mother-in-law screaming in the opposite building. In his underwear, he leaves the bedroom and walks into the neighboring house. There, he finds George in his apartment. But cUthman wonders what the women are doing in his friend's house. When the confusion is finally cleared up, George leaves c Uthman's flat, but gets lost on his way home. Although these events are supposed to prepare the ground for cUthman's dream of the burglars' break-in, the context is almost totally subverted because of the internal dynamics of the scene. The representation of the comic sketches seems more important than the preservation of a complete context. The character of the Nubian cUthman is comic, not only because of his naivety and the absurd situations he gets involved in, but also because of his ethnic description. His major characteristics are a specific dress and a strong Nubian-Sudanese accent. The same applies to some other secondary characters, who are also defined by religious or ethnic affiliation. In Seven o}Clock, the gigantic but kindhearted George and a thieving khawaga appear beside cUthman. Their appearance may be explained by the film's location, the cosmopolitan seaport of Alexandria, but comparable characters are found in other films shot in Cairo. In Niyazi Mustafa's Salama Is Fine (Salama fi khayr, 1937), Nagib al-Rihani plays a simple errand boy who slips, for a short while, into the role of a foreign prince. Unlike Seven o'Clock, this charming

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confusion comedy does not get lost in a number of sketches. The main plot is strictly subordinated to the theme of 'getting into trouble and out again.' But the film does contain elements of popular theater, including a distinctive overtone of verbal comedy. For this reason, some scenes make use of the language and the behavior of foreigners and native minorities. A Christian colleague of Salama works as a bookkeeper. Asked for invoices, he replies in melodious tones reminiscent of Coptic liturgy. Salama answers mockingly using the same intonation.73 Again, Salama's neighbors, who live in the same building, are a European family with many children. The young mother is forever trying, in broken Arabic, to tame her horde of children. Comic characters with distinctive accents, such as the loyally devoted Nubian servants or the naive, clumsy, upper Egyptian fellaheen (peasants) formed for decades a stereotype repertoire constantly repeated in Egyptian cinema. Fasl mudhik and shadow plays also presented these figures. Shadow plays possessed a stable group of figures, including a muqaddim or moderator, the cumbersome Rikhim, a Maghrebi, and a Nubian or Sudanese barbari.74 In some Egyptian fasl mudhik sketches at the beginning of the last century, a foolish European traveler75 and a Coptic bookkeeper76 contributed to the audience's amusement. These characters also belonged to the often repeated repertoire of modern popular Egyptian theater.77 In the construction of films, in particular those of cAli al-Kassar, parallels to popular forms of theater are easily recognized. The shadow play, for example, is structured by an introduction that contains religious praises presented by the muqaddim and is followed by a variety of sketches presenting the rest of the characters improvising prose dialogues. The overall plot seems weak in comparison to the sometimes wild and lewd dialogues.78

Karagoz Some Syrian films of the 1960s featuring the comic duo Doureid Laham and Nihad al-Qalci contain elements similar to Egyptian farce. The duo first came to be known through the television sketch The Pearl Necklace (clqd al-lulu), which was so successful that the two performers adapted it for theater, and also to cinema in a film directed in 1964 by Yusuf al-Macluf. The popular humor of the two comedians was characterized, according to the Syrian film critic and director Salah Dehni, by a certain anarchism. He describes Doureid, in particular, as being in his very core cynical and destructive. "Doureid never reaches the point of trusting others, or of having an

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Doureid Laham (left) and Nihad Qalci in The Millionaire (al-Milyunira, Syria and Lebanon, 1966) by Yusuf al-Macluf

honest relationship. He is always skeptical, ready to give back or even to anticipate a blow that could hit him."79 Laham and Qalci made more than a dozen comedies in this spirit, including The Two Homeless (al-Sharidan, 1965), Love in Istanbul (Gharam fi Istanbul, 1967), The Nice Thief (al-Liss al-zarif, 1968), The Ladies' Taylor (Khayyat al-sayyidat, 1969), and The > Suitable Man (al-Radjul al-munasib, 1970). In The Vagabonds (al-Sacalik, 1967)80 by Yusuf al-Macluf,; Doureid and Nihad appear as a pair of many-sided crooks. N|ihad is a swindler working in the way of a conscientious businessman, who invests a lot of money to realize his projects. But, following his plan to swindle a Turkish aristocrat out of a huge sum of donation money meant for a dogs' nursing home, the smart Doureid crossesvhis path. Through his diverse disguises and good connections with waiters, Doureid manages to cheat people as fast as his wealthy competitor does. Nihad finally has no choice but to cooperate with his adversary. Together, they try to get their hands on an Egyptian widow's fortune. In order to gain the woman's confidence, Nihad buys a Greek freighter. Soon, however, he discovers that he himself has been taken for a ride. Before the clever widow can escape with the money, everyone involved is reunited in police custody.

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Apart from the widowed businesswoman, played by the Egyptian actress Miryam Fakhr al-Din, a Turkish lady, a Greek businessman, an Egyptian traveler, and a Persian astrologer appear in The Vagabonds. The last two characters are played by Doureid Laham, who uses fancy dress and the appropriate conspicuous accent to get his fellow citizens to part with their money. It is true, given the popularity of Egyptian movies, that the use of the Egyptian vernacular may have been based on commercial considerations, but all the other accents are certainly introduced for the sake of amusement. In early Arab drama, dialects were used in order to differentiate its characters socially, as in Marun al-Naqqash's adaptation of The Miser by Moliere. But this was certainly not the intention of The Vagabonds, which aims principally for comic effect. This raises the possibility of a connection between the film and the formerly widespread traditional Syrian shadow plays, which, unlike the Egyptian variety, were more or less identical to the Turkish Karagoz. Doureid Laham himself denies any links to the popular Karagoz, which has almost entirely died out. He points, instead, to the American comedians Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy.81 Indeed, there is at least a physical similarity between the Arab and the American duo. Nihad al-Qalci's corpulence recalls Hardy, while Laham's frailness comes close to that of Laurel. But, unlike "Fat and Stupid," as Laurel and Hardy were known in Germany, Doureid and Nihad are both, each in his own specific way, clever and cunning. This makes them first opponents, then turns them into friends who are eventually outwitted by someone else—and, last not least, lines them up as successors of the popular Syrian Karagoz and his partner Hiwaz. The main parts of most Syrian shadow plays known today are taken by Karagoz and his friend and mentor Hiwaz (Hagivad in Turkish). In The Bath House (Fasl al-hamam), Karagoz and Hiwaz, being swindlers and deceived at the same time, rent a faulty bath house and ask its customers to provide the facilities, including the water. In another play, the pleasant good-for-nothings are at loggerheads with their quarrelsome wives and with the Turk who is in charge of keeping law and order. Other 'foreigners,' such as the European doctor, appear in Karagoz plays, all speaking broken Arabic, so that language again constitutes an essential source of comedy.82 For example, in The Beggars Hiwaz teaches Karagoz to beg in different languages. Eventually, he inadvertently asks his own wife for charity.83

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Farce Arab film farce might then be seen as the descendant of the traditional shadow play and the fasl mudhik. It differs from comedy by lacking 'production of meaning.' While comedy puts events in a causal context by introducing a conflict and resolving it later, farce largely consists of a loose combination of individual sketches. It uses stereotypical characters and is marked by its irrealism and imaginative freedom. In principle, farce tends to transgress limits and to break taboos.84 Its affinity to commedia dell'arte is obvious, supported by the aesthetics of carnival as defined by Bakhtin.85 As in commedia dell'arte, and medieval carnival in Europe, performances draw on exceptional social situations. The high-ranking in society, the king or pope, is degraded to the status of a beggar and vice-versa. The hidden body, the normally intimate, is exposed. Sexual allusions are expressed by plays on words or by phallic objects, such as the huge nose or the pointed cap.86 The cathartic and at the same time socially stabilizing function of such performances is evident. Obscenities in language and actions are characteristic of Egyptian fasl mudhik and all other Arab shadow plays. They run so much counter to today's sense of propriety, however, that a contemporary Arab author felt himself obliged, while editing The Bath House, to eliminate the excesses of the original text.87 The lewd character of Karagoz performances becomes obvious in a report about the Tunisian shadow plays of the last century: "Karagoz . . . was generally pictured as a man-about-town who annoyed and deceived others, relieved them of their possessions and beat them for good measure. . . . The Madame or European Lady often had a hard time, for her broad crinoline usually excited Karagoz's curiosity; however, he never paid her seduction fees. Other characters who suffered at his hands were the Moroccan and the Arab yokel whom Karagoz defeated not by his wit, but by his unending store of obscenities and by fistcuffing or whipping. In short, Karagoz had a moral code of his own, which was the punishment by force of all and sundry who tried to deceive or rob him."88 The preponderance of Europeans among Karagoz's victims suggests that the performances conveyed a political message, which at times became a thorn in the rulers' flesh. In Algeria in 1843, the French authorities banned the native shadow plays for being subversive; they were thus condemned to extinction.89 According to Nouri, similar prohibitions were applied in Tunisia.90 Modern Arab film farce, however, developed in the framework of politically and religiously controlled mass production. Eschewing the

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Sexual transgression in Seven o'Clock (al-Saca sabca, Egypt, 1937) by Togo Mizrahi

tearing speed and excessive physical violence of its American counterpart,91 it relies more on language. However, the transgression of taboos characteristic of traditional performances is highly restricted in Arab film farce. Political allusions and sexual suggestiveness fall victim to censorship. Only traces of the genre's potential subversiveness are found in Arab films. In the already cited Seven o'Clock, CAH al-Kassar hurls a barrage of abuse at a deaf and dumb acquaintance, who misunderstands it as expressions of friendship. In Lend me Three Pounds! the actor's language is certainly colorful, but he does not use any insults with sexual connotations. cUthman appears in the film dressed as a woman. As such he attracts lecherous looks from his admirer, and at one point a suspicious servant grabs his stuffed bosom, but these incidents only hint at the genre's possibilities. Actions that would normally be considered taboo are tolerated in this case because cUthman is not really a woman. Ever mindful of the interests of influential social and political groups and its massive consumption, Egyptian cinema in the 1930s and 1940s generally adopted the role of an upholder of moral standards. There is, however, some breaking of taboos, and some social inversion, even if their cathartic function is limited. In Anwar Wagdi's Girls' Flirtation (Ghazal al-banat, 1949), a pasha is mocked by a simple employee. Wearing a straw hat and an apron, and carrying garden scissors in his hands, he is taken for a gardener. His 'degradation' does not last long, however. Soon after, real conditions

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Salama Is Fine (Salama fi khayr, Egypt, 1937) by Niyazi Mustafa (courtesy Muhammad Bakr, photographer, Cairo)

are restored and the genuine 'little man' is himself regimented and accused of being a thief by the pasha's daughter. Another film, Salama Is Fine, starring Nagib al-Rihani, derives a great deal of its comedy from the tension between Salama's real identity as an errand boy and his adopted role as a prince. He gets into a number of dangerous situations because of his disguise, but his adventures pay off in the end with a financial reward. Only in one film, The Second Wife, where the mayor is outwitted, are the former conditions of power not restored. This is no wonder, because in the period between the appearance of this work in 1967 and the preceding examples, several profound and radical social changes had taken place. Land reform and the nationalization of private property had, in reality, deprived the old ruling class of its power base.

New Arab theater in cinema During the 1970s and 1980s, a new theatrical movement attracted attention in several Arab countries. The New Theater (al-masrah aldjadid) in Tunisia and al-hakawati (the storyteller) in Lebanon, for example, tried to connect their avantgardist endeavor to consciously

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chosen elements of native narrative and theatrical forms. Their work also found expression in cinema. The Tunisian New Theater was founded in 1975 and, until 1980, comprised five members: Jelila Baccar, Mohammed Driss, Fadhel Jaibi (Fadil Djucaybi), Fadhel Jaziri, and Habib Masrouki. Usually, these five shared in the writing and directing of their plays and their two films, The Marriage (al-cUrs, 1978) and Arabs (cArab, 1988). The Marriage, which was shot in black and white, is characterized by immense emotional density and deep dramatic tension. Organized like a studio theater play, it is centered around two actors whose performance is confined to one simple location. The protagonists, a newly married couple on their wedding night, have a fierce quarrel, which reveals their weakness and social opportunism. The surrounding space is completely included in the performance. The barely furnished room and its insufficient structural substance, the crumbling mortar softened by a downpour, intensify the conflict's drama and underline the morbid character of their failed intersexual relation. "In the cinematic version, space has become more realistic, more sensuous, and thus more concrete. This brings the characters into contact with the objects, the light, and a room with a special ground resonance, etc., leading to another sensuality and therefore to another impact."92 By applying the spatial-temporal structure of theater to film, an impressive symbiosis of both forms of performance is created. Real time is not undermined by montage nor are wide angle shots of the space cut by close-ups. Thus, the relationship between character and space acquires a deeper intensity. "The duration of a shot is an essential and basic idea. If you had to show a close-up of a face or hands, the time of the plot would vanish, the time of the characterbody and the audience would function alone."93 Plot and characters are loosely based on "The petty bourgeois wedding" (Die Kleinburgerhochzeit) by Bertolt Brecht, but the protagonists of the Tunisian play own "a biography, a history and a consciousness,"94 rooted in Tunisian reality. Yet the figures' relation to society is not expressed in stereotypical characterizations such as social roles, nor does space contribute to their definition. In this respect The Marriage's idea of the hero differs essentially from that of commercial Arab cinema. The characters' relation to each other and their attitude toward space and objects are, in its cinematic translation, antagonistic, and in a state of conflict. Although the members of the New Theater studied in Europe, they reject the self-reflexive nature of Western intellectual cinema. In their films they want to come into direct contact with their audience by

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reflecting its daily life, its alienation, and mechanisms.95 They set their work consciously apart from production schemes applied by Hollywood. "We are our own producers, which means economic use of means and an extremely reduced staff."96 Tunisian audiences, however, did not appreciate this concept.97 The group's work differed too much from the schemes and conventions of popular cinema. Another example of a symbiosis of experimental Arab theater and cinema is the semi-fictional film Maarakeh (Macraka; literally, 'battle,' 1985), by the Lebanese theater director Roger Asaaf (cAsaf). This is a common work by a group of actors and performers, whose script was developed by Asaaf together with his troupe, al-Hakawati. According to the Lebanese critic Mohamed Soueid, groups like alHakawati, who started working during the civil war, succeeded much better then native film making in reflecting Lebanese reality. In their plays, they dealt with the complicated situation of the civil war and tried to express the daily suffering of the population.98 Unlike the New Theater in Tunisia, al-Hakawati were eager to include popular elements and traditional narrative structures in their plays, and as a result their concept of theater was highly acclaimed by audiences. In Maarakeh., the actors, together with the inhabitants of the Shi'ite village Maarakeh in the south of Lebanon, reconstruct the birth of native resistance to the Israelis. Parallel to the images of the Israeli invasion and the actions taken against it by women, men, and children, documentary sections portray the daily life of the Shi'ite population, including the celebration of the feast of cAshura and the accompanying tacziya, a Shi'ite 'passion play' held annually in memory of the assassination of Husain, the Prophet's grandson. Apart from ritual castigation, the tacziya comprise the enactment of Husain's suffering. By setting this popular Islamic mimetic tradition in a topical context, the film represents the cultural background of Shi'ite confessionalism developing in the course of the Lebanese civil war. It makes clear how war and resistance served as a catalyst for a confessionally defined cultural identity. Maarakeh is evidence of an emancipating comprehension of theater. Performance does not serve as a mass product reinforcing social conditions, but as an artistic means of expression that, if required, the audience may develop further.99 This conceptual comprehension of theater can also be observed in other, more recent experimental theater projects, such as the work of the Egyptian al-Warsha (literally, 'the workshop') led by Hassan ElGeretli (Hasan Giritly). This sort of experimental theater stresses neither the idea of a 'problematic hero' caught in conflict with his environment, nor of a creature steered only by fate or society. Its

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'intellectual' reappropriation of so-called popular and traditional culture sets it apart from the rather unconscious use of these elements in mainstream cinema.

Language and the art of narration Language as a "social battleground"100 The so-called high culture of the Arab countries has been dominated by classical Arabic (al-fusha), while popular culture has made use of the numerous dialects (al-camiya), which in some cases differ considerably from the classical language. Because of cinema's 'realistic' capabilities, film makers from the very beginning preferred to use colloquial dialects for dialogue. The classical language, or its more recent form, modern standard Arabic, has been confined to genres such as the news, or educational, historical, and religious films. The Egyptian musical Dananir101 by Ahmed Badrakhan, released in the season 1940/1, is one of the few works in Arab film history to use classical Arabic in the dialogue. The story is set in the ninth century during the reign of the Abbassid caliph Harun al-Rashid, and relates an historical incident, the discord between the caliph and his vizier Djacfar al-Barmaki, which ends with Djacfar being put to death. Both the caliph and his vizier later appear in The Thousand and One Nights.

Umm Kulthum in Dananir (Egypt, 1940/41) by Ahmed Badrakhan

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The reign of the caliph Harun al-Rashid was one of the most splendid epochs in the history of Islam, and Dananir evokes in numerous scenes the greatness of classical Arab culture. In one the film's final sequences, the slave-girl heroine Dananir walks singing and lamenting through the ruins of Djacfar's former palace. This motif is reminiscent of the conventions of the pre-Islamic and classical Arabic poem (al-qasida), which begins with the poet walking through ruins lamenting the loss of the beloved. The extravagant sets and the musical score, supported by the appearance of the famous singer Umm Kulthum as Dananir, contributes to the impression of classical grandeur. The majesty of Arab-Muslim history is further evoked by the musical genre of alghina' al-carabi (Arab singing) presented by Umm Kulthum. Classical and modern standard Arabic are used in the songs and in the dialogue, which is embroidered with quotations from the great poet Abu Nuwas, a contemporary of Harun al-Rashid. The classical language is transformed into a "mythical language that functions as a last refuge, verbal magic, whose incomprehensibility is understood as the irrefutable proof of the sacred"102 and serves as a bridge to a mythically transfigured past. The 'mythical' qualities of classical Arabic derive from its role as a transmitter of divine revelation. The revelation of the Quran marks in every respect, politically as well as culturally, the beginning of ArabMuslim culture. In the regions conquered by Islam, Arabic also became the instrument of spiritual and scientific knowledge and superseded or marginalized other native languages. In modern times, with the introduction of new Western ideas and technology, it has become necessary to adapt classical Arabic to these new ideas and to social changes in the Arab region. Writers from non-Muslim minorities, in particular Lebanese and Syrian Christians, tried to modernize language by translating Western literature as well as through their own literary creations.103 Their endeavors contributed to the separation of language from the context of religion and paved the way for its use as a basis of national, non-confessional identity. During the twentieth century, journalistic use forced the development of what is called Modern Standard Arabic. Like classical Arabic it differs considerably from colloquial Arabic and remains, in principal, reserved for official or intellectual use. As it is used in the media and serves as a lingua franca between the different Arab countries, it represents today a sort of functional language (vehiculaire) in the public field.104 Apart from this lingua franca, innumerable local vernacular

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languages have spread in the Arab world: the languages of minorities, such as Armenians, Turks, Circassians, Kurds, Berbers, and Nubians exist alongside numerous Arabic dialects, some of which differ immensely in vocabulary and grammar from classical Arabic. They can be assigned to different regions as follows: the dialects of the Mashriq, meaning Egypt and the Levant; those of the Gulf states and the countries of the Fertile Crescent including Iraq; and the dialects of northwest Africa, the Maghreb, where the influence of the Berber languages and French has rendered the contemporary colloquials almost incomprehensible to Eastern Arabs. Regional vernaculars can also be counted as local languages or 'mother tongues.' They are in general confined to the communication of a relatively small group and correspond to the needs of their daily life. The Algerian Reda Bensmai'a has observed in his native country "a language that is made of 'bric-a-brac,' that lives on 'stolen, moved words,' 'emigrating' from one language to another: a bizarre mixture of 'good' French, colloquial Arabic, and the Kabyle used in the cities. 'Ouach rak bian?'(So, how are you doing?)"105 In the Maghreb, mainly in Algeria, the divergence between classical and colloquial Arabic, and the long lasting, intensive colonization, encouraged the spread of French, which seemed then to meet the needs of modern times much better. Representing modern science and technology, it functioned as a lingua franca and hampered the diffusion of Modern Standard Arabic. "Every colonized people—which means every people that has developed an inferiority complex, because its cultural specificity has been buried— is situated with regard to the language of the civilisatory nation, which means the culture of the metropolis."106 This situation persists until today. The laborious campaign, undertaken for years in Algeria, to Arabize the systems of education and public administration, has not really succeeded. On the contrary, it has contributed to widening the gap between the elite, educated in French private schools, and the masses graduating from public Arabic-speaking schools.107 Consequently, in post-colonial Algeria the question of which language Algerian cinema should use is subject to fierce ideological dispute. For example: It would be much more useful to take as a starting-point a spoken Arabic that has been cleansed from all imperfections and foreign words. In purifying and enriching it with a simple vocabulary we would turn it into a comprehensible language. The other advantage cinema would draw from this formula is that it would offer the viewer the opportunity of varying his vocabulary by adopting new words.108

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Omar Gatlato (Algeria, 1976) by Merzak Allouache

Armed with intentions of this kind, Algerian cinema nevertheless did not aim at an authentic representation of different native social groups but to merge different tribes and ethnic groups into a nation. Thus, the first films dealing with Berber identity, such as The Birds of Summer (Les oiseaux de 1'ete, 1978) by Abderrahmane Bouguermouh, had to wait until the late 1970s. Bouguermouh's early short film on the subject, Like a Soul (Comme une ame, 1965) had been banned for a long time.109 One of the few more recent films actually using Berber language, such as Machaho (1995) by Belkacem Hadjadj, was coproduced and released in France. In general, most Algerian fiction films have used a cleansed colloquial Arabic, without taking local dialects and vernaculars into account. They particularly avoid French vocabulary, although in urbanized regions a French-Arabic mixture prevails in daily life. Only a few Algerian films have dissociated themselves from "the cinema of the great abstract syntheses; one sole 'language', one sole 'territory', one sole 'religion.'"110 Omar Gatlato (1976) by Merzak Allouache was the first of these few exceptions. Its young protagonists speak a slang typical of the capital's youth, "with its sophistication, its imagery, its humor, and its philosophy. The sophistication and the plays on words, certain tics and intonations transferred to cinema 'speak' directly to the audience."111 In this film the authenticity of language corresponds to an unpretentious plot, the psychological credibility of the characters, and a faithful representation of a specific local environment. Egyptian film making from the beginning gave priority to dialect.

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There was no doubt that dialogue was best formulated in the language of daily life. This of course served commercial purposes: directed at a partly illiterate mass audience, the use of classical Arabic in cinema would have caused financial losses. Unlike the classical language, dialect offers an additional advantage in its ability to convey elements of popular culture via linguistic expression and metaphor. Representatives of popular Egyptian theater used the colloquial in an imaginative way, particularly in farce, introducing a popular, sometimes burlesque verbal comedy to early cinema. In the farce Girls' Flirtation (Ghazal al-banat, 1949) by Anwar Wagdi, with dialogues written by Badic Khayri and the popular comedian Nagib al-Rihani, verbal comedy is central to the plot. In order to amuse the audience, the main character confronts and undermines elegant classical language with comparatively crude dialect. Arabic teacher Hamam (Nagib al-Rihani) tries to explain to his uninterested pupil Layla the literary phrase man fak (incessantly). Layla confuses the expression with a phonetically almost identical vernacular formulation (sacit ma infak, when it came loose) and asks: "May I say, when the button of the jacket came loose?"112 Hamam shakes his head: "No, no, what button? When you say, Zayd walked incessantly, that means, he walked so long that his feet became bare, or cUmar was eating incessantly, that means, cUmar liked the food so much that he piled it in front of him and wiped out the bowl until he couldn't get out of the chair."113 Nagib al-Rihani noted people's talk exactly. The vivid illustrations, mainly concerning bodily functions, which are given by the teacher Hamam as an explanation for the classical literary phrase, show clearly the gap that opens up between the two forms of language. This fissure is used in a burlesque, carnivalesque manner to overthrow and parody the elitist language, the language of religion, politics, and intellect.114 However, the popular and sometimes subversive use of language in farce was not able to prevent dialect from being used as an instrument of power. Egyptian cinema relies mainly on Cairo's colloquial. Other local vernaculars, such as those of Upper Egypt or Alexandria, are largely excluded or must endure bowdlerization by the actors of the capital. The two Nubian languages have not been used in a single film. Even visually the Nubian minority has been misrepresented. Since cAli al-Kassar's simple and comic cUthman, Egyptian cinema has with few exceptions shown Nubians as ever-smiling, simple servants who speak only broken Arabic. Cairo's vernacular also dominates the screens beyond Egypt. The success of Egyptian cinema in neighboring countries has made its

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language the lingua franca of commercial Arab cinema. Imitators of the Egyptian film industry in Lebanon and Syria produced scores of Egyptian-speaking films. Films for television and serials currently produced by the Gulf states use the dialect in the same way. The widespread commercial use of this cinematographic lingua franca on the one hand cuts off its connection to the Egyptian street, and on the other prevents the representation and circulation of other local dialects and their exchange among the Arab countries. Thus, the colloquial of the Egyptian capital has been juxtaposed to the dominating and centralized culture of its 'white' and Arab inhabitants, while marginalizing all the speakers of other dialects.

Language and cinema The question of language usage in cinema seems even more important when we consider the close connection of the medium to language in its broadest sense. "Films are saturated by language from the beginning to the end of their existence; they come from language and ultimately return to it."115 All stages of fictional film making are dominated by language. The plot is first developed as a written script to be presented to a producer. On the basis of the script preparations for production and shooting start. Director and film team communicate during shooting by means of language. Then, after completion, a film is retold, summarized, discussed, and criticized. In dialogue and comment film also offers space for verbal linguistic expression, and also includes written language in titles, subtitles, headlines, signs, and so on. In addition, film contains some other, less evident linguistic "tracks"116—literary references of images, sound effects, and film music, as well as the stream of thoughts, the "inner speech" of the audience,117 induced during the screening and sometimes expressed in loud comments. With these numerous language tracks, the whole existence of a film takes place "within the powerful gravitational field of what Bakhtin calls 'the word.'"118 An analysis of the relation of Arabic language and cinema therefore cannot only be confined to easily accessible tracks like dialogue and the narrative structures connected to, it but has to include other aspects such as linguistic imagery and metaphor. Closer examination of these tracks is needed; Arab cinema has often been characterized as being dominated by language,119 but no in-depth research has been carried out to prove it.

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Linguistic images Clearly then, many Arab directors and authors trust the signifying power of words much more than visual arrangements. Consequently, they prefer to fix the meaning of symbols by giving clear linguistic indications. Some even 'translate' literary metaphors, images and expressions without further ado into the visual. In The Thug (al-Futuwwa, 1957) by the Egyptian Salah Abu Seif, a young peasant finds an unskilled job at the Cairo vegetable market. He is to sell a cart full of water melons, and as he does not possess a donkey, he pulls the fruit cart himself through the streets. While selling the first melon he discovers that he has been cheated. All day • long he tries to sell the low quality merchandise but receives only derision and mockery. The image of the peasant laboriously pulling the cart instead of a donkey represents a direct illustration of the colloquial expression 'working like a donkey' (yishtaghal zayy il-humar), which means doing very hard work. The further metaphorical meaning of the image goes beyond the analogy with the quoted linguistic expression; that the peasant is stupid enough to do the work of a donkey also equates him with the animal. The word 'donkey' has undergone, in

Farid Shauqi in The Thug (al-Futuwwa, Egypt, 1957) by Salah Abu Seif (courtesy Muhammad Bakr, photographer, Cairo)

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The South Wind (Rih al-djanub, Algeria, 1975) by Mohamed Slim Riad

the same way as the image of the man in the film, a transfer of meaning, a change of place, as linguistic metaphors do.120 Thus, the visually metaphorical derives in every respect from language. Numerous literary metaphors can be found in Abu Seif s films. In Cairo 30 (al-Qahira 30, 1966) the director portrays a deceived husband by placing him in front of a hunting trophy in a way that the horns seem to come out of his head. This image seeks to make the audience understand, that the man has been 'given horns' by his wife (rakibitlu urun), a colloquial way of saying betrayed. In Youth of a Woman (Shabab imra'a, 1956) a young man cannot resist the seduction of a wealthy miller's wife and becomes her lover. His emotional dependence is expressed by the following sequence: a donkey, owned by the woman, which has to work the millstone day by day, approaches the camera with his eyes covered with black blinkers. The next image presents the miller's wife standing behind her lover covering his eyes with her hands: metaphorically he too is blinkered. The metaphorical final scene of the Algerian film South Wind (Rih al-djanub, 1975) by Mohamed Slim Riad demonstrates how little the image is trusted and how much language is preferred as a tool of expression, by simply translating linguistic expressions into visual metaphors. The shepherd Rabah and the student Nafisa escape their native village in the mountains. He wants to get away from poverty and illiteracy; she is escaping from a marriage her parents are planning for her. The girl's father climbs on his horse and follows them. Once they have reached the highway the two runaways wait for a bus, while the horseman is rapidly catching up. At the last moment the girl's father is overtaken by the bus. The young people get on and disappear into the distance. In this scene progress has literally 'overtaken' tradition.

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Conventions of dialogue The interplay between language and other carriers of meaning is rarely consciously arranged in Arab films. The production of meaning by spoken words, i.e., by dialogue, is preferably given the dominant position. In the already mentioned South Wind, based on a novel of the same title by Abdelhamid Benhadouga (cAbd al-Hamid b. Haduqa), monologue and dialogue are the main carriers of information. The introduction of the film is simply a longish monologue by the protagonist, Nafisa, who is seen lying on the bed in her room, staring at the ceiling, and pondering her situation: she is eighteen years old, goes to school in the capital Algiers, and says that she wants to decide her life for herself, including the choice of her husband. This prologue anticipates the course of the film. Nafisa, as we soon learn, is spending her holidays with her family in the village and is not supposed to return to Algiers. Her father, one of the village notables, wants to marry her to the powerful functionary Malik. Nafisa decides to flee. Several times in the course of the action Nafisa expresses her thoughts out loud. The introduction of almost every character is carried out linguistically via monologue or dialogue. They describe their own attitudes and personalities in words that often sound like declarations of their, in part, politically oriented intentions. Changes in life as well as reactions to events are communicated verbally. Rabah, for example, wants to escape his demeaning work as a shepherd and therefore gives it up. He returns very early in the morning to his deaf and dumb mother, telling her about his decision in sign language. Then he speaks an audible phrase that is apparently meant for the audience: "How long haven't I seen my mother?" he says. "I walk out before dawn and come back only in the dark." The director and scriptwriter, Slim Riad, might have represented this state of affairs visually, but obviously wanted to stress the deplorable situation of the young man. For this reason, the scene is accompanied by a melancholic tremolo of violins. The structuring of a plot by dialogue and monologue is a tradition created in the theater. Its use here, however, is less connected to the generally powerful influence of theater on Arab film making. The intention is much more to reach an illiterate audience who are accustomed to oral narrative forms, and arises from the didactic aims of this state-produced film. The message is supposed to reach the audience directly and clearly. The fixation on verbal utterances helps submit the narration to political doctrine and to rid it of ambiguous subtexts. Its aim is to revolutionize culturally the 'backward' and

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'conservative' rural population. In other Algerian films, like ElMoufid (The useful man, 1978) and The Nomads (Masirat al-ruca, 1975) produced during the same period, the protagonists repeat almost word-for-word official speeches about the benefits of the agrarian revolution. The use of classical Arabic in these parts of the dialogue further stress its message. The use of monologue is also common in less politically motivated films. Flashbacks into the characters' stories are preferably presented in speech and not visually, so that they are rather like anecdotes. In al-Kitkat (1991) by the Egyptian Daoud Abd El-Sayyed, several characters give verbal details of their lives. Yusuf tells his girlfriend Saniya about his childhood and his relationship with his father, Sheikh Husni. Saniya delivers a monologue about the various stages of her failed marriage. Sheikh Husni amuses a circle of friends with a fantastic story about how he went blind as a child. He woke up one morning with a red spot on his chest that made him get up and walk to the riverside. There he discovered a fairy-like female form, taking off her clothes and sprinkling herself with water. He stared at her so intensely that he lost his sight. The special interest in monologue and dialogue is based on a long tradition in Arab cinema. Some dialogues, like those from Nagib alRihani, are extremely imaginative and funny. The already mentioned farce Girls' Flirtation exemplifies their peculiarities: play upon words, metaphor, verses, and anecdotes. Relative to the importance of these, the story of the film seems rather trite: Layla (performed by the singer Layla Murad), the daughter of a pasha, prefers singing and dancing with her friends to her education. When she fails once again to pass her exams—she is particularly weak in Arabic grammar—the teacher Hamam (Nagib al-Rihani) is hired to give her lessons. To divert the teaching, Layla starts to flirt with the good-natured and naive Hamam, who promptly falls in love with her. But Layla's heart beats for the owner of a nightclub. In what follows the teacher suffers badly to save his protege from the greedy and cunning nightclub owner, who is of course only interested in Layla's money. From the outset the teacher's name Hamam (literally, 'pigeon') offers the possibility for ambiguous play upon words. The absentminded pasha on several occasions calls the teacher 'firakh' (chicken). When Hamam indicates to him the misunderstanding, the pasha replies angry, "Do you think I want to eat you?" (huwwa ana haklak?}. Colloquial rhymes also provide amusement. The pasha's employees quarrel over who is going to tell him that his daughter has failed her exams. The bookkeeper says to the governess, "(The last

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time) he threw me out with a glass, this time do you want it to be the refrigerator?"121 The governess, Mrs. Masha' Allah (God's will) replies: "God beware, Mr. Ghadab Allah (God's anger), stay away from Mrs. Masha' Allah!"122 Then someone else tries to persuade her with a rhyme: "Your coffee delights him / your smile relaxes him / you have to tell him!"123 The dialogue of Girls' Flirtation is constantly enriched by little jokes and funny anecdotes. For example, Hamam tells the pasha's servants what happened to him once in a restaurant. The waiter served him a dish of pigeon saying the following words: "Please, eat yourself up." (itfaddal kul bcfdak!) This way Hamam is mocked twice. The request to 'eat himself up' is not only an allusion to his name, but also refers to a metaphor used in Egyptian colloquial meaning 'to get cross.' The careful arrangement of the "track" of the dialogue in some of the early Egyptian talkies points back to the strong influence of popular theater. Many films of the 1930s and 1940s, in which popular theater actors like cAli al-Kassar, George Abyad, Nagib alRihani, and Yusuf Wahbi participated, resemble theater productions. Typical of Yusuf Wahbi's melodramas, for example, were particular 'verbal' gestures and facial expressions, the plot of al-Kassar's films comprise a number of loosely connected sketches, which maintain their tension mainly through verbal comedy.

Forms of narration The anecdotal speech in some Arab films shows parallels to classical structures. 'Secretaries' school,' a literary school of 'general culture' that was created for court use during the eighth and ninth century and served to educate administrators and state officials, developed a special form of prose. The students used "anthologies containing pieces of prose, extracts from speeches, memorable sayings of the great names of Islamic thought, quotations from Greek or Iranian works translated into Arabic, anecdotes, and above all poems and fragments of verse. The whole was intended to be memorized and used when the occasion arose in distinguished conversation."124 In the classical Islamic Age, the use of anecdotes and verses was an important feature of refined speech. In Arab countries today the same features can be heard to an extent in discussions and debates. Even political (non-official) discussions are spiced with funny, sometimes brisant anecdotes. The narration of anecdotes is not only one of the conventions of elite Arabic literature, but is also part of folk art, where A Thousand

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and One Nights may serve as an example. This is particularly true of its intertwined stories within stories, which are aptly described in the words of Hugo von Hoffmannsthal concerning the traditional Islamic town: "How much and how fast you enter it, how quickly it surrounds you; so closed, with so many cores and no exit, as if you have entered the interior of a pomegranate."125 The Arabian Nights assumed fixed written form in several stages and drew from different narrative sources. They use an IndianPersian background frame story, parts of classic belles lettres (adab literature),126 folk and adventure novellas, as well as popular stories originally handed down orally from medieval Egypt.127 The nested structure of some stories looks back to the stage of oral transmission. Stories of this sort were among those recited publicly by the hakawati (storyteller) and were structured in a spiral of episodes and prolonged by narrative inserts. This structure helped to postpone the end of the story in order to create tension and to encourage the audience to stay or to come back. The inclination to anecdote and narrative inserts continues in Arabic cinema on the level of the dialogue as well as in the plot. In several sequences of his film al-Kitkat, the Egyptian director Daoud Abd El-Sayyed describes the friendship of two blind men, Sheikh Husni and Sheikh cUbayd. At their first encounter, Husni succeeds in convincing cUbayd that he is dealing with a sighted man. During their walks and visits to cafes together he impressively describes for him the surroundings, the beauty of the women, and the danger of deep potholes and high curbstones. He even invites his new friend to the movies and tells him the story of the film—a completely different story, of course, to that on the screen. Inevitably, his tricks also lead to misunderstandings. At one point Sheikh Husni takes the arm of a stranger instead of his friend's and walks away. On another occasion the two blind men fall into the river during a ride—simulated by Sheikh Husni—on a boat that is in fact moored to the bank. The scenes with the two sheikhs each form a closed anecdotal insert that is not directly connected to the main narration, and could be removed without damage to the plot. Anecdotal narration is particularly characteristic of early Egyptian cinema. Short sketches were inserted, for example, in AH Baba and the Forty Thieves (cAli Baba wa-l-arbacin harami, 1942) by Togo Mizrahi, starring the comedian cAli al-Kassar. These sketches do not belong to the literary original, a tale from A Thousand and One Nights. In one such scene, Ali Baba is on his way to the place where he usually cuts his wood, pulling his donkey behind him with a rope. Two robbers approach him unnoticed. One of them takes the donkey

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al-Kitkat (Egypt, 1991) by Daoud Abd El-Sayyed

and the other puts his own head into the loop. Ali Baba notices the metamorphosis of his pack animal only once he arrives at his destination, and can find no explanation for what has happened. But the robber puts one forward: he tells him that he had been transformed into a donkey because of an evil curse. Ali Baba believes him and lets him go. Then he goes to the market to buy a new donkey, where he is offered at a high price his own stolen animal! As in other films with c Ali al-Kassar the dramatic course of the narration is weak. Individual scenes seem to be more important than causal relations or a logical plot. Traditional narrative forms left unmistakable traces in early Arab films, but were gradually replaced .by the conventional 'Western' drama, or at least dominated by it. Even subjects that are based on long tradition and fixed in a literary form, like the story of Antar and Abla, filmed by Salah Abu Seif in 1948 in Antar and Abla's Adventures (MughamaratcAntar wa cAbla), were molded to it. In the Egyptian film, Hasan and Naima (Hasan wa Nacima, 1959) by Henri Barakat, based on the well-known mawwal (colloquial ballad set to music) of the same title, the story that had been orally passed down is deformed by dramatization to become almost unrecognizable. In the film Naima, the daughter of a wealthy peasant, falls

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in love with the singer Hasan. He asks to marry her, but is refused by her father because Naima's greedy and choleric cousin Atwa has designs on the estates of his uncle and wants therefore to keep her for himself. Naima decides to flee and to join Hasan, but is brought back the very next day by her father, who promises the couple will celebrate their wedding in a short while. This does not happen, because Atwa ambushes Hasan and seriously injures him. He then celebrates his own engagement to his cousin. Hasan, however, survives the attack and comes back to call Naima's father to account. The affair culminates in a showdown between Hasan and Atwa, who has in the meantime enraged the whole village. Finally the wrongdoer receives a just punishment, while Hasan and Naima happily celebrate their wedding. The film follows in all its stages the classic dramatic structure, with a beginning, middle, and end. The opening introduces the 'who, how, what, when'; Naima, her father, Hasan, Atwa, and the village are presented. In the next stage conflict arises: Hasan and Naima's spontaneous love is brought into question by Hasan's low social status and the intriguing cousin. Naima escapes and the crisis develops until Hasan's life is threatened. Then comes the turning point, when the inhabitants of the village back the lovers and support Hasan's fight against Atwa. But Atwa threatens Hasan's life until the very end, and the situation is only finally resolved with the death of the villain.128 Barakat's work is a typical Egyptian melodrama. In spite of the happy ending it sticks completely to the conventions of the genre, with its "triangle stories and its double morality," and its subjects, "the conflict between generations and social ascent."129 Thus it forms a sort of vulgarized drama, "the bourgeois form of tragedy."130 Barakat's Hasan and Nacima deviates on several levels from the traditional version. Unlike the film the mawwal 'starts with a prologue that anticipates the end of the story. It is followed by a rather linear chronological narration, which as a whole is structured by a division into scenes and does not possess the logical solidity of the drama. The mawwal of Hasan and Naima also differs substantially in content. It ends tragically. The best known version, sung by Muhammad Taha, who incidentally appears in the film, tells how Hasan was trapped by Naima's family. After bringing him to the house with the promise of celebrating the wedding, the men surround him and cut off his head. Naima, who witnesses the crime, hides the head in a basket, to reveal all later. Hasan's body is thrown into the river, but floats to the village of his mother, who recognizes him in spite of his mutilation. Then a police officer, disguised as a woman in

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order to solve the case, meets Naima, who tells him what happened. There is no malicious cousin in this version. During the 1950s, neither the audience nor professionals would have appreciated an adaptation that remained close to the original. All genres, ranging from melodrama, comedy, and thriller to realism, were dominated during this period by the structure of conventional drama, precisely the dramatic conflict of two antagonistic powers, which all events contribute to resolve. Similarly, socialist realism, which was driven by the idea of class struggle, was structured by binary antagonisms. It seems that social and political tensions that resulted from colonialism, the temporary division of the world into two political blocs and the formation of a modern mass society had engendered a more and more conflict-oriented evaluation of human existence.131

I-arewell to drama Since the 1970s a certain turning away from the principles of conventional drama can be observed in Egyptian Middle Cinema,132 for example in the committed commercial cinema of the New Realists, as well as in Arab cinema d'auteur. Some representatives of the latter intentionally fall back upon traditional popular or elitist forms of narration. This movement occurs on a conscious and rather intellectual level and is far away from the much more spontaneous adoption of traditional narrative structures in early commercial cinema. In particular, film makers from the Maghreb, in a sort of return-to-the-roots movement, have been eager to tap the wealth of the indigenous art of narration. Moroccan films such as Wechma by Hamid Benani, El-Chergui (al-Sharqi, 1975)133 by Moumen Smihi, and Miracle (Sarab; Mirage, 1980) by Ahmed Bouanani are considered the most important experiments, attempting—with varying success—to integrate folk fables, stories, and popular symbols in the plot.134 Elsewhere, comparable efforts have been made. The Algerian director Merzak Allouache tried to copy the narrative structure of A Thousand and One Nights. His Adventures of a Hero (Mughamarat batal, 1978) is set in an imaginary desert state. Mahdi, the son of a poor oasis dweller, is considered a chosen person by his tribe and receives all possible privileges, including an excellent education. When he attains the necessary maturity, the heads of the tribe equip Mahdi with a motorbike and send him on a journey that will allow him to fulfill his destiny. But before leaving, a companion of his youth initiates him into a secret: it was Mahdi's own father who gave

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Wechma (Tatoo, Morocco, 1970) by Hamid Benani

him as a newborn the sign of the chosen. Mahdi does not want to hear the unpleasant truth and leaves in spite of it. On his journey he meets not only strange border guards, guerrillas, and dangerous death squads, but also petrified human beings, princesses threatened by dragons, and other beauties in distress. Mahdi is not looking for personal happiness with some princess however; he wants to save the world. When he arrives in a great town, he tries to preach revolution, but no one listens; no one wants to struggle against bar owners or stop extravagant parties. Indeed, no one even shows much interest in fighting for lower restaurant prices. After a long series of failures, Mahdi gives up his solo run and joins a democratic (!) movement. Adventures of a Hero has an epic fairy tale-like narrative structure that is based on the various, partly closed, 'adventures' of the main character. Nevertheless the plot is again divided into beginning, central crisis, turning point, and resolution. This conventional dramatic arrangement is undermined by the epic structure. The not very skillful mixture of two narrative forms obstructs the narrative flow and is partly responsible for an overly long exposition. In addition, the allegorical character of the story places the quasi-fairy tale quite deliberately in a contemporary political (leftist) context. In contrast, some works only pretend to use popular or traditional narrative structures. The Lost Necklace of the Dove., by the Tunisian

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Nacer Khemir, is set in Andalusia during the eleventh century. The young calligraphy student Hasan is a friend of the boy Zayn, an orphan who works in town as an errand boy and furtively delivers the messages of lovers. Zayn is waiting impatiently for the return of his imaginary father. He confesses his worries and hopes to the cursed prince Harun, a small ape who lives in an abandoned well. During the public burning of forbidden books, Hasan finds a page torn out of a mysterious book that is believed to contain sixty different synonyms for the word 'love.' On the paper Hasan finds the image of the princess of Samarkand, with whom he immediately falls in love. Hasan recruits Zayn to help him look for the book. Together they decide to search a bookseller's, but a fire breaks out in the shop, and Zayn disappears. The young go-between meets his father outside the gates of the city under a pomegranate tree, and is invited to visit his father's subterranean empire. Meanwhile Hasan is looking for Zayn but his intentions are thwarted by a siege of the city, which forces him to flee. On the road he meets a mysterious rider who is looking for the same book and whose feature seems familiar to him. The very moment the calligraphy student recognizes the rider as the princess of Samarkand they lose sight of each other in the turmoil of war. The title The Lost Necklace of the Dove alludes to the classical Arab literary work Tauq al-hamama (The necklace of the dove) by the scholar Ibn Hazm al-Andalusi (b. 994). The texts include theoretical treaties and many short, partly autobiographical, stories and anecdotes. The structure of Nacer Khemir's film has nothing in common with the book, and it uses only a few of its characters, like the unobtrusive go-between. Although Khemir's film is fantastic and fairy tale-like, the structure of the plot is by no means as traditional as the content might suggest. The director does not develop conflict and then resolve it climactically, but instead intertwines two linear strings of action that are both dominated by the epic motif of search. Such a combination is a characteristic not of traditional narrative forms, but of modern literature and cinema. The film's allusion to tradition, however, is further underlined by its use of classical Arabic. Together with its quasitraditional narration, its visual aestheticism confirms the existence of a glorious Islamic past. A much more successful use of popular narrative forms can be found in the Tunisian film, Khalifa the Bald (Khalifa al-aqrac, 1969), an adaptation of a novel of the same name by Bechir Khraief (Bashir Khurayyif). In his film the director Hamouda Ben Halima tries to combine an anecdotal narrative structure with spontaneity and powerful improvisation on the lines of the French nouvelle vague.

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The story is set in the old part of Tunis at the turn of this century. Bald Khalifa works as a messenger and is therefore allowed to enter all the houses in the neighborhood, including the female domain. But he is deprived of this privilege after he is ordered to get a dream interpreted by the fortune teller Bu Bakr. In Bu Bakr's eyes Khalifa has committed several offenses, among others the theft of a cock and the seduction of a young widow, for which the fortune teller now exposes him. The plot is structured as an intertwined narration. Khalifa's offenses represent closed inserts, which interrupt the spatial and temporal logic of the background story. The characters are schematically stylized, and the acting seems similar to the spontaneously improvised mise en scene. The choice of 16mm black and white film (probably largely for economic reasons) reinforces the impression of improvisation. Ben Halima succeeds much more than Nacer Khemir and Merzak Allouache in capturing the off-the-cuff character of the art of oral narration.

Polyphone narrations Several Arab directors have made comparable efforts to separate from conventional drama without explicitly resorting to native traditions. The Egyptian director Youssef Chahine, who since The Sparrow has been able to create his own individual style, must be considered in this respect a pioneer. In the semi-autobiographical film, An Egyptian Fairy Tale (Hadduta misriya, 1982), the protagonist, film director Yahia, suffers from a heart attack, which forces him to travel to London to undergo open heart surgery. Once he is anaesthetized he notices a small guest in his blood vessels: Yahia, the child. Other visions from the past join him: his frustrated mother and her liaisons, the death of his older brother, the stony path of his career, problems with producers, and so on. The story switches back and forth in time, mixing past and present. An imaginary tribunal of the family, calling the protagonist to account, alternates with flashbacks, actual events, and documentary sequences. The linearity of the plot is interrupted on several occasions. The conflict has no clear features. The Syrian film Dreams of the City (Ahlam al-madina, 1984) by Mohamed Malas contains numerous scenes of daily life that describe the situation of the adolescent Dib. It is set in the early 1950s against the background of the dictatorship of Chichakli, which is terminated at the end of the film. After his father's death, Dib comes with his beautiful, young mother and a younger brother to live in Damascus. They seek lodging at the house of their old and

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Yasmin Khlat (left) as Dib's mother in Dreams of the City (Ahlarn al-madina, Syria, 1984) by Mohamed Malas

embittered grandfather, who only reluctantly puts a small room at their disposal. Considering his grandchildren a burden, he sends the younger boy to an orphanage, while Dib has to work as an errand boy in a laundry. Trying to escape the harassment of the grandfather, Dib's mother gives in to the attempts of a marriage broker to arrange a new marriage for her. But she soon comes back disillusioned, and Dib later attempts, without success, to take revenge for his mother's humiliation. In the course of the film Dib only ages a few months. Events have neither changed his life nor resolved the conflicts he lives. The situation at the end of the film does not differ dramatically from the beginning. A comparable epic structure can also be found in other films of Arab cinema d'auteur from the same period, for example in The Events of the Coming Year (Waqa'ic al-cam al-muqbil, 1986) by the Syrian Samir Zikra and Man of Ashes (Rih al-sadd, 1986) by the Tunisian Nouri Bouzid. In his film Nahla (1979) the Algerian director Farouk Beloufa goes a step further. He abandons a clear narrative perspective connected to one central hero. Instead, Beloufa's film unfolds a panorama of Beirut from January to April 1975. Among the most important characters are the Algerian journalist Larbi, the Palestinian woman Hind, and two Lebanese sisters, the self-conscious and ambitious journalist Maha and the singer Nahla. Some other figures appear, like

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Nahla's business-minded uncle Sulayman, the Palestinian Michel, who together with Hind joins the Palestinian resistance, Maha's selfpitying Egyptian husband, and Maha's opportunist and antiPalestinian colleague Nasri. They all are tied together by their admiration for Nahla's voice. Nahla's uncle wants to commercialize her abilities, particularly because—like Nahla's friends—an increasingly large audience identifies with her committed songs. But during her first large public appearance, while singing the word T Nahla suddenly loses her voice. Nahla's story forms only one string in the network of the plot, which consists of a huge number of unspectacular scenes that cannot be connected by a conventional linear structure. Debates and discussion between different protagonists, walks and drives through the streets, letters, articles, radio transmissions, press conferences, songs, concerts, feasts, assassinations, street battles, together make up the film. The numerous scenes and scraps of action carry their own lives. The following scene demonstrates this clearly: Larbi, the Algerian journalist, walks apparently aimlessly through the streets one night. A radio is on, music can be heard. There are cars, neon signs, shops, people. Larbi watches two nuns passing by. He follows them, for no obvious reason, then walks back again. He wanders further through the streets, then enters a cafe. Then we see Nahla during a television transmission. Her movements and reactions are fidgety, as is the movement of the camera. The impression is created of an uncontrolled stream of consciousness, as it is used in contemporary literature. Farouk Beloufa's camera technique is to a very large extent responsible: frequent changes of views, angles, and images, a constantly moving camera and the continuous movement of objects create an almost documentary character and capture plenty of incidental details that are not functionalized in the working of a fixed plot. Beloufa's mosaic narration corresponds with the literary style of the Algerian novelist Rachid Boudjedra, who wrote the script of Nahla, and who also experiments in his writing with the traditional story in a story narration. Although Boudjedra's script was modified by the director and changed during the shooting, the film develops through the visual capabilities of the medium a hallucinatory tone that is typical of Boudjedra's work. In the film, political events form the narration's only linearity. They range from Kissinger's mission in the Middle East, the formation of Palestinian organizations in Lebanon, the disagreements between the different Lebanese fronts leading up to the massacre in a Palestinian camp on April 13, 1975, and the escalation to the point of armed struggle in the streets. The

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plot spirals to a climax via numerous observational and dramatic scenes, which hang like small shoots and continuously multiply perspectives and levels of action. The introduction to the cinema d'auteur of the narrative means of modern literature, including epic narrative forms, and the transfer of techniques like the stream of consciousness, combined with ruptures in temporal and spatial linearity, break up the conventional dramatic tension building. The shattering of a clear narrative perspective allows a rather subjective, multi-layered, 'decentralized' representation. To date, these narrative forms have primarily been applied by the cinema d'auteur. They reflect the stylistic and intellectual individualism of its representatives and seem, partially, to express a conscious cultural reorientation and self-confirmation vis-a-vis the West, which is the main financial backer of Arab cinema d'auteur. Due to the reflexive and intellectual aspirations of the genre, however, its reference to native traditions lacks the spontaneity of early cinema. Linguistically, like most of the popular mainstream genres this cinema neglects the mythical and 'purified' language of nationalist film making applied in the historical and realist genre, and prefers the use of the syncretistic regional vernaculars that stress a regional and hybrid identity.

Music Music in daily life In the last twenty years no film has described the ordinary relation of Arabs to music better than Omar Gatlato135 (cUmar qatlatu al-rudjla, 1976), by the Algerian Merzak Allouache. The director presents his main character in an unusual way. Omar is a young, but not quite handsome man. He introduces himself to the audience while sitting in his room in his parent's flat. Facing the camera, he talks about his life and work situation. He shares the tiny flat in Algiers with his large family, comprising his mother, grandfather, and his brothers and sisters, including one divorced sister and her numerous children. There is not much room, even to sleep. Unlike many other young men from the same neighborhood, Omar is at least employed, but his small income as a clerk has to support the whole family. His dearest possessions are a small cassette recorder that helps him pass his leisure time and a microphone that a friend obtained for him on the black market. With these he records Indian music during screenings at the cinema. Other cultural events open to Omar and his friends are

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a third-class amateur theater and the rare performances of a popular Algerian singer. Otherwise, the young men can only sit in the cafe or go out to the street. Women do not figure in these activities. The only female they meet is an unnerved usherette at the cinema, who has to defend herself constantly against harassment from members of the all-male audience. Omar would have remained in an exclusively male world, were it not for the mysterious voice of a young woman resounding from an old cassette given to him by a friend. The voice speaks about the ordinary impressions of its owner's home, but Omar cannot help feeling that it is directed to him personally. Through his friend, he tries to find the girl. When he finally succeeds in wringing a date out of her, his friends make fun of him. Omar has to decide whether to remain faithful to his familiar male world with all its small highlights or to get to know the woman. Omar, as depicted by Merzak Allouache, is a typical young and impoverished Algerian man, whose circumstances reflect those of many young men in other Arab countries. Imprisoned in disastrous working and living conditions, secluded from the world of women, their leisure options are severely limited. Therefore, cinema, music, and the street play a decisive role in their life. Although not its principal subject, Omar Gatlato does feature the main occasions for musical performances, namely private and religious feasts, and their modern supplements, radio, concert, and cinema. The film also describes the psychological effect of music. The songs of a chaabi singer136 whom Omar admires offer him a rare opportunity to forget about himself and his situation. As his enthusiasm and his anticipation before the performances show, the music gives him a peculiar mental excitement. When his tape recorder is stolen in a mugging, Omar feels it as a disastrous loss The tape with the young girl's monologue opens up another important level in the psychology of the male protagonist. Omar is fascinated by the female voice and wakes up suddenly in the world of yearning love. This love, however, as can be seen in the classical motif of Arab poetry Layla and Madjnun (Layla wa Madjnun), is based on female absence. Only the prohibition on meeting Layla throws Qaiss into his love mania. There is almost no contemporary Arab song that does not deal with love or the pain of separation. Thus, the sight of the real woman arouses in Omar first of all confusion. For Omar, unable to cope with the opposite sex face to face, the voice (equated in the film with music) takes the place of the real beloved, thus forming one of the mightiest psychological obstacles to real exchange between the sexes.

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Music as a guarantee for box office hits Music played a decisive role in the development of Arab film making. The first sound film, Song of the Heart (Unshudat al-fu'ad, Egypt, 1931/32), by Mario Volpi, was already furnished with music and songs. Muhammad Karim's musical The White Rose (1933/34), starring the singer and composer Muhammad cAbd al-Wahhab, was the first Egyptian feature film to be exported on a large scale to the neighboring Arab countries.137 It is no accident that Egyptian producers from the 1930s were obsessed by the idea of producing musicals.138 Of the 918 feature films produced between 1931 and 1961, 370—i.e., more than a third—were musicals. In some years, as between 1944 and 1946, 50 percent of all films belonged to this genre.139 Beside the two most distinguished stars of Arab music, Umm Kulthum and cAbd alWahhab, whose popularity remained relatively independent of their success in cinema, more than forty-six male and female singers appeared in Egyptian film musicals. Some of them, like Shadya, participated in as many as thirty films.140 Only a few, however, such as Muhammad cAbd al-Wahhab, Farid al-Atrash, cAbd al-cAziz Mahmud, or the specialist in 'Bedouin' rhythms,141 Kahlawi, left a peculiar musical mark on their films.142 The Lebanese Farid alAtrash combined all sorts of music in his works, ranging from Lebanese folklore to Viennese waltz, as can be heard, for example, in The Victory of Youth (Intisar al-shabab, 1941) and Love and Revenge (Gharam wa intiqam, 1944). The Egyptian musician Muhammad c Abd al-Wahhab was even more inventive than Farid al-Atrash. He acted in only seven films, between 1933 and 1946, but enriched for decades the musical arrangements of innumerable other works with new ideas and rhythmic combinations.143 Most musicals contain at least one dance, most often a belly dance. As early as 1935/36, a film introduced the dancer Badica Masabni, who owned a well-known variety theater where several prominent belly dancers were trained. Some of the dancers who subsequently appeared, such as Samya Gamal and Tahiya Carioca, borrowed their music from the cabaret or nightclub and folklore.144 Samya Gamal developed a sort of expressive dance as an individual characteristic in her performances, as can be seen in cAfrita Hanim (literally, 'Lady Demon,' 1949) and Cigarette and Wineglass (Sigara wa ka's, 1955). Nacima cAkif, on the other hand, presented a colorful mixture of belly dancing, flamenco, and tap dancing. In contrast to these developments, the historical films tried to reconstruct the dance of the djawari (singing girls) of former

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Nacima cAkif (courtesy Muhammad Bakr, photographer, Cairo)

times,145 combining elements from the ballet and the oriental dance, as in Dananir (1940/41) and Sallama (1945). In the course of the 1940s, group dances inspired by the music hall appeared. As with the films that focused only on songs, the action was matched to the various musical performances. Their stories usually dealt either with the figure of a singer or a dancer or were set in locations such as nightclubs or theaters. Another option was to build into the plot occasions like weddings, celebrations, or parties, that provided opportunities for musical performances. Since the beginning of Arab cinema, the production of musicals has remained very largely confined to the Egyptian film industry. Other Arab countries' attempts to enter this field were always overshadowed by the big Egyptian brother. The musicals shot in Morocco in the early 1970s imitated the Egyptian model (Life Is a Struggle by Mohamed Ben Abderrahmane Tazi and Silence Is a One Way Street by Abdallah Mesbahi). The same is true of the latest films of the Syrian comedian, Doureid Laham. The Frontiers (al-Hudud, 1984) and Kafrun (1990) each contain several songs, but they do not differ much in style or presentation from Egyptian musicals shot during the same period. Lebanese cinema, Egypt's closest rival in the

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Fayruz (center) in The Seller of the Rings (Bayac al-khawatim, Egypt, 1965) by Youssef Chahine

1950s and 1960s, lost its most talented interpreters, Farid al-Atrash, his sister Asmahan, and Sabah, to the 'Hollywood on the Nile.' It was only during the 1960s that genuinely Lebanese musicals were produced, including the films starring the Rahbani brothers, who became famous through their music theater. The Egyptian director Youssef Chahine directed their first film, The Seller of the Rings (Bayac al-khawatim, 1965), which was an adaptation of an operetta by the Rahbani brothers. The Rahbani films, in which the singer Fayruz always played the main character, were governed by patriotism and traditionalism. They used the Mont Liban dialect, and their stories were set in the mountains, in the traditional Maronite (Lebanese Christian) region. More highly acclaimed than Chahine's adaptation were the two subsequent Rahbani musicals, Safar Barlak (1967) and The Daughter of the Guardian (Bint al-haris, 1968), both directed by the Egyptian Henri Barakat.146 In Egypt, musicals have very often achieved the biggest commercial successes. The revue film and musical, My Father Is up the Tree (1969) by Hussein Kamal, with the singer cAbd al-Halim Hafiz, ran in Cairo alone for more than five months.147 During the 1970s, the musical's importance declined. In his tragic musical The Return of the

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c

Amr Diyab (center) in Ice Cream in Glim (Egypt, 1992) by Khairy Beshara (courtesy Cultural Fund, Ministry of Culture, Cairo}

Prodigal Son (cAudat al-ibn al-dal, 1976), introducing the Lebanese singer, Magda al-Rumi, Chahine attempted to provide the genre with a political message and bring it closer to Epic Theater, but the film met with little approval and was not imitated. In the course of the 1980s, the singer stars disappeared altogether from the screen with no new generation to follow. However, the musical has not completely lost its attraction for audience and film makers. The New Realist Khairy Beshara used songs by the Nubian pop singer Muhammad Munir in his Necklace And Bracelet (al-Tauq wa-1-iswira, 1986). Other films, for example, Silence, Listen! (Samac huss, 1990) and Ya Mahalabiya Ya (1991) by Sherif cArafa, revive the music hall film. Two of the greatest hits of 1991, The Crabs (Kaburya) by Khairy Beshara and al-Kitkat by Daoud Abd El-Sayyed (which ran for more than fifteen weeks in Cairo cinemas) contained several musical inserts. Khairy Beshara tried to revive the tradition of the local music hall and musical film by using young pop stars like cAmr Diyab and Muhammad Fu'ad in his Ice Cream in Glim and Abracadabra America (Amrika shika bika, 1993). Their musical qualities do not reach the standards of the earlier Egyptian musical. The reasons for the tremendous success of musicals in the Arab

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countries, in particular in the early decades of Arab cinema, are to be found in prevailing social conditions as well as in traditional culture: "The social formation itself turned the Arab world first into an audience of listeners before becoming an audience of spectators."148 In the case of the Maghreb states, whose own musical tradition of 'Andalusian' music was far away from the tear-jerking sentimentality of the Egyptian song,149 political reasons were decisive too. There was a vacuum in the national culture, which had been deeply weakened by colonialism and the subsequent profound social changes, which Egyptian culture could easily fill. The culturally and politically mobilizing effect of Egyptian and Arab music is clearly described in Moufida Tlatli's film Silence of the Palaces (Samt al-qusur, Tunisia, 1994) set in Tunis at the eve of independence. The adolescent heroine, the illegitimate daughter of a maid, finds an outlet from her restricted personal situation in singing Umm Kulthum songs, and at the end of the film rebels by singing a nationalist Tunisian song at a wedding party of her mother's proFrench masters. From the turn of the century, songs by popular Egyptian interpreters such as Salama Higazi and the nationalist Sayyid Darwish were distributed on record. Their massive spread had its point of departure in the cafes of Arab towns, where record-players were installed to entertain the patrons. Then, during the 1930s, other powerful distribution channels were added, radio and cinema, which underlined the precursor position of the Egyptians.150 In spite of all the commercial mechanisms that determined the development of the Egyptian musical and the introduction of Western elements, it would be inappropriate to label it as a variation on Hollywood—a form of plagiarism—as is sometimes suggested by Western film theory.151 This view ignores the specific needs of the Arab audience and their rootedness in native culture. The combination of music and acting was by no means only introduced with the spread of sound in cinema. Music and dance were already important elements in the traditional shadow plays and in the fasl mudhik.152 Moreover, the success of modern theater in the Arab region, especially in Egypt, would have been impossible without the use of musical interpretations. The survival of a theatrical troupe playing a solely classical (in the beginning mainly European) repertoire was therefore not guaranteed. At the turn of the century, the Syrian Iskandar Farah introduced musical performances in his often changing classical plays. His Egyptian star singer, Salama Higazi, was gifted with such an extraordinary voice that he was declared the Caruso of the East. In 1905, Higazi formed his own independent

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troupe, the Dar al-Tamthil al-cArabi.153 In his theater, music became the main element of the performance. Of the two greatest representatives of Egyptian theater between the two world wars, George Abyad and Yusuf Wahbi, the former offered mere speech theater. Wahbi was the more successful because he used music in his adaptations of foreign pieces and in his own creations, which ranged from social drama to comedy. The same applies to cAli al-Kassar and Nagib al-Rihani. Musical forms of theater also developed in other Arab countries, such as Lebanon and Algeria. It is true that the Western operetta and the French vaudeville theater inspired these musical practices more often than the shadow play, but they certainly met the needs of the audience, which had been shaped by native quasi-theatrical practices.154

Music and language In Europe, incidental music was employed in the age of silent movies. It was used to create sound effects and, in places, anticipated the synchronized sound.155 Music also helped to compensate for missing dialogue. The reinforcement of movements with a specific musical rhythm, so-called mickey mousing, further developed in the talkies, and the comments made on action by using an emotionally explicit musical interpretation (for instance the tremolo of instruments to create tension and suspense) has for the most part retained until today the character of a linguistic statement. Thus, the incidental music to some love scenes seems like a direct 'translation' of the German expression der Himmel hdngt voller Geigen ('the sky hangs full of violins').156 Comparable musical comments were also used in Arab cinema. Muhammad Karim's A Happy Day (Yaum sacid, 1940) contains a part of the operetta Madjnun wa Layla, composed by cAbd alWahhab, performed by cAbd al-Wahhab and Asmahan. In one instance, the music evokes desert scenery through a melody played on an oboe. Elsewhere, when the song "The wind and the youth" (alHawa' wa-1-shabab) speaks of drinking wine, the voice moves suddenly from a leisurely speed to a lively rhythm in order to mimic the holding of the wine glass.157 The song or vocal interpretation is doubtless the heart of Arab musicals. The close connection of music to language is based on a long tradition in Arab culture. Vocal interpretation formed, in most secular music genres that developed over the centuries in the Arabicspeaking region, the most important element of the performance. The nuba in the Maghreb and the qasida, muwashshah, and mawwal in the

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Mashreq all rely basically on singing. The qasida and the mawwal even carry the names of poetic genres. Typically enough, the genesis of Arab singing (ghina') is closely connected to poetry.158 Already in the pre-Islamic period, famous female singers used to recite and interpret verses of the great poets with musical accompaniment.159 This tradition was continued later by singing slave girls (djawari). The intonation of a poem, similar to the strictly regulated but nevertheless melodic recitation of the Quran, served as mnemonic, in particular as long as the preservation and spread of the text proceeded orally. Singing was held to increase the enjoyment of the poetic text. Modern musicals included not only classical forms like the qasida, but also lighter ones like the taqtuqa (light popular song), the unshuda or nashid (hymn), and ughniya (song). Another genre, very much dominated by language, that spread in cinema during the 1950s, is the so-called monologue, half song, half speech, accompanied by explicit gestures and facial expressions and often by dance. The monologue was not generally used by singers, but performed by actors. Nacima cAkif, for example, and the comedians Shukuku and Ismacil Yasin, made use of it.160 The song texts in musicals are often closely related to the narration. In Muhammad Karim's The White Rose the text of the song "Oh, rose of pure love" (Ya wardat al-hubb al-safi), constitutes title and summary in one. Although this song is not performed in the first scene of the film, it forms a sort of leitmotif of the story, which deals with the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a minor employee for the daughter of his wealthy boss. Not all songs in musicals perform such a clear dramatic function as "Oh, rose of pure love." Sometimes they just mark the start or the end of a certain section of narration, and are irrelevant to the development of the plot as such. Instead, they offer a sort of retrospective on events. In Dananir (1940/41) by Ahmed Badrakhan, Umm Kulthum plays the role of a young bedouin called Dananir. During a hunting excursion, Djacfar, vizier of the Caliph Harun al-Rashid, accidentally hears her singing. Djacfar is so fascinated that he decides to take the girl to Baghdad and have her trained by a famous singing master. Dananir makes fast progress and soon she is entertaining the caliph as well as Djacfar. At the same time, the other members of the ruling house, envious of Djacfar's privileged position, start to hatch a plot that costs him the confidence of the ruler and eventually his life. Harun's anger at his former favorite is so immense that he even forbids his lamentation. Dananir, however, keeps the memory of her master. She walks through the ruins of Djacfar's former palace and sings about the loss of the beloved. When she is finally taken to the

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caliph for this offense, he recognizes her as a symbol of fidelity and allows her to return to her homeland in the desert. The first song in the film is in praise of water and is sung by Umm Kulthum, in the desert, beside a spring. At this point, Dananir is still an entirely nature-bound nomad. The following song, "Unshudat Baghdad," is a sort of march song, performed on the way to Baghdad, heralding the basic change in the protagonist's life. Then, two rather solemn pieces follow, both part of the qasida "Quli litaifiki" (Tell your shadow!), one of them dealing with love. The qasida is performed in the palaces of the Caliph and of Djacfar. It is addressed to Djacfar and indicates, parallel to the action, an intensification of Dananir's relationship with him—a relationship that is however never explicitly characterized as an intimate love relationship. At this point in the film Dananir is at the height of her career. Umm Kulthum's fifth song is a cheerful taqtuqa,161 "Bukra alsafar" (The voyage is tomorrow). This song is the only one in the Egyptian dialect. Dramatically, it functions as a retarding moment, because the positive change predicted by the lively rhythm does not occur. In fact, the journey is prevented by the plot and Djacfar is sentenced to death in the next scene. The last song, "al-Qasr almahdjur" (The deserted palace) formulates a sad lamentation on the loss of the beloved162 and signals the tragic end of the story. Dananir walks through Djacfar's destroyed palace and sings a classical Arabic poem consisting of eighteen verses by the poet Ahmad Kami, starting with the following words: "The birds' rhymes escaped you, so did the ripeness of roses. Oh, palace, life seems like lines [...] The wind died in [your rooms], the hope ceased, nicer than the smile of roses."163 Particularly with the qasida^ Dananir introduces the so-called ghina' carabi (Arabic singing), an intonated classical Arabic poetry that has no real tradition in Egypt itself,164 but was known in the preand early Islamic age. This revived form of singing corresponds profoundly with the explicit historicism of the film.

Music of emotions "Since its emergence, Egyptian cinema has preferred to produce (or reproduce) emotions rather than the real," writes Abbas Fadhil

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Ibrahim.165 This is particularly true of the musical. Music has always been deeply connected to the emotional life of the different Arab people—only the Sufis used it as a means of spiritual recognition. According to legend, Lamak created the first lute with the bone of his deceased son, in order to lament his loss.166 A large part of traditional Arab music is connected to producing certain moods and emotions. Responsible for their realization is the basic formula of Arab music, the maqam.,167 which is formed by a certain melodic mode with fixed intervals. Each maqam is said to express a certain mood and to possess its own "ethic content."168 A maqam is able to create strong emotion in listeners, be it pride, power, joy, longing, love, sadness, or pain.169 An Arab musician and singer, by additionally using unforeseen variations or specific intervals and stressing them slightly, is able to arouse such an emotional fervor that listeners will interrupt the performance with spontaneous shouts of appreciation. In many of the early Arab musicals, vocal performances were directly related to the exterior or inner situation of the protagonist. According to Ahmed Badrakhan, who made a name for himself with romances and musical melodramas, working with some of Egypt's most important musical stars, including Farid al-Atrash and Nagat al-Saghira,170 "Music in cinema must be turned into film music, expressing exactly the emotions as well as everything else of nature or psychological conditions that can be seen on the screen."171 Muhammad Karim seems to have followed a similar conviction. The mise en scene in The White Rose clearly aims to transmit moods and feelings. In one of the most visually attractive scenes of the film, Karim succeeds in creating an atmosphere of happiness and lively joy by presenting idyllic images of nature edited in time with the music. The protagonist meets his beloved in the countryside after a long separation. Early in the morning, the couple stroll together. The water wheels are humming, the water draws circles, fields and trees reflect the bright sunlight, while the hero praises both love and the beauty of the world. The emotional functions of music suggested that the musical was to become the domain of melodrama. No other genre offers such potential for emotionally charged situations, no other dramatic form—as can be seen in the etymology of the word (Greek: melos = song, drama = plot)—is so fond of music. The early works of the genres, like those resulting from the cooperation of Muhammad Karim and cAbd al-Wahhab, for example Tears of Love (Dumuc alhubb, 1935/36) and Long Live Love (Yahya al-hubb, 1937/38), already developed as a main subject love that does not befit one's rank. A comparable topic is found in films with Umm Kulthum, who

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Umm Kulthum in Widad (Egypt, 1936) by Fritz Kramp (courtesy Muhammad Bakr, photographer, Cairo)

appeared in three of her six films as a poor servant or slave who falls in love with her master. The same orientation continues in many Egyptian melodramas, even in the time after independence in 1952. The basic conflict between love and patriarchism, woman and authoritarian father, individual and social order, was rarely won by liberty or sentiment. Yet, upon closer examination, the stylized sentimentality of melodrama has not much to do with the moods and feelings of the traditional Arab song. On the contrary, the director Ahmed Badrakhan became convinced that an essential part of traditional music, the tarab, the joyful excitement that normally builds up in the audience during the performance, was detrimental to film viewing. "The composition of a song must match with the poetic meaning and emphasize it. Yet, emotions should be aroused only in a way that they do not reach the border of delight (tarab). Tarab needs the repetition of the moving piece (al-maqtac al-hazzaz), which arouses the pleasure of the audience, but a film is not able to repeat such a piece."172

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The primacy of time In the course of the years in cinema the Arab song has been increasingly submitted to the dictates of time. Not only was tarab sacrificed to temporal continuity, but several other drastic changes had to be made in order to adapt traditional Arab music to the rhythm of film. Muhammad Karim, for example, was able to convince cAbd alWahhab to give up the long instrumental introduction in his compositions for The White Rose. He also prevented him from running over six minutes in any song.173 As the traditional maqam^ unlike melody in European songs, is not submitted to a specific temporal rhythmic organization and its performance may last for hours, this change can be considered as a rather decisive intervention. But cAbd al-Wahhab went even further. He introduced various dance rhythms, like tango, rumba, samba, and foxtrot,174 and was the first to use sung duets (thuna'i ghina'i).175 The Egyptian duet is a song that alternates between man and woman, accompanied by an instrumental ensemble. It is derived from the conventions of the operetta. cAbd alWahhab also enlarged the traditional ensemble (takht), normally consisting of only six instruments, to an orchestra and added instru-

Muhammad cAbd al-Wahhab and his orchestra in Girls' Flirtation (Ghazl albanat, Egypt, 1949) by Anwar Wagdi {courtesy Muhammad Bakr, photographer, Cairo)

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Farid al-Atrash in Song of Eternity (Lahn al-khulud, Egypt, 1952) by Henri Barakat (courtesy Muhammad Bakr, photographer, Cairo)

ments including piano, timpani, and double bass. The number of Arab instruments was increased, resulting in a completely different sound volume than that of the traditional takht.116 All this made the songs very popular. In spite of these innovations, some of the early musicals seem rather slow by today's standards. In Dananir, musical performances are felt to be far too long, although the length of each is between four and seven minutes only. One reason for this is that the singer's movements and actions are very slight—most often she simply stands facing the audience. The six songs in Dananir occupy thirtyfour from a total of ninety-six minutes, about a third of the screening time; there are also sequences with distinct Western-style background music. (Egyptian musicals in general use only Western music for the background.) Some films with cAbd al-Wahhab contain as many as eleven songs.177 Inevitably, this hampers the flow of action, in particular when songs are only superficially integrated into the narration. Directors like Henri Barakat and Niyazi Mustafa, who left Egyptian cinema more than 100 works, among them many musichall films, subsequently tried hard to achieve a more successful fusion of musical interpretation with the plot. In Song of Eternity (Lahn alkhulud, 1952) by Barakat, one of the most distinctive musical melodramas, the musical scenes with Farid al-Atrash are much more

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organically linked to other parts than in Dananir, for example, where songs and action are almost independent. This is partly due to the reduction of songs to three minutes, and also to the cutting and multiplication of different shots during the performance. At the same time, several little technical tricks, like the introduction of a radio transmission or the playing of records, allows the start of a parallel action during the singing, resulting in a much more varied visual arrangement. The initial attachment of the musical to melodrama loosened in the course of the years and time was given to cheerful comedies, as well as music hall films inspired by the American model. From the formal point of view, many of these films cannot be categorized, but represent rather a melange of genres. Thus, publicity of this sort was common: "a dramatic comedy love story with songs and dances."178 Girls' Flirtation by Anwar Wagdi and his revue film Gold (Dhahab, 1951) are prime examples of this type of cinema. In Gold, a young bourgeois woman is forced by her family to abandon her baby, which a poor traveling entertainer then finds in front of a mosque and takes with him. The baby grows to become a cheeky little girl who stands by her foster father's side when he is doing his tracks. Then, by accident, they meet the young mother, who recognizes the girl as her abandoned child, falls in love with the entertainer, and this time stands up resolutely to her family. With the star Fayruz, a talented little girl who dances and sings, Wagdi succeeded, in certain respects, in creating a pendant to Charlie Chaplin's The Kid. The partly comic, partly melodramatic plot is seasoned with Fayruz's performances. Unlike in early musicals, the songs of this film do not reflect the feelings of the protagonists, but are intended simply to entertain. The dances range from belly dancing to flamenco and American music hall. In the words of Salah Ezz Eddine: The musical genre in these films attained an almost childlike ease. It seduced less by its simplicity than by its novelty. Its principal aim was passing diversion corresponding exactly to the current humor. . . . The easy new style helped make the exaggerated melodramatic character that had belonged to Arab cinema at that time disappear. It forced Arab cinema to renew itself and to give up its pretended seriousness."179

This childlike speed also characterizes the musicals of the 1960s, mainly driven forward by the pace of contemporary, fashionable music. In Hussein Kamal's box office hit My Father Is up the Tree., with songs by cAbd al-Halim Hafiz, this tendency is further reinforced by show inserts and group dances. These developments

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Love in the dark (Hubb fi-1-zalam, 1953) by Hasan al-Imam (courtesy Muhammad Bakr, photographer, Cairo) c Abd al-Halim Hafiz and Nadia Lutfi in My Father Is up the Tree (Egypt, 1969) by Hussein Kamal (courtesy Muhammad Bakr, photographer, Cairo)

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correspond to the permissiveness of the young characters and their liberal dress, including skimpy bathing suits and miniskirts. During the late Nasserist era, the musical was gradually overtaken by other genres, including police films and social drama. At the same time, musicals shed the classical Arab music forms. The increasing popularity of beat and pop music replaced the stately measures of former times. The tendency to accelerate can be noted also in other parts of Egyptian cinema. Already during the 1950s, with films like The Beast (al-Wahsh, 1953) by Abu Seif or Chahine's Mortal Revenge (Sirac fi-1-wadi; literally, 'struggle in the valley'; French, Ciel d'enfer, 1954), the directors tried to compensate for the lack of music through adventure and suspense, or precisely a cinematic rhythm decisively accelerated by movement and editing. Thus, they also submitted to the primacy of time. This development culminates temporarily in one of the latest Egyptian music hall films, which paradoxically criticizes the selling out of Arab music and at the same time carries it even further. The actor Mamduh cAbd al-cAlim and the actress Layla cllwi appear in Silence, Listen! as Hummus and Halawa, who make their living by working as traveling entertainers at popular feasts. On several occasions in the film, the couple sings their song "Hummus wa halawa" (Chickpea and sesame butter), while Halawa presents a second-rate belly dance. On one of these occasions, an organ-grinder steals the melody of their song and passes it on to Ghandur, a wealthy, established singer. Ghandur turns the melody into a pompous patriotic song, with which he appears in front of high society and on television. When Hummus and Halawa finally get the chance to perform their song in a real nightclub, they are charged with having disparaged a patriotic song. The couple's endeavor to get the melody back fails as Ghandur uses all his influence, from material seduction to violence, in order to keep it for himself. A dream sequence is a decisive scene in this respect, in which Hummus and Halawa are confronted with Ghandur's Western pop music and take part in a group dance, including jazz, break dance, disco, waltz, and even ballet. The performance is called 'money'—Hummus and Halawa are supposed to be bribed—and symbolizes the attempt to capture humane and original 'popular' culture by the dominating, inhumane, modern 'capitalist' culture. Yet the rather overt message of the film's director, Sherif Arafa, and its author, Mahir cAwad, contains a considerable immanent contradiction. The melody and harmonies of the song "Hummus wa halawa", which is characterized by surrounding, arrangement, and instruments as a popular Arab song, is in fact identical with the

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supposedly alienated music. The putative authentic turns out to be itself only an imitation. Thus, the-film's message is reduced to a mere ideological reproach, sweepingly charging the establishment of being Westernized. The music, like the shine of costumes and decoration, is fake. Silence, Listen! is a good example of the syncretistic musical melange that is the dominant sound track of cinema in recent decades, little more than a local form of modern, international music. The "disarticulated and impersonal language" now dominating the "completely undermined and mixed up genres," must be seen as a result of the increasing mass mediation of culture.180 However, in Silence, Listen! this syncretistic music has been linked to so-called traditional and native culture, thus switching its signs, so to speak, in order to function as a means of cultural identification. In this case it is not that the 'traditional' content has been repackaged and modernized, but that the modern itself has been declared as original and authentic.

Music and film structure The commercial exploitation of the Egyptian musical and its development, being ruled only by supply and demand, prevented any new orientation in the relation of musical and cinematographic form. Only a few film makers have reconsidered the relation of native traditional music and cultural identity. Michel Khleifi did so by placing quasitraditional music in the context of national (Palestinian) liberation. In his documentary Fertile Memory (al-Dhakira al-khisba, 1980) and the semi-documentary Canticle of the Stones (Nashid al-hadjar, 1990) he undercuts documentary images and the drama with songs and footage of the music group Sabrin, whose quasi-traditional music was inextricably linked with the intifada and the new resistance from within the occupied territories. Almost no Arab film maker, however, explores the essence of traditional music and tries to apply its rules to cinematic rhythm and dramatic structure. The exception is the Algerian writer Assia Djebar, who lives in France and writes in French. In the 1970s, she interrupted her literary work and turned temporarily to cinema. Working with the audio-visual media offered her a way out of the linguistic dilemma she felt as an Algerian using French in her writing.181 Both films Assia Djebar directed at this time alluded to music in their titles: The Nuba of the Women of Mont Chenoua (La nouba des femmes de Mont Chenoua, 1976) and Zerda and the Songs of Oblivion (La zerda et les chants de 1'oubli, 1982). Since, according

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to Djebar, Arab culture lacks suitable visual traditions, she decided to borrow from music, which was "the only thing in Algeria that was not destroyed by colonialism."182 During her search for an authentic means of arrangement, she came across the music of her childhood, the Andalusian nuba, whose structure she took over for her first film..183 Nuba is a traditional genre of music, comparable to a cantata or suite. It has a western and an eastern form—the latter is supposed to have originated in Arab Spain during the eighth and ninth century and has spread mainly in the Maghreb. It consists of an interaction between voice and instruments in a fixed course and key. After a metrically free instrumental and vocal introduction, elegiac singing follows, turning then into two lively, but rhythmically different, final sections. The most popular form of nuba in Algeria, the nuba gharnati, usually consists of eight movements: three introductory movements, da'ira, mustakhbir, and tushiya (also taushiha)', three vocal movements, masdar, bataih, and daradj, which are preceded by an instrumental part. They are followed by a further vocal movement, the insiraf with its introductory tushiya and finally the khalas, the finale.184 Assia Djebar seems to consider only four or five movements relevant for her work. The subject of The Nuba of the Women of Mont Chenoua is introduced in a fictional part. Layla, an educated woman, returns from abroad with her child and her paralyzed husband to her home village in the mountains. During her expeditions through the region, she visits several (real) women and listens to them talk about daily life, the war of independence, and the history of the tribe, reaching back to the last century. The stories told by these women, of whom only those over fifty and under twelve appear on screen, form the core of the film. They are further framed by the memories of the fictive protagonist, containing elements of the film maker's biography. The expected structure of the film was schematically summed up during the shooting of the film as follows: • Present I: Layla, the second return. • Present II: Layla, the first return and the search for the disappeared brother. • History I: memories of the women peasants from 1954-62. • History II: memories of the grandparents. These elements are presented in three or a maximum of four movements, each of them possessing its own rhythm. First an istikhbar (mustakhbir)185 or prelude takes place, in which all themes, instrumental or vocal, are announced. The khlass (khalas) forms the finale, in which the fusion of

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collective and individual memories of a reconciled Layla are effected in a fast rhythm. . . . The core of the film lies between them, either with a piece that is arranged like a rather slow meceder (masdar) or as a faster btaihi (bataih) and is finally concluded with a melancholic dreamy nesraf (insiraf)."1*6

The division of the film similar to that of an Andalusian nuba not only has consequences for the temporal course, but also comprises the interaction of other elements. As in the original nuba, in which instruments and voice take turns, and then come together again, so in the film image and sound, as well as the protagonist and her surroundings, are combined. However, Assia Djebar applies the nuba's forming parts and principles of arrangement to cinema without using it as background music. Instead, she dedicates her film to Bela Bartok and uses pieces he composed during his stay in Algeria in 1913. Thus, the author indicates her direction unequivocally: she is not interested in a folkloric imitation of her own cultural heritage, but in reconditioning it according to the present. Accordingly, it is not a local resident who draws out the memories, but an emigrated, quasi-alienated member of the tribe. With the instruments of her Western education, she uncovers her own submerged roots, thus making them accessible to herself and others.

Having described the arts that have flourished in Arab cinema, and the degree of their rooting in Arab-Islamic culture, it is now necessary to analyse certain common genres and their relation to prevailing sociopolitical and cultural conditions in the Arab countries. From the conventions and subjects of the respective film genres, it is possible to gather information about the refusal or rehabilitation of indigenous culture, about myths and symbols contributing to the formation of identity, as well as about attitudes toward Western ideology and ideas such as socialism, materialism, laicism, and individualism. For this purpose some of the genres—precisely, literary adaptations, realist and historical films, and cinema d'auteur—that seem to contribute notably to the construction, or deconstruction, of certain effective political discourses will be examined.

The literary adaptation The close relation between literature and cinema is not an Arab peculiarity, but an international phenomenon. In the West, as well as in the East, cinema borrowed very early on from other artistic forms, mainly from literature, in order to secure its further development. Although in Western countries, moving images had 'formed in the beginning a part of the funfair and vaudeville theater entertainment, after a while they lost some of their attraction. Hence, to become a form of bourgeois entertainment was one of its strategies for survival.1 Thus, soon after its invention, cinema started to bow to bourgeois narrative traditions and to tell stories that were respectable

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and rich in content. In doing so, it drew on the immense treasury of realist feature novels (Feuittetonroman).2 In the Arab world the early perception of cinema went in a different direction. After being introduced first into the most elevated strata of society it became increasingly a means of popular entertainment, primarily consumed by the middle and lower urban classes. Like Western cinema, Arab cinema developed a strong interaction between literature and cinema, as we will further ascertain in the examination of realism. This is most evident in the genre of literary adaptation. However, the number of literary adaptations varies considerably among the different Arab countries. About a dozen novels and novelettes by native authors have been adapted in the Maghreb countries. Adaptations of foreign works have also been undertaken. Among the most important are Souheil Ben Baraka's Amok (1982), an adaptation of Cry the Beloved Country by the South African Alan Paton, Blood Wedding (cUrs al-damm, 1977) based on Garcia Lorca's drama of the same title, and the Tunisian Taieb Louhichi's Layla's Madman (Madjnun Layla, 1988), adapted from a novel by Andre Miquel.3 In Egypt, and in Syria, realist cinema during the 1950s and 1960s created a boom in literary adaptations. Some outstanding works by realist authors such as Ghassan Kahafani, Hanna Mina, Naguib Mahfouz, and Yusuf Idris were transferred to the screen. In Egypt, about 260 literary adaptations out of a total feature film production of approximately 2,500 films are supposed to have been realized between 1930 and 1993.4 During the first decades of Egyptian cinema, various famous novels and narratives from Western literature have found their way onto the screen, including some of the most distinguished works of early European realism—La dame aux camelias by Alexandre Dumas fils, Therese Raquin by Emile Zola, Victor Hugo's Les Miserables, and Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. At first sight, adapting subjects originated in another culture seems to be clear evidence of cultural alienation and invites charges of imitation and plagiarism. However, notions of the 'original' and the 'copy' overshadow an analysis whose terminology draws from a hierarchic idea of culture and derives from an obligation to originality that is in no way natural. In fact, the notion of intellectual property attained real importance to European culture only with the appearance of the Sturm und Drang literary school in the second half of the eighteenth century.5 Until then Western writers appropriated the subjects of other authors without inhibition, and rewrote and rearranged them. Famous works like Don Quixote, Simplicissimus.,

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Werther, and Robinson Crusoe may be considered as such 'plagiarisms.' Decisive for the evaluation of these works was the How and not the What of their arrangement.6 As Elisabeth Frenzel demonstrates, the migration of subjects and the appropriation and rearrangement of topics is a worldwide phenomenon. Topics migrate from one cultural environment to another, and from one genre to another, adapting to particular social conditions.7

La dame aux camelias: an example of cultural repackaging La dame aux camelias is a nineteenth-century novel by the French author Alexandre Dumas fils, and shows early realist tendencies in its preoccupation with social conditions. In Egypt, its subject has been adapted for screen twice: in Layla (1942) by Togo Mizrahi and in Promise of Love (cAhd al-hawa, 1955) by Ahmed Badrakhan after a script by cAli al-Zurqani. Themes of the story also appear in many other films, for example in Hussein Kamal's My Father Is up the Tree (1969). It is no surprise that all three works are musicals—Verdi had already adapted the story in his opera La Traviata, attracted no doubt by the melodramatic nature of the story. In the Egyptian films, La dame aux camelias was thoroughly Arabized. Only the story-line was taken over from the original version: Armand Duval is a young man with a bourgeois background who falls in love with the much sought-after courtesan, Marguerite Gautier. Marguerite feels similarly toward Armand, which soon hampers her from carrying on her trade. When Armand decides to sell his inheritance in order to pay his beloved's debts, his father intervenes. He asks Marguerite to give up his son, pretending that the marriage of Armand's respectable sister is endangered by the scandal. Marguerite, who in the meantime has become critically ill, convinces her lover of her faithlessness and dies a short while later, deeply in debt. The theme of the selfless courtesan reached a high point with La dame aux camelias. As Dumas himself points out in his novel, the subject stems from an older text written by Abbe Prevost,8 and indeed the persona of the noble courtesan reaches back to antiquity.9 Its rediscovery by French realism is connected to a change in the intellectual attitudes of the time. The new literary genre became the critic of social abuses and of bourgeois morals and snobbery, although it never completely liberated itself from either. Some similarities can be observed in Egyptian melodrama. During the 1940s and 1950s the theme of the noble woman either seduced or failed became increasingly popular. As a list set up by Galal al-

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Charkawi shows, in the twenty-three films screened in the season of 1945/46 alone, nine girls were seduced and two raped.10 The two Egyptian adaptations of La dame aux camelias, Layla (1942) and Promise of Love (1955), schematize the plot considerably in accordance with the conventions of Egyptian melodrama. The poor become poorer and the rich richer, and they do without the background story of the literary model. In Dumas's version, the firstperson narrator in the novel comes to know the miserable Armand after Marguerite's demise. The novel unfolds the story from the end using several perspectives expressed in letters, parts of a diary, and reports of various involved persons, a technique that the films also forego. The Egyptian characters representing the young lover, Farid in Layla and Wahid in Promise of Love, stem from a much wealthier home than their French counterpart. Their fathers are not civil servants but prosperous landowners. Unlike Armand, who takes part freely and easily in the night-life of Paris, the Egyptian heroes seem naive and inexperienced in dealing with the demimonde. They wish to marry the courtesan in order to rescue her, an attitude Armand never shares. The existence of a sexual relationship is almost hidden. In Layla., there is some suspicion of it, but in the later adaptation, Promise of Love., there is no trace of it. The main female character has likewise undergone decisive changes. The French dame aux camelias loves her independence and chooses her lovers consciously. Layla is much closer to this than Amal in The Promise of Love. Like Marguerite, Layla self-confidently mocks the clumsy overtures of her admirer. Yet overall, she is represented as a victim of circumstances. This trait is stressed even more in Amal, who appears completely passive and helpless. In both Egyptian versions, the women are encouraged into prostitution by a friend. In the literary model, Marguerite has a close friend, Prudence, who profits from Marguerite's work, but seems unable to influence her in any way. Marguerite lets herself be kept by men because of her love of luxury and her disturbed relation with her unloving mother. Her Egyptian counterparts are motivated only by material poverty. Amal, for example, has to take care of a blind mother and two younger brothers and sisters. By reinforcing the contradictions in both Egyptian melodramas, the conflict is carried to the utmost. Individual happiness and love stand on the one side while tradition and family are on the other. The main contenders are the loving woman and the authoritarian father.l! Furthermore, both films succeed, in comparison with the Western model, in achieving an important shift of meaning, by means of their

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Farid al-Atrash and Maryam Fakhr al-Din in Promise of Love (°Ahd al-hawa, Egypt, 1955) by Ahmed Badrakhan (courtesy Muhammad Bakr, photographer, Cairo)

representation of native and Western cultures. Layla ends up in a poor room, taken care of only by her old lady's maid, who, in costume and manners, is explicitly Egyptian. Amal in The Promise of Love dies in the poorly furnished house of her clearly destitute mother. She wears traditional clothes and a veil. (Amal's four-poster bed with shining bed linen forms the sole comfort and seems as much out of place as her elegant and fashionable Western wardrobe.) Servants and maids in both films are faithful and kind and are assigned, through their behavior and clothing, to the traditional Egyptian, in part rural, milieu. The protagonists, who wear Western costumes, are for the most part permissive and immoral. Wahid in The Promise of Love is at first presented as a righteous young man, although, unlike his father, he is not interested in the Friday prayers. Even though his family is dressed in almost Western-style clothes, its members are clearly characterized as traditional and Muslim, through their surrounding, the rural environment, and their morals (Wahid's father wears an Arab cloak (cabaya) and is preparing for his pilgrimage). Both films represent Western lifestyle as a potential moral danger. In these various ways, then, the Egyptian adaptations of La dame

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aux camelias Arabize the subject essentially, even though they are set in the milieu of Western influenced Egyptian haute bourgeoisie. The ethical content of the narration is adapted and reformulated according to the moral code of Arab-Islamic culture and is furnished with an indirect critique of Western lifestyle. Adaptation here is not simply wholesale appropriation nor a simple alienated imitation, but is rather a repackaging of 'traditional' values in a 'modern' form.

Realism Starting with national independence in the 1950s and 1960s, film making in the Arab countries increasingly avoided fictive entertainment and examined social reality instead. Situated against the background of nationalist and marxist ideology, cinematic realism (alwaqiciya) aimed to reflect the world and daily life of the indigenous population. It denounced colonial oppression and social abuse. The genre spread throughout the Arab countries and developed various regional forms. Apart from Egyptian realism, there was revolutionary Algerian cinema, sometimes called al-sinima al-djidid (New Cinema),12 and Alternative Cinema (al-sinima al-badila)13 in Syria. The films of the Lebanese directors George Nasr and George Qaci at the end of the 1950s showed realistic tendencies14 as did the works of the Iraqi directors Mohamed Choukri Jamil, Sahib Hadad, and Faycal al-Yasseri during the 1970s.15 In Tunisia and Morocco a similar tendency can be seen in Under the Autumn Rain (Taht matar al-kharif, 1966) by the Tunisian Ahmed Kechine and Spring Sun (Shams al-rabic, 1970) by the Moroccan Latif Lahlou. The Cruel Sea (Bass ya bahr; literally 'Stop, sea!'; La mer cruelle, 1971) by the Kuwaiti Khalid Siddiq belongs in the same category. Western film theory has provided a number of categories derived from the confrontation with different realist trends in occidental film making since the beginning of the century: poetic realism in France, Italian neorealism, and socialist realism in the former USSR, for example. The various theoretical approaches cover a vast spectrum of cinematic arrangements and range from the analysis of narrative structures to technical and topical characterizations. Regarding narration, Colin MacCabe's notion of classic realist text,16 which he derives from the narrative structures of nineteenthcentury classic realist literature, seems helpful. According to MacCabe, the classic realist text is based on a dominant discourse, that of the all-knowing narrator, who does not admit his subjectivity at any point in the text. This discourse produces realist illusion by

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denying itself as an utterance: "The real is not articulated—it is."17 This "discourse of knowledge" suggests one sole perspective to which all other discourses (including those of the characters) are subordinate. Several competing perspectives with equal weight cannot exist in this kind of narration, for they would reduce the identification of the observer. Therefore realist conventions convey the impression of a closed universe, a 'panopticon' in which reality and fiction are the same.18 However, MacCabe's definition alone does not suffice to circumscribe realism. Genres that are non-realist regarding their content— for example, modern science fiction—apply the same discourse of knowledge as classic realism. Hence, to classify a film as realist, other characteristics have to be taken into consideration. In his analysis of Italian neorealism, Andre Bazin pointed to features like quasidocumentary style, refusal of the star system, the occasional employment of amateur actors, and shooting in original locations to give the impression of an authentic environment.19 No less important are those characteristics that in Raymond Williams's view are common to all literary and cinematic realisms— contemporaneity, secularism, and social inclusiveness.20 "Realism focused . . . upon the external social reality, which it saw as a human construct, the result of human intervention. This led to stress upon the determining action of people upon their environment rather than their passive molding by it."21 Realism that is oriented toward the past or the next world is scarcely imaginable. Instead, realism describes the visible appearances and experiences of reality that are (apparently) accessible to everybody and thus form a common denominator of daily life experience. The representation of human fate on the background of an entire social context forms the essence of the realist genre. In particular the notion of social inclusiveness, which is probably better paraphrased as balanced social representation, attains significance because what counts is not the representation of only certain social strata (like the working class or bourgeoisie), but an equal representation of all social groups and their interaction. This maxim contradicts the ideas of socialist realism, where ideally the whole narration should be subordinated to the perspective of the proletariat.22 However, realist conventions against all pretense do not guarantee that "things are shown as they are." This has already been stated by the dramatist and scriptwriter Bertolt Brecht. His concept of realism was based on a completely contrasting approach, namely the alienation of the discourse of knowledge that dominates the classic realist

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text. In Brecht's view, true insight into reality can only be achieved when the unconditional identification of the audience with the narration is abolished.23 Brecht's concept of realism has only slightly influenced the field of cinema in general and in the Arab countries in particular, although his plays aroused strong interest during the 1960s and 1970s. Instead Arab cinema stayed faithful to the principles of conventional realism, which is, like all film genres, no more or less than a fictional discourse on reality.

Egyptian realism Egyptian realism is the only Arab realism that has entered film history under the name 'realism.' This is not to say that Egyptian realism was more 'realistic' or more adequate to reality than other comparable trends in Arab cinema. Its name only expresses the changed attitude of a part of commercial Egyptian film making toward social reality. Its essential characteristics are description that attempted to be ft hful to the environment and the choice of the simple man from the lower social strata as protagonist. As such, Egyptian realism differs remarkably in its themes and narration from the other genres of the Egyptian film industry—farce, melodrama, or musical. Egyptian realism started in the early 1950s, before all other Arab countries except Lebanon. Yet its qualitative importance is constantly confused in film history with its actual marginality. Between 1951 and 1971 the film industry in Egypt produced a total of 1,012 works.24 Apart from a dozen patriotic films, about thirty-two realist films were shot,25 i.e., one and a half films per year over the whole period. After nationalization the annual average increased only slightly. Between 1963 and 1971 only two realist films appeared per year. In general, realism was confined to three directors, Salah Abu Seif, Taufik Salih, and Youssef Chahine, whose works, with the exception of Salih, had a strong commercial element. Only for a short while during the 1960s were they joined by a few mainstream directors, among them Henri Barakat, Kamal El-Cheikh, and Hussein Kamal. In spite of the state's openness after the coup d'etat of the Free Officers in 1952 to the interests of the underprivileged classes and thus to realist representations (though not representations of topical politics), the genre remained at the mercy of the market. The nationalization of the film industry came rather late (in 1963) and initiated no basic changes in its economic structure. As a result, most realist works were produced by the private sector and commercial interests were taken into consideration during their making.

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Fatin Hamama (center) in Bitter Day, Sweet Day (Yaum hulw, yaum murr, Egypt, 1988) by Khairy Beshara

In the early 1980s, after a slack period during the 1970s, realism was revived with the help of the generation of 'New Realists,' Atef ElTayeb, Mohamed Khan, Khairy Beshara, Bashir El-Dik, and Daoud Abd El-Sayyed, whose works were dominated by very much the same commercial interests as the preceding wave of the 1960s.26 In the shadow of censorship and commerce

The first Egyptian feature film that was considered realist by Egyptian film critics was Determination (al-cAzima) by Kamal Selim, made in 1939. It is set almost exclusively in the environment of the petty bourgeoisie. Muhammad lives with his parents in a traditional neighborhood. Although his father is only a simple barber, the young man has received a good education that should allow him to start a career as a civil servant. But Muhammad cannot find a job, although he needs one desperately in order to marry the neighbor's daughter, Fatima, who is also the object of the wealthy butcher's attention. With the assistance of a pasha, Muhammad is finally able to find a job and marry his beloved. But his luck lasts only a short while; because of a misunderstanding Muhammad loses his job, which makes his wife's family urge her to separate from him. All ends well though, as together with the son of the pasha the protagonist is able to set up his own company, and nothing can prevent his marital happiness.

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As this short summary demonstrates, the realism of Determination does not consist in the construction of the plot, which is arranged according to conventional drama, but in the 'setting,' the environment of the protagonist. The director's original intention was to call the film 'The Alley' (al-Hara), but this was rejected by the producer of the film, since Studio Misr did not consider it suitable for advertising.27 The peculiarity of Determination lies in the alley and its inhabitants. This was in sharp contrast to other films of that time. The familiar surroundings of ordinary people were not pictured at all or only briefly and without details, even if those people were represented main characters. In Selim's film the vivid life of the alley is a main element of the plot. Passers-by, traders, visitors to the cafe, and inhabitants of the small houses, all take part in the action and show deep interest in what happens to the protagonist and his bride. In spite of its interest in expressing a social critique—two keenlyfelt problems of the time are represented, arranged marriage and the missing contribution of the native bourgeoisie in building a national economy—Determination also contains various non-realistic elements. The narrative structure, which introduces the pasha as deus ex machina, indicates this clearly. Muhammad cannot alter his situation alone. The decisive and positive changes in his career are initiated by the pasha or his son. Thus, his story is lifted into a fabulous, fairy tale-like realm, for in reality not every minor employee maintains a friendly relationship with an influential pasha and family. Selim's difficulties with his producer and his concessions to the system on the level of the narration can be seen as a result of the increasingly unfavorable attitude of the industry toward realist representation. The musical director Ahmed Badrakhan, for example, was convinced that realist narration in feature films was totally unsuitable: It is noteworthy that a plot or script that is set in a simple environment, like that of the workers or peasants, has only limited success, for cinema relies first of all on images. The middle class, which forms the majority of the audience, does not wish to see the world in which they live, but on the contrary are eager to have an insight into circles they do not know but read about in novels. . . . Here are some places that are suitable to appear in a film: the theater, the music hall, the editorial office of a newspaper, a big hotel, the stock exchange, the summer holiday, the horse race, a gambling casino.28

Despite such attitudes, in 1945, six years after Determination, a work appeared that was far less willing to compromise. This was The Black Market (al-Suq al-sauda') by Kamil al-Tilmissani. The main part is again taken by a young employee, Hamid, who is living during World War II in a small attic room. He loves Nagya, whose father

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and another unscrupulous trader are hoarding merchandise. Because of the shortage of goods, the two merchants are able to raise prices extortionately and in spite of his modest origins Nagya's father becomes extremely rich. The defenseless inhabitants of the alley are dependent on his goods, and cannot fight back. Only Hamid cannot give in. He tries to uncover the wheelings and dealings of the speculators, even at the risk of losing Nagya's love. Not least because of its analytical approach, The Black Market did not achieve the same success as Determination. Without any melodramatic tear-jerking al-Tilmissani demonstrates the problems that Hamid has to overcome while trying to uncover the blackmarketeers. His realism unfolds not so much in the details of his environmental description but in reference to the entire social context. Selim's and al-Tilmissani's achievements can only be appraised in the knowledge that during the 1930s and 1940s a phenomenon appeared in Egyptian cinema similar to the 'classic separation of style' (Stiltrennung) that prevailed for a long time in Western literature. In antiquity as well as in the Middle Ages, references to the popular environment and characters were allowed in low literature, for example in merry tales (Schwank) and burlesque stories (Burkske), but not in texts of elevated style.29 During the 1930s and 40s, representatives of lower social classes appeared in Egyptian cinema primarily in farce. In romance and melodrama persons of lower social status, despite poverty being essential to the genre, were reduced to stylized signs. Although the fellah (Egyptian peasant) in these films was granted his typical, indigenous costume, he was not characterized realistically but served mostly for amusement. The dresses of 'poor' main characters were often adapted to the Western clothing of the upper strata. Their original environment was not at all or only schematically represented. The contempt for the native culture of the underprivileged classes found in many films of this time was accompanied with some moral qualifications by a relatively positive representation of Western lifestyle (though not Western morals). Togo Mizrahi's film Layla from the Countryside (Layla bint al-rif, 1941) characterizes life in the countryside as provincial, since it lacks institutions like sporting clubs and nightclubs. In spite of her wealth the protagonist, daughter of a farmer, is ridiculed because of her dress and manners and presented as socially unacceptable. She finally appears attractive to the hero only when she shows some fashion consciousness and knowledge of the French language. The only traditional elements that in this film remain exempt from the accusation of backwardness are those norms that maintain patri-

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archal order, that is first of all those that affect the position of women and family. The protagonist approves his peasant wife's adaptation to the lifestyle of the city, he even supports it, but he is not willing to grant her emotional or sexual freedom, although he himself refuses for a long time to consummate their marriage. He justifies this attitude by his male honor (karama / sharaf). The obstacles to a more realistic presentation of the poor, as well as of native culture, were not only put up by the commercial system but also by legislative restrictions. The censorship law, the so-called Faruq Code issued in 1949 by the Ministry of Social Affairs,30 excluded realism by equating it with subversive leftist trends. Thus it prohibited among others the following representations: • Images of apparently soiled alleys, of hand and donkey carts, itinerant traders, copper cleaners (mubayyad al-nahas), poor farm houses and their furnishings, and women wearing enveloping gowns (al-mila'a allaf). • The shaking of the social order by revolutions, demonstrations, and strikes. • The approval of crimes or the proliferation of the spirit of revolt as a means of demanding rights. • Everything touching Eastern habits and traditions.31

These regulations could be wholly ignored by Egyptian cinema only after the coup in 1952 and the abolition of the monarchy. Literature as catalyst Realist literature played a decisive role in establishing realist cinema in Egypt. The first long Egyptian feature film, Zaynab (1930) by Muhammad Karim, which included some social critique, was adapted from a novel by Muhammad Husain Haikal published for the first time in 1914 under the same title.32 Zaynab, the sensitive daughter of a peasant, experiences a harmless flirtation with the educated son of a landowner, Hamid. Then Zaynab falls in love with Ibrahim, but her parents marry her to Hasan, one of his friends. The girl has no opportunity to object. As a result of the conflict between marital faithfulness and her actual feelings, Zaynab's health is so damaged that she falls ill and dies. Haikal's work is considered as the first real Egyptian novel33 and is described in form and content as a didactic novel (Bildungsroman).34 The adaptation of Zaynab, which stayed close to the literary original, assumed not only its critique of traditional family structure, the position of women and arranged marriage, but also Haikal's romanticizing and aestheticizing style, which resulted in comprehensive and rather nostalgic descriptions of life in the countryside. The director of

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the film, Muhammad Karim, made the same effort to present as beautiful and clean an image as possible of his native country. For this reason he ordered all animals to be washed before the shooting.35 The resulting aesthetic stood of course in contrast to the socially critical elements of the story. The realist wave of the 1950s owes a great deal to the influence of the Egyptian novelist Naguib Mahfouz, who left deep traces particularly in the work of Salah Abu Seif, the most popular representative of cinematographic realism in Egypt. From 1951 to 1952 with his films Master Hasan (al-Usta Hasan) and Your Day Is Coming (Lak yaum ya zalim), Abu Seif introduced Egyptian realism of the postcolonial period. He was to complete in the following two decades fifteen realist (or quasi-realist) feature films, out of his total of forty films. The cooperation between Salah Abu Seif and Naguib Mahfouz started with the film The Avenger (al-Muntaqim, 1947), whose script they wrote together. This was Naguib Mahfouz's first experience of scriptwriting.36 In the following years Mahfouz contributed to nine scripts of Abu Seif, including Raya and Sakina (Raya wa Sakina), The Beast (al-Wahsh), Youth of a Woman (Shabab imra'a) and Between Sky and Earth (Bayn al-sama' wa-l-ard).37 These served as drafts for Abu Seif s most outstanding works. Two adaptations of novels by Mahfouz, directed by Abu Seif—Beginning and End (Bidaya wa nihaya) and Cairo 30 from al-Qahira al-djadida (The new Cairo)—count among the most important films of Egyptian realism. During the 1960s Mahfouz held important positions in the world of cinema. He was at various times in charge of censorship, of the film fund, and of a department of the film organization, and worked for the ministry of culture as a consultant for cinema.38 From 1947 until 1959 he contributed to no less than eighteen scripts,39 most of which belong to the realist category. Up to 1978, fifteen adaptations of his novels were produced, primarily works from his first, prerevolution, period.40 Abu Seif states that realist literature had a major influence on his own work. He admired in particular the work of Russian realists including Chekov.41 French authors of the last century also aroused his interest. Indeed his first realist film, Your Day Is Coming, was, in environment and characters, an adaptation of Zola's Therese Raquin. The close connection between literature and realism is not only observed in the work of Salah Abu Seif. Taufik Salih, for example, adapted Diary of a Country Prosecutor (Yaumiyat na'ib fi-1-aryaf) by Taufik al-Hakim. The script for his first film, Alley of Fools (Darb al-

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Publicity poster for Diary of a Country Prosecutor (Yaumiyat na'ib fi-1-aryaf, Egypt, 1968) by Taufik Salih

mahabil, 1955), stems from Naguib Mahfouz. Another realist, Youssef Chahine, adapted the novel The Earth (al-Ard) by cAbd alRahman al-Sharqawi, to produce one of the most notable examples of Egyptian realism (al-Ard., 1968).42 Other directors owe their few realist films to adaptations of literary texts: Henri Barakat's The Sin (al-Haram, 1965) is from a novel by Yusuf Idris; Kamal El-Cheikh made Miramar (1968) and The Thief and the Dogs (al-Liss wa-1-kilab, 1962), both by Mahfouz; and Hussein Kamal adapted Mahfouz's Adrift on the Nile (Tharthara fauq al-Nil; literally, 'babbling on the Nile,' 1971). The interest of the realist directors in literature is not purely spiritual. Novels constitute an easily accessible reservoir of ideas. Their adaptation also seems advisable from the commercial point of view, for the success of a novel might be repeated in the cinema. Also, the background of the directors themselves may have contributed to this tendency. Youssef Chahine and Taufik Salih come from the bourgeoisie, as does Henri Barakat. The only exception is Salah Abu Seif, who grew up in the rather popular and poor Cairo neighborhood of Bulaq. With the help of literary texts most directors were able to compensate for their insufficient knowledge of the living circumstances of the lower classes. Taufik Salih, for example, before making Alky of Fools, received an introduction from Naguib Mahfouz. According to the director, the novelist took him to Old

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Cairo (al-Gamaliya neighborhood) and described for him the life of his friends and relatives there.43 Commercial realism Realists portraying the lives of ordinary workers and peasants on the screen chose their subjects from real life as well as from literature. The stories of The Beast (1953), Raya and Sakina (1953) and The Thug (1957) by Abu Seif go back to actual events, although these are out of the ordinary (in the first two films the activities of criminal bands provide the action), and immersion in the popular environment creates a realist impression. A similar combination of the commercial and the realist (spectacular event plus observation of daily life) is found in Cairo Main Station (Bab al-hadid, 1958) by Youssef Chahine. Poverty in his native village has driven the ragged and crippled Qinawi to the metropolis. The main railway station (in colloquial bob al-hadid, 'the iron gate') means to him the center of the world. He lives here in a shabby old wagon, which he decorates with pin-up girls. Qinawi is a silent voyeur, who is allowed to participate in life only by watching. So it is no wonder that the woman for whom his heart longs has not shown any interest in him. The sexy and decisive soft-drink seller, Hanuma, only has eyes for the gallant porter Abu Siric. After a failed attempt to approach Hanuma, Qinawi decides to kill her. But another girl falls victim of his murderous attempt. When Qinawi goes after Hanuma's blood again, he finishes up in a strait) acket. With motifs of criminality like murder and chase, Cairo Main Station produces considerable suspense. At the same time, several parallel stories unfolding within the station break the dramatic structure of the background story: the porters try to set up a trade union; a panicked peasant family wander through the crowd; a feminist gives a speech; two young lovers keep their secret appointments. These inserts are mainly observations made by Qinawi and allow the audience to participate in his voyeurism, thereby helping to reinforce the realism of the film. Thus the narrative structure, which follows the conventions of the police film with the introduction of conflict, climax, and resolution, is broken by a series of other scenes. This kind of structure appears only in a few Egyptian realist films, as most directors and scriptwriters followed the principles of conventional drama and avoided epic narrative forms. The Thug (1957), whose script was co-written by Naguib Mahfouz, was one of the most successful of Salah Abu Seif s realist films and is a typical example of Egyptian realism. Its theme came from a report in the newspapers. The young peasant Haridi, starting

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out as an unskilled worker at the vegetable market in Cairo, gets into a quarrel with some influential traders who are monopolizing the market. Although without any means, the peasant is received warmly and supported by other traders, in particular by a beautiful female trader. Together they develop a plan to put a stop to the game of the 'king of the market.' However, the example of Haridi is soon to prove that solidarity does not last for long: the former unskilled worker changes into an unscrupulous speculator, who himself threatens the position of the king of the market. The struggle that starts between the two is only terminated by the intervention of the police. An epilogue follows, showing the arrival of another peasant at the market who, like Haridi, is slapped early on, and will try his luck in the same way. The protagonists of The Thug are exclusively peasants, workers, and traders, who live and work in the area of the market. Members of higher social classes appear only as negative, marginal figures. The identification of the characters is made through morality alone, the antagonism between good and evil. Zayd, the influential king of the market, is unscrupulous and authoritarian. His appearance, his facial expressions, and his physique are unattractive, whereas Haridi and his friends are presented in a very positive way, humorous, helpful, and showing solidarity. The film does not attempt a psychological study of the characters. Immediately upon his arrival Haridi seems naive and foolish, but as soon as he is established in the city, his behavior becomes unscrupulous and devious. None of the protagonists possess real individual features. The heroes are characterized in principle by their professional and social affiliations and can be, as the epilogue clearly indicates, substituted for at any time. The main parts of the film are acted by the two stars Farid Shauqi and Tahiya Carioca. Their acting reinforces the stylization of the characters even further and makes the influence of farce and theater apparent. But the employment of amateur actors, who probably could have given the characters greater authenticity, would have been unthinkable. Cooperation with star actors was a tribute that the realists had to pay to the film industry. Similar considerations apply to the treatment of the environment in Egyptian realism. Contrary to Italian neorealism, which at times exchanged the studio entirely for filming on location,44 Egyptian realism remained a child of the studios, with all that this meant for faithfulness to detail and creating an appropriate atmosphere.45 However directors like Salah Abu Seif tried to compensate for this by an exact study of the environment: "For 'Le Costaud' [The Thug] for

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example I went every day to the [market], after I had studied the economic background, the power structures in the market. We rebuilt the in the studio in such a way that even the people who go there every day could not notice any difference in the film."46 Hampered socialism

Analyses simply oriented toward materialist or socialist realism are an exception in Egyptian realism. In Struggle of the Heroes (Sirac al-abtal, 1962), directed and written by Taufik Salih, the socialist discourse appears clearly in the course of the narration and in characterization. A young doctor who starts working in the countryside wants to contribute to improving the villager's lives. But this only brings him enemies: the midwife who is anxious about losing her income, the peasants who trust neither his medical advice nor his suggestions for reform, and the landowner who needs obedient and passive villagers to maintain his personal interests. With the assistance of his wife, the doctor succeeds in uncovering the intrigues of the landowner and the midwife and encourages the peasants to show solidarity and convinces them to follow the path of progress. During the making of his films, Taufik Salih often came up against censorship and bureaucracy. His films produced by the film organization, Mister Bulti (al-Sayyid Bulti, 1967) and The Rebels (alMutamarridun, 1966), both had to wait two years until their release. In the case of Mister Bulti., which deals with the struggle of fishermen at work against a monopolist, the censor used a scene of two young women shaving their legs as a pretext for postponing the release of the film.47 Due to the inconsistencies and contradictions of cultural politics in Egypt, Taufik Salih constantly suffered from bureaucratic obstacles. Finally in the early 1970s he was forced to search for producers abroad. As the example of Salih shows, in spite of socialist planning, governmental endeavor in no way furthered socialist realism. Outside of Salih's work, other examples of socialist realism are few. The Earth (al-Ard, 1968), by Youssef Chahine, deals with the struggle of small farmers against the tyranny of the big landowners. The representation of class struggle is largely due to the literary basis of the film. The author, cAbd al-Rahman al-Sharqawi, is one of the few Egyptian writers who expressed an uncompromising Marxism.48 Apart from The Earth., Mister Bulti., and Struggle of the Heroes, Egyptian realists did not normally glorify the working or peasant class. Some of them, like Abu Seif in The Thug and Youth of a Woman even depicted peasants with mockery and condescension. This is not so strange in view of the often contradictory attitude of

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the film makers, not least that of Salah Abu Self. In spite of his work as an influential civil servant—he was head of the governmental production company Film Intadj-—Abu Seif continued to pay tribute to commercial forms of production. Even after the nationalization of the film industry, he directed commercial films, although he spoke in favor of the socialist film and made theoretical efforts to develop a popular and at the same time socially critical cinema. The artist, and in particular the film maker, has the most effective means of speaking to the masses. Of all artists, the film maker is most capable of describing the struggle of man in an accessible and elevated style. . . . Cinema aims to educate the people's sense of beauty. Therefore it has to respond to two important factors: entertainment and dealing with social problems. On this basis, no contradiction exists between socialism and comedy. If we are able to produce films making the people laugh at their enemies and their allies and about their own faults in order to correct them, we know that we have succeeded in making a valuable socialist cinema.49

However, it seems that in his practical work the director was not always able to combine socialism and entertainment. Between 1963 and 1971 during his work at the film organization, Abu Seif directed only three realist films, while in the same period he shot one religious and two mainstream works. Melodrama and ideological potpourri Egyptian realism does not constitute a coherent ideological movement. It displays secular tendencies as well as traditional moral and religious concepts. Fatalist convictions are juxtaposed with materialist approaches. Its level of political consciousness was also in general low and confined to harmless social critique concurring with the system. Nasserism and the new regime were conceived positively and in part glorified, as in Dawn of a New Day (Fadjr yaum djadid, 1964) by Youssef Chahine. Through the figure of a young student the director characterizes the new system as dynamic and progressive, while the pre-revolutionary bourgeoisie is shown as parasitic and unable to share in bearing the ideals of progress and social justice. Only a few were critical. Taufik Salih, who made an optimistic appeal for the construction of a new social order in Struggle of the Heroes., soon took a considerably more skeptical position. His critical and highly allegorical film The Rebels was produced one year before the disaster of 1967, the military defeat by Israel that clearly demonstrated the weaknesses of the regime. In a sanatorium far off in the desert, first-class patients enjoy various privileges while third-class patients are even deprived of fresh water. After the arrival of a young

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Shukri Sarhan (right) in The Rebels (al-Mutamarridun, 1966) by Taufik Salih

doctor, himself a victim of lung disease, the underprivileged decide to protest. For a short while the rebels take over the sanatorium and create just conditions. But they soon fall into a trap and become corrupted. A last attempt to create solidarity among the dissidents ends tragically, and the revolt is shattered by force. The censor and state functionaries understood Taufik Salih's narrative as an allegory on Nasser's reign, and consequently the film was banned for two years. In Egyptian realism, analysis of the totality of societal conditions is often undertaken only superficially and reflects the diffuse political convictions of its producers. In The Thug., for example, Mahfouz and Abu Seif equate the rules of the free market economy, which they see as leading to trade monopolies and illegal speculation, with the preNasserist political system. As becomes clear, the influential 'king of the market' has friends at the very top (pashas and ministers) who support him and at the same time make profit out of him. But this system breaks down violently, and during a police raid the picture of the king falls from a wall, signifying the coup d'etat. In spite of the positive change that the intervention of the police promises, the film's epilogue is skeptical. A new 'Haridi' enters'the market, indicating that the story can repeat itself at any time.

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Although the film was shot in 1956, four years after the overthrow of the old and corrupted system, the makers seem convinced that the people remain victims of unjust social circumstances. Taufik Salih and Naguib Mahfouz in Alley of Fools (1955) castigate greed and profiteering (i.e., materialism) and contrast it with a Muslim ethos. The film tells of a conflict that starts among the inhabitants of an alley over a lottery ticket. A young worker buys a ticket for his fiancee, which wins the first prize a short while later. The couple need the money desperately, as the young man's job in a bicycle workshop brings in far too little to finance the marriage. However, the fiancee's religious father tells her that games of chance are prohibited by Islam, and the young woman throws the ticket away in the street. Thus the ticket falls into the hands of the fool who sits with his goat on the edge of the street. Several inhabitants of the alley try in various ways to get hold of the money. The efforts of the imam (Muslim cleric) to initiate peace fail. No one wants to believe his admonitions that only God is able to reduce poverty and that working is the best way to material success. Only the young couple follow his advice and decide to strive to meet their basic needs alone. Very often ideas influenced by socialism were not much more than moral interpretations. Following the conventions of classical drama, directors gave class struggle the form of a fight between good and evil. Yet in many works the struggle does not take place between classes. Poverty itself opposes the protagonist, as an abstract but invincible enemy. The reasons for his or her social decline are merely personal or dictated by fate. The film Beginning and End by Salah Abu Seif follows this scheme, according to which a petty bourgeois family is driven into misery because of the loss of the father. The attempt to escape poverty leads to the decline of the entire family. The adaptation of a novel by Yusuf Idris, The Sin (al-Haram, 1965), directed by Henri Barakat, follows a similar principle. Under a tree in the fields a dead infant is found. The village notables start to investigate the case. As inquiries in the village remain fruitless their suspicion is directed toward the women of the itinerant workers camped outside the village. They soon conclude that cAziza, who has been suffering from fever for days, must be the murderer. Slowly the notables uncover the background of the crime. cAziza, who has to support a handicapped husband and two children, was raped in the fields, and attempting to hide the child after her delivery, she unintentionally suffocated it. Everybody is now sympathetic toward c Aziza's fate and no one thinks of taking her to court. Still her condition deteriorates progressively, until she dies. One might then describe the attitude to social conditions of many

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The Sin (al-Haram, Egypt, 1965) by Henri Barakat

realist works as fatalist. Mostly, the individual is rendered helpless to circumstances, awarding society an omnipotence similar to fate.50 Nearly all Salah Abu Seif s heroes, from Master Hasan to the family of Beginning and End, are driven into irrevocable social isolation by their poverty. Apart from in films like The Sin, The Earth, and Struggle of the Heroes, solidarity and common action are treated with skepticism or are not even taken into consideration. The isolated individual, be it the uprooted and emotionally and sexually deprived Qinawi in Cairo Main Station or the child murderer in The Sin, has no choice. This socio-economic determinism of Egyptian realism, which also marks many works of Naguib Mahfouz,51 prevents the adoption of real secularism. Although realism excludes normally obvious utterances concerning divine omnipotence and providence, and demonstrates in the choice of its topics a connection to the present and this world, its protagonists only exceptionally reach the stage of a human being deliberately acting to decide their fate. The mostly tragic circumstances of the hero align the genre with melodrama and make its description as 'melodramatic realism' seem suitable.

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New realism After the start of reprivatization in 1971, production of realist films decreased rapidly and did not flourish again until after the death of Sadat in 1982 with the work of a second generation. The new realism, whose representatives include Atef El-Tayeb, Bashir El-Dik, Mohamed Khan, Khairy Beshara, cAli Badrakhan, and Daoud Abd El-Sayyed has also now declined. New realism appeared, at least regarding its subjects, to be much more pragmatic than the old version, although it functioned according to the same mechanisms. It similarly borrowed from commercial genres, but rather than melodrama it used elements of action and police film. Like the old realism, it could not do without stars and was also based on the commercial system of production, which quickly dampened the new wave. New realism differed externally in its choice of environment, mainly that of the urban petty bourgeoisie, and a stronger integration of original locations that meant a further (but still partial) renunciation of the studio. The Bus Driver (Sawwaq al-utubis, 1982) by Atef El-Tayeb is a typical example of new realism. Its narrative is based on an idea of

Nur al-Sharif (far left) as The Bus Driver (Sawwaq al-utubis, 1982) by Atef ElTayeb

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the director and his colleagues Mohamed Khan and Bashir El-Dik,52 and is considered by some critics as the start of new realism.53 Hasan is confronted with a serious problem: a corrupt brother-in-law who was managing his father's carpentry workshop turns out to have evaded taxes for many years. As a result, the workshop is in danger of being expropriated by the government. Although they have profited from the economic Open Door Policy, none of his brothers and sisters is ready to invest in their father's business. Instead they consider the place as a suitable object for their own speculations. Hasan himself does not earn enough money in his job as bus and taxi driver to help out. But shortly before the expropriation he finds a solution. He decides to sell the taxi and accepts the offer of some friends to lend him money. But when Hasan finally gets hold of the money it is already too late. His father suffers a heart attack and dies. However, Atef El-Tayeb does not end his film with the tragic death of the father. Instead he allows his protagonist a further scene. Echoing the opening scene, Hasan drives his overcrowded public bus and once again the passengers discover a pickpocket, who escapes through the window. But this time Hasan does not let the thief get away. He stops the bus, catches the man, and knocks him down. The realism of the 1980s has discovered new enemies. Instead of the old landowners, it is unscrupulous businessmen, corrupt nouveaux riches, and thieves that have made it good. It is not poverty that is reproached now but uncontrolled materialism, which started, according to many films, during the period of the economic Open Door Policy (infitah) initiated by Sadat. The new materialism endangers even the unity of families. In The Flood (al-Tufan, 1985) by Bashir El-Dik, as in The Bus Driver., the grown-up children risk or even actively contribute to the death of their parents in order to enlarge their profit. Conflicts and rivalries that start between relatives and friends are terminated in many cases by a bloody showdown, as for example in The Vagabonds (al-Sacalik, 1983) by Daoud Abd ElSayyed, in which two former urban tramps who have managed to get rich together, end up killing each other. The concept of humanity in new realism differs essentially from that of the 1950s and 1960s. With the possibilities for social mobility during the period of infitah^ the earlier determinism seems to have become outdated. The new heroes take the initiative, defend themselves, and are not afraid to use violence against the crooks, even though their personal aspirations to wealth are not fulfilled. Their moral struggle against materialism, egotism, and corruption makes them guardians of the family and traditional social norms.

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Cinema of revolution in Algeria The prerequisites for the development of Algerian realism differ considerably from those for Egyptian realism. Algerian film making started only in 1964, at a time when Egyptian realism had almost passed its first peak. The only audio-visual traditions that existed until then in Algeria were colonial propaganda and Pieds Noirs cinema. As a child of the war of independence,54 Algerian cinema was characterized from the start by a considerable politicization, forming the basis of its revolutionary and didactic character and its constant endeavor to reshape society. Like Egyptian realism, revolutionary cinema in Algeria developed schemes for representing reality. The often conventional and stereotyped dramatization of social and political conditions led to the appearance of cliches that contradicted the 'authenticity' of representation. While historical films on the war of independence became to some extent a variation of the American western, realism degenerated in part into a sort of political instruction and propaganda film. During the first decade after independence, Algerian film making mainly concentrated on the period of the war of liberation. Until 1972, the majority of films dealt with the resistance against colonialism. In 1979, works like this still formed two thirds of the total production completed until then.55 After the agrarian revolution (or land reform) in 1971, a so-called New Cinema (sinima djidid)56 began gradually to open up to other subjects. Among the problems that film makers became increasingly occupied with were the social injustices of post-colonial society, emigration and foreign labor, in France in particular, as well as bureaucracy and female emancipation. With these topics, daily life started to gain importance over the exceptional situation of the war of liberation. This new orientation was to define the notion of sinima djidid. However, this new notion did not differentiate sufficiently between genres, as for example between realism and cinema d'auteur, and hence, because of its partly agitating character, many works of Algerian realism could be described as a cinema of revolution rather than as New Cinema. Naturalism Like Italian neorealism, Algerian cinema was at first aided by the economic situation in attaining realist aesthetics. The lack of studios led automatically to a preference for authentic sets. In addition, the choice of the environment of the underprivileged classes as a subject and the absence of a star system allowed the use of amateur actors. Wind From the Aures (Rih al-Auras, 1966) by Mohamed Lakhdar

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Kelthoum in Wind From the Aures (Rih al-Auras, Algeria, 1966) by Mohamed Lakhdar Hamina {courtesy Institut du Monde Arabe, Paris)

Hamina, which is the second Algerian-directed full-length feature film (the first was in 1965), derives much of its realist quality from these two factors. Apart from the main character, most roles in the film are performed by amateurs. The story itself is set among the poorest of the poor: a village in the Aures mountains is submitted to violent French bombardment, killing several of its inhabitants. A young man who loses his father in this attack decides to support the resistance against the occupiers. A short while later, French soldiers come to his home to arrest him. His mother waits in vain for him to return and finally sets out to search for him. Carrying two chickens and a food basket, she walks from one internment camp to another, until she reaches the place where her son has been detained. Everyday she comes to the barbed-wire fence in order to see him, defying the French guards' attempts to intimidate her. One day, the woman cannot find her son among the prisoners. Her long wait is useless, and in desperation she throws herself against the charged electric fence. The perspective of the film narration coincides completely with the confined horizon of the simple peasant woman. There is little treatment of the larger political context. The bombardment, the death of the husband, and the disappearance of the son happen suddenly with little preparation. An egg bursting in hot ashes or a dead chicken appear as signs of impending disaster. The naivety of the mother,

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impressively played by the actress Kelthoum, finds expression in her behavior. The two chickens she carries on her walk through the stony mountains are not food for the journey, but bribes that she hopes will help liberate her son. Hamina barely misses a detail in his shots: the poor fittings of the huts, the mats, the earthen pots, the fireplace, and the chicken in its hatch in the wall. They are accorded no less importance than the face of the protagonist and her daily work, ranging from cleaning the hut to baking bread. This faithfulness to the smallest details is a result of the director's close connection to his subject. Hamina himself comes from a peasant family and his narration is based on a real event. " The Aures Wind represents, in a way, my grandmother's search, looking in vain for my father from one camp to another. . . . Without becoming biographical, nevertheless, I draw from my memory in order to find the right tone."57 Unlike most subsequent works of anti-colonialist and revolutionary Algerian cinema, Wind From the Aures is not structured by the narrative principle of dramatic increase that gradually dissolves. The strong presence of objects and of human labor give the film an intensity that replaces the tension of 'drama' and places it in the tradition of naturalism. Events occur in a steady monotony, while characters are at the mercy of events, such as the French bombardment, for example. The film retains a "commitment to continuity, to the unfolding of a scene,"58 creating the impression of a quasi-documentary observation. The characters are not the object of identification, but of distanced contemplation. The stream of action is mainly defined by the epic topic of search and barely reveals anything of the background, the social and political conflicts responsible for the hero's fate. The narrative structure of Wind from the Aures is rather exceptional in Algerian film making, but its naturalist attitude in describing environment and characters has been adopted by many films. Class struggle

The socialist orientation of Boumedienne's government after the declaration of the agrarian revolution in 1971 became visible in cinema, in form and in content. It resulted in an increased reference to the present, with more stress on internal Algerian social contradictions and hence stronger antagonisms in film plots. Apart from the peasants who dominated the films on the war of independence, other social groups were now represented, including industrial workers (The Good Families, al-Usar al-tayyiba, 1972), fishermen (The Net, al-

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Shabaka, 1976) and Bedouins (The Nomads, Masirat al-ruca, 1976). Controversial subjects were increasingly raised, like emigration (AH in Wonderland, Ard al-sarab, 1978) and female emancipation (The South Wind, 1975; Layla and her Sisters, Layla wa akhawatiha, 1977; A Wife for My Son; Une femme pour mon fils, 1982). The introduction of a socialist economic order was dealt with most intensively in (The Good Families, Barriers (al-Hawadjiz, 1977), El-Moufid (alMufid), and The Charcoal Maker (al-Fahham). The antagonisms between different competing social interest groups dominated the plots of these films. Nona (Nuwwa), shot in 1972 by Abdelaziz Tolbi, is set in 1954 and describes, by means of the inhuman conditions that the Algerian rural population was condemned to live under, the reasons leading to the armed struggle. Although the film carries the name of the village's beauty, Noua, her story forms only one episode in the network of often merely observant scenes. The local dignitaries, Qadi and Hadj (the native feudal landowner), and the French authorities—or better, their executive, the police—treat agricultural workers and leaseholders (khammas farmers)59 at their own discretion. Khammas farmers who are in debt are mercilessly driven off their small plots of land, while their starving women and children try to get jobs as day laborers on the vast estates of French colons. The young girls are harassed by the native landlords. When Noua's father dares defend his daughter against the Hadj's sons, he is put in detention. Threatened with kidnapping and being sold to a brothel, Noua decides to escape. Together with a young agricultural worker whom she loves, she joins the resistance. Tolbi's Noua, whose story is based on a novelette by Tahar Ouatar, presents a panorama of impoverishment and exploitation. It clearly illustrates how poor social conditions provoked the resistance against the French. Unlike the idealist films featuring resistance fighters that had prevailed until then in Algerian film making, this film, which was produced one year after land reform, refers consciously to the present. In Tolbi's words, "Even though the film is supposed to be set in 1954, the script is based on the life of the people and their daily reality that I saw in front of me. Those are the people who act in the film. All the parts, whether main or secondary parts, are acted by people who themselves live in this situation. . . . There is a text at the beginning of the film saying that the film was shot in 1972 without any embellishment or make-up. Nineteen fiftyfour and 1972 are alike."60 In his film, Tolbi creates the impression of realism by doing without professional actors and by courageous camera work that does

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not shy away from dirt or poverty. Long sequences in the film are dedicated to the peasants' miserable housing and to images of emaciated, badly nourished people. Accompanied by symphonic music, these black and white shots pay tribute to Eisenstein and Pudowkin, who during the 1920s and 1930s described the poverty of the people with similarly impressive images. The essential stylistic feature of their films was the principle of montage based on juxtaposition and collision (also possible within one take) that is also partly followed in Nona. This method of editing is not meant so much to create temporal or spatial continuity as to uncover social antagonisms. The national struggle for liberation is linked, in Noua, in such a way, to the idea of class struggle. By visually confronting the privileged elite on the one hand, and the suppressed classes on the other, Abdelaziz Tolbi tries to make social injustice visible. For example, he shows a long line of bare feet belonging to men, women, and children queuing for work in front of the colons' elegant, white manor house. In the next sequence, an agricultural worker whose request has just been turned down walks along a road at the lower edge of the image. The angle slowly opens up and gives way to a view of a hill, above which the estate of the colons stands, surrounded by huge fields. The Charcoal Maker (al-Fahham; Le Charbonnier, 1972) by Mohamed Bouamari follows the same editing principle as Noua., even though it is set in the time after independence. The charcoal maker and his family dwell in great poverty on a dilapidated farm. Without permission the head of the family cuts trees in the woods and works it to charcoal. But his goods do not find any buyers on the market since bottled gas has replaced them. No longer able to feed his family, the man vents his frustration on his wife and children. However he categorically rejects his wife's suggestion that she participate in supporting the family. Instead, he thinks of seeking work with the local landowner or even in the capital. Eventually, the charcoal maker travels to Algiers, hoping that a former co-fighter in the liberation war, who has become the director of a public company, may help him. But the functionary offers him only empty promises. Now, the charcoal maker realizes that the agrarian revolution abolishing traditional taboos and unjust property conditions is the only way out of his dilemma. In front of the village's dignitaries, he orders his wife to take off her veil and gives her permission to go to work. Particularly in its second part, the structure of The Charcoal Maker is based on several antagonisms: rich and poor, traditional and modern, urban and rural, educated and uneducated. After the charcoal maker leaves his former comrade's office, he compares his deprived life in the countryside with the elegant comfort of the

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The Charcoal Maker (al-Fahham; Le Charbonnier, Algeria, 1972) by Mohamed Bouamari {courtesy Institut du Monde Arabe, Paris}

capital. Then he contrasts his present situation with images of a better future. Although he himself is illiterate he imagines calling for his children when they come back from school, while he is wearing a suit. Images of his wife crouching on the mud floor, combing wool, are followed by shots of her standing in a factory hall observing a modern weaving machine. After her arduous attempts to set a wood fire—while the radio broadcasts an almond cake recipe—we see her handling clean pots on a gas stove. The agrarian revolution: between tradition and modernity In the period after the declaration of the agrarian revolution, the antagonism between progress and tradition, which had already been expressed in The Charcoal Maker, manifested itself parallel to class contradictions. Amar Laskri (cAmmar al-cAskari) for example, in his film El-Moufid (The Useful Man, 1978) mixes documentary and fictional images from the countryside and uses a large variety of opposites, including rich and poor, progressive and conservative. Shots of the procession of a religious brotherhood precede images of brand new combine harvesters and trucks, carrying young activists, who cheer for the agrarian revolution. While many films of this sort idealized the aims of the agrarian revolution, the traditional social order characterized by feudalism,

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maraboutism, and sexual segregation, formed one of its main targets. South Wind (Rih al-djanub, 1975) by Mohamed Slim Riad presents an impoverished village in the mountains as a microcosm of rural Algerian society. The traditional order is represented through al-Qadir, a wealthy farmer. The progressive, influential mayor Malik, a former resistance fighter, is his opponent. An opportunistic school teacher tries to mediate between the two parties, while the poor farmers, day laborers, women, and children have little or no influence. In order to use the mayor, al-Qadir wants to marry his daughter Nafisa to him. But it soon becomes clear that Malik, who represents the generation that, by resisting colonialism, paved the path to progress, is not at all interested in an alliance with the big landowner. The real holders of the future, however, are the youth. Nafisa and a young shepherd both leave the village with its entrenched structures, Nafisa to continue her studies, and the man to join a cooperative and educate himself. The film's message is clear: it upholds the socialist economic model vis-a-vis rural misery, manifested in poverty, superstition, and the lack of medical care. Traditional culture, unable to contribute to the creation of a better society, is perceived as an obstacle to development. Religion also, represented in the film only through superstitious customs, constitutes an obstacle. The sole religious authority appearing in South Wind is an old marabout, to whom al-Qadir turns for help when his daughter breaks down while protesting against the arranged marriage planned by her father. The old man's attempt to 'cure' the girl with magic formulas seems anachronistic and ridiculous, given her real situation. Discrediting traditional culture by means of Marxist social analysis is also a feature of works of the 1980s, such as Mohamed Chouikh's The Citadel (al-Qalca, 1988). Qaddur is a servant living in the stable of an affluent fabric merchant. He takes care of the animals, the shop and looks after his master's four wives. Qaddur himself cannot afford to marry, but has to be satisfied trying to catch a glimpse of the neighbor's beautiful wife, who hangs out her linen in the sun everyday. In an effort to gain her attention, he steals a small piece of fabric from the shop in order to pay the marabout for a love potion. But the magician orders him to bring a strand of the woman's hair. Qaddur succeeds in entering the neighbor's house and tries to cut off a curl of the woman's hair, which causes her to panic. When the fabric merchant learns about the incident, he swears to marry Qaddur off that very day. The fulfillment of his vow, however, turns out to be far more complicated then he had expected. All the women

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of the village are taken. Even in the local brothel, none can be found. In order to save face, the merchant decides to prepare the wedding nonetheless. When the unsuspecting Qaddur enters the bride's room, he finds only a rigid display dummy. In front of the assembled guests Qaddur throws himself from a cliff. The Citadel discredits so-called traditional culture in part by its negative representation of religious authority. The marabouts are dismissed as hypocritical magicians and avaricious swindlers, supporting an unjust and inhuman system. Moreover, Chouikh represents institutionalized polygamy and arranged marriages as a result of unjust property conditions. The traditionally described social and family order seems deprived of any positive aspects. And, as Qaddur's example proves, it cannot be escaped except by flight or self-destruction. By presenting a completely negative example, the film argues for a modern, 'humane,' and progressive social order. However, the appeal to cultural revolution in Algerian cinema sometimes hides, in its core, a conservative morality. In The Net (1976) by Ghouti Bendeddouche, Mucammar is hardly able to support himself and his wife through his work on a fishing boat. One day on his way home he meets a beautiful town-dweller who has had a car accident on the mountainous road. Seduced by the idea of wealth and comfort, Mucammar decides to try his luck in the city. But he cannot find the beautiful woman again or get an adequate job. After a while, he returns home disillusioned. Here he is confronted with new problems, for the wealthy Si Khalifa wants to monopolize fishing and fish processing in the region. Together with some friends, Mucammar mobilizes the fishermen and workers of the fish factory, incites them to strike, and initiates the foundation of a cooperative. The double standards of The Net emerge clearly in its portrayal of women. Although at the end of the film, Mucammar's wife Laliya leads the female workers of Si Khalifa's fish factory to strike, she never appears as a self-motivated, active personality. Her gestures and facial expressions signify, without exception, her timidity and resignation. Laliya's decision to work in the factory was not based on her personal desires, but was forced by Mucammar's absence—he had left her for three years without any financial support. Laliya's anger against her husband does not lead to real independence however. On the contrary, in the course of the strike, she gets closer to her husband again because of their common political interest. Thus, Laliya's emancipation seems attainable only in the framework of a greater social plan of agrarian or socialist revolution, and is not based on an individual, internally motivated act. Indeed, the man's

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desires are also subordinated to the same ideal. Mucammar's escape does not lead to individual freedom but to social and political responsibility. Sinima djidid The Net has a plot structure that is repeated in many Algerian films dealing with the agrarian revolution. Only two options are given to the miserable peasants and workers. They can either surrender to the good will of local entrepreneurs (big landowners and industrials) who, as a rule, do not shrink from criminal actions, or they can adopt the ideas of the agrarian revolution and join a cooperative. The conflict developing between the two parties is most often resolved by use of force, for example in a violent brawl. The stereotypical cut of subjects is due to a functionalization of narration, serving two different ends. Entertainment is supposed to achieve economic success, and simultaneously a political message is to be transmitted. This specific commercialism, spreading in stateproduced films, was furthered by several film makers who held important posts in the field of cinema, including Ahmed Rachedi. Only a few Algerian directors were able to combine their didactic and socially critical intentions in an unusual form.61 Tahya ya Didou (literally, 'Long live Didou!,' 1971) by Mohamed Zinet is a conglomerate of documentary and fictional shots commented on by the poet Didou. Scenes of the streets of the now independent Algiers mix with Didou's poetic impressions. Narrative scenes are set in between, including a group of rebellious children who tease a policeman, and a French tourist couple leading a conversation about changes in the country since independence. In the course of events, the husband turns out to have worked for French state security forces. In a restaurant, he unexpectedly meets one of his victims, whom he had tortured. But his fear of exposure is unnecessary. The man is blind and cannot recognize his former tormentor. Mohamed Bouamari's (Muhammad Bucammari) film First Step (Awwal khutwa, 1978) also combines an unusual narrative form with a realist attitude. To get in the mood, the actors present themselves and their characters at the beginning. The background story as such is undercut with the protagonists' fantasies and with flashbacks to their personal histories, in addition to a line of action that is set in a past historical age. The different, indirectly connected stories center around a female teacher, who is the first woman to be elected mayor in a small Algerian provincial town. The marital crisis in which she and her husband find themselves after her election forms the background story. Although the self-aware teacher has married her

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husband out of love and he himself theoretically approves women's equality, he in fact has difficulties accepting her influential position. The female scriptwriter, Fatiha Nadjar, uses the marital disagreement as an opportunity to examine the difficulties of a relationship based on partnership in a patriarchal society. Scenes imagined by the protagonists, in which they go through different possible forms of gender relations, award the narration the character of a model. The unfamiliarity that is created by the introduction of competing narrative levels underlines this impression. Accordingly, the individuality of the characters is neutralized. Conflicts resulting from gender relations seem to be socially defined. A totally different tone is introduced in Merzak Allouache's film Omar Gatlato, which can be classified formally as cinema d'auteur. It is one of the first Algerian feature films to immerse itself in the daily life of urban youth. Instead of forcing social antagonisms into an omnipresent dramatic structure, Omar Gatlato draws its tension from the regularity of a young employee's daily life. Allouache breaks realist conventions by replacing the omniscient realist discourse with subjective narration. The protagonist addresses the spectator directly in his monologues and thus makes uncritical identification impossible. Official Algerian cinema's preoccupation with social and political subjects has persisted into the early 1990s, when many films started addressing either issues of women's liberation or the question of Muslim fundamentalism or both. These films include Sahara Blues (1992) by Rabah Bouberas., Radhia (1992) by Mohamed Lamine Merbah, Touchia (Taushiha, 1993) by Rashid bin Hadj, Youssef or the Legend of the Seventh Sleeper (Yusuf aw usturat al-na'im al-sabic, 1993) by Mohamed Chouikh, and Female Demon (Demon au feminin, 1993) by Hafsa Zinat-Koudil. Some of these films are marked by a slight departure from official political discourses and, more importantly, increasingly place the individual in conflict with his social surroundings. However, in general, Algerian 'cinema of revolution' hardly managed to link social critique with an adequate representation of different social groups for being burdened with 'political commission.' Largely dictated by official policy, the majority of films do not realize the authenticity demanded by the Algerian philosopher Mostefa Lacheraf by transmitting "a vision of itself or of the world implicating a way to live, taste, choices, a collective memory, familiar gestures, or even a language whose words stem from immediate experience or from a far and inherited mysterious practice."62 Instead, Algerian realism has devoted itself to presenting a clear cut,

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often negative, reality while demanding the realization of Utopia, thus imprinting its 'revolutionary' political ideals on reality.

The Alternative Cinema in Syria Like the Algerian revolutionary cinema, Syrian state production has been highly politicized. In 1972, during the First Damascus Festival for Young Arab Cinema (Mihradjan Dimashq al-Awal li-Sinima alShabab al-°Arabi), organized by the National Film Organization, it started to manifest its orientation.63 The works of committed film makers, including a representative of the Egyptian New Cinema Society, Ali Abd El-Khalek, the Egyptian Taufik Salih, the Kuwaiti Khalid al-Siddiq, the Syrians Nabil Maleh and Khaled Hamada, and the Iraqi Kaiss al-Zubaidi set themselves apart from commercial Arab cinema by their specific ideology. Their goals, summarized by the Arab film critic Munir al-Sacidanni, were: • to express sincerely Arab reality and the worries of the Arab human being, • to develop an Arab film making that derives from Arab culture and is based on it, and • to arrange this cinema in a way that attracts audiences, enabling it to play a positive role in social life."64

In accordance with these demands, which consciously opposed commercial Arab, notably Egyptian, cinema, the participants of the festival coined the notion of Alternative Cinema (al-sinima al-badila), which the Egyptian film critic Samir Farid, who helped organize the festival, had already used of the New Cinema Society in Egypt.65 The pursuit of these goals transformed the Syrian film organization during the early 1970s into a collecting pool for a number of progressive non-Syrian Arab directors. Their films were characterized by their socialist orientation and an even stronger expression of nationalist and Pan-Arab ideas. The Pan-Arab orientation of Syria and the close relation to Palestinian film makers led the Festival of Young Arab Cinema in Damascus to issue a statement regarding Palestinian cinema. Its promotion was seen as a support and a supplement to the armed struggle.66 Thus, the idea of the Alternative Cinema also reached Lebanon. Adopted by revolutionary Palestinian film making, which was concentrating at that time in Lebanon, it exerted an indirect influence on Lebanese directors and found an expression primarily in the documentary field.67 The dominance -of the Palestinian question in Damascus did not

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only express itself on a verbal level: Between 1969 and 1972 three out of five full-length feature films produced by the Syrian film organization dealt with Palestine.68 Five years after the Six Day War and the subsequent occupation of the rest of Palestine by Israel, and only one year after Black September in Jordan, the Palestinian question was inevitably in the fore of any political discussion. Moreover, the specific commitment to the Palestinian cause has been used by the regime of Hafiz al-Assad, who came to power in 1971 supported by the small religious minority of Alawis, as a means of political legitimization. It was related to the notion of Arab unity that was evoked by the political leadership in order to strengthen ArabSyrian nationalism.69 Eventually, the preoccupation with Palestine helped to divert attention from the country's internal political conflicts. The Palestinian question, as well as the second most important subject of Syrian realism, social injustice, were mainly derived from literary works by Syrian and other Arab writers, such as Hanna Mina, Haidar Haidar, Zakariya Tamir, Ghassan Kanafani, cAli Zain alc Abidin al-Husaini, and Diya' al-cAzawi.70 These films include The Leopard (al-Fahd, 1972) by Nabil Maleh and al-Yazerli (1974) by Kaiss al-Zubaidi. They shared their orientation with realist Arab literature, which has dedicated itself to the ideals of sociopolitical commitment and responsibility (iltizam).71 The Egyptian director Taufik Salih created one such 'committed' work with The Duped (al-Makhducun, Syria, 1972), based on the realist novel Men under the Sun by the Palestinian writer Ghassan Kanafani.72 Directed and adapted by an Egyptian, written by a Palestinian, and financed with Syrian money, The Duped must be considered a Pan-Arab production par excellence. Its story deals with the attempt of three Palestinian refugees to enter Kuwait from Iraq, hoping to find jobs there with which they can support their families in the refugee camps. A Palestinian truck driver agrees to smuggle them through the desert into Kuwait. The refugees hide in his empty watertank, which is heated by the burning sun, and wait for the truck to pass the check at the borders. Usually the formalities take only a few minutes, but this time the Kuwaiti guards are bored and want the truck driver to entertain them. While they delay the process, the sound of the air conditioners drown out the men's cries for help, and they die in the heat of the blazing tank. Salih's film was one of the first to give Pan-Arab slogans a more solid base and to state the common responsibility of the Arab states for the disastrous situation of the Palestinians. Taufik Salih introduces the film with a documentary sequence depicting the refugees'

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The Duped (al-Makhducun, Syria, 1972) by Taufik Salih (courtesy National Film Organization, Damascus)

misery and their hopeless situation in the camps. He then illustrates the difficulties of the protagonists, who have neither the money nor valid papers to obtain a work permit in one of the affluent neighboring countries. In contrast, Kafr Kassem (Kafr Qassim, 1974) by the Lebanese Borhane Alaouie uses a historical event, the 1956 massacre by the Israeli army of the inhabitants of Kafr Kassem, as an opportunity for political analyses. Following the nationalization of the Suez Canal and on the eve of the tripartite attack on Egypt by France, Great Britain, and Israel, the Israeli army, as in the earlier raid on Deir Yassin, was trying to set an example and prevent a Palestinian uprising in Israel.73 The film shows the army declaring a sudden and unexpected curfew without informing the peasants working in their fields outside the village. Later, when they return home they are shot down by the patrols. Alaouie's film reconstructs these murders only passingly. It focuses on the daily life of the villagers and the internal conflicts that arise from a variety of ideological points of views ranging from opportunism toward the Israelis to explicit Pan-Arabism. It underlines also that, with the.exception of a few collaborators and some marginalized

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communists, the majority of the villagers perceive the nationalization of the Suez Canal as heralding their own liberation. Finished in 1974, seven years after the 1967 defeat, the film ends with the bloodbath of innocent civilians and demonstrates how much the Palestinians have been let down by their Arab neighbors. Like The Duped and the three episodes of Men under the Sun (Ridjal taht al-shams; not, like The Duped, an adaptation of Kanafani's novel) by Nabil Maleh, Marwan Mu'zin, and Muhammad Shahin (1970), Kafr Kassem states the inefficiency of Arab politics regarding the Palestinian cause and faults the absence of a real Pan-Arab attitude. All three films make clear that claimed Arab solidarity with the Palestinians is characterized by hypocrisy and weakness. Criticism of the Palestinians themselves is expressed in The Knife (al-Sikkin, 1972) by Khaled Hamada, based on Ghassan Kanafani's story All That's Left to You (Ma tabbaqa lakum). A young Palestinian leaves his country and escapes into the desert, abandoning his only sister to the mercy of an unscrupulous informer who has seduced her and forced her into marriage. The characters of the film are not meant to be read as individuals with a personal history, but as abstract symbols. The young man signifies the Palestinian refugee who abandons his country—personified by a helpless virgin—to the

Kafr Kassem (Kafr Qassim, Syria, 1974) by Borhane Alaouie (courtesy National Film Organization, Damascus}

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attacker. The accusation that the Palestinians have deserted their homeland without struggling is clear. The Duped uses a similarly allegorical and moralist narration. The three refugees represent three different generations of exile, whereas the truckdriver who lost his manhood during the war symbolizes the well established, careless emigre Palestinian. The film approaches the Palestinian question more on the rhetorical than on the analytical level. The defeat from which Palestinians suffered most seems a result of moral failure. It is not the complicated network of Arab and international political power games that is made responsible, but stupidity, egocentrism, cowardice, and the missing virility of the Arabs themselves. Alternative Cinema uses almost without exception the conventions of the 'revolutionary' realism. Similar to the revolutionary Algerian cinema it aims not to represent real conditions but to revolutionize them. To use the words of the Syrian critic, Sacid Murad, the realism of Alternative Cinema derives its existence "from the human conflict that aims to change reality toward progress."74 The negative representation of reality serves to mobilize the viewer in particular on the moral level and to incite him to change conditions.

Documents of daily life Another realist tendency appeared in the course of the 1970s. In 1972, the Iraqi film The Thirsty (al-Zami'un) by Mohamed Choukri Jamil used, despite its fictional action, a style close to documentary.75 In the same year in Tunisia, Brahim Babai shot his 16 mm film And Tomorrow (Wa ghadan, 1972), in which three unemployed young men try in vain to escape rural misery by migrating to the city. In Morocco too, during the 1970s and early 1980s several semidocumentaries and docu-dramas were produced, such as The Days by Ahmed El-Maanouni, The Big Journey by Mohamed Ben Abderrahmane Tazi, A Thousand and One Hands by Souheil Ben Baraka, and The Barber of the Poor Neighborhood (Halaq darb alfuqara', 1982) by Mohamed Reggab. In The Days (Alyam, alyam, 1978)76 a young peasant's son recounts his daily problems and troubles. He is fed up with the hard, barely profitable work in the fields and hopes to find a job in Europe. Shots from his daily life, his family, and their domestic surrounding are undercut with performances in which the protagonists reenact events that happened to them. The slow pace resulting from the film's observant style offers the affected persons a chance to represent their daily life and their problems.

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The Days (Alyam, Alyam, Morocco, 1978) by Ahmed El-Maanouni (courtesy Institut du Monde Arabe, Paris')

The Big Journey (Ibn al-sabil; Le grand voyage, 1982) by Mohamed Ben Abderrahmane Tazi and A Thousand and One Hands (Alf yad wa yad, 1972) by Souheil Ben Baraka are both framed by fictional action, but are, nevertheless, very much concerned to achieve restrained, documentary, and observant camera work. The Big Journey tells the story of a truckdriver whose load gets stolen. Too scared to face his boss, he decides to disappear. He sells the truck in order to escape illegally to Spain. However, the men who are supposed to smuggle him into Spain desert him on the open sea. Tazi's The Big Journey offers an impressive panorama of the Moroccan underworld, the community of the dispossessed, thieves, smugglers, prostitutes, and have-nots. The truckdriver is driven into criminality by social conditions,' as is the protagonist of A Thousand and One Hands. In the latter, an old wool dyer working for a carpet manufacturer suffers an industrial accident. His son wants to ask his father's former employer for a job so that he can support his mother and his brothers and sisters. As he is never allowed into the office of the carpet manufacturer, he decides to go to the entrepreneur's villa. The French wife of the industrialist cannot bear the sight of the young man's dirty feet on her precious carpets. When she hysterically throws him out he gets violent. Eventually, instead of getting a job, the dyer's son lands in prison. In all three films, documentary realism is achieved by using amateur actors and illustrating extensively the surroundings and

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living conditions of the lower classes. Their pessimist view of the prevailing conditions is obvious. The truckdriver and the dyer are both incapable of standing up to social pressure. They are uprooted; neither the traditional social structures, family and village, nor their religious beliefs offer them sufficient security. Although the family of the wool dyer undertake a long and exhausting pilgrimage to a saint's monument they are not immune to the coming misfortune. Capitalist society is depicted as a ruthless machine in which only the rich and powerful are able to survive. The development of such a social determinist view seems inevitable in the shadow of an authoritarian capitalist system and appears in juxtaposition to various social problems, among others, the gender issue. Aisha, the protagonist of Jilalli Ferhati's Aisha (cAra'is min qasab; literally, 'sugar dolls,' Morocco, 1982) is an orphan growing up in the house of an aunt. Since early childhood, she has learned to obey and respond to orders without objection. The moment Aisha menstruates for the first time, she is married off. Soon after, Aisha's husband dies and leaves her alone with two children. In order to support her family Aisha takes up a job as a cleaner in an office. There she meets an employee and becomes involved in an affair with him. When she becomes pregnant, she is taken to court by her male relatives and deprived of her children's custody. The film's action proceeds rather slowly. Observations of traditional practices, such as the preparation of tea, a visit to the Turkish bath, or the wedding ceremony are given much space. The protagonist herself hardly speaks, her feelings are rarely made visible, except for a few quite obvious reactions, such as her mourning for her husband or her crying at court when she is deprived of her children. Ambiguous feelings or rebellion do not occur. The documentary style of the film does not allow internal depictions of the characters. They are simply objects of observation. The basic attitude of Aisha is pessimistic. The protagonist seems to be helplessly submissive to her fate. However, like the already cited semi-documentaries, the film does not use the stylistic repertoire of melodrama in order to underline its message. One reason for the absence of melodrama in the works of this period may be the lack of a local mass audience interested in Moroccan cinema. Moreover, the social criticism, the 'dirty' images and the amateur actors used in these semi- and quasi-documentaries may be considered a counterreaction to the dominant folklorizing tendency of CCM's (Centre Cinematographique Marocain) productions, which aimed to show the country' in the best possible light.77 However, that a critical cinema should in fact develop was not guaranteed, as the representa-

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tion of poverty and social injustice was officially disapproved of. Spring Sun by Latif Lahlou, which appeared in 1970, had to cut a scene in which the main character is told about the misery of his home village.78 The Days was also censored and A Thousand And One Hands did not find a Moroccan distributor. By contrast, the socialdeterminist Moroccan films met with deep interest in the West: Aisha, for example, was coproduced by the German channel ZDF. The fact that these films adopted the aesthetics and. shooting techniques of the documentary might also be due to the low production costs of the genre. Furthermore, they appeared in a period of a general flourishing in the field of documentary. Documentary movements like 'direct cinema' and 'cinema verite' in the West had been supported in the course of the 1960s by liberal and leftist ideologies on the one hand and by the introduction of a sophisticated, professionalized 16 mm technique on the other. In the Arab countries too, critical, leftist-oriented documentary movements developed. Their representatives include the Syrian Omar Amiralay, the Egyptians Attiat El-Abnoudi, Hashim al-Nahas, Ahmad Rashid, and Khairy Beshara, the Lebanese Jean Chamoun, Randa Chahal, Jocelyne Saab, and Heiny Srour, and the Palestinians May Masri and Ghaleb Chaath.

Satirical realism Satirical realism appeared in several Arab countries. Unlike conventional realism, which tends to confirm official leftist ideologies, satirical realism often takes a rather oppositional and subversive attitude. Sometimes it even parodies binarisms such as progress and tradition or power and dispossession. In general, the Arab satire is less concerned with a faithful reflection of surrounding and characters. With its ironic distortions it questions the realist representation and subverts its idealistic and propagandistic contents, particularly regarding social liberation, progress, and modernity. In Sun of the Hyenas (Shams al-dibac, 1977), the Tunisian director Reda Behi describes the destruction of a fishing village by tourism. The inhabitants, whose lives are still dominated by traditional structures, are taken by surprise by a government plan to construct several holiday resorts in the area. The narration follows meticulously the process of modernization, which ruins the fishermen and their families, ultimately reducing them to beggars and souvenir merchants. Sun of the Hyenas achieves its satirical effect by distorting and caricaturing many characters. While it tends to represent the inhabitants, their daily life, their fears, and joys realistically, the functionaries and

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Sun of the Hyenas (Shams al-dibac, Tunisia, 1977) by Reda Behi

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the foreign entrepreneurs who are invading the area are disfigured by ultra wide-angle shots and worm's eye views. Thus, the film states its position clearly: It wants the political leadership to be exposed. A similar criticism of modernity is formulated in the Moroccan film Zeft (Zift; literally, 'tar,' 1984) by the Moroccan Taieb Saddiki, adapted from a theater play called Sidi Yasin on the Way (Sidi Yasin fi-1-tariq). The film discredits the ruthlessly modernizing political leadership, and dissociates itself also from traditional social structures. The simple peasant, Bouazza, becomes the victim of a strange conspiracy. An old man in the village dies and is declared as a marabout by his business-oriented relatives. Unfortunately, the piece of land on which they plan to construct his monument belongs to Bouazza. His repeated complaints to the authorities, however, cannot prevent the construction of the saint's shrine on his field. A short while later, the peasant is confronted with an invasion of pilgrims, who eventually drive him off his land. However, Bouazza's expropriation is not completed yet. The authorities want to develop the region and start building huge highways. Finally, a tiny traffic island on which stands the shrine is all that is left of Bouazza's land. Its former owner roams as a vagabond along the asphalt roads. Taieb Saddiki's satire is thus a double-edged sword. It counters the abuse of maraboutism and at the same time criticizes the thoughtless belief in progress. His main target is the political leadership, which uses both tradition and modernity to realize solely its own interests. However, ambiguous depictions are not the only way to deconstruct political ideals. Using anti-heroes is another possibility, as the Algerian Mohamed Lakhdar Hamina proved by introducing Hassan Terro, the reluctant resistance fighter. The Syrian film The Nights of the Jackal (Layali ibn awa, 1989) by cAbd al-Latif cAbd al-Hamid uses a similar strategy. Its anti-hero is a charming but excessively egocentric peasant from the Golan who tyrannizes his family. He is particularly inflexible when his children want to follow their own ways. Against his father's will, the son has managed to settle in the city, but the daughter is prevented from marrying her beloved. The mother patiently tolerates her husband's moods. She does not even object when he wakes her up every night to drive away the jackals with a shrill whistle. Although their howling keeps him awake, he cannot chase them away himself. When the Six Day War breaks out the father is euphoric. He listens to the march music on the radio and waves his fists as if to threaten the enemy's airplanes. His feelings are dampened only when he receives the news of his son's death. Ultimately, his empire disintegrates with the country's military defeat. The daughter leaves with her beloved and the mother dies. Left

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alone, the proud patriarch is not even able to defend himself against the howling of the jackals. c Abd al-Hamid uses in his satirical comedy the same allegories prevalent in other works of Arab realism. The father represents the nation's leadership, who have overestimated their strength, righting the superior enemy (airplanes) with empty rhetoric (radios) and inadequate means (bare fists). By oppressing the other members of society (the family) they have caused a weakness that has in turn facilitated the defeat. By means of his paternal anti-hero the director shakes patriarchal family structures and the male claim to leadership. This satirical realism is first and foremost an attempt to deconstruct Arab realism's omnipresent socialist and nationalist discourses, which rely on conceptual and narrative binarisms, often dissolved one-sidedly, while deepening the gulf between pessimism and Utopia, modernity and tradition.

History in cinema After his father's death Wanis learns that his tribe is living on tomb robbery. He thinks it ignominious to participate in defiling tombs and starts asking questions about those who have been laid there to rest. Are they his own ancestors? And what do the signs mean that they have left on the walls of the tombs and temples? Soon Wanis discovers that the archaeologists who come from far away know how to decipher these hieroglyphs. Wanis's decision to betray to them the location of the tombs marks the painful process of becoming aware of his own history. In The Mummy (1969) the Egyptian director Chadi Abdessalam illustrates the dangers that accompany the conscious acquisition of history. Historical consciousness may furnish a person with a sense of identity and community or, on the contrary, deprive him of his previous basis of life and force him to change his position. History is no status quo, no objective measure. Historical (and religious) documents are repeatedly called in and reinterpreted when present positions have to be legitimized. The same happens in the Arab countries, when debating the national, confessional, or ethnic identity, or while negotiating progress and tradition. Thus, history may be used as a weapon in the fight for political or cultural positions.79 The resulting historicism serves to strengthen the chipped identity, particularly when a society is subjected to rapid changes. "To the extent to which our surroundings are being destroyed, to which we lose our identity with places and groups of

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persons, they get reconstructed in the museum."80 Historicism is a characteristic of modernity. It helps society to compensate for the decrease in familiarity resulting from rapid change and profound modernization in all its spheres of life.81 Cinema too can produce historicism or historicizing views. The realistic capabilities of the media, its analogies to reality, confer specific credibility on historical representations. Costumes, styles, and settings that are true to the original provide an ostensibly authentic representation and enable the historical film to suggest universality and to form our image of past ages.

History as a setting In the Arab countries, it was the literature of the early twentieth century that had the job of reproducing history on the fictional level. Hence, the historical novel stood at the beginning of modern Arab literature and enabled it to take up a position in modernity.82 Stories from the Prophet's time or about extraordinary historical Arab personalities served awakening Arab nationalism as self-assuring projections. Nonetheless, the number of historical films produced by Arab countries has remained relatively low. One of the reasons is the high budgets required for this genre. Between 1935 and 1950 Egypt produced only seven seriously historical films. Another dozen works shot during the same period were furnished with historical touches and contained popular fairy-tales or legends, such as Antar and Abla, Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, Abu Zayd al-Hilali, or Djuha. With a few exceptions, such as Ahmad Galal's Shadjarat al-Durr (1935) and Ahmed Badrakhan's Dananir, most films were not based on a modern literary model, nor did they demonstrate profound historical knowledge. In Egypt, the first realizations of historical themes were essentially governed by business considerations. Producers seemed to be well aware of the legendary past's allure: "For the first time enchanting Arab palaces, beautiful historical buildings, patterned Arab garments, old Egyptian feasts, dances, and songs from A Thousand and One Nights will appear. For the first time an Arab company uses one hundred of the famous Arab racing horses who all made a name for themselves in racing. They perform wearing the prettiest decoration, presenting the most beautiful gaits while proving the elegance of their dance." Thus reads the announcement of Ahmad Galal's Shadjarat al-Durr whose production had been assumed by Assia Daghir, who also starred in the role of the legendary Egyptian Mamluk queen.83

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According to the Egyptian film critic Kamal Ramzi the story line deviates only insignificantly from that of its literary model, a novel by Djirdji Zaydan, though it does not follow so much the historical events as the amorous adventures and intrigues of the main characters. Similar to Hollywood's grandiose spectacles, this movie aimed primarily to attract the audiences by its exceptional visual appeal. Other historical films, such as Dananir (1940) by Ahmed Badrakhan and Sallama (1945) by Togo Mizrahi also exploit the hold that the pomp of past times exerts on audiences. Both films star Umm Kulthum as a musically talented slave; the first is set in the Abbassid period, the second in Umayyad times, both in the heyday of classical Islamic culture. Besides its rich sets, the palaces, harems, and glittering garments, Dananir is full to the brim with famous and legendary figures, from the caliph Harun al-Rashid and his milk-brother and later adversary, the Barmakid prince Djacfar b. Yahia, to the poet Abu Nuwas (Hasan b. Hani al-Hakami), who is considered the father of unconventional Arab poetry.84 The screenplay writers demonstrate their familiarity with the biography of these personalities as well as with historical detail. As the film illustrates musical performances were a feature of the Abbassid court. Abu Nuwas, whose fame derives from his erotic and bacchanalian pieces (khamriyat), in which he praised the wine and his male lovers,85 appears in the film also as fond of wine and poetry, although his homoerotic inclinations are inevitably concealed. The character of Djacfar's slave is also based on historical documentation.86 In the film she is instructed in singing by a teacher called al-Mausili. The brothers Ibrahim and Ishaq al-Mausili were the most acclaimed singing teachers of that time.87 However, this is where the film's faithfulness to history ends. Djacfar seems imbued with loyalty to the caliph and honest friendship. His fall is put down to the malicious intrigue of his opponents at court. The interpretation of the vizier's struggle with the sovereign for power is neither realistic nor put into a proper historical context. The slave Dananir is stylized as a symbol of eternal self-denying love. The tragic finale, ending with the death of her beloved, reveals the narrative's real intentions: the events are forced into the sentimental corset of melodrama. Thus history forms the extraordinary frame of a quite ordinary drama. The reckless adaptation of a historical subject to the conventions of a genre, the use of history as a mere setting, leads to an undermining and arbitrary reinterpretation of history. This can be seen in numerous quotations and allusions in Dananir to the cultural

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Publicity poster for Dananir (Egypt, 1940/41) by Ahmed Badrakhan

achievements of a glorious Islamic past. Thus, the presentation of the culture of the period—its music, dance, and poetry—simply aims to glorify the reign of the Abbassid caliphs and to feed the myth of the legendary golden age of Islam, which in turn underlines the splendor of Arab-Muslim culture in general and serves as a cultural reaffirmation. Similar 'de-historicizations' still occur today, as the spectacular French-Egyptian coproduction Adieu Bonaparte! (Wadaca Bonaparte, 1985) by Youssef Chahine shows. Despite its reference to a major historical event—Napoleon's expedition to Egypt in 1788—the interpretation of characters and events mainly follow the personal views of the auteur director. Its story involves three young brothers, Bakr, Yahia, and Ali, as well as the French General Cafarelli. The thoughtful and erudite Cafarelli is filled with a partly paternal, partly homoerotic inclination to the charming Ali. Ali in turn is "passionately poetic and curious, ready for a discourse with the French, but absolutely willing to find his identity and to fight for it, a guerrilla of love, whose heroism lies in his disarming, passionate frankness."88 He and Cafarelli use their encounter to learn as much as possible from each other. As in an earlier work of Chahine, Alexandria Why? (Iskandariya, lih? 1978), set during the 1940s in Alexandria, the human relations of Adieu Bonaparte! develop across religious and ethnic borders. Parallel

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Adieu, Bonaparte! (Wadaca Bonaparte, 1985) by Youssef Chahine

battles are fought between Egyptian nationalists and the British, and Mamluks and the French. Chahine's alter ego, always acted by Muhsin Muhi al-Din, appears in both films as the charming, young hero who tears down the emotional borders between genders and nations. The realist cinematic discourse supported by authentic costumes, props, and settings, pretends to reflect the "spirit of the epoch."89 In reality, Adieu Bonaparte! hardly explains the historical context in which the Napoleonic expedition to Egypt took place. At most, it suggests that the conflict between nationalism and modern imperialism in Egypt may have started at that point. The French invasion, which initiated the further colonialization of the Near East and introduced the radical cultural changes that characterize its daily life today, serves the director primarily as an opportunity to reconcile with the aggressive West. How idealizing Chahine's message is is made more apparent by its omissions. Cafarelli's enlightened openness cannot be considered representative: it scarcely corresponds with the European complacency of that time, which had been expressed in various orientalist writings and, indeed, had driven forward the military occupation of Egypt.90 Furthermore, the characters' encounter with modern cannons and telescopes signifies the false idea of Napoleon's expedition as the starting point of enlightenment and modernity in Egypt.

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The French, however, did not instruct the Egyptians, impress the elite intellectually, or leave their printing press when they retreated, nor did they circulate their famous Description d'Egypte, which was published in France in 1809 and translated into Arabic only in 1976.91 Arab culture and thinking are also misrepresented. Chahine's Egyptians, who encounter the great names of history, including Napoleon Bonaparte, comprise the director's usual repertoire of an urban family including the super-mother—the ultimate symbol of Egypt—the helpless father, the dying brother, in addition to numerous political fanatics, multi-cultural couples, and, most important, the young hero who is always possessed by love.92 There seems to be no space in the director's private spectacle for historically documented Egyptian personalities, such as Yacqub al-Sacidi, the Coptic manager and constant companion of the French general Desaix who served as a mediator during the invasion, or the Muslim chronicler cAbd al-Rahman al-Djabarti, who tried to understand and draw conclusions from the French expedition in the specific light and philosophy of his own time and culture. Instead, the film underlines the idea of Egyptian technical backwardness on the one hand and tolerance on the other—after all, it is the friendly openness with which the majority of the Egyptian protagonists meet other races and religions, including the occupiers, which makes them culturally superior to their Western opponents.

Allegories of the contemporary In Egyptian cinema the appropriation and interpretation of history became far more politically purposeful during the post-colonial era than it was during the 1930s and 1940s. While in 1941, the commander Saladin (Salah al-Din al-Ayubi) was only worth a poorly designed adventure film produced by the Lama brothers,93 twenty years later, in Youssef Chahine's spectacle Saladin (al-Nasir Salah alDin, literally, 'the victorious Saladin,' 1963), he had become a PanArab national hero. In comparison with his opponents, the estranged and rapacious Crusaders, Chahine's Saladin appears as a symbol of pure justice and chivalry. His slogan leading the Arab allies to victory is 'unity.' This unity also includes Arab Christians, represented by the character of clssa al-cAwam, who contributes decisively to Richard the Lionheart's defeat under the command of Saladin. The parallel drawn between the medieval hero Saladin and Nasser (Gamal cAbd a\-Nasir), the ultimate idol of the unifying pre-independence Pan-Arabism, is already apparent in the film's title, "al-Nasir

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Salah al-Din." The struggle of the Arab prince (who was in fact of Kurdish origin) against the crusaders is equated with the relationship of the contemporary so-called Arab world to expansionist Europe. Saladin appears in an extraordinarily positive light. He does not fight back the invaders by military superiority alone but also by virtue of his justice and cleverness. The screenplay, to which acknowledged Egyptian writers such as Naguib Mahfouz, cAbd al-Rahman al-Sharqawi, and Yusuf al-Sibaci contributed, corresponds to the Nasserist discourse dominating at that time. Even the work of the two set designers, Chadi Abdessalam and Wali al-Din Samih, providing historically authentic sets and costumes, does not reverse the impression that historical events are placed in a contemporary context and serve as allegories for present conditions. Another film that rephrases a historical event in the light of a current political event is al-Qadisiya, produced in 1982 by the public Iraqi film organization and directed by the Egyptian Salah Abu Seif. The army of the Arab conquerors commanded by the pious and righteous Sacd Ibn Abi Waqqas is facing the well-equipped troops of the Persian king Yazdigird—and triumphs in the battle of alQadisiya. This battle was fought in AD 636 and lead to the fall of the Persian realm and its subsequent Islamization. However, according to the film, the destruction of the Sassanid kingdom is brought about not by its military or political weakness, but by the personal failure and egoism of its infidel despot, who is confirmed in his political errors by pagan religious practices including astrology. The Persian's arbitrariness and decadence are boundless in comparison to the tight organization, the righteousness, and fraternity of the Muslim Arabs. The choice of subject for this costly mega-production, involving a huge number of Egyptian technicians and actors, was no accident. At the time when this historically decisive battle was cinematically reconstructed, modern Iraq was preparing for a long armed dispute with the neighboring Islamic republic of Iran.

Unity through Islam Most historical films produced in Egypt during the 1950s and 1960s were set in the early days of Islam; works such as Saladin or Wa Islamah (1961) by Andrew Marlon, representing the time of the crusades or reconstructing the reign of the legendary Mamluk queen Shadjarat al-Durr, were exceptional. However, the production of religious Muslim feature films—a dozen were shot between 1952 and 1972—stopped abruptly at the end of the Nasser era (and shifted gradually to television).

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Similar to the purely 'historical' films, the religious features undertake a reinterpretation of history. In Bilal, the Prophet's Muezzin (Bilal, mu'adhdhin al-rasul, 1953) by Ahmad al-Tukhi, who also directed The Victory of Islam (Intisar al-Islam, 1952) and Allah's Kaaba (Bayt Allah al-haram, 1957), Bilal is born to a black slave who dies early and leaves Bilal in the hands of an unjust master. But the hour of liberation strikes: Bilal hears Muhammad's message, converts to Islam, and is bought and liberated by a fellow believer. Later, Bilal follows the Prophet in his flight from Mecca to Medina and there assumes the task of announcing the time of prayer. The narration of the film is shaped by a linear assembly of anecdotes and closed sections of action including Bilal's early childhood, his conversion to Islam, his liberation, and several anecdotal scenes proving the righteousness of the former slave. One of these stories illustrates how Bilal once pawned his own person as a slave in order to help a poor man who asks him to release him from his debts. Although the anecdotal character of the film suggests closeness to the original biography documented by the chroniclers Ibn Hisham, Ibn Sacd, and al-Tabari, among others, the cinematic and literary versions differ considerably. According to his biographers, Bilal was not only the Prophet's muezzin but also his adjutant who carried his sword. He accompanied him to all his battles, and, on one occasion, had the opportunity to get his revenge on his former master for the humiliations he had endured. When the latter was captured during the battle of Badr, Bilal arranged his arbitrary killing. These events, which might well have suited cinematic dramatization, are completely concealed. Instead, the film emphasizes the image of a peaceful martyr-like Bilal. As in some Western films on early Christianity, the believer is denied a contradictory or aggressive nature and is transfigured into a righteous saint. The film does not aim to give a historically correct interpretation, but wants to give moral instruction, as becomes clear at the end when a hadith94 of the Prophet is quoted, summarizing the film's message: "Paradise to him who obeys me, even if he is an Ethiopian slave; Hell to him who disobeys me, even if he is an aristocrat of the tribe of Quraysh."95 Produced just one year after the end of colonial dependency and still before the nationalization of the Suez Canal and the complete withdrawal of the British troops, the film might be read as an apology of the colonized Muslim defending his conviction as ethically and morally superior. Ironically, its clear anti-colonial appeal stating the equality of all races is eventually subjected to the ethnocentric norms of Egyptian film industry. The main character is not

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Amina Rizq (center) as a Muslim believer in The Dawn of Islam (Fadjr al-Islam, Egypt, 1971) by Salah Abu Seif

performed by a black person but by film star Yahia Shahin, whose Arab features are meagerly blackened. Bilal, the Prophet's Muezzin is one of the first films to develop the stereotypes of the early Muslims. They are hardly depicted as individuals but entirely transfigured into unworldly saints and furnished with a martyr-like aura similar to the image of the tortured Jesus Christ. Films such as The Dawn of Islam (Fadjr al-Islam, 1971) by Salah Abu Seif and Shayma', the Prophet's Sister (al-Shayma' ukht al-rasul, 1972) by Husam al-Din Mustafa contribute to shaping the discourse of the virtuous (salih), selfless, and self-sacrificing Muslim. This characterization is not only underlined by the acting but also by the costumes. In contrast to the vicious pagans, early Muslims generally appear in white gowns. In these films the decisive dramatic turning point occurs with the conversion of the protagonists, who is finally lead to his proper destiny. At this point the characters experience a complete change— they switch their signs, so to speak. This often stereotypical process contributes to the action's affirmative character, emphasizing that confessing Allah's oneness96 is the key to Paradise, not only in the hereafter, but also in this life.

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In Niyazi Mustafa's film Rabca al-cAdawiya (1963), the heroine experiences a similar turning point. She is a nominal Muslim at the beginning of the story, but her thirst for adventure and her work as a dancer and singer make her needy of true conversion. After repenting, she becomes a holy figure. The story line of the film is based on the biography of Rabca alc Adawiya, a freed slave from the cAdi tribe, who originally came from Basra and died most probably at the end of the second Islamic century in Jerusalem. Rabca is considered as one of the first Sufis, an unworldly personality who preached self-sacrifice and underlined her conviction by withdrawing into the desert where she practiced chaste asceticism. Several mystic sayings concerning 'pure love' of God are ascribed to her.97 Some of these utterances are quoted in the film. The historically documented revering of Rabca as a saint is underlined in the film by transfiguring and idealizing her personality. However, the film makes no differentiation between the traditions of popular Islam and the orthodox doctrine that might have led to a dissociation from its main character, nor a proper introduction to the sociopolitical context of Sufi thinking. Instead, the dichotomy of good and evil, pleasure and asceticism, this and the other life, structures the narration. The adventurous young singer is simply transformed into a transcendent, virtuous believer. Islamic history and the interpretation of its legendary figures is reduced to a simple, single, and sole possible moral discourse. In spite of the secular orientation of the Nasserist regime and the ideal of national unity (al-wahda al-wataniya) between Copts and Muslims that has been constantly evoked since the common nationalist rebellion in 1919, it is evident that Islam has increasingly became an essential factor in Egyptian national identification and unification. A comparable juxtaposition of nationalism and latent confessionalism can be found in some Algerian films dealing with the war of liberation. The Opium and the Baton (al-Afyun wa-l-casa, 1969) by Ahmed Rachedi, for example, presents religion as the sole, though essential, difference between Algerians and French.98 Ali, a resistance fighter, is offered a piece of meat by a French soldier. In spite of his hunger he refuses, explaining that the consumption of pork is considered a sin in Islam. All the Frenchman's assurances that it is beef fail to convince Ali. In the same film, an old peasant rallies a group of villagers to unify as "one man" against the infidels (kuffar). In the following scene the imam of the same village gathers the men for prayer in the mosque while they wait for a French attack to come. In Chronicle of the Years of Embers (Waqa'ic sanawat al-djamr, 1974) by Mohamed Lakhdar Hamina, the imam again plays a

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mobilizing role. Only with his assistance can the intellectual Larbi induce workers and peasants to a joint act against the occupying power. It is the Muslim cleric who administers the access to history: he is the one who after his return from abroad tells Ahmad the tragic story of his home village pestered by drought, colons, and the French army. The mobilizing effect of Islamic slogans is not a projection of the present on to the past, but a historical fact. The members of the Algerian FLN called during the war of liberation for Holy War, the djihad against the infidel (kuffar) colons." The revival of these notions in state sponsored films shows that the juxtaposition of superficially secular-oriented, revolutionary nationalism, and the "cultural rehabilitation" of Islam (asala), as Maherzi calls it,100 continued after independence.

Mythological history In The Opium and the Baton (al-Afyun wa-l-casa) by Ahmed Rachedi, members of the FLN urge the doctor, Bashir, to join the Mudjahidun. He leaves Algiers and travels to his home, a village in the mountains of Kabylia. From there he is led to the hiding places of the resistance fighters. His brother Ali and his brother-in-law have joined them already. These two are the real main characters of the film. During a guerrilla operation, both of them are captured. Ali survives with the help of a French soldier, but the army destroys his paternal home and blows up the olive plantations of the village. The partisans successfully prepare to retaliate, whereupon the French army steps up its violence against civilians. Before driving the villagers out, the soldiers shoot Ali in front of his family. Long chases are used in The Opium and the Baton to create suspense. Sudden turning points, such as the decision of the French soldier guarding Ali to join the partisans, help to resolve dangerous situations. The mises en scene of the military confrontations are extremely vivid, entailing an immense output of ammunition. Yet, the most effective means for fighting are not weapons but the courage and cunningness of the Algerian resistance fighters. Judging from the number of Frenchmen killed in these scenes, one might have expected the Algerians to have won the war in a few months. Ali and his brother-in-law are prototypes of the intrepid partisan. They never seem to be tired or scared. The urban academic Bashir is cast in a different mold. Walking through the mountains he gets sore feet. After his arrival in the guerrilla camp he meets his brother, who explains the situation: "There is no rest for us, the word has lost its

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The Opium and the Baton (al-Afyun wa-l-casa, Algeria, 1969) by Ahmed Rachedi (courtesy Institut du Monde Arabe, Paris)

meaning. You will get used to it in a few days and you will not want to talk about it any more." The representation of the resistance fighters has no psychological depth, but follows fixed stereotypes that are repeated in other Algerian films too. "We are not dealing with human beings but with admirable giants, with gods who have descended Mount Olympus. They are lacking nothing, neither strength, agility, intelligence, nor, last but not least, beauty."101 The simultaneous, detailed, and largely accurate depiction of the environment, or in other words, realist conventions on the technical and formal level, help to 'naturalize' these supernatural heroes and conceal the misrepresentation of history that is achieved by them. The Algerian Mudjahid who emerges from colonialization as a hero is supposed to become the model of the post-colonial Algerian. In the first place, however, he must be considered as the projection of a shattered national identity. His impersonal and generalized characterization suggests the existence of a closed nation without any linguistic, ethnic, or social deviances, which can face the infidel invader as "one man." Consequently, no reference whatsoever, visual or linguistic, is made in The Opium and the Baton to the Kabyle

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(Berber) origins of the protagonists or to the cultural specificity of the region where the story takes place. The generality of the heroes helps them to embody Algerian national unity and conceals real existing differences. In Algerian cinema., peasants were subjected to a similar monumentalization. In Chronicle of the Years of Embers by Mohamed Lakhdar Hamina a peasant family represents the Algerian people as a whole experiencing the three historical phases of colonialism, described in the film as the years of ashes (sanawat al-ramad), the years of the chariot (al-caraba), and the years of embers (al-djamr). Threatened by the drought, Ahmad and his family leave their village and move to a county town where he finds work in a quarry. The working conditions are humiliating and inhumane. The incipient economic crisis adds to the family's ordeals. Soon, a contagious disease spreads among the undernourished natives. The authorities evacuate the French, while the Algerian inhabitants are kept in quarantine. Ahmad's whole family falls victim to the disease. He returns alone to his home village, but conditions have worsened there too. The peasants are at the mercy of the colons and the native landowner. Ahmad objects but is drafted to the army and sent to Europe to fight in World War II. After the end of the war, he returns to his country and assists in setting up the resistance against French occupation. Even Ahmad's physiognomy corresponds to his scarcely individual character. His internal stirrings are only reactions to external events. He has no negative attributes. The majestic cinemascope close-ups of his face, shot from a fish eye's perspective, undercut with the cracked arid soil on which he gazes during the opening scenes of the film, invoke his archaic closeness to the earth. This relationship is emphasized and placed into a mythological context in the subsequent images of a rite conjuring up the rain. Man and earth are one: as the director remarked, "The peasant's rootedness in his land is wellknown. My father used to say, you love your land first and then your family."102 The epic narration of the film and Ahmad's timeless, earthbound character provide the hero with the air of a legendary figure. The different periods of recent Algerian history from the 1930s until national independence leave no visible marks on him. He is the hero of a myth, as it has been defined by Roland Barthes: "A trick is going on in which the real has been turned over, emptied of history and filled with nature. . . . By changing from history into nature the myth achieves an elimination. It abolishes the complexity of human actions. . . . It organizes a world without contradictions."103

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A decisive factor in the heroes' mythical monumentalization in The Opium and the Baton or in Chronicle of the Years of Embers is their virility. Women play only a marginal role in the films dealing with the war of liberation. As Maherzi states, except in Wind from the Aures and Nona, no main characters were women in the twenty-four films produced until 1979 that dealt with the war of liberation.104 The few women who appeared represented either mothers and wives or abused young girls. The female resistance fighters, the Mudjahidat, who played a considerable role in reality, hardly figure in these films. In post-colonial Arab cinema, the variations on the 'mythical hero' are numerous, ranging from Youssef Chahine's peasant in The Earth (1968) to the worker in Sejnane (1978) by the Tunisian Abdellatif Ben Ammar. The immortality of these heroes conflicts massively with the conventional realist depiction of the films in which they appear, which usually spares no detail of the huts of the poor. Some Algerian cinematographers have started to counter these myths. The Uprooted (Bani Handal, 1976) by Lamine Merbah is one of the few films that do not compensate for the humiliations of colonialism and the ordeals of the struggle for liberation with perfect heroes. The story, which is based on a sociological study, is set at the end of the nineteenth century and depicts the gradual dispossession of a tribe by the colonial administration. Because its members cannot offer any official papers for the land they have cultivated for generations, the authorities are able to confiscate it easily. In cooperation with Algerian notables and by using well-directed pressure on the remaining small farmers, the Pieds Noirs take the land in their place and subsequently acquire huge estates. The native population is pushed into dependent labor or, worse, into homelessness. Those who do not want to bow are quickly dismissed as outlaws. The film ends with a homeless 'beggar' opening fire on a Pieds Noirs party. Other works achieved a demythologization by using comic or satirical means. Mohamed Lakhdar Hamina's comedy Hassan Terro (1967) was the first Algerian feature film to profane the myth of the partisan. The bourgeois Hassan, played by the popular comedian Rouiched, who also participated in writing the screenplay, works for the French radio program and lives in an elegant suburb of Algiers. He is a coward and prefers to have nothing to do with either the French soldiers or with the resistance. But when activists of the FLN force him to hide a wanted resistance fighter in his home, the anxious opportunist Hassan becomes a reluctant hero. The director Mahmoud Zemmouri also deconstructs the image of the heroic Algerian resistance in his coproduced satire The Mad Years of Twist (Les folles annees de twist, 1986), illustrating the life of a

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Rouiched in Hassan Terro (Algeria, 1967) by Mohamed Lakhdar Hamina

The Mad Years of Twist (Les folles annees de twist, Algeria, 1986) by Mahmoud Zemmouri

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small Algerian town on the eve of independence in 1963. The two young protagonists are real anti-heroes who are interested, first and foremost, in having fun. They don't think much of work or of armed resistance. They have a lot of respect for the French and the colons, but this does not prevent them from plundering their orange plantations. Their anxiety about French patrols is overcome by their desire for money. One day they stroll through the crowded market place. As soon as a patrol approaches and the frightened crowd quickly disperses, the two young men empty the merchants' cash boxes. The war of liberation has its human side too. A far more painful deconstruction is offered by Okacha Touita's The Sacrificed (al-Qarabin; Les sacrifies, 1982), which was also coproduced with France. It is one of the few works that bluntly uncovers the internal power struggles of the FLN and does not shrink from depicting the psychological burdens that have caused some underground fighters to break down.

C ounter-histories How does a child see it when a coarse adult insults another, accusing him of being a traitor, and knocks him to the ground? What does a little boy feel when he sees his mother humiliated by her father and

Paternal violence in Dreams of the City (Ahlam al-madina, Syria, 1984) by Mohamed Malas

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called a slut? Little Dib, the main character of Dreams of the City (Ahlam al-madina, Syria, 1984) by Mohamed Malas, has moved to the city with his mother after having lost his father. There, he is obliged to work in a laundry, and is introduced to the world of adults, observing how they form alliances, quarrel about politics as well as private issues, how they love, beat, and even kill each other. Dib's eyes are everywhere, but they are still innocent. He does not side with anybody. His impartial perspective rids the narration of imposed political rhetorics. On his way to work Dib witnesses how a supporter of the opposition nationalist leader Quwatli beats a regime collaborator. The boy is scared and subsequently gives the man a wide berth. But the man is not as vicious as he seems at first sight; he realizes that he has scared Dib and gently tries to win his liking. The people Dib comes to know are all like this man, be they Nasserists, nationalists, travelers, or informers—they are neither heroes nor complete wrongdoers. Their political point of view is as contradictory as they are. These attributes help to create a second narrative level, eclipsing the representation of the conflicts that dominated the different political camps in Syria during the 1950s. They make it possible to qualify the different ideological positions and avoid a onesided representation. The subjective perspective of the child, which defines the course of the film, is essential in creating intellectual distance. Awareness of history is doubtless a matter of perspective, a fact that is emphasized in Assia Djebar's historical experimental film, Zerda and the Songs of Oblivion (La zerda et les chants de 1'oubli, 1982).105 In cooperation with Malek Alloula, the Algerian writer viewed all the available archival material shot in the Maghreb between 1912 and 1942. For her film she used mainly documentary left-overs shot by French cameramen.106 She arranged them into five 'songs,' the songs of rebellion, of refusal to compromise, of isolation, of emigration, and of the dead, thus representing the historical periods of French colonialism in the Maghreb. The images of feasts, official visits, and important historical events help to expose the colonial perspective. Juxtapositions and contrasting images underline the contemptuous gaze with which the colonial masters regarded the indigenous population. "In spite of their images and starting out from what lay outside of the range of their sight, we tried to emphasize other images, scraps of a despised ordinariness. First of all, anonymous voices woke up behind the veil of that reality, revived or reinvented, the soul of the united Maghreb and of our past."107 Thus put in a new context, the gesture of a French officer being welcomed by young, traditionally

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dressed, Algerian girls seems unbearable. When the man tries to kiss the girls they visibly shrink back, but he insists with an additional, intrusive touch. Assia Djebar's editing sets store by the girls' silent resistance, and thus makes room for their suppressed protest. Historiography in Zerda means rewriting history, to re-interpret and counter a dominant historical discourse. There are few attempts in Arab cinema to write counter-history or to shoot films which, in Marc Ferro's words, are not "in accord with common—dominant or minoritarian—currents of thinking," but permit "conversely an independent and new view of society."108 The rare attempts are mostly confined to the documentary or experimental field. The Lebanese film maker Heiny Srour tries to reconstruct regional female history in her semi-documentary Layla and the Wolves (Layla wa-1-dhi'ab, 1984). Using a variety of archival material, reconstructed (enacted) historical events, and a subjective commentary that is loosely embedded in a fictional framing story, the director manages to uncover the participation of Palestinian women in the struggle for independence. She shows women who smuggle weapons, stall soldiers with stones and boiling water, and stand up fearlessly to the use of force. Thus, Heiny Srour refutes the image of the helpless female victim and its equation with the robbed and violated homeland that has been so popular in the works of many male Arab directors. The films of the Palestinian director Michel Khleifi, particularly his documentary Fertile Memory (al-Dhakira al-khisba, 1980), similarly try to undermine the common Arab discourses on the Palestinian question. In Fertile Memory, Khleifi portrays two Palestinian women of very different backgrounds: the now acknowledged feminist writer Sahar Khalifa from Nablus in the occupied territories, and his own aunt who lives in Galilee, Israel. Sahar represents the type of young, emancipated woman. At the age of thirty she filed a petition for divorce and started studying. In 1980, when the film was shot, she was working as a writer and teacher and living alone with her daughter. In contrast, Khleifi's widowed aunt has remained faithful to traditional ideas. She thought it improper to remarry after the death of her husband. She has, however, been very independent, has brought up her children alone and supported them by working, first as a housekeeper and then as a seamstress. She, too, stands up for a political point of view. Despite her children's insistence, the widow refuses to give up her legal claim and accept compensation for a piece of land that has been confiscated by the Israelis. Fertile Memory uncovers the traces of a double occupation in the

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life of its protagonists. The women not only suffer from the Israeli domination but also from their men's claims of ownership and the restrictions imposed on them by patriarchal society as a whole. Hence, the Palestinian male occupies in the film the position of culprit and victim at once. This is a view that Sahar Khalifa expresses in her literary and feminist work. Her position opens the notion of Palestinian resistance to a concept comprising the entire society and counters the image of the passive, abused, female Palestinian. These various attempts to question the historicism of post-colonial, nationalist-oriented film making strive to challenge cherished ideological positions—the myths of virility, or the undivided nation—and to replace dominant historical discourses by images of oppressed counter-histories, including those of women. However, they do not always question the dubious concept of historical authenticity that automatically sneaks in with the realist mode of representation. Only exceptionally do films leave behind historicization. Chadi Abdessalam's The Mummy, for example, and Assia Djebar's Zerda and the Songs of Oblivion are rare films that problematize the awareness of history as such. Nevertheless, these films remain completely marginal to the historicizing mainstream, which tends to reflect more generally accepted views. It is no accident that historicism developed first in commercial cinema. Its allusion to a glamorous past, the use of political allegories to create modern nationalist myths with a clearly apologetic and anticolonialist character, involve it actively in the construction of modern national identities and entities. It is no wonder that apologetic and Unitarian historicism persists in mainstream cinema and, more decisively, in the far more widely distributed Egyptian television productions, such as the recent spectacle Nasser 56 (1995) by Muhammad Fadil. In so doing, it shapes the views and perceptions of coming generations.

Cinema d'auteur The notion of cinema d'auteur has been used in various ways. As a genre it partly merges with the notion of 'art film,' which became associated in the early 1960s with a group of European film makers in films such as L'avventura, Hiroshima mon amour, and La Dolce Vita. Micelangelo Antonioni, Alain Resnais, Frederico Fellini, and Ingmar Bergmann, "these four—though perhaps Resnais less then the others—served to define the 'conventions' of the developing 'artmovies' genre: deliberately and obviously intellectual (there is

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nothing more deliberate than the final scene of La Dolce Vita), with extremely visible individual stylistic characteristics."109 However, it is hard to assign the art film and more specifically cinema d'auteur to a specific genre.110 While a genre film corresponds to an industrial norm and is rather dissociated from the personality of its director, the most important concern of art film is using the media for the author's personal vision.111 The camera is transformed into a literary means of expression, a camera-stylo,112 relying on the concept that "The eye of the camera only starts seeing when a literary consciousness is behind it."113 The notion of the film author or auteur, which appeared in the 1950s in Francois Truffaut's contributions to the magazine Cahiers du cinema, and elsewhere, was originally not confined to the art film but served to describe the style or 'personal handwriting' (ecriture) of extraordinary directors such as Jean Renoir or Marcel Carne.114 The notion of the auteur was used about mainstream Hollywood directors such as John Ford and Howard Hawks. Their specific form of commercial cinema "knew its audience and its expectations but often provided something extra. This extra is the concern of the auteur theory."115 The "something extra" of a film may concentrate in the person of the auteur and manifest itself in certain formal and thematic characteristics. A structural procedure, according to which the work of the individual has to be searched for constant parameters, may be useful in defining an auteur film. However, it might be more helpful to undertake such an analysis not only in respect to the personality of the author. The particular has inevitably to be measured against the regular and general, the norm, and defined in comparison to it. The work of a director cannot exist completely independently of the social and economic framework, even if he or she has total control of the artistic representation and the financial means. "The logical basis of the auteur theory lies in the fact that film can never, even under the best conditions, be completely personal. The purity of personal expression is a myth of textbooks."116 The economic situation of a film maker is certainly one part of the framework that shapes his style. This factor played an important role in German Autorenfilm, for example. The Autorenfilm appeared first in West Germany when the signatories of the 1962 Oberhausen manifesto renounced "Papas Kino" (Daddy's cinema) and tried to pave the way for a more unconventional film language. They linked the idea of wholly independent film making with the attempt to create alternative production modes. Public funding was meant to secure

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the independence of the Autorenfilm from producers and subsequently from the commercial structure of the film industry. The Autorenfilm was thus conceived as the opposite of the 'producer film' (Produzentenfilm), which is governed by commercial considerations and offers a director fewer opportunities to develop a personal 'writing.' Beside the alternative financing, a quasi pre-industrial production mode with a low degree of labor division was introduced in order to allow the director to control all aspects of the production process.117 In practice, the realization of a genuine auteur film comes up against numerous obstacles. While producing a full-length feature film the 'artisanal' production mode can be applied only partially at best. Only an amateur, in the spirit of Maya Deren, can control the process of production completely. However, a film that wants to reach a certain technical standard has in general to rely on industrial labor division. Thus, individualism in cinema is possible only to a certain extent. The individual or particular of a work is not absolute, but is rather the product of an antagonism between film maker and the surrounding conditions. It is the result of a struggle for the greatest possible independence from social frameworks on which one is in fact permanently, and inevitably, dependent. Since the 1970s, Western TV channels and cultural institutions have developed an increasing interest in promoting productions from the so-called Third World. In particular, France has invested in its former francophone North African colonies and created a relative economic dependency of native cinema on French coproduction, quite similar to that of West African cinema.118 Due to its individualism and intellectuality, cinema d'auteur is much more suitable than regional popular cinema for this mediating role.

New Arab Cinema and the cinema d'auteur Since the late 1970s new cinema currents have made their appearance in the different Arab countries. The notion of 'les nouveaux cinemas arabes' (New Arab Cinemas) was circulated in France, among others, by the film critic Claude Michel Cluny and the publications of CinemAction, edited by Guy Henebelle.119 In French, the use of the plural indicates the variety of different currents in cinema, ranging from New Egyptian Realism (al-waqi°iya al-djadida)120 to experimental art cinema. In Arabic, the notion of New Arab Cinema is used in the singular and hence appears more diffuse in terms of regional, conceptual, and stylistic specifications. In reality, it comprises numerous directions, including sinima djidid (New

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Cinema) in Algeria,121 Young Cinema (sinima al-shabab) in Egypt,122 and Alternative Cinema (al-sinima al-badila) in Syria.123 These classifications rarely differentiate between genres. They refer to realist works as well as to auteur films, as they are often undertaken according to subjects and messages, i.e., the sociopolitical commitment (iltizam) of a work, rather than to formal criteria. However, the essentially new in Arab cinema d'auteur is, unlike other forms of committed cinema such as" realism, the radical striving for personal expression, be it on the aesthetic and formal level, or with regard to content. Also innovative is its dissociation from global political messages and ostensibly objective analyses. The following words of the Syrian director Mohamed Malas, author of the semi-autobiographical film Dreams of the City (1986), may clarify this tendency: As we mostly work out our subjects and screenplays ourselves, they are not simply adaptations of projects rather than reflections of inner ideas and anxieties. . . . To me cinema represents a personal means of expression and not a profession that is supposed to secure me material or moral profit, . . . particularly because I realize only films that express our inner disquiet and concern. They are related to me as a human being and individual, but also as a product of a whole generation, of a specific epoch, of a society, and a country. Hence, all my films are related, starting with their titles—Dream of a Little Town, Memory, Dreams of the City, The Dream, Notes of a City124—and ending with their contents.125

As elsewhere, Arab cinema d'auteur strives for an independent economic basis. Its financial sources range from state owned production companies and public funding to foreign coproducers. Film funds that are administrated by film makers themselves, as in Germany for example, do not exist. In Syria, the emergence of a cinema d'auteur would have been unthinkable without the support of the public National Film Organization. As in Algeria, the degree of freedom a film maker is able to force out of bureaucracy and its censorship depends on his or her readiness to struggle and take risks. At the end of the 1960s the members of the New Cinema Society (Djamacat al-Sinima al-Djadida) in Egypt tried to minimize the disadvantages of state production by themselves contributing to the financing.126 However, the group realized only two films. Further plans were thwarted by the reprivatization of the public production company. Public initiative in Egypt had in any case offered no alternative to commercial production modes. Egyptian directors such as Taufik Salih or Chadi Abdessalam, who were turned down by the private sector, also had great difficulties realizing their plans in the public sector.

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Given this situation, Youssef Chahine tried to create a private production base for himself. Since the production of his film The Sparrow (1971), the director has managed, together with other members of his family, to establish a production company, Misr alc Alamiya (Misr International). The company survives by foreign, mainly Western, financial support. Coproductions first with the former ONCIC in Algeria for The Return of the Prodigal Son (1976) and The Sparrow, and later with the French ministry of culture and French television, allowed Chahine to complete his more expensive projects, such as Adieu Bonaparte! (1985), Alexandria Now and Forever (Iskandariya, kaman wa kaman, 1990), and The Emigrant (alMuhagir, 1994).127 Tunisian and Moroccan cinema d'auteur is in the same situation. Although generally it can rely on public funds, it could hardly survive without Western coproductions. This situation, however, endangers its cultural legitimacy and at the same time its economic existence.

The defeat The essential innovations of Arab cinema d'auteur are its choice of subjects and its dissociation from conventional narrative structures. Some of the early films that fit into this category are the Tunisian Khalifa the Bald (1969) by Hamouda Ben Halima, and the Moroccan Wechma (1970) by Hamid Benani. The latter is characterized by a constant merge and interaction of past and present, a feature that also characterizes the Syrian works, The Knife (al-Sikkin, 1972) by Khaled Hamada and al-Yazerli (1974) by Kaiss al-Zubaidi. In alYazerli, which was adapted from the novel On the Sacks (Fauq alakyas) by Hanna Mina, flashbacks, dreams, and visions of the adolescent protagonist break the action's linearity. The framing narrative as such contains social critique but attains, through the intertwined fantasies, an air of expressionism. Thus, the basic realist discourse on a materially and sexually deprived youth, confronted with oppressive working conditions, is relativized and elevated to a more fictional level. According to the Tunisian director and scriptwriter, Nouri Bouzid, one reason for the changes that occurred in parts of Arab cinema and contributed to the emergence of the so-called New Arab Cinema was the 1967 debacle. He calls the film making that has appeared since then "sinima al-wacy bi-1-hazima," the cinema that is conscious of the defeat.128 The Six Day War left deep traces in the intellectual life of the Arab world and had repercussions on film making as well. While during the late 1960s and early 1970s in Algeria, and less so

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in Tunisia, film makers were assimilating the war of liberation and new social conditions, and creating a new self image, the 1967 debacle was echoed directly in Egyptian and Syrian cinema. The most immediate reaction to it, which also had a touch of youth rebellion about it, was the foundation of the New Cinema Society in Egypt. Its members consisted of scriptwriters, directors and film critics.129 The Palestinian Ghaleb Chaath was one of its founders, although, being a foreigner, his name could not appear on the members' list. Chaath, whose family had sought refuge in Egypt, studied cinema in Vienna and returned to Cairo after the 1967 war, introducing his colleagues to the ideas of the Oberhausen manifesto.130 The new society, which was eventually founded in 1969, aimed to produce politically committed films that differed from the prevailing Egyptian mainstream cinema. The two full-length feature films directed by its members are Song on the Passage (Ughniya cala al-mammar, 1972) by Ali Abd El-Khalek and Shadows on the Other Side (Zilal cala al-djanib al-akhar, 1973) by Ghaleb Chaath. Both films are based on literary works and announce on the formal level a certain 'polyphony' that disrupts the omniscient, realist discourse, and creates a variety of subjective voices and perspectives. Song on the Passage is a clumsy debut film but, like Shadows on the Other Side, contains a narrative structure that was uncommon in Egyptian cinema of that time. During the Six Day War a group of soldiers has entrenched itself in a mountain passage. Later, when they discover that their troop has already retreated they have to decide whether they want to keep their position or flee. The soldiers start talking about themselves and their lives before the war. Their accounts are partly contradicted and even exposed by the screen images, which sometimes portray a completely different events. The opposing political convictions of the protagonists clash, while individual self indulgence and egocentrism are denounced and held responsible for the debacle. In the second, artistically far more sophisticated production linked to the society, Shadows on the Other Side, the perspective of the supposedly objective narrator is completely eliminated and the story is told several times anew from different angles. These competing narrative versions are linked to the five main characters. Rose is a fragile young girl who suffers emotional deprivation because of her foster mother's coldness. She falls in love with Mahmud, an art student, who invites her from time to time to his houseboat where he lives with three fellow students. Rose becomes pregnant, but Mahmud drops her. Out of sympathy for Rose, Mahmud's friends start criticizing his behavior. Their statements, however, derive from

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Nagla' Fathi as Rose in Shadows on the Other Side (Zilal cala al-djanib al-akhar, 1971) by Ghaleb Chaath

different motives, from envy, idealism, and morals. Hence, each young man develops his own version of the story. Their debates all point to one theme, social responsibility. Finally, it is cUmar, the Palestinian, who responds most decisively to his private and political situation. After a visit to the occupied territories he changes the subjects of his exams from refugees (ladji'un) to resistance fighters (fida'iyyun) and decides to settle in Jerusalem (Ghaleb Chaath himself followed the example of his protagonist and moved in 1974 to Beirut, where he directed documentaries for the Palestinian organization Samed). The unconventional narrative Chaath chose for his film enabled him to reflect a controversial debate and, simultaneously, to discuss the reasons for the defeat on several levels. The Sparrow (al-cUsfur, 1971), directed by Youssef Chahine in 1971, again showed signs of disintegrating the realist narrative discourse and indicated the director's new formal orientation, his shift from mainstream and realist cinema toward the auteur film. Ra'uf, a young police officer, is stationed in a small village in Upper Egypt. The inhabitants suffer from the harassment of Abu Khidr, who owns a closed down factory nearby and seems to be involved in suspicious transactions. Ra'ufs stepfather, a high-ranking police

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officer, is expected in the village to end the dealings. Additionally, the journalist Yusuf arrives, but his investigations are not welcomed. He is put in custody while Abu Khidr gets killed by the non-local police, preventing Yusuf from learning more about him. Ra'uf and Yusuf meet again in Cairo at the home of their common friend Bahiya. Her house hosts all kind of discontented people. Yusuf, whose work is constantly obstructed by state security, is still determined to throw light on the case of Abu Khidr and asks Bahiya's friends for assistance. Gradually, the scale of Abu Khidr's involvement becomes clear: weapons and machinery mysteriously disappear from public factories and reappear later as private property. Even high officials seem to contribute to the transactions. At the height of the investigations the news of the Six Day War and the subsequent defeat bursts in. As President Nasser declares his resignation and the demonstrating masses fill the city, trucks loaded with stolen goods sneak away through dark side streets. Chahine's film was shot in 1971 but was only released two years later, after Egypt's October 1973 (Yom Kippur) war against Israel. Its aggressive attitude did not please the political leadership at the time. The film, however, was rather unconventional: its basic dramatic narrative, the crime and its investigations, is disintegrated by the imposed epic structure. Various parallel actions merge at points to form dramatic situations, such as Ra'uf s trip back to Cairo, the death of his brother in a trench, or Nasser's resignation. Flashbacks and associations interrupt the different lines of action. The 'objective' film surface seems scattered, its reflection distorted. Reality after the defeat seems to have more than one face. Autobiographic cinema An essential innovation brought about by Arab cinema d'auteur is the introduction of the autobiographic film.131 Youssef Chahine's Alexandria Why? (Iskandariya lih?) completed in 1978 is one of the first quasi-autobiographic films shot in an Arab country. With a script written by Youssef Chahine in cooperation with Muhsin Zayid, the film is the first of a trilogy made up by An Egyptian Fairy Tale (1982) and Alexandria Now And Forever (1990). Yahia, the main character of Alexandria Why?, is about to graduate from the prestigious Victoria College in Alexandria, but is much more interested in Hollywood films starring Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. He dreams of becoming an actor. But Egypt is living through a difficult time. It is 1942, at the height of World War II. German troops are approaching Alexandria. Speculation and the black market

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Alexandria Why? (Iskandariya lih? Egypt, 1978) by Youssef Chahine

flourish. Yahia's family is in an economic crisis. The father, an idealistic lawyer, prefers to go fishing than to deal with unjust jurisdiction, while the mother is desperately trying to make ends meet by selling the piano and other pieces of furniture. Yahia's prosperous fellow students are already planning their studies abroad, while he himself is forced to start a boring banking training. When, against all expectations, he is granted a scholarship to the United States, the family collects its last savings in order to enable him to travel. However, Yahia's story is not the only one told in Alexandria Why? The framing autobiographic narrative is intertwined with numerous little secondary stories populated by an enormous number of characters. There is, for example, the father of a fellow student who has become rich by speculating and now holds grandiose parties to impress the influential heads of the country. Elsewhere, a young patriotic aristocrat indulges a strange vice: he buys kidnapped British soldiers and shoots them. Other side-stories present a group of young nationalists who are planning the assassination of Churchill, and a love relation between a Muslim leftist and a Jewish comrade. Together they form a subjective portrait of cosmopolitan preNasserist Alexandria. The center of gravity that links all these actions and characters is Yahia, the director's alter ego. Chahine himself, whose family stems

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originally from Lebanon, was born in 1926 and grew up in Alexandria. He lived in the solid middle-class neighborhood of Ibrahimiya and was educated at the elite schools Saint Mark's and Victoria College. In 1946 Chahine traveled to the United States in order to study acting at the Pasadena Playhouse, and there switched to directing.132 In 1982, Youssef Chahine completed his second semi-autobiographic film, An Egyptian Fairy Tale, for which he wrote the screenplay on his own. In this film Chahine depicts his career as a director. As usual, he also addresses political issues, displaying his admiration for Nasser while at the same time mourning Europe's lack of interest in the so-called Third World. The film shows his own renunciation of the Western dream—how, as an Arab film maker, he loses hope of being recognized at Cannes or elsewhere in the festivals of the 'First World.' The explicit political statements Chahine made in his first two autobiographical films fit partly into the anti-colonial discourse prevalent during this period—even if they contradict his personal experiences on the production level. After the release of An Egyptian Fairy Tale he succeeded in collecting the necessary funds from French institutions to produce his grand spectacle Adieu Bonaparte! (1985), starring the French stars Michel Piccoli and Patrice Chereau. Chahine's sometimes simplified political messages are partly disguised in allegorical narratives, for example in scenes depicting Alexander's invasion of Egypt in his most recent self portrayal, Alexandria Now and Forever, and the side-story of a group of young nationalists in Alexandria Why? The nationalists are planning to assassinate Churchill while entertaining contacts with the Muslim Brotherhood. With this story the director alludes to the emergence of the nationalist movement—the Free Officers—and their cooperation with Muslim fundamentalists on the eve of independence, and sets it against the background of his own personal experiences. It is worth noting that these political insertions oppose the main story line, that is, the autobiography on the narrative level. Whereas the latter takes a largely subjective narrative perspective and is restricted to the main character, the allegorical side-stories are narrated in a quasi-objective and omniscient way and are based on the absence of the protagonist. It is possible that Chahine's attachment to political allegories and the fact that he does not refrain completely from the omniscient type of narration are part of the legacy of the iltizam he had devoted himself to during his earlier, realist phase:

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No doubt, June 5 [the Six Day War] has contributed strongly to my awareness of the artist's responsibility toward society. Yet, to be honest, already after the revolution in 1952 I became aware of that responsibility—though in an abstract and diffuse way—when I found myself given a choice between participating in the events of reality that surround me or being content to observe them. This was maybe expressed in Mortal Revenge. After June 5 I started changing: first I moved from bourgeois entertaining cinema by addressing certain topics within that cinema and started then to make films that correspond to society's needs. You have to produce films that are indispensable.133

The adherence to iltizam or social commitment can also be found in Summer Thefts (Sariqat sayfiya, 1988) by Yousry Nasrallah, one of Chahine's former assistants. An essential difference, however, is expressed in the fact that the director largely abstains from political allegories. From the perspective of a little boy, he depicts the social and private tensions that arise in an upper-middle class family during a summer vacation spent on their" estate. After the Nasserist agrarian revolution, the affluent family fears the nationalization of its properties. At the same time, their standing among the peasants is threatened by the increasing influence of state functionaries. The boy himself has an ambiguous relationship to the peasants. When he steals something from his aunt and his best friend, a peasant boy, is suspected, he does not exonerate him. An older cousin is more conscious about the needs of the moment. She hijacks all the radios available in the house, in order to give the peasants an opportunity to listen to Nasser's agitating speeches concerning the agrarian revolution. Nasrallah's Summer Thefts is one of the first Egyptian films not to schematize the higher bourgeoisie. The author sympathizes with both sides. He describes the difficulties of the parents' broken marriage, depicts the extravagance and egocentrism of their bourgeois relatives, and contrasts it with the solidarity and spontaneous warmth of the servants. Nasrallah's narrative touches on the situation of peasants facing up to the new system and their problems in developing adequate consciousness. Nasrallah also shows, by means of the cousin's subversive action and the decision of an elegant aunt to marry a Nasserist functionary, how much class consciousness can change. Indeed, the hero is ready to learn his lesson. He comes back as a grownup searching for the friend who had been wrongly accused of theft. The summer depicted is not any summer but the summer when the little boy's parents decide to separate, as did the director's own parents. The allusions to political conditions overlie the images of this painful personal memory almost as a superstructure. Nasrallah does

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not, however, transform them into a uniform ideological statement. Via the various sympathetic characters who belong to the privileged (dominating) as well as underprivileged (oppressed) classes, sufficiently diverse opinions and interests are expressed to achieve a suitable polyphony. Social commitment along with autobiographic tendencies has also manifested itself in the work of other Arab directors, such as Nejia Ben Mabrouk, Nouri Bouzid, and Mohamed Malas, while toppling the explicit political discourses almost completely. In Man of Ashes (Rih al-sadd;134 L'homme des cendres, 1986) the Tunisian scriptwriter and director Nouri Bouzid depicts the difficulties in adapting to their surroundings of two young carpenters, Hashimi and Farfat, who have been sexually abused during their childhood by their master craftsman. Farfat is defamed by neighbors as being homosexual, which makes his father throw him out of their home. Hashimi is in trouble too. His family is preparing for his wedding, but he takes no real interest in the event. He upsets his parents by avoiding his paternal home and the guests. His mother believes in black magic, which she tries to counter by calling a woman magician. Her husband, however, undertakes more rigorous actions: he beats his son with a belt. But none of this helps Hashimi

Man of Ashes (Rih al-sadd; L'homme des cendres, Tunisia, 1986) by Nouri Bouzid (courtesy Institut du Monde Arabe, Paris)

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solve his problem. His insecurity has a long past, depicted by intercutting visual flashbacks related to the claustrophobic memories of the master's sexual assaults. Hashimi drifts around. Accompanied by Farfat and some other friends he visits a brothel. When the young men mockingly allude to Farfat's dubious masculinity, he is seized by rage. He storms out and through the streets looking for his master, and when he finds him, stabs him with a knife. Nouri Bouzid's film illustrates different types of violence to which children and adolescents are subjected as a result of the dominating patriarchal family structures. Despite the social implications of his subject the director does not work in any political allegories. He sticks close to the daily life of his protagonist and his personal impressions and memories. It is not Hashimi's conflict with his environment that structures the narrative, but various almost impressionistic scenes, including an excursion to the beach, a visit to an old Jewish music teacher, walks through the town, the visit to the brothel, and some flashbacks. They create the film's basic, epic character. Man of Ashes does not include events that are strictly autobiographic—Nouri Bouzid was not abused as a child.135 It is, however, closely connected to the director's personal experience: Both Man of Ashes and Golden Horseshoes, are, indeed, very much related to my life in Tunisia. The two films, particularly the last one, were a sort of catharsis, a sort of exorcism to me. I wanted to liberate myself from everything that had preoccupied me immensely during the last years, that made me unhappy in my country. In my films I wanted to approach what my generation has experienced. I wanted to address with my films what makes up our present situation of crisis, the bankruptcy of our society. Thus, my first film addresses childhood, not exactly mine but rather my generation's, how we were 'broken' from the beginning, how we suffered from adult violence. The second film, Golden Horseshoes, is closer to my biography. I felt somehow compelled to tell what happens to a critical generation in an Islamic country. It was a opportunity to share my anxieties with the audience. This already explains why the film has a hard time getting . screened in public. After that film I felt liberated to deal again with other topics. My next film will not be so strictly autobiographic: my view is directed now toward the society which surrounds me.136

In fact, the story of Golden Horseshoes is much more closely linked to the film maker's life. Nouri Bouzid spent five years in Tunisian prisons because of his political conviction and, like his protagonist, was humiliated and tortured.137

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Odysseys The individual that is brought to the foreground by autobiographic cinema is sent in a few films on a frightening odyssey. In the Tunisian film, Crossing Over (cUbur; Traversees, 1982) by Mahmoud Ben Mahmoud, an Arab intellectual travels by boat from Belgium to Great Britain. Although he has a valid visa he is denied entrance at the border. The frontier police suspect him of terrorism and subject him to a degrading body check. Finally, together with an East European, he is send back to the ferry. The boat travels back but neither man has a visa for Belgium, and both are prevented from leaving the boat. Without any alternative, they try to come to arrangements with the crew. While the East European gets casual work on the ferry, the Arab escapes into the higher spheres of poetry and love. The Arab protagonist of Crossing Over is characterized by pride and unapproachability, which sets him apart from his East European fellow sufferer. Considering his desperate situation his attitude seems inadequate and inappropriate. Having his eyes made up with kohl, he cites Arab poetry to the European lover he has found on board. His reference to his great culture, however, cannot affect his real problem. He cannot return to his own country—which evidently cannot cope with a secular, liberal intellectual of his kind—but is not permitted to enter the so-called liberal world either. Accordingly, the Arab intellectual is in limbo, caught between irreconcilable contradictions—past and present, East and West, reality and ideal. His future has no perspective. According to Ben Mahmoud, the story is based on a personal experience during his studies in Belgium. On a trip to Great Britain he was held at the border. He, in fact, was able to return to Belgium, but a Yugoslav traveler on the same boat did not have an entry visa for either country.138 The protagonist of Wanderers in the Desert (1984) by the Tunisian Nacer Khemir suffers a similar fate. A young man (the role is acted by the director himself) travels to a remote town, deep in the desert, in order to start a job as a teacher there. When he arrives, he finds himself in an ancient town whose clay towers are untouched by modernity, but whose formerly flourishing gardens have sunk into dust. Soon, he discovers that it is inhabited only by women, children, and old men. All the young men have mysteriously disappeared, but are occasionally seen, far away, as a group of ghostly shadows crossing the horizon. The teacher's attempts to find out about their fate are unsuccessful, not least because those left behind have lost any

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sense of reality. Most of the town's inhabitants spend their time searching for treasure. Only one boy has a different dream: he wants to sail to the 'legendary' Cordoba on a ship that has been mysteriously abandoned in the sand dunes. Eventually, he too disappears in the desert, followed by the young teacher. The film shifts constantly between fantastic and realistic events, so that the borders between the (supposedly) objective and the subjective perception blur. Although Nacer Khemir used the clay brick architecture in the south of Tunisia for his shooting, the town and its inhabitants do not resemble any real place. The costumes and behavior of the people belong to another world, while the visual arrangements, colors, and motifs follow Islamic miniature painting and in part create an aesthetic idealization. The fairy tale-like images are neither related to the present nor to the specific historical period that can be recognized from the details of the costume and the setting. Thus, cultural history is reduced to a diffuse, remote, though highly aesthetic, formula. The integration of his cultural heritage in daily life seems impossible to the protagonist, as it does also to the film maker: "In the morning, when I walk through the streets at home and see that, again, they have destroyed a beautiful door or cut down a tree, I get into trouble. . . . I cultivate my absence from home by advancing further into a geography of the imaginary."139 As a result, Nacer Khemir lives in Paris and not in Tunisia. The director establishes the connection to the mythical town depicted in the film, which embodies classical Arab culture and its civilizing achievements within as well as outside the film, by leaving on a binary, real and imaginary, journey. In the film, eventually and unexpectedly, the journey becomes an odyssey during which the individual is entirely lost. In the Egyptian film The Search for Sayyid Marzuq (al-Bahth can Sayyid Marzuq, 1991) by Daoud Abd El-Sayyed, it is not the unresolved relationship to his own culture that leads the protagonist astray but the confrontation with the dominating social system. One day, Yusuf, a simple employee, wakes up late and rushes to his work, only to discover he has made a mistake—it is a holiday. For twenty years, he has hardly been out, and now he enjoys spending the day drifting. On his walk he meets some odd people, including an organgrinder who plays early in the morning on an empty square in front of closed doors and windows. In the middle of a party, frogmen appear, who are retrieving the body of a drowned person from the Nile. This is when Yusuf meets Sayyid Marzuq, a rich businessman, who invites him out so that he can tell him his story. In the evening, Marzuq asks Yusuf to look after his expensive car for a moment. A

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short while later, a police officer accuses Yusuf of stealing it. Yusuf flees through the city, with the police in hot pursuit. They do not stop chasing him even when the error has been cleared up and the car has been returned to his owner. More than once, Marzuq appears, followed by a group of musicians, and invites the exhausted Yusuf to a ride on his boat or gives him a precious birthday present, then leaves him again to his pursuers. The kafkaesque chase seems absurd and has no logical explanation. The events and people's behavior are arbitrary and unpredictable. The simple citizen who has not left his house, except to go to work, for twenty years (i.e., since Nasser's death in 1971) finds himself in a world that is controlled by an omnipresent and unreasonable police apparatus. 140 The absurdity of events is reflected in the narrative structure of the film. As if in a dream, normal spatial and temporal rules are distorted and neutralized. The representation of Marzuq and most other characters who surprisingly appear and repeatedly disappear during that endless night and whose intentions and identities remain unclear is not governed by logic or causality, thus reflecting an obviously incomprehensible reality.

Rebellion of sons The 1967 defeat led not only to a changed perception of the individual and his position in society, but in some films also challenged the prevailing myth of virility. In the 1970s, several auteur films began questioning the traditional view of manhood and its negative sociopolitical effects. The ideological background to this has already been discussed in connection with The Duped (1972) by Taufik Salih. It is embodied in the allegorical character of the Palestinian truck driver who smuggles his compatriots into Kuwait for money. He does not care about the fate of his people; his only satisfaction is his personal enrichment. His attitude stems from a war wound that took away his manhood and consequently his sympathy and positive emotions. The film clearly equates virility with honor, with national pride, and the readiness to make sacrifices. This association means inevitably that women lack these characteristics. Indeed in The Duped they are merely helpless and passive secondary figures. Some auteur films questioned this binary gender representation. The Syrian scriptwriter and director Samir Zikra shows in The Half-Meter Incident (Hadithat al-nisf mitr, 1981) that male machismo constitutes a basic element in the psychological make-up of the petit

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The Half-Meter Incident (Hadithat al-nisf mitr, Syria, 1981) by Samir Zikra (courtesy National Film Organization, Damascus)

bourgeoisie, and that the 1967 defeat reinforced rather than weakened it. The main character of The Half-Meter Incident is an apolitical and sexually frustrated white collar worker who supports his mother and his little brothers and sisters. This prevents him from having an own family. As a result, women and sex occupy a large part of his thinking, until he meets a young student who is willing to start up a relationship with him. Gradually the shy young man mutates into a self-aware gigolo. When his girlfriend becomes pregnant, he abandons her. Meanwhile, he has been able to attract the attention of his superiors by his opportunism and cooperativeness, and they put him in charge of organizing a civil defense. However, the Six Day War ends as quickly as it starts. Its disastrous outcome has no negative effect on the protagonist. On the contrary, he has obtained a promotion because of his useless commitment. Apparently Samir Zikra attributes no cathartic effects to the defeat, but believes instead that it further reinforced the dominant conditions in his country. Consequently, the increased repression due to political insecurity and the close attachment of the petty bourgeoisie to the system contributes to the reinforcement of patriarchal norms. Zikra's analysis clarifies the conditions that create a moral double standard regarding women. The Palestinian director Michel Khleifi also criticizes the ethics of

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Wedding in Galilee (cUrs al-Djalil, Palestine, 1989) by Michel Khleifi

patriarchal Arab society, in particular the concept of male honor (sharaf). In Khleifi's feature film The Wedding in Galilee (cUrs al-Djalil, 1989), a Palestinian mukhtar, the head of a village, wants to celebrate his son's wedding. Because of the curfew he has to ask the Israeli administration for permission. They agree, on the condition that the military governor and his entourage may participate in the celebration. The mukhtar has no choice but to accept. The wedding is organized according to traditional customs, but once he is left alone with his bride the son finds it impossible to consummate the marriage, and the guests are made to wait for the required tissue with the sign of the defloration. The groom is seized by helpless rage against his father, and in order to relieve him the bride deflowers herself. But it is too late: the guests have already left, chased away by Israeli patrols. In spite of the state of emergency imposed by the Israeli authorities, internal and traditional power relations remain intact. The head of the village who yields to the Israelis is nevertheless an authority whom even his opponents in the village, who prefer unconcealed resistance, still accept. Even his son cannot escape his control. He vents his anger only passively and self-destructively, resulting in his impotence. The latter is the more fatal, as the groom's virility is bound up with his father's reputation. This notion of manhood can only be proven by means of penetration and defloration.

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In the context of the occupation, the political oppression, and the deprivation of Palestinian society, Michel Khleifi tries to show how meaningless such a notion of virility is. He argues for an admission of weakness instead of a shallow demonstration of power: Here, a rehabilitation of the Arab individual with his contradictions and weakness takes place. It is only weakness that allows him to mature and to face problems in a balanced manner. I wanted to put aside slogans in order to allow the mental condition of Arab society to come to light. Only liberated individuals can fight oppression, which means weak individuals who are presented in their weakness and inability. What I wanted to express with this film is summarized in that fragile child in the first shot who is running while he hears the noise of shots. Certainly it is an image of weakness but it also testifies a terrible force.141

The representation of force and weakness in The Wedding of Galilee focuses on two antagonisms: male and female, steadfastness and compliance. They shape the film's movement by a constant up and down. An Israeli female soldier faints, overwhelmed by the heat, the sumptuous meal, and the smells. The Palestinian women carry her into the house, take off her gray uniform, and wrap her in a colorful, embroidered Palestinian gown. When she wakes up she finds herself surrounded by the subdued light of the house, gentle voices, and soft fabrics. The aggressive male power that she has symbolized hitherto is absorbed by the 'female' interior of the Arab house. "The architectural thinking of the film is really part of Palestinian society: the logic of violence on the male side and the logic that spoils this violence on the female side. The whole writing (ecriture) is carefully arranged around this quasi-architectural opposition between a violent and an 'escaping' material."142 When an Israeli soldier tries to get into the house to search for his female colleague, he finds himself encircled by women and prevented from entering. His vigor is cushioned by their soft, but determined movement and subsequently challenged by their seductive mockery. Michel Khleifi's binary notion of gender certainly draws from traditional ideas, but invalidates them by changing and twisting their signs, or precisely, by linking putative female weakness with power and male power with weakness. In works by Arab auteur directors, the rebellion of sons against the dominant patriarchy frequently ends in self-destruction. Already in the Moroccan film Wechma, shot in 1970, the father's severity leads to his son's destruction. More recent films, such as Nouri Bouzid's Man of Ashes, take up similar themes. Hashimi's relationship with his father is marked by violence and hostility. His relationship with his 'substitute' father, his master cAmmar, is also overshadowed by the trauma of aggression (embodied by sexual abuse). The only positive

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paternal character is an old Jew who is excluded from the patriarchal power structure by his physical frailness and his social marginality.143 Thus, Hashimi in his turn can react only in despair and violence. He rejects the proposed marriage, in other words his family's requirements, while his alter ego Farfat attacks the master with a knife and escapes. The political activist Yusuf in Golden Horseshoes destroys himself too. He fails to find a place in the political system and loses contact with his grown-up children. They in turn despise their father, who cares more about politics than their well-being. Yusuf s attempts to initiate changes are in vain. His ultimate solution is suicide. In his analysis of the Bourguiba period in Tunisia Aziz Krichen states that Bouzid's generation suffered a whole succession of destroyed father-son relations. "The drama determining Nouri Bouzid's work and giving it at the same time its strength and homogeneity is the drama of affiliation from which there is no return and that is expressed in the loss of a sense of identity and belonging. It turns those who suffer from it into isolated individuals who are unable to recognize others, to commit themselves and to act, like the scattered parts of a broken transmission chain."144 Essentially, Krichen considers the failed affiliation and the resulting identity crises the legacy of colonial oppression and humiliation—of which the 1967 defeat is a part—which have bequeathed self-hatred and national pride to the colonized as the two sides of one coin.145 This legacy is still effective and continues decisively to shape postcolonial society.

Feminization of Arab cinema The position of women in the Arab countries is one of the most contentious issues separating progressive and fundamentalist tendencies. Various works of the revolutionary Algerian Cinema and Egyptian realism have objected to discrimination against women. They criticize the arranged marriage (The Open Door, A Wife for My Son), the disadvantaging and molesting of women at work (Salah Abu Seifs I Am Free, Ana hurra, Egypt, 1958; Sid Ali Mazif s Layla and Her Sisters, Layla wa akhawatiha, Algeria, 1977), or family oppression (Sahara Blues, South Wind, Aziza by Abdellatif Benamar, Tunisia, 1980). Many male directors, however, expressed in their films the need for female emancipation but often simply as a means to achieve national goals, such as technical and cultural progress, or political independence. Examples include the Algerian film The South Wind (1976), or The Open Door (al-Bab al-maftuh, 1963) by the

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Layla and Her Sisters (Layla wa akhawatiha, Algeria, 1977) by Sid Ali Mazif (ONCIC (former)/Ministry of Culture, Algiers)

Egyptian Henri Barakat. In many other cases, women remain helpless victims, as in the Moroccan melodramas Badis (1989) by Mohamed Ben Abderrahmane Tazi and the realist Aisha (1981) by Jilalli Ferhati. Only in the late 1970s did the cinema d'auteur start presenting a differentiated and deconstructive image of women. In contrast to his first film, Aisha, Jilalli Ferhati's more recent The Beach of the Lost Children (Shati' al-atfal al-da'icin, Morocco, 1991), for which he wrote the screenplay himself, gives a contradictive image of women's life in so-called traditional society. Mina is a rebellious girl who lives with her father, grandmother, and young stepmother in a remote fishing village. She likes to roam about the beach with the neighbors' children, instead of spending the day at home with her stepmother. Then Mina has an affair with a taxi driver. When she asks him to marry her, he refuses. Outraged, but unintentionally, the girl kills her lover. She hides his body in the huge salt piles at the beach. A short while later, Mina discovers she is pregnant. When her father finds out, he locks her up. He tells the people in the village that Mina has gone to visit relatives, and persuades his wife to pretend that she is pregnant. However, when Mina delivers her child she does not want to leave it in her stepmother's custody. She takes her child and escapes, with the

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villagers looking on. The film leaves it open as to whether she will succeed and how the village will react. Ferhati avoids cliches. His characterizations attach importance to a profound psychological description. He carefully depicts the ambiguous relation between Mina and her infertile stepmother, who is almost the same age as her. Importantly, her father is not represented as a violent, omnipotent patriarch who would prefer his daughter dead after she has besmirched his honor. Instead, he is torn between compassion for his daughter and the necessity of maintaining his social reputation. In Ferhati's film, men and women alike come into conflict with society and try actively to resolve that conflict.

Female auteurs Women are underrepresented in Arab cinema in every respect. Female problems and circumstances of life remain marginalized in general. The phenomenon of women producing and realizing films is relatively recent in Arab film history, if we disregard the female pioneers of Egyptian cinema, such as cAziza Amir, Fatima Rushdi, and Bahiga Hafiz in the 1920s and 1930s.146 Today a considerable number of women write screenplays, direct for television, or realize documentaries, for example the documentarists Attiat El-Abnoudi, Nabiha Lotfi, and Firyal Kamil in Egypt, and Selma Beccar in Tunisia. The Palestinians May Masri and Mouna Hattoum work in the fields of documentary and experimental cinema respectively. In feature film production, however, women are still particularly underrepresented. In Syria, not a single woman has had the opportunity to direct a long feature film. In Iraq, only one woman feature film director is known, Khayriya cAbbas, who directed a film called 6/6 in 1987. Morocco has two female directors, Farida Ben Lyazid and Farida Burqiya. In Algeria, the writer Assia Djebar directed two semi-documentaries for television. The first conventional fiction film, Female Demon, shot by an Algerian woman, Hafsa Zinat-Koudil, was completed in 1993. In Lebanon the best known female documentary film makers, Jocelyne Saab, Randa Chahal, and Heiny Srour, have to date directed either one or two full-length fiction films each. They all live in Europe and finance their projects either themselves or with the support of Western producers. The same applies to the Tunisian director Nejia Ben Mabrouk. Moufida Tlatli and Selma Beccar, who live in Tunisia, also have to rely on coproductions. Each of them has directed one full-lengh feature film. In Egypt only a few woman directors have entered the film industry in recent years, including

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Inas al-Dighidi, Nadia Hamza, and Asma' al-Bakri. Their work scarcely differs from the products of their male collea'gues. One of the various reasons why few women join the film industry is certainly moral. Film, showbusiness, and particularly acting are associated with moral laxity. Some Arab woman directors, including Assia Djebar, Farida Ben Lyazid, and Nejia Ben Mabrouk, have accessed cinema through writing. Nejia Ben Mabrouk, the director of Sama (The Trace), explains this phenomenon by referring to the inadequate educational situation in her homeland and the absence of native female examples: At that time I didn't want to make my own films—maybe because I was missing examples of women film makers. All directors were men, so it seemed more natural to me as a young woman to tell stories through writing. I wanted to write novels. At that time, in the late 1960s, no film school, no acting school existed, nothing that could have allowed a young woman to make films. Even television was not functioning yet.147

Ben Mabrouk studied cinema in Brussels at the INSAS (Institut National Superieur des Arts et du Spectacle). Her first full-length feature film, Sama, contains elements of her own biography. It describes the struggle of a young woman to obtain an adequate education and the right to determine her own life. The narrative of Sama constantly shifts between past and present, between the protagonist's childhood and her vain efforts to graduate from high school. The imagery is divided into the hostile public space—the streets, with their male harassment and the school with its unrelenting male French teachers—and an intimate space—her parents' house, her accommodation in town, and her girlfriend's apartment. The interior of the house is defined by Mabrouk as the female domain, which men rarely enter, the realm of the embracing, protective, but also devouring mother. This juxtaposition is made already at the beginning of the film in a dream of the protagonist. The hands of the mother appear in a dim room wrapping a tiny stone in paper, hiding it eventually in a small round tin before shutting it away in a drawer. Then they sew the key of the drawer into a small cushion, while the protagonist's voice desperately asks for her little tin. None of Nejia Ben Mabrouk's male colleagues has succeeded in presenting a similarly claustrophobic description of a female environment. As the protagonist is able to liberate herself neither by adopting the maternal role nor by finishing her education, she chooses emigration as an escape. This seems also to have been the only way out for the film maker herself, who lives today in Belgium. The adolescent hero of Jocelyne Saab's The Razor's Edge (Ghazal

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al-banat, literally, 'girls' flirtation'; Adolescence sucree d'amour, Lebanon, 1985)148 discovers a different freedom, which is war. Her parents are occupied with taking care of daily supplies and unable to provide proper attention or education for their children. The girl roams through the destroyed city, explores ruins and abandoned houses, and makes strange and sometimes dangerous acquaintances, including a disillusioned painter and a cynical sniper. Together with a girlfriend she spends her time in a bombed stadium acting out love scenes from Egyptian movies. Neither her parents nor her grown-up friends can act as an example for the girl, and she has no regard for what they think. The destructive war has created a vacuum in which, at the most, the imagery of the Egyptian dream-factory provides a continuity. However, the question of whether the war was able to create new, permanent, liberal structures is not answered by the film. Some films by female authors set out consciously to invalidate certain predominating discourses on women's liberation, be they national or Western. One such film is the Tunisian feature film Silence of the Palaces (1994), directed by Moufida Tlatli. The story is set in the early 1950s, on the eve of Tunisia's national independence, in the palace of some Tunisian beys, where several female servants are kept almost in slavery and have to do their masters' will in any respect. The film centers around an adolescent girl who witnesses the sexual abuse of her mother by the beys. In spite of the women's seclusion, the palace is not a closed entity. The camera never leaves it, but the outside interferes constantly in the events that take place inside, especially politically. One of these intrusions is brought about

Silence of the Palaces (Samt al-qusur, Tunisia, 1994) by Moufida Tlatli

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by a young nationalist teacher who is hunted by the police for his activities and is hidden in the house by the servants. He makes the heroine fall in love with him, and eventually releases her from the golden cage in which she was brought up. However, when they leave the palace together, he does not marry her because of her social and moral status, but puts pressure on her instead to abort their child.In this way, Moufida Tlatli disconnects national liberation from women's liberation, showing that the one does not necessarily result in the other. This conviction has also been expressed—though not in so sophisticated and formal a way—by male directors, such as the Algerian Rashid bin Hadj, who directed the feature film Touchia (1993). His heroine is raped by compatriots the same day national independence is declared. Another rare view on the gender issue is that of the Moroccan scriptwriter and director, Farida Ben Lyazid, who reflects on Western-oriented ideas of women's liberation. For her, female selfrealization is not achieved by submitting to a national project, nor by destroying traditional structures, nor by escaping abroad. Instead, in her directing debut, A Door to the Sky (Bab al-sama' maftuh; Une porte sur le ciel, 1989), she searches Islamic culture for ways to emancipate women. Nadia, whose father is dying, returns from Paris to Fez. She and her siblings have grown up in two cultures, the children of a Moroccan father and a French mother. Each of them has chosen a different type of affiliation. Driss, the brother, wants to be entirely French. After his father's death he decides to sell the paternal home, a huge traditional house in the old city, as soon as possible, and to return to France. In contrast, Nadia's sister Layla is married to an affluent Moroccan and has adapted to the convenient but dull life of the native bourgeoisie. Nadia herself says, "J'ai rien choisi, je veux tout" (I have chosen nothing. I want everything.) She thinks of going back to France but does not want to give up her father's house. During her father's funeral she meets a muqaddima who recites the Quran at the women's mourning ceremony. The wisdom of the old woman touches Nadia so much that she gets involved with her in a debate on doubts and belief. The muqaddima advises her to read the texts of the old Sufi scholars and mystics, such as al-Halladj and alGhazali. Supported by her religious adviser, Nadia decides to transform the house into a zawiya—in the Maghreb usually the settlement of a Sufi brotherhood, in this case a religious institution offering lodging and teaching for women in need. At the same time Nadia ends her relationship with her French lover and withdraws from the world into her zawiya. The house becomes a place of refuge and

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contemplation where religious feasts are held. During a hadra, a ceremony including religious dances and recitations cumulating in trance, Nadia is blessed with visions and discovers that she has healing powers (baraka). The director dedicated her film to Fatima al-Fihriya, who founded the first university in Fez in the tenth century, thus clarifying her subliminal political message. On the one hand, A Door to the Sky wants to support native feminists by reminding them that women held important social positions in classical Islamic times. On the other hand, the author takes a position on Western feminism by illustrating that such 'progressive' institutions as shelters for battered women have a long tradition in Islamic culture and that female self-realization can take place in a traditional framework. In keeping with this, Farida Ben Lyazid leaves the shelter in her film in its traditional surroundings and embeds it in a religious foundation or zawiya. The film does not, however, suggest a return to orthodox Islam but rather a reevaluation of the knowledge and rites of Sufi mysticism that form part of popular belief in the Maghreb. Farida Ben Lyazid aims to strengthen the notion of a tolerant Islam combining belief and social commitment, but consciously places both in an entirely regional context. Hence, she makes the muqaddima tell the women that while Islam is unchangeable, its interpretations are open to change. She explains the hostility of some women to the admission of a francophone former convict by reference to their limited knowledge and tries to persuade them to show more sympathy. Despite the profound change the heroine undergoes during the film, Nadia does not resolve her original dilemma. She solves the problem of her national affiliation by taking a one-sided decision. She reconciles only with her Moroccan heritage, but cuts her relation to France abruptly and thoroughly, leaving again a wide fissure between tradition and modernity as absolute contradictions, at least on the material level. Hence, her search for identity concentrates on metaphysics. Accordingly, her eventual marriage to a young man she has cured is not realistically described. The two of them do not lead the daily life of a married couple, but start a journey through the mountains, visiting holy places. Their transfigured embrace seem to unify them with each other and with nature. These scenes may be read as symbols of a spiritual journey and draw from the traditional Sufi ideas of love and the believer's devotion to the creator. Through this symbolism the film transfers the conflict of this life to a metaphysical level. The problem of identity is solved by immersion in a spiritual sphere that in its core is common to all cultures.

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CONCLUSION

Getting into industrial film production was considered a national achievement in the former Arab colonies and protectorates. The acquisition of cinematic techniques was a sign of progress and offered a real opportunity to expand economically. On the political level, cinema was believed to create a platform for counter-representations, giving the formerly colonized a chance to challenge Western dominance, at least on the screen. However, despite the great efforts that were made, particularly in the immediate post-independence era, Arab film making was only partly able to compete with 'First World' cinema. It has remained greatly dependent on Western imports, technical know-how, evaluation, and partly even on Western financial support. The so-called ThirdWorldist anti-colonial cinema did not succeed in resolving the contradiction between cultural promotion, political commitment, and rentability, and was soon eclipsed either by entirely mainstreamoriented cinema or by the rather anti-authoritarian, deconstructive, and stylistically innovative, yet regionally marginalized, cinema d'auteur. Nonetheless, mainstream as well as individualist cinema was able to convey elements of native art and culture, and became actively involved in the creation of specific national or cultural identities. Although the medium became part of a mass-mediated culture and functioned as a means of mass entertainment, commercialism, the obligation to rentability, and competition with Western products did not result in a complete imitation of Western cinema, but initiated the reformation of the imported film language according to the needs of local audiences. Artistic means of representation originating in the West have thus been modified by native artistic forms.

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Conclusion

The influence of traditional arts on Arab cinema was particularly strong at the time of its foundation. This applies first of all to the post-colonial Egyptian film industry. Local music was worked in, as were the different popular performing arts and, last but not least, traditional, primarily popular, narrative forms. The regional dialect functioned as a mediator, transforming the Egyptian dialect into a sort of cinematic lingua franca understood in many Arab countries, and also contributed the creation of a hegemonic Egyptian ethnocentrism, which was later challenged by the development of other regional Arab film industries. In general, the regional dialects functioned as agents of the popular arts in Arab cinema. Yet elitist arts, such as classical Arabic poetry, have been incorporated, though not extensively, into commercial cinema too, for example in the musical. In contrast, visual Islamic arts have hardly been utilized at all. The lack of widespread traditional, figurative, and symbolic modes of representation encouraged the dominance of linguistic means of expression. The ambiguity of the image has often been reduced and geared to a plain legibility via linguistic metaphors and symbols. The use of native arts in mainstream cinema has, like everything else, been subjected to the mechanisms of supply and demand. Some of these arts have been transformed, just like cinema itself, into a trans-regional mass commodity. Some genres of Arab music, for example, lost their specific local character during this process of constant mixing and reproduction. Despite this fact, some structures and elements of popular arts have survived in commercial cinema, including the predilection for musical performance, the use of anecdotal inserts, verbal comedy, and character typologies. Recently, Arab cinema d'auteur has attempted to revive indigenous formative artistic means by a conscious utilization. It discovered the cultural heritage as a means of formal, or even spiritual, innovation, indicating a new search for cultural identity. However, it has not always been successful in erasing binary antagonisms such as past and present, tradition and modernity, East and West. Instead, its endeavors have sometimes been led astray by empty aestheticism or eclipsed by the representation of an oppressive sociopolitical reality. The intellectual efforts of this type of film making have been addressed primarily to Western audiences. Its success at Arab box offices has remained limited. The lack of authenticity imputed to commercial Arab cinema has to be qualified. Not only on the level of formal creation, but also on all the other levels of cinematic production, mixing and mutual penetration between the foreign and the native has taken place, often

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leading to a cultural revaluation and repackaging of the imported. The presentation, for example, of Western dress, habits, and lifestyle do not necessarily mean that traditional ideas have been abandoned. On the contrary, they have sometimes been used to confirm conservative concepts and perceptions. Moreover, certain genres, such as the historical and the religious film, have contributed to the creation of a national consciousness dissociated from the West, and have reinforced traditional values by reinterpreting and mythologizing Arab-Islamic history. A similar function has been allocated to realism, which appeared in most Arab countries immediately after national independence. Because of its sociopolitical commitment and anti-colonialist attitude, realism was considered, more than other genres, as an expression of national culture. It is true that realism has been concerned with the representation of the indigenous population and the daily life of the underprivileged classes, which had been neglected during colonial times. However, realism has only exceptionally achieved an authenticity in the sense of a pluralist, multiple, and contradictive representation. The visually and topographically realistic approach has often been subordinated to state doctrines or political Utopias. Realism is measured according to its iltizam and not its 'authentic' representation, because, in Lizbeth Malkmus's words, "a message about reality is mixed up with cinematic realism."1 Much more than popular genres—particularly the farce, which tends to evade the production of meaning—realism has produced clear causal relations as well as binarisms and antagonist conflict, thus becoming one of the most faithful supporters of conventional Western drama. However, this is not to suggest that the development of realism in the Arab countries is due only to the temporary spread of socialist ideologies or a result of the encounter with colonialism and Western art forms, such as realist literature. As in nineteenth century Europe, the changed living conditions of the industrial age brought about a new consciousness of reality in the Arab world. Hence, as Auerbach states, the big movements of modern times, such as revolutions and wars, in which huge masses of people are involved, together with modern transportation and the fast transmission of news, constantly move the world closer together. More and more people are affected at the same time by the same events.2 This development sharpens the consciousness of larger contexts and promotes realist views. Furthermore, in times of great social change, realism offers handy models to explain reality. Contrary to traditional or modern epic narrative forms, realist cinematic conventions allow the viewer to enter into a 'panopticon,' a closed universe that suggests a completely

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comprehensible and explicable world. It is no accident that realism appeared at a time when many Arab countries were attaining national independence. Realism performs a conserving and reflective function that is immensely important for the formerly colonized, who were deprived even of their own image. "In the contemporary Arab world conserving realism reacts to a double aggression: with the social changes starting after independence under the slogan of a demanding and ambitious modernity the merely external aggression of colonial times turned into an internal aggression."3 Self-reflection and self-affirmation enabled by realism are not only the result of this aggression, but help also to absorb it. In the same way as the historical and religious film, realism has contributed to confirming a Unitarian national identity by creating myths and forming affirmative, often uncritical, self-reflections. On the ideological level, it has varied between the loud demand for cultural revolution and latent attempts at restoring traditional conservative values. A more subjective, self-critical, and pluralist representation of Arab realities is offered not by realism, but by the relatively recent cinema d'auteur, which has been encouraged by the failures of the first postcolonial national regimes and the sociopolitical disillusionments summarized to a certain extent in the 1967 defeat. The new cinema d'auteur strives for more economic and ideological independence and also attempts to abandon ethnocentrism. Visually and linguistically, it brings the history of individuals, regions, and marginalized groups increasingly to the fore, thereby underlining regional and hybrid identities. It is at pains also to deconstruct dominant nationalist and patriarchal myths and discourses. Personal stories of men and women gain priority over the collective Unitarian national history. This is the reason why the cinema d'auteur., much more than any other genre, simultaneously questions both modernist concepts of development and progress and conservative, traditionalist views, without necessarily abandoning a secularly oriented image of mankind. It mediates the notion of the 'problematic' individual who has come into conflict with his or her surroundings or with his or herself, rather then being a passive creature guided by providence, fate, or social conditions. Individualist non-conformism has also been expressed on the formal level. Male and female directors increasingly use epic, nonlinear types of narration instead of conventional drama. The omniscient realist discourse has been abandoned in favor of a variety of subjective perspectives. Juxtaposed to individualism, specific, more regional characteristics have entered these art movies. They become

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visible, for example, in the use of language and topography, in a completely new relation to space. In some works space was even conferred an essential, contextually structuring, function. The ideas of individuality and originality that define the formal and ideological concepts of the genre correspond to the elitist Western comprehension of arts, automatically pushing the film maker into the position of an unadapted outsider who speaks not for the masses but only for a small, often intellectual or elitist, group. This concept marginalizes the auteur film considerably and restricts its influence on native audiences, who still interact primarily with the Egyptian, or Western, mass product.

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NOTES

INTRODUCTION 1 Many articles and works on the film making of the Maghreb have been published in France, as a result of its close historical relationship with North Africa. Publications on Iraq and Egypt and even a dictionary, Claude Michel Cluny's Dictionnaire des nouveaux cinemas arabes (Paris, 1978) have appeared in French. In the anglophone and German-speaking countries only a few works on Arab cinema have appeared. Erika Richter's Realistischer Film in Agypten, published in 1974 in East Berlin, is more or less a 'classic.' It contains a description and analysis of Egyptian realism, as does Michael Liider's Gesellschaftliche Realitdt im dgyptischen Kinqfilm. Von Nasser zu Sadat. Cairo-based journalist Kristina Bergmann's Filmkultur und Filmindustrie in Agypten is a popular work on Egyptian Cinema that gives a detailed but rather descriptive presentation of films produced by the Egyptian film industry. Michael Liiders's M.A. thesis Film und Kino in Agypten. Fine historische Bestandsaufnahme 1896-1952 contains a mine of precious information about early Egyptian film making. 2 Hashim al-Nahas published his article from this volume as a book: alHawiya al-qawmiya fi-l-sinima al-carabiya (Cairo, 1986). 3 Les 2 ecrans 31, Feb. 1981. 4 Robert Stam, p. 52. 5 Cf. Edward Said, Orientalism. 6 Claude Michel Cluny, "al-Sinima al-maghribiya," in Muhammad Kamil al-Qalyubi et al., al-Sinima al-°arabiya wa-l-ifriqiya, p. 46. 7 Mostefa Lacheraf, "Du 'Voleur de Bagdad' a 'Omar Gatlato,"' in Guy Henebelle, ed., Cinemas du Maghreb, p.26. 8 Sami Zubaida, "Components of Popular Culture in the Middle East," in Georg Stauth and Sami Zubaida, eds., Mass Culture, Popular Culture, and Social Life in the Middle East, p. 155. 9 Ibid.

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Notes to the Introduction

10 Georg Stauth, "Local Communities and Mass Culture," in Georg Stauth, Sami Zubaida, p. 66. 11 Ibid., p. 67. 12 Michael R. Real, Mass-Mediated Culture, p. 209. 13 Mike Featherstone, "Consumer Culture, Symbolic Power, and Universalism," in Georg Stauth, Sami Zubaida, p. 35.

CHAPTER 1 1 Mauritania may be included in this category, as the only significant Mauritanian director, Med Hondo, shot his films mainly in France. 2 cAdnan Madanat, "al-Urdun," in al-Turath al-sinima'i fi-l-watan alc arabi, an unpublished study for al-Ittihad al-camm li-l-fananin al-carab during the 17th International Cairo Film Festival, Cairo, 6-9 December 1993. 3 According to Ibrahim al-cAriss (Rihla fi-l-sinima al-°arabiya, p. 44), 161 films had been produced by the mid-1970s. 4 Saudi Arabia was not affected by this agreement due to its unimportance at the time; nor was Libya, which belonged to the Italian sphere of influence. France dominated north-west Africa (the Maghreb) and Syria and Lebanon, while the remaining eleven countries were politically and economically dependent on Great Britain. 5 Ahmad al-Hadari, Tarikh al-sinimafi Misr, p. 32. 6 Abdelghani Megherbi, Les Algeriens au miroir du cinema colonial, p. 15. 7 Guy Henebelle, Les cinemas africains en 1972, p. 177. 8 Ella Shohat, Israeli Cinema., p. 15. 9 Megherbi, Les Algeriens, p. 15. 10 al-Hadari, Tarikh, pp. 35 and 64. 11 Ibid., p. 77. 12 Henebelle, Les cinemas africains, p. 177. 13 Shohat, Israeli Cinema, p. 15. 14 Megherbi, Les Algeriens, pp. 19-20. 15 Galal al-Charkawi, Risalafi tarikh al-sinima al-carabiya, p. 16. 16 al-Hadari, Tarikh, p. 92. 17 The introduction of television was justified as a means of communication controlled by the state. As with video films, television was watched privately in the family circle, and the threat to morals of a visit to a dark cinema was thus excluded. See Monika Miihlbock, Die Entwicklung der Massenmedien amArabischen Golf, p. 178. 18 Ibid., p. 177. 19 Georges Sadoul, Cinema in the Arab Countries, p. 190. 20 Shohat, Israeli Cinema, p. 15. 21 al-Hadari, Tarikh, p. 75. 22 Henebelle, Les cinemas africains, p. 177. 23 al-Hadari, Tarikh, p. 96. 24 Ibid., p. 120.

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25 Muhammad K. al-Qalyubi, "al-Sinima al-carabiya wa-1-ifriqiya," p. 13, and al-Hadari, Tarikh, p. 143. 26 Michael Liiders, Film und Kino, p. 13. 27 al-Hadari, Tarikh, p. 139. 28 Ibid., p. 148; al-Charkawi, Risala, p. 21. Al-Charkawi gives 1922 as the year of production. 29 al-Hadari, Tarikh, p. 181. 30 Henebelle,/^^ cinemas africains, p. 146. 31 Jean Aliksan, Tarikh al-sinima al-suriya, p. 23 ff. 32 Lucienne Khoury, "History of the Lebanese Cinema," in Sadoul, ed., Cinema, p. 120. Taking into consideration the contemporary confessional and ethnic fragmentation of Lebanon, the Lebanese film critic Mohamed Soueid challenges the categorization of films according to the ethnic origins of each film maker. He sees no reason for negating the achievements of non-Arab emigrants. Therefore the works that stem from integrated minorities or individuals are considered in the following as a part of Arab film making unless they are products of colonial European cinema. Cf. Mohamed Soueid, al-Sinima al-mu'adjala, p. 11 ff. 33 Sunduq dacm al-sinima, ed., Banurama al-sinima al-misriya 27-82. 34 Liiders, Film und Kino, p. 40. 35 Sadoul, ed., Cinema, p. 287. During the 1980s Egypt produced an average of sixty films a year. 36 Al-Charkawi, Risala, p. 45. 37 Gudrun Kramer, "Studien zum Minderheitenproblem," Islam 7, Minderheit, Millet, Nation? Die Juden in Agypten 1914-1952, Wiesbaden, 1982, p. 402 ff. 38 Ibid., p. 31. 39 Samir Farid, "al-Baniya al-asassiya li-1-sinima fi Misr," estimates that over 100 cinemas existed in 1936. 40 Megherbi, Les Algeriens, p. 63. 41 Jacob Landau, Studies in Arab Theater and Cinema, p. 61. 42 Salah Dehni, "History of the Syrian Cinema," in Sadoul, ed., Cinema, p. 99. 43 Ibid., p. 100. 44 Landau, Studies, p. 39. 45 Megherbi, Les Algeriens, p. 34. 46 Ibid., p. 264. 47 Henebelle, Les cinemas africains, p. 177, gives Luitz Morat and A. Vercourt as directors of this film and 1923 as the year of production; Hala Salmane, Algerian Cinema, p. 9, gives Georges Bourgeois as director and 1922 as the year of production. Ahmad Sidjilmasi Idris, "Filmughrafyat al-sinima al-maghribiya al-aflam al-riwa'iya (19121986)," in Dirasat sinima'iya 8, p.16, gives Luitz Morat as director and the year of production as 1922. 48 Henebelle, p. 177. 49 Salmane, Algerian Cinema, p. 9. 50 Ibid.

218 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76

77 78 79

80 81 82 83

Notes to Chapter 1

Ibid., p. 10. P. Murati, quoted in Megherbi, Les Algeriens, p. 47. Megherbi, LesAlgeriens, p. 47 ff. Ibid., p. 53. Ibid., p. 55 f. Ibid., p. 42. Henebelle, Les cinemas africains, p. 178. Ibid., p. 146. Megherbi, Les Algeriens, p. 57. Ibid., p. 65. Henebelle, Les cinemas africains, p. 178. Megherbi, Les Algeriens, p. 49. Ibid., p. 62 ff. Henebelle, Les cinemas africains, p. 178. Guy Henebelle and Khemais Khayati, Le Palestine et le cinema, p. 229 ff. Shohat, Israeli Cinema, p. 21 ff. Lotfi Maherzi, Le cinema algerien, p. 62. Ibid., p. 63. Henebelle and Khayati, Le Palestine et le cinema, p. 26. Sadoul, ed., Cinema, p. 271 ff. Salah Dehni, "Tadjribat al-sinima fi Suriya," in al-Macriffa (Damascus) 131 (January 1973), p. 36. Henebelle, pp. 150 and 179. Ibid., p. 150. Neila Ghabri, "La gestion de la SATPEC," p. 14 (Thesis for the Institut de presse et des sciences de 1'information, Tunis, 1980). Maherzi, Le cinema algerien, p. 199 f. In Syria unqualified bureaucrats and the private ownership of cinemas caused mainly minor films to be projected (V. Shafik, Zensierte Trdume. 20 Jahre syrischer Film, p. 29). In Algeria a chronic lack of foreign currency lead to a decrease of standards. In 1991 for example, the highly indebted public distribution company ENADEC was able to import only fifty-five films. Nationalization also had disadvantages for the management of theaters, in Egypt as well as in Algeria. Some cinemas even had to be closed down (K.Z., "On va au cine ce soir?" Cinematheque Algerienne, Dossiers, Pare des Salles, p. 14.) Reprivatization of theaters has now started in both countries. Henebelle, Les cinemas africains, p. 147 ff. Shafik, Zensierte Trdume, p. 28. The name is not clear. Boshko Vochinitch is another possibility; see Diana Jabbour, "Syrian Cinema: Culture and Ideology," in Alia Arasoughly, ed., Critical Film Writing from the Arab World, p. 44. Maherzi, Le cinema algerien, p. 86. Salmane, Algerian Cinema, p. 23. Mouny Berrah, "Algerian Cinema and National Identity," in Arasoughly, Critical Film Writing, p. 65. Author's interview with Taufik Salih, Cairo, July 12, 1993.

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84 cAbd al-Muncim Sacd, al-Mukhridj Ahmad Badr Khan uslubuh min khilal aflamih, p. 154. 85 The second Syrian silent long feature film, Under the Sky of Damascus by cAtta Makka, appeared in 1932, by which time the first Egyptian musical, The Song of the Heart (Unshudat al-fu'ad) by Mario Volpi, was ready for distribution. 86 Lizbeth Malkmus states, erroneously, that the notion of muqawalat, since it derives from the root qal (to speak), expresses the peculiar dependence of Egyptian cinema on language (Lizbeth Malkmus and Roy Armes, Arab and African Filmmaking, p. 114). 87 al-Qalyubi, "al-Sinima al-carabiya," p. 19. 88 Moulay Driss Jaidi, Le Cinema au Maroc, p. 61. 89 al-Qalyubi, "al-Sinima al-carabiya," p. 24. 90 Shakir Nouri, A la recherche du cinema Iraqien 1945-1985, 53 ff. 91 Ibid., p. 123. 92 Ibid., p. 122. 93 Wassyla Tamzali, En attendant Omar Gatlato, p. 177. 94 Ferid Boughedir, "Les quatre voies du cinema marocain;" in Guy Henebelle, "Cinemas du Maghreb," p. 208. 95 Ibrahim al-cAriss, Rihla fi-l-sinima al-°arabiya, p. 44. Al-cAriss's figure differs from that quoted by Zahir Henry Azar in Malaf al-sinima alLubnaniya, Beirut (probably late 1970s), where the figure given is sixtyfive films for the same period. Al-cAriss's figure may include films by Lebanese directors produced and shot abroad. 96 Ibid., p. 45. 97 Ibid., p. 48. 98 Soueid, al-Sinima al-mu'adjala, p. 52 ff. 99 See Ella Shohat, "Post-Third Worldist Culture: Gender, Nation, and the Cinema," in M. Jacqui Alexander, ed., Feminist Genealogies, Colonial Legacies, Democratic Futures. 100 Khemais Khayati, SalahAbou SeifCineaste Egyptien, p. 179. 101 Ibid. p. 183. 102 Abdou B., "Entretien avec Ahmed Rachedi," p. 16. 103 Maherzi, Le cinema algerien, p. 278. 104 Salmane, Algerian Cinema, p. 29. 105 This boom ended abruptly in 1979 and production fell to the same level as in the 1960s. This may have been due to the breakdown during the Civil War of the Lebanese film industry, whose studios and distribution companies were bases for Syrian producers. 106 Acrame, "Denationaliser le cinema," Les 2 ecrans 7 (Nov. 1978), p. 38. 107 al-Qalyubi, "al-Sinima al-carabiya,"p. 26. 108 Nouri, A la recherche du cinema Iraqien, p. 60. 109 Ibid., p. 70. 110 Ibid., p. 165. 111 Ghabri, "La gestion de la SATPEC," p. 14. 112 Author's interview with Ahmed Attia (producer), Tunis, Oct. 30, 1990. 113 Jaidi, Le Cinema au Maroc, p. 140.

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114 Ibid., p. 116. 115 Viola Shafik, "Realitat und Film im Agypten der 80er Jahre," p. 74. 116 Nouri Bouzid and Youssef Chahine were accused of zionism by some critics after having presented a positive image of Jews in The Man of Ashes and Alexandria Why? 117 Soueid, al-Sinima al-mu'adjala, p. 85. 118 Nouri, A la recherche du cinema Iraqien, p. 118. 119 Berrah, Algerian Cinema., p. 75; see also Abdou B., "Le dernier tabou," Les 2 ecrans 44, April 1982, p. 20. 120 Although the director makes the young girl show her breasts, he generally avoids any erotic allusions in the gender relations. 121 Author's interview with Nouri Bouzid, Tunis, Nov. 6, 1992. 122 Nouri, A la recherche du cinema Iraqien, p. 118. 123 Berrah, Algerian Cinema, p. 63. 124 Maherzi, Le cinema algerien, p. 209 ff. 125 Salmane, Algerian Cinema, p. 41. 126 Jai'di, Le Cinema au Maroc, p. 120, and Abdelghani Megherbi, Le miroir apprivoise, p. 95. 127 Cf. Shafik, "Realitat und Film,' p. 74. 128 Jai'di, Le Cinema au Maroc, p. 142. 129 See Henebelle, Les cinemas africains, p. 182. 130 Jai'di, Le Cinema au Maroc, p. 115. 131 Ibid., p. 127 f. 132 Ibid., p. 124. 133 Nouri, A la recherche du cinema Iraqien, p. 82. 134 Megherbi, Le miroir apprivoise, p. 15. Cinemas only equipped with 16 mm projectors are not included. 135 The Documentation Center for Cultural Development of the Tunisian Ministry of Culture (Markaz al-dirasat wa-1-tauthiq li-1-tanmiya althaqafiya). 136 Ghabri, "La gestion de la SATPEC," p. 73. 137 Hans Gunther Pflaum, Film in der Bundesrepublik Deutschland, Bonn, 1985, p. 129. 138 Samir Farid, "al-Baniya al-asassiya li-1-sinima fi Misr," p. 2. 139 Jai'di, Le Cinema au Maroc, p. 154. 140 Ibid., p. 122. 141 Monique Henebelle, "La nouvelle vague du cinema tunisien," L'afrique litteraire et artistique 25 (Oct. 1972), p. 81. 142 Documentation Center for Cultural Development of the Tunisian Ministry of Culture. 143 See Viola Shafik, "Variety or Unity: Minorities in Egyptian Cinema," forthcoming in Orient 1/98, Hamburg, 1998.

N otes to Chapter 2

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CHAPTER 2 1 "Fotografien betrachten," in Frie'drich Knilli, ed., Semiotik des Films, p. 251. 2 Egyptian television started its first transmission in July 1960. 3 Mohamed Aziza, L'Image et I'lslam, p. 126. 4 Lacheraf, "Du 'Voleur de Bagdad' a 'Omar Gatlato,'" p. 26. Lacheraf s formulation is rather too categorical since visual representation was not entirely absent from Arab culture. 5 Richard Ettinghausen, "The Man-Made Setting," in Bernard Lewis, The World of Islam, p. 62. 6 Ibid., p. 57 and Oleg Grabar, The Formation of Islamic Art, p. 74. 7 Van Reenen, Das Bilderverbot, p. 56. 8 Grabar, The Formation of Islamic Art, p. 83. 9 Ibid., p. 86. 10 Ibid., p. 82. 11 Aziza, L'Image et I'lslam, p. 38. 12 Ettinghausen, "The Man-Made Setting," p. 62. 13 Middle Eastern Christians developed figurative modes of representation used mainly in the religious context. Although theoretically accessible to everybody, this art has been culturally marginalized. 14 al-Charkawi, Risalafi tarikh al-sinima al-carabiya, p. 27 ff. 15 Landau, Studies, p. 164. 16 In 1986 the representation of all prophets mentioned in the Quran was prohibited. 17 Landau, Studies, p. 164ff. 18 Monika Miihlbock, Die Entwicklung der Massenmedien am arabischen Golf, p. 178. See Chapter 1, n. 17. 19 cAbd al-Muncim Fuda, al-Fatawi, p. 1555. 20 Wadjih Khayri, "al-Haram wa-1-halal fi-1-sinima." 21 Miihlbock, Die Entwicklung der Massenmedien, p. 95. 22 Shaukat al-Rabici, al-Fann al-tashkili al-mucasir fi-l-zuatan al-carabi 1885-1985, p. 19. 23 Ettinghausen, "The Man-Made Setting," p. 57. 24 See Mohamed Scharabi, "'Islamische' Architektur und darstellende Kunst der Gegenwart," in Werner Ende and Udo Steinbach, eds., Der Islam in der Gegenwart, p. 626 ff. 25 Ettinghausen, "The Man-Made Setting," p. 68. 26 Ibid., p. 69. 27 Francois Guerif, Entretien avec Nacer Khemir, p. 17. 28 Ibid., p. 16. 29 Ibid., p. 16. 30 Grabar, The Formation of Islamic Art, p. 193. 31 Ibid., p. 187ff. 32 Ibid., p. 179. 33 Ibid., p. 191. 34 I. M. Peters, "Bild und Bedeutung," in Knilli, ed., Semiotik des Films, p.56.

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Notes to Chapter 2

35 Daniel Dayan, "The Tutor-Code of Classical Cinema," in Bill Nichols, ed., Movies and Methods (I), p. 444. 36 Stefano Bianca, Architektur und Lebensform im islamischen Stadtzvesen, p. 126. 37 Cf. Roland Barthes, "Rethorik des Bildes," in Wolfgang Kemp, Theorie derFotografie III, p. 138-148. 38 Gerhard Kurz, Metapher, Alkgorie, Symbol, p. 83. 39 Charles Pellat, "Jewellers with Words," in Bernard Lewis, The World of Islam, p. 145. 40 Hamilton A. R. Gibb, Studies on the Civilization of Islam, p. 154 ff. 41 Salma Jayushi, Trends and Movements in Modern Arabic Poetry II, Leiden, 1977, p. 475. 42 Hanan Mikhail-Ashrawi, The Contemporary Literature of Palestine, Ann Arbor, 1983, p. 15. 43 Roger Allen, The Arabic Novel. A Historical and Critical Introduction, p. 71. 44 Kurz, Metapher, Allegorie, Symbol, p. 83. 45 Christian Metz, "Current Problems of Film Theory," in Nichols, ed., Movies and Methods (I), p. 571. 46 Sunduq al-dunya means literally 'world box.' It is a long wooden box with peep holes, through which images can be watched. 47 Curt Priifer, Bin dgyptisches Schattenspiel, p. xiii. 48 Ibid., p. vff. 49 Landau, Studies, p. 9. 50 Ibid. p. 9 ff. 51 See cAdil Abu Shanab, Masrah carabi qadim. Karakuz, p. 197-98. 52 Ibid., p. 174. 53 Ibid., p. 22. 54 cAli al-Raci, al-Masrah fi-l-watan al-°arabi, p. 40. 55 Landau, Studies, p. 2 ff. 56 cAbd al-Mucti Shacrawi, al-Masrah al-misri al-mucasir, p. 31. 57 Ibid., p. 46. 58 cAli. al-Raci, Finun al-kumidiya. Min khayal al-zil ilia Nagib al-Rihani, p. 81. 59 Mohamed Aziza, al-Islam wa-l-masrah, p. 22 ff. 60 Shacrawi, al-Masrah al-misri al-mucasir, p. 34. 61 Ignace Goldziher, A Short History of Classical Arabic Literature, p. 87 ff. 62 Cf. al-Raci, Finun al-kumidiya, p. 10 ff. 63 Cf., among others, al-Raci, Finun al-kumidiya, p. 174. 64 Landau, Studies, p. 85. 65 Ibid., p. 94. 66 Ibid., p. 98. 67 Cf., among others, al-Raci, al-Masrah, p. 545. 68 Landau, Studies, p. 101 ff. 69 al-Raci, al-Masrah, p. 511. 70 Landau, Studies, p. 91. 71 This term signifies a non-Arabic speaking Nubian or Sudanese.

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223

72 It means 'foreigner' but is mainly attributed to Europeans. 73 Coptic bookkeepers were unpopular due to their traditional role as tax collectors since the Islamization of Egypt. 74 See Priifer, Ein dgyptisches Schattenspiel p. xiii. 75 al-Raci, Finun al-kumidiya, p. 46 ff. 76 See Landau, Studies, p. 51. 77 al-Raci, Finun al-kumidiya, p. 270. 78 See C. Priifer, p. xiv, and Abu Shanab, Masrah °arabi qadim, p. 179. 79 Dehni, Tadjribat al-sinimafi Suriya, p. 36. 80 Not to be confused with an Egyptian film of the same name by Daoud Abd El-Sayyed, released in 1983. 81 Unpublished interview by the critic Kamal Ramzi during the Damascus Film Festival in November 1991. 82 Similar things are reported about Tunisian shadow plays: "While Muslims were hardly ever reviled by Karagoz, Jews often were. The latter tried to get the better of Karagoz, who, however, saw through their devices. The Maltese were treated even more execrably in those plays, the spectator probably, in their derision, identifying the Maltese scapegoat with all European Christians in Tunis." (Landau, Studies, p. 41). 83 Cf. Landau, Studies, p. 35 ff. 84 Anneliese Novak, Die amerikanische Filmfarce, p. 28 ff. 85 See Mikhail Bakhtin, Literatur und Karneval. 86 Ibid., p. 16. 87 Because of the 'nauseating excess' and 'frankly sexual expressions,' c Adil Abu Shanab made considerable abridgements. (Abu Shanab, Masrah carabi qadim, p. 75). 88 Landau, Studies, p. 41 ff. 89 Ibid., p. 41, and Abu Shanab, Masrah carabi qadim, p. 57. 90 Nouri, A la recherche du cinema iraqien, p. 18 ff. 91 See Novak, Die amerikanische Filmfarce, p. 30. 92 Ferid Boughedir and Mustapha Nagbou, "Le 'Nouveau Theatre,'" in Guy Henebelle, Cinemas du Maghreb, p. 192. 93 Berrah, Algerian Cinema, p. 40. 94 Mouny Berrah, Interview du collectif "Nouveau Theatre," p. 38. 95 Boughedir and Nagbou, "Le 'Nouveau Theatre,'" p. 192. 96 Berrah, Algerian Cinema, p. 40. 97 Boughedir and Nagbou, "Le 'Nouveau Theatre,'" p. 190. 98 Mohamed Soueid, al-Sinima al-mu'adjala, p. 15 ff. 99 Ibid., p. 123. 100 Robert Stam, Subversive Pleasures. Bakhtin, Cultural Criticism, and Film, p. 79. 101 The distribution title is Dananir, but the film was originally entitled Harun al-Rashid—The Story of Dananir (Harun al-Rashid—qissat Dananir). 102 Reda Bensma'ia, Cinema algerien et "caractere national", p. 16. 103 Hamilton A. R. Gibb and Jacob Landau, Arabische Literaturgeschichte, p. 234 ff.

224

Notes to Chapter 2

104 Bensmai'a, Cinema algerien, p. 14. 105 Ibid., p. 14. "Ouach" derives from Berber, "rak" from Arabic, and "bian" from French. 106 Frantz Fanon, Schwarze Haul, weifie Masken, p. 15. 107 John P.Entelis, Algeria. The Revolution Institutionalized, p. 93 ff. 108 G. Rabat, "Quel avenir pour le cinema algerien?" in al-Moudjahid 22. 109 Berrah, "Algerian Cinema," p.70. 110 Bensmai'a, Cinema algerien, p. 21. 111 Kamel Benabdessadok, "Culture orale et cinema," Les 2 ecans 25, p. 25. 112 "A'dar a'ul sacit ma infak zurar il-djakitta?" 113 "La, la, zurar djakittit ih! biy'ulu man fak Zayd yamshi yacni fidil Zayd yimshi lihad ma hifyit riglih, man fak cUmar ya'kul yacni cUmar cagabu al-akl fidil yiruss f-illi-'uddamuh wi balatt cala al-siniya wi lizi' fi kursi alsufra." 114 In the same film, the representative of power, a pasha and amateur gardener, is symbolically overthrown and humilated when the teacher Hamam derides him, not knowing his real position. 115 Stam, Subversive Pleasures, p. 68. 116 Ibid., p. 59. 117 Joachim Paech, Literatur und Film, p. 141. 118 Stam, Subversive Pleasures, p. 69. 119 See Ives Thoraval, Regards sur le cinema egyptien, Beirut, 1975, p. 87 ff. 120 See Kurz, Metapher, Allegoric, Symbol, p. 9. 121 Hadafni bi-l-kubbaya °ayiz yihdifni dilwa'ti bi-l-talaga? 122 La hadd Allah ya si Ghadab Allah ibcid can sitt Masha'Allah! 123 Dah inti ma tikayifhush ilia ahwittik, ma tirawa'hush ilia dihkittik—yib'a tibalaghih il-khabbar shughlanit hadrittik! 124 Pellat, "Jewellers with Words," p. 142. 125 Hugo von Hoffmannsthal, in Stefano Bianca, Architektur und Lebensform im islamischen Stadtivesen, p. 86. 126 This served for intellectual instruction. 127 Cf. Heinz und Sophia Grotzfeld, Die Erzdhlungen aus "Tausendundeiner" Nacht. 128 Cf. Abderrahmane Djelfaoui, "Le mystere sans demesure," Les 2 ecrans 53, p. 35. 129 Ibid., p. 35. 130 Georg Seefilen, Kino der Gefuhle, p. 23. 131 Cf. Mohammed Aziza, al-Islam wa-l-masrah. 132 The notion of Middle Cinema is used by Indian film critics to describe directors who work under commercial conditions but try to address relevant social or political topics. In my view, this is a constructive definition to apply to Egyptian cinema because not all committed Egyptian directors since the late 1970s can be assigned to genre categories such as New Realism. 133 Literally, the tide means 'who comes from the East.' It refers to the East wind. 134 See Ferid Boughedir, "Panorama des cinemas maghrebins," in Mouny

Notes to Chapter 2

135

136 137 138 139 140 141

142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159

225

Berrah, Jacques Levy, Claude-Michel Cluny, Les cinemas arabes, CinemAction 43, pp. 59-71. The word 'Gatlato' (qatlatu) is a colloquial variant of the classical Arabic qatalathu (she killed him) and was introduced by the French title of the film ("Omar Gatlato")- It abbreviates the expression cUmar, qatalathu al-rudjula, meaning 'Omar, who was killed by virility.' However, as Mouny Berrah points out, the colloquial rudjla "is too quickly reduced to machismo by Western critics, when in fact the subject is gang values, of which dignity is the centerpiece—a value system that constitutes the base of popular music, and codifies the everyday life of young people around the respect of others, the given promise, faithfulness in love, and unbreakable friendships. These values are supported by a special, precise vocabulary that only the 'initiated,' and particularly the masters of popular music, possess." (In Alia Arasoughly, ed., Critical Film Writing, p. 77). Chaabi (shcfbi) means 'popular'—of the people—and describes here an Algerian musical genre. Michael Liiders, Film undKino inAgypten, p. 52. Salah Ezz Eddine, "La Role de la Musique dans le Film Arabe," in Sadoul, ed., Cinema, p. 157. Ibid., p. 159. Ibid., p. 160ff. There are no 'Bedouin' rhythms. According to Dr. Gabriele Braune from the Institut for Music Ethnology in Berlin, in Egypt this notion describes Arab rhythms, those from the Arab peninsula. (Personal correspondence, July 2, 1992). Ezz Eddine, "La Role de la Musique," p. 162. Muhammad al-Sayyid Shusha, Ruwzuad wa ra'idat al-sinima al-misriya, p. 72. al-Charkawi, Risalafi tarikh al-sinima al-°arabiya, p. 164. Djariya (plural, djawari) means literally maid or slave. Soueid, al-Sinima al-mu'adjala, p. 21. Richter, Realistischer Film inAgypten, p. 39. Ezz Eddine, "La Role de la Musique," p. 158. Lacheraf, "Du 'Voleur du Baghdad' a 'Omar Gatlato,'" p. 31. Mustapha Chelbi, Culture et memoire collective au Maghreb, p. 156. Teshome Gabriel, "Towards a Critical Theory of Third World Films," in Jim Pines and Paul Willemann, eds., Questions of Third Cinema, p. 31. c Ali al-Raci, al-Kumidiya al-murtadjala, p. 19. Landau, Studies, p. 71. Ibid., p. 91. Cf. Helga de la Motte-Haber, Filmmusik de la Motte-Haber, p. 144. Both examples were suggested by G. Braune, personal correspondence. Cf. A. Shiloah, "The Dimension of Sound," in Bernard Lewis, ed., The World of Islam, p. 162 ff. Habib Hassan Touma, Die Musik derAraber, p. 21.

226

Notes to Chapter 2

160 Braune, personal correspondence. 161 Ibid. 162 According to legend, in spite of the Caliph's prohibition a slave of Djacfar wrote a lament in vernacular Arabic that is supposed to be the first mawwal. However, the poem Umm Kulthum sings in this place is not a mawwal, but a classical Arabic poem set to music. (See Mohamed Bencheneb, "Mawaliya, Mawwal," in Enzyklopadie des Islam, Leipzig, 1913, p. 484). 163 Rahalat °ank sadjicat al-tuyyur / wa dhawat fik yanicat al-zuhhur / ah ya qasr wa-l-hayatu suttur / [ . . . ] / mat fik al-hawa' wa dacatfik amani / kunna ahla min ibtisam al-zuhhur. The square brackets indicate a verse that could not be reconstructed from listening. 164 Braune, personal correspondence. 165 Abbas Fadhil Ibrahim, "Trois melos egyptiens observes a la loupe," in Mouny Berrah and Jacques Levy, Les cinemas arabes et Grand Maghreb, p. 122. 166 Shiloah, "The Dimension of Sound," p. 170. 167 Not to be confused with an Iraqi musical genre of the same name. 168 Touma, Die Musik derAraber, p. 66. 169 Ibid., pp. 71-72. 170 al-Charkawi, Risalafi tarikh al-sinima al-carabiya, p. 171. 171 cAbd al-Muncim Sacd, al-Mukhridj Ahmad Badr Khan uslubuh min khilal aflamuh, p. 144. 172 Ibid., p. 45. 173 Liiders, Film und Kino in Agypten, p. 46. Badrakhan even sets up the rule that the instrumental introduction announcing the general mood of the song should not exceed ten seconds. The intermezzo is limited to five seconds. (Sacd, al-Mukhridj Ahmad Badr Khan, p. 44). 174 al-Charkawi, Risalafi tarikh al-sinima al-carabiya, p. 64. 175 Shusha, Ruwwad wa ra'idat al-sinima al-misriya, p. 69. 176 Braune, personal correspondence. 177 Shusha, Ruwwad wa ra'idat al-sinima al-misriya, p. 72. 178 al-Charkawi, "History of the U.A.R. Cinema 1896-1962," in Sadoul, ed., Cinema, p. 89. 179 Ezz Eddine, "La Role de la Musique dans le Film Arabe," p. 166. 180 Chelbi, Culture et memoire collective au Maghreb, p. 155. 181 Author's interview with Assia Djebar, Paris, October 1991. 182 Ibid. 183 Later, Djebar introduced a similar principle of structuring to her literature, for example in her novel Fantasia (1985). 184 H. G. Farmer, "Nawba," in Enzyklopadie des Islam, Leipzig, 1913, p. 957 ff. 185 As this text is a quotation, the French terms have been kept. The correct descriptions used by Farmer are in brackets. 186 Wassayla Tamzali, "La nouba des femmes de Mont Chenoua. Notes prisant pendant le tournage, Tipasa, Mars 1977," p.46.

Notes to Chapter 3

227

CHAPTER 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

12 13

14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25

26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34

See Paech, Literatur und Film, p. 27 ff. Ibid., p. 30. This is an originally Arab subject. Kamal Ramzi, al-Masadir al-adabiya fi-l-aflam al-misriya, p. 122 ff. Elisabeth Frenzel, Staff-, Motiv- und Symbolforschung, p. 49. Ibid., p. 49. Ibid., p. 47. See Elisabeth Frenzel, Motive der Weltliteratur, Stuttgart, 1976, p. 450. Ibid., p. 439 ff. al-Charkawi, Risalafi tarikh al-sinima al-carabiya, p. 109. The of temporary rebellion against the father's reign may American melodrama (cf. Seefilen, Kino der Gefuhle), similarities are less the result of plagiarism than of comparable social conditions. Abdou B., "Der algerische Film: Thema und Ausfiihrung," in Film in Algerien ab 1970, Kinemathek 57, p. 4. Sacid Murad, "Malamih al-waqiciya fi-1-sinima al-suriya," in al-Djamica al-tunisiya li-nawadi al-sinima, ed., al-Waqiciya fi-l-sinima al-carabiya, p. 42. al-cAriss, Rihla fi-l-sinima al-carabiya, p. 46. Nouri, A la recherche du cinema iraqien 1945—85, p. 134 ff. Colin MacCabe, "Realism and the Cinema," Screen, Vol. 15, No. 2, 1974. Christopher Williams, Realism and the Cinema, p. 157. See Paech, Literatur und Film, p. 79. Andre Bazin, What is cinema?, p. 22 ff, p. 32. Raymond Williams, A Lecture on Realism, p. 64 ff. Terry Lovell, Pictures of Reality, p. 66. Ibid., p. 68. Ibid., p. 76 ff. See Sunduq dacm al-sinima, ed., Banurama al-sinima al-misriya 2782 The circumscription of realist films is not simple, because some works constantly make use of sylistic means of other genres, like comedy, melodrama, and police film. Films of this sort are for example The Beast by Abu Seif and Struggle in the Valley by Chahine. See Viola Shafik, "Realitat und Film," p. 93. al-Charkawi, Risalafi tarikh al-sinima al-carabiya, p. 78. Cited in Samir Farid, Nahw manhadj cilmi li-kitabat tarikhuna al-sinima'i, p. 152. Erich Auerbach, Mimesis. Dargestellte Wirklichkeit in der abendldndischen Literatur, p. 25. Liiders, Film und Kino, p. 63. Farid, Nahw manhadj cilmi li-kitabat tarikhuna al-sinima'i, p. 152. Gibb, Studies on the Civilization of Islam, p. 273. Ibid., p. 292. Hilary Kilpatrick, The Modern Egyptian Novel, p. 23.

228 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42

43 44 45

46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61

62 63 64

N otes to Chpater 3

Liiders, Film und Kino, p. 31. Hashim al-Nahas, Nagib Mahfouz cala al-shasha, p. 13. Ibid., p. 28 ff. Ibid., p. 16. Ibid., p. 28. Claude-Michel Cluny, Dictionnaire des nouveaux cinemas arabes, p. 239. Author's interview with Salah Abu Seif, Cairo, March 2, 1988 Youssef Chahine also adapted two scripts by Mahfouz in his films Djamila Bouhreid (1958) and Saladin (al-Nasir Salah al-Din, 1963). These works do not belong to the realist genre (al-Nahas, Nagib Mahfouz, p. 28 ff). Egyptian television, Channel 1, Dhakirat al-sinima, September 4, 1992. Bazin, What is cinema?, p. 33. Shooting on location is affected by inconveniencies such as noise and crowds of curious observers. Technical conditions for camerawork and lighting are far from ideal. Thomas Geidel, "Agypten wie es leibt und lebt," in Die Tageszeitung, Berlin, January 27, 1986. Author's interview, Cairo, January 20, 1988. Kilpatrick, The Modern Egyptian Novel, p. 126 ff. Khemais Khayati, Salah Abou Seif Cineaste Egyptien, p. 180. Ibid., p. 118. Mustafa Badawi, "The concept of Fate in Modern Egyptian Literature," in Hartmut Fahndrich, Die Vorstellung vom Schicksal, Bern, 1983, p. 63. Shank, "Realitat und Film," p. 104. Ibid., p. 94. Ahmed Bedjaoui, "Silences et Balbutiements," in Miloud Mimoun, ed., France-Algerie, p. 30 ff. Maherzi, Le Cinema Algerien, p. 263. Abdou B., "Der algerische Film: Thema und Ausfuhrung," p. 9. Maherzi, Le Cinema Algerien, p. 281. Stephen Heath, "Film: the Art of the Real," p. 18. Khammas peasants are leaseholders who are allowed to keep one fifth of the harvest. Interview with A. Tolbi, in Cahiers du cinema, No. 266-267, May 1976, and Maherzi, Le Cinema Algerien, p. 250. According to Mouny Berrah, Zinet's unusual choice of style and location, i.e., the streets of Algiers, was mainly due to the fact that his film was commissioned by the mayor of Algiers and not by the ONCIC (in Arasoughly, ed., Critical Film Writing, p. 76). Lacheraf, "Du 'Voleur du Baghdad' a 'Omar Gatlato,'" in Henebelle, Cinemas du Maghreb, p. 34. Murad, "Malamih al-waqiciya fi-1-sinima al-suriya," in al-Djamica altunisiya li-nawadi al-sinima, ed., al-Waqfiyafi-l-sinima al-°arabiya, p. 42. Munir al-Sacidanni, "al-Ishkaliya al-djamaliya fi-1-sinima al-waqiciya alc arabiya," in al-Djamica al-tunisiya li-nawadi al-sinima, ed., al-Waqiciya fi-l-sinima al-carabiya, p. 82.

Notes to Chapter 3

229

65 According to Taufik Salih the notion al-sinima al-badila was coined at the first hand by the Egyptian film critic Samir Farid who was a founding member of the Egyptian New Cinema Society himself. (Author's interview with Taufik Salih, Cairo, July 12, 1993). 66 al-Sacidanni, op. cit., p. 82. 67 Soueid, al-Sinima al-mu'adjala, p. 41. 68 Cf. Aliksan, Tarikh al-sinima al-suriya, p. 55 ff. 69 Moshe Ma'oz, "The emergence of Modern Syria," in Moshe Ma'oz and Avner Yaniv, eds., Syria under Assad., p. 30. 70 Murad, op. cit., p. 47. 71 Allen, The Arabic Novel, pp. 49 and 74. 72 The literal translation of the novel's title is "Men in the Sun" (Ridjal fi-1shams). 73 Cluny, Dictionnaire des nouveaux cinemas arabes, p. 109. 74 Murad, op. cit., p. 43. 75 Nouri, A la recherche du cinema iraqien, p. 137. 76 Alyam is a vernacular version of al-ayam, 'the days.' 77 Jai'di, Le Cinema au Maroc, p. 114. 78 Henebelle, "Les cinemas africains en 1972," p. 181. 79 Cf. Peter von Oertzen, "Geschichte und politisches Bewufitsein," in Malte Ristau, ed., Identitdt durch Geschichte, p. 16. 80 Detlef Hoffmann, "Geschichtsbewufitsein - Identitatsfindung," in Ristau, ed., p. 30. 81 Alfred Georg Frei, "Alltag - Region - Politik," in Ristau, ed., p. 85. 82 Cf. Gibb and Landau, Arabische Literaturgeschichte. 83 Kamal Ramzi, "al-Shakhsiyat al-tarikhiya fi-1-sinima al-carabiya," in Shu'un °arabiya 26, p. 81. 84 Ignace Goldziher, A Short History of Classical Arabic Literature, p. 74. 85 Charles Pellat, "Jewellers of Words," in Lewis, ed., The World of Islam, p. 145. 86 Bencheneb, "Mawaliya, Mawwal," in Enzyklopddie des Islam, Leipzig, 1913, p. 867. 87 Goldziher, A Short History of Classical Arabic Literature, p. 73. 88 Reinhard Hesse, "Adieu Bonaparte," in Die Tageszeitung, Berlin, May 21, 1985. 89 Cf. Natalie Zemon Davis, '"Jede Ahnlichkeit mit lebenden oder toten Personen. . .': Der Film und die Herausforderung der Authentizitat," in Rainer Rother, Bilder schreiben Geschichte: Der Historiker im Kino, p. 56. 90 Cf. Said, Orientalism. 91 Cf. Soumaya Ramadan, "al-Hamla al-firinsiya cala Misr: qira'a min mandhur nasawi," in Multaqa al-mar'a wa-1-zakira, ed., Zaman al-nisa', Cairo, 1998. 92 Cf. Viola Shafik, "Youssef Chahine: Barocke Obsessionen." 93 Cf. Ramzi, "al-Shakhsiyat al-tarikhiya fi-1-sinima al-carabiya," p. 79 ff. 94 Hadiths are documented utterances of the Prophet. 95 al-djanna li-man atacanni wa law kana cabdan habashiyan; al-nar li-man °asani wa law kana sharifan qurayshiyan.

230

Notes to Chapter 3

96 al-Tawhid is the central Muslim confession affirming Allah's attribute as the One and Only. 97 Reynold A. Nicholson, A Literary History of the Arabs, p. 234. 98 Ironically, this concept corresponds to a French political strategy during the Algerian war that tried to assimilate native Algerians by defining them as 'Francais Musulman' (French Muslims) (see Abdelghani Megherbi, Les Algeriens au miroir du cinema colonial, p. 53) 99 Issam A. Sharif, Algerien vom Populismus zum Islam, p. 121. 100 Maherzi, Le Cinema algerien, p. 28. 101 Ibid., p. 279. 102 Ibid., p. 235. 103 Roland Barthes, Mythen des Alltags, p. 130-131. 104 Maherzi, Le Cinema algerien, p. 263. 105 Zerda in the Algerian vernacular a celebration at which numerous guests are honored with generous hospitality, dance, and music. 106 Freunde der deutschen Kinemathek Berlin, ed., 13. Internationales Forum desjungen Films 31, Berlin, 1983. 107 Ibid. 108 Marc Ferro, "Gibt es eine filmische Sicht der Geschichte?" in Rother, Bilder schreiben Geschichte, p. 22. 109 Andrew Tudor, "Genre and Critical Methodology, in Bill Nichols, ed., Movies and Methods I, p. 123. 110 Thomas Elsaesser, New German Cinema, p. 41. 111 Ibid., p. 43. 112 This notion was introduced in 1948 by the French film maker Alexandre Astruc (Cf. Claude Beylie, Les Maitres du cinema francais, Paris, 1990, p. 141). 113 Elsaesser, New German Cinema, p. 43. 114 Andrew Sarris, "Towards a Theory of Film History," in Nichols, ed., Movies and Methods I, p. 244. 115 Ibid., p. 247. 116 Ibid. 117 Elsaesser, New German Cinema, p.42. 118 Cf. Manthia Diavara, African Cinema, Bloomington, 1992. 119 Cf. Mouny Berrah, ed., Les cinemas arabes et Grand Maghreb, and Claude-Michel Cluny, Dictionnaire des nouveaux cinemas arabes. 120 Nouri Bouzid, "Sinima al-wacy bi-1-hazima," in al-Djamica al-tunisiya li-nawadi al-sinima, ed., al-Waqfiya fi-l-sinima al-carabiya, and Samir Farid, "Min al-sinima al-djadida ilia al-waqiciya al-djadida." 121 Abdou B., "Der algerische Film," p. 9, and Berrah, "Algerian Cinema: Five Landmarks between Hollywood and Cairo," p. 34. 122 Samir Farid, "al-Zilal cala al-djanib al-akhar wa tatawwur sinima alshabab fi Misr." 123 Sacid Murad, "Malamih al-waqiciya fi-l-sinima al-suriya," p. 42. 124 Working title of The Night (al-Layl, 1992). 125 Viola Shafik, "Mohammed Malas. Traum und Erinnerung," in Journal Film 22, Freiburg, fall 1990, p. 15.

Notes to Chapter 4 126 127 128 129 130 131

132 133 134

135 136 137 138 139 140

141

142 143 144 145 146 147 148

231

Author's interview with Ghaleb Chaath, Cairo, January 14, 1988. Cf. Viola Shank, Realitdt und Film, p. 68. Bouzid, "Sinima al-wacy bi-1-hazima," p. 54. Author's interview with Ghaleb Chaath, Cairo, January 14, 1988. Ibid. The films considered in the following as autobiographic generally juxtapose fictional parts with more or less strongly accentuated elements of the film maker's life. Shafik, "Youssef Chahine," p. 53. Samir Farid, "Hadith maca Yusuf Shahin," in Nashrat nodi al-sinima. Rih al-sadd means literally 'the dam wind,' and and has the locutionary force of "go to hell!" It derives from an idiomatic Tunisian expression: "The wind on the dam takes away but does not bring back" (rih al-sadd ya'khudh wa layarudd). Author's interview with Nouri Bouzid, Tunis, October 6 1992. Werner Kobe, "Nouri Bouzid," p. 19. Author's interview. . c Adnan Medanat, "Liqa' maca al-mukhridj al-tunissi Mahmud b. Mahmud," p. 30. Bruno Jeaggi and Walter Ruggle, eds., Nacer Khemir. Das verlorene Halsband der Taube, p. 120. The fate of an acquaintance inspired the director to write the screenplay. During the Nasser era he was caught in the state security net and detained without charge for several years. Francois Guerif; "Noce en Galilee," interview with Michel Khleifi, F.Sabourand, S. Toubiana, A. de Baecque, Cahiers du Cinema, No. 77, November, 1987, p. III. Ibid. Aziz Krichen, Le Syndrome Bourguiba, p. 21. Ibid., p. 32. Ibid., p. 42 f. Cf. Samir Farid, "Surat al-mar'a fi-1-sinima al-carabiya." Werner Kobe, "Nejia Ben Mabrouk," p. 17. The title alludes ironically to the Egyptian film of the same title by Anwar Wagdi.

CHAPTER 4 1 Malkmus and Armes, Arab and African Film Making, p. 115. 2 Auerbach, Mimesis, p. 426. 3 Aziza, L'image et I'lslam, p. 67.

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Said, Edward. Orientalism. London, 1991. Salih, Ahmad Rushdi. al-Adab al~shacbi. Cairo, 1971. Salmane, Hala, Simon Hartog and David Wilson, eds. Algerian Cinema. BFI, London, 1976. Sarmini, Salah. "Malamih al-kumidya fi-1-sinima al-suriya." Les 2 ecrans (Algiers) 40 (Dec. 1981):8-11. Seefilen, Georg. Kino der Gefuhle. Hamburg, 1980. Shafik, Viola. "Film in Palastina—Palastina im Film." Die siebten Tage des unabhdngigen Films, ed. Augsburg, 13-17 March 1991. . "Realitat und Film im Agypten der 80er Jahre." M.A. thesis, Universitat Hamburg, Hamburg, 1988. . "Youssef Chahine." Kinemathek (Berlin) 74 (1989). . "Youssef Chahine: Barocke Obsessionen." Die siebten Tage des unabhdngigen Films, ed. 13-17 March 1991. . Zensierte Trdume. 20 Jahre syrischer Film. Edition Initiative Kommunales Kino Hamburg e.V., Hamburg, 1991. Shacrawi, cAbd al-Mucti. al-Masrah al-misri al-mucasir. Cairo, 1986. Sharif, Issam A. Algerien vom Populismus zum Islam. Wien, 1992. Shohat, Ella and Robert Stam. "The Cinema after Babel: Language, Difference, Power." Screen (London) 26, no. 3-4 (May-Aug. 1985): 35-58. Shohat, Ella. "Egypt: Cinema and Revolution." Critical Arts (USA) 2, no. 4 (1983): 22-32. Shohat, Ella. Israeli Cinema. Austin, 1989. . "Imaging Terra Incognita: The Disciplinary Gaze of Empire." Public Culture (New York) 3, no. 2 (Spring 1991): 41-70. . "Post-Third Worldist Culture: Gender, Nation, and the Cinema." In M. Jacqui Alexander, ed. Feminist Genealogies, Colonial Legacies, Democratic Futures. Routledge 1996. Shukair, cAbd al-Karim. "cAra'is min qasab wa-l-nacura." Dirasat sinima'iya (Qunaitara, Morocco) 3 (March 1986):7-11. Shusha, Muhammad al-Sayyid. Ruwwad wa ra'idat al-sinima al-misriya. Cairo, 1977. Soueid, Mohamed (Suwaid, Muhammad). al-Sinima al-mu'adjala. Beirut 1986. Stam, Robert. "Third World Cinema." Journal of Film and Video (USA) 36 (Spring 1984): 50-61. . Subversive Pleasures. Bakhtin, Cultural Criticism and Film. Baltimore, 1989. Stauth, Georg and Sami Zubaida, eds. Mass Culture, Popular Culture and Social Life in the Middle East. Frankfurt, 1987. Steinbach, Udo. Politisches Lexikon Nahost. Munich, 1981. Sulaiman, Khalid A. Palestine and Modem Arab Poetry. London, 1984. Sunduq Dacm al-Sinima, ed. Banurama al-sinima al-misriya 27-82. dalil alaflam al-misriya. Cairo, 1983. Suwayba, Fu'ad. "al-Sinima al-maghribiya fi-1-thamaninat." In al-Hayat alsinima'iya (Damascus) 21 (Spring 1989): 16-31.

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INDEX OF TITLES

A Door to the Sky (Bab al-sama' maftuh), 206, 207 A Happy Day (Yaum sacid), 108 A Kiss in the Desert (Qubla fi-1sahra'), 12 A Man in our House (Fi baytina radjul), 63 A Silent Traveler, 43 A Thousand and One Nights, 81, 92, 95, 165 A Thousand and one Hands (Alf yad wa yad), 39, 40, 158, 159, 161 A Wife for my Son, 147, 201 Abracadabra America (Amrika shika bika), 106 Adieu Bonaparte!, 167, 168, 186, 191 Adrift on the Nile (Tharthara fauq al-Nil), 134 Adventures of a Hero (Mughamarat batal), 37, 95, 96 c Afrita Hanim, 103 Aisha, 160, 161, 202 Alexandria Now and Forever (Iskandariya kaman wa kaman), 36, 186, 189, 191 Alexandria Why? (Iskandariya lih?), 36, 167, 189, 190, 191 Algeria in Flames, 18 Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves (cAli Baba wa-l-arbacin harami), 92 Ali in Wonderland (°Ali fi ard alsarab), 31, 147 Alien and Strange, 67 All That's Left to You, 157 Allah's Blood, 16

Allah's Kaaba (Bayt Allah al-haram), 171 Alley of Fools (Darb al-mahabil), 133, 134, 140 Amok, 122 An Egyptian Fairy Tale (Hadduta misriya), 98, 189, 191 And Tomorrow (Wa ghadan), 158 Antar and Abla's Adventures (Mughamarat cAntar wa cAbla), 93 Autumn October in Algiers (Kharif uktubar al-Djaza'ir), 32 c Aziza, 201 Bab El-Oued City (Bab al-Wad Huma), 43 Badis, 202 Barriers (Hawadjiz), 147 Beginning and End (Bidaya wa nihaya), 133, 140, 141 Between Sky and Earth (Bayn alsama'wa-l-ard), 133 Between You and Me Beirut (Bayni wa baynik Bayrut), 45 Bilal, the Prophet's Muezzin (Bilal mu'adhdhin al-rasul), 171, 172 Bitter Day, Sweet Day (Yaum hulw, yaummurr), 129 Blood Wedding (cUrs al-damm), 40, 122 Cairo 30 (al-Qahira 30), 88, 133 Cairo Main Station (Bab al-hadid), 135, 141 Canticle of the Stones (Nashid alhadjar), 118 Chichkhan (Shish Khan), 41, 42

246

Index of Titles

Chronicle of a Disappearance, 44 Cigarette and Wineglass (Sigara wa ka's), 103 Crime and Punishment, 122 Crocodile Play, 67 Crossing Over (cUbur), 195 Cry the Beloved Country, 122 Dananir, 81, 104, 109, 110, 114, 165, 166, 167 Dawn of a New Day (Fadjr yaum djadid), 138 Dawn of the Damned (Fadjr almucazabin), 19 Death in Venice, 59 Description d'Egypte, 169 Determination (al-cAzima), 129, 130, 131 Diary of a Country Prosecutor (Yaumiyat na'ib fi-1-aryaf), 133, 134 Die Kleinbiirgerhochzeit, 79 Don Quixote, 122 Dreams of the City (Ahlam almadina), 98, 99, 179, 180, 185 El-Chergui (al-Sharqi), 39, 95 El-Mound, 90, 147, 149 Encounter in Beirut (Bayrut al-liqa'), 39 Female Demon, 153, 203 Fertile Memory (al-Dhakira alkhisba), 118, 181 First Step (Awwal khutwa), 152 Girls' Flirtation (Ghazal al-banat), 77,85,90, 113, 115 Give My Heart Back! (Rudd qalbi!), 63 Gold (Dhahab), 115 Golden Horseshoes (Safa'ih min dhahab), 35, 58, 59, 194, 201 Haifa, 44 Halfaouine (Halfawin: cAsfur alsath), 35, 41, 42, 67 Hasan and Naima (Hasan wa Nacima), 93, 94 Hassan Taxi, 29 Hassan Terro (Hasan al-tirru), 29, 163, 177, 178 Hiroshima mon Amour, 182 Homage by Assassination, 44 Horizons (Afaq), 51

I Am Free (Ana hurra), 201 Ice Cream in Glim, 106 In the Country of Tutankhamun (Fi bilad Tut cAnkh Amun), 11 In the Shadow of the Harem, 16 KafrKassem, 156, 157 Kafrun, 104 Khalifa the Bald (Khalifa al-aqrac), 97, 186 KishKishBey, 13,70 al-Kitkat, 57, 59, 90, 92, 93, 106 L'Awentura, 182 La dame aux camelias, 122, 123, 124, 125, 126 La Dolce Vita, 182, 183 LaTraviata, 123 Layla (1927), 12, 70 Layla (1942), 123, 124 Layla and Her Sisters (Layla wa akhawatiha), 35, 147, 201, 202 Layla and Madjnun, 69, 102 Layla and the Wolves (Layla wa-1dhi'ab), 39, 181 Layla from the Countryside (Layla bintal-rif), 131 Layla the Bedouin (Layla albadawiya), 13 Layla's Madman (Madjnun Layla), 122 Lend me Three Pounds! (Salifni talatagini), 71, 77 Les Miserables, 122 Let Us Climb the Mountains (Linascad ila al-djabal), 30 Life is a Struggle (al-Hayatu kifah), 28, 104 Like a Soul, 84 Long Live Love (Yahia al-hubb), 111 Love and Revenge (Gharam wa intiqam), 103 Love in Istanbul (Gharam fi Istanbul), 74 Love in the Dark (Hubb fi-1-zalam), 116 Lovers' Call (Nida' al-cushshaq), 56 Lumiere (Adwa'), 32 Maarakeh, 80 Machaho (Once Upon a Time), 43, 84

Index of Titles Madjnun wa Layla (operetta), 108 Man of Ashes (Rih al-sadd), 39, 99, 193, 194, 200 Mankind's Fight for Survival, 50 Master Hasan (al-Usta Hasan), 133 Mektoub, 16 Men under the Sun (novel), 155 Men under the Sun (Ridjal taht alshams), 63, 157 Miracle (Sarab), 95 Miramar, 134 Mister Bulti (al-Sayyid Bulti), 137 Monsieur Fabre's Mill (Tahunat M. Fabre), 31 Mortal Revenge (Sirac fi-1-wadi), 117 My Father Is up the Tree (Abi fauq al-shadjara), 42, 105, 115, 116, 123 Nahla, 39, 99, 100 Necklace And Bracelet (al-Tauq wa1-iswira), 106 Noua, 147, 148, 177 Omar Gatlato (cUmar qatlatu alrudjla), 37, 84, 101, 102, 153 On the Sacks, 186 Pharao, 51 Promise of Love (cAhd al-hawa), 123, 124, 125 al-Qadisiya, 170 Rabca al-cAdawiya, 173 Radhia, 153 Raya and Sakina (Raya wa Sakina), 133, 134 Rebels on the Sea (Mushaghibun fi1-bahriya), 26 Robinson Crusoe, 123 SafarBarlak, 105 Sahara Blues, 153,201 Sakiet Sidi Youcef, 18 Saladin (al-Nasir Salah al-Din), 50, 169, 170 Salama Is Fine (Salama fi khayr), 72, 73,78 Sallama, 104, 166 Sama (The Trace), 39, 59, 60, 204 Screams (Surakh), 28 Sejnane (Sidjnan), 62, 63, 177 Serenade to Maryam, 17 Seven o'Clock (al-Saca sabca), 71, 72,77

247

Shadjarat al-Durr, 165 Shadows on the Other Side (Zilal c ala al-djanib al-akhar), 35, 187, 188 Shayma', the Prophet's Sister (alShayma' ukht al-rasul), 172 Sidi Yasin on the Way, 163 Silence Is a One Way Street (al-Samt itidjah mamnuc), 28, 104 Silence of the Palaces (Samt alqusur), 107, 205 Silence, Listen! (Samac huss), 106, 117, 118 Simplicissimus, 122 6/6, 203 Song of Eternity (Lahn al-khulud), 114 Song of the Heart (Unshudat alfu'ad), 12, 103 Song on the Passage (Ughniya cala al-mammar), 187 Sons of Aristocrats (Awlad aldhawat), 12 South Wind (Rih al-djanub), 35, 88, 89, 147, 150,201 Spring Sun (Shams al-rabic), 126, 161 Stars in Broad Daylight (Nudjum alnahar), 38 Struggle of the Heroes (Sirac alabtal), 137, 138, 141 Summer Thefts (Sariqat sayfiyya), 192 Sun of the Hyenas (Shams al-dibac), 161, 162 Tahya ya Didou, 152 Take Care of Zuzu! (Khalli balak min Zuzu!), 25 Tauq al-hamama, 97 Tears of Love (Dumuc al-hubb), 111 The Adventures of Ilyas Mabruk (Mughamarat Ilyas Mabruk), 12 The American Aunt (al-Khala alamrikaniya), 11 The Arabs (al-cArab), 79 The Avenger (al-Muntaqim), 133 The Barber of the Poor Neighborhood (Halaq darb alfuqara'), 158

248

Index of Titles

The Bath House (play), 75, 76 The Beach of the Lost Children (Shati' al-atfal al-da'icin), 202 The Beast (al-Wahsh), 117, 133, 134 The Beggars (play), 75 The Beginning (al-Bidaya), 64, 65, 66 The Big Journey (Ibn al-sabil), 158, 159 The Big Lapse (al-Zalla al-kubra), 25 The Birds of Summer, 84 The Black Market (al-Suq alsawda'), 130, 131 The Bus Driver (Sawwaq al-utubis), 142, 143 The Charcoal Maker (al-Fahham), 147, 148, 149 The Chronicle of the Years of Embers (Waqa'ic sanawat aldjamr), 19, 57, 58, 59, 63, 173, 176, 177 The Citadel (al-Qalca), 150, 151 The Clerk (al-Bashkatib), 11, 13, 70 The Cobbler from Cairo, 17 The Cock of the Walk (Dik albarabir), 67 The Crabs (Kaburya), 106 The Cruel Sea (Bass ya bahr), 126 The Curfew (Hatta ishcar akhar), 44 The Daughter of the Guardian (Bint al-haris), 105 The Dawn of Islam (Fadjr al-Islam), 172 The Days (Alyam alyam), 158, 159, 161 The Destiny (al-Masir), 42 The Duped (al-Makhducun), 60, 155, 156, 157, 158, 197 The Earth (al-Ard), 134, 137, 141, 177 The Emigrant (al-Muhagir), 42, 186 The Escape of Hassan Terro (Hurub Hasan al-tirru), 29 The Events of the Coming Year (Waqa'ic al-cam al-muqbil), 36, 38,99 The Flood (al-Tufan), 143 The Frontiers (al-Hudud), 104 The Girl from Carthage (cAin alghazal), 12

The Good Families (al-Usar altayyiba), 146, 147 The Gulf War and After (Harb alkhalidj wa bacd), 41 The Half-Meter Incident (Hadithat al-nisf mitr), 38, 197, 198 The Innocent (al-Bari'), 35, 36 The Innocent Accused (alMuttaham al-bari'), 12, 15 The Kid, 115 The Knife (al-Sikkin), 60, 63, 157, 186 The Ladies' Taylor (Khayyat alsayyidat), 74 The Leopard (al-Fahd), 155 The Lost Necklace of the Dove (Tauq al-hamama al-mafqud), 42, 53, 96, 97 The Mad Years of Twist, 177, 178 The Millionaire (al-Milyunira), 74 The Miser, 69, 75 The Mountain (al-Djabal), 44 The Mummy (al-Mumya'), 26, 51, 52, 164, 182 The Net (al-Shabaka), 146, 151, 152 The Nice Thief (al-Liss al-zarif), 74 The Nights of the Jackal (Layali ibn awa), 163 The Nomads (Masirat ar-ruca), 90, 147 The Nuba of the Women of Mount Chenoua, 39, 118, 119 The Open Door (al-Bab al-maftuh), 201 The Opium and the Baton (al-Afyun wa-l-casa), 30, 173, 174, 175, 177 The Outlaws (al-Kharidjun can alqanun), 31 The Pearl Necklace (clqd al-lulu), 73 The Petroleum War Will Not Take Place (Harb al-bitrul Ian taqac), 40 The Prodigal Son (cAudat al-ibn aldal), 105, 106, 186 The Razor's Edge (Ghazal al-banat), 39, 204 The Rebels (al-Mutamarridun), 137, 138, 139 The Report (al-Taqrir), 36, 37 The Sacrificed (al-Qarabin), 179 The Search for My Wife's Husband (al-Bahth can zawdj imra'ati), 67

Index of Titles The Search for Sayyid Marzuq (alBahth can Sayyid Marzuq), 196 The Second Wife (al-Zaudja althaniya), 65, 66, 78 The Seller of the Rings (Bayac alkhawatim), 105 The Seventh Gate, 17, 18 The Sin (al-Haram), 134, 140, 141 The Sparrow (al-cUsfur), 35, 62, 63, 98, 186, 188 The Suitable Man (al-Radjul almunasib), 74 The Thief and the Dogs (al-Liss wa1-kilab), 134 The Thirsty (al-Zami'un), 158 The Thug (al-Futuwwa), 87, 135, 136, 137, 139 The Time Has Come (An al-awan), 45 The Tornado (al-Icsar), 45 The Truck Driver (Sa'iq al-shahina), 22 The Two Homeless (al-Sharidan), 74 The Uprooted (Bani Handal), 177 The Vagabonds (al-Sacalik, 1967), 74,75 The Vagabonds (al-Sacalik, 1983), 143 The Victory of Islam (Intisar alIslam), 171 The Victory of Youth (Intisar alshabab), 103 The Wedding (al-cUrs), 79 The Wedding in Galilee (cUrs alDjalil), 199, 200 The White Rose (al-Warda albayda'), 61, 103, 109, 111, 113

249

The Wind of the Aures (Rih alAuras), 18, 144, 145, 146, 177 Therese Raquin, 122, 133 This Is Not Beirut (Hadha laysat Bayrut), 45 Touchia, 153, 206 Under the Autumn Rain (Taht matar al-kharif), 126 Under the Sky of Damascus (Taht sama' Dimashq), 15 Viva la muerte, 41 Wa Islamah, 50, 170 Wanderers in the Desert (al-Ha'imun fi-1-sahra'), 53, 54, 55, 195 We Will Return (Sanacud), 31 Wechma (Washma), 36, 39, 95, 96, 186, 200 Werther, 123 Why Does the Sea Laugh? (al-Bahr biyidhhak lih?), 13 Widad, 112 Ya Mahalabiya Ya, 106 Al-Yazerli (al-Yazirli), 155, 186 Your Day Is Coming (Lak yaum ya zalim), 133 Youssef or the Legend of the Seventh Sleeper (Yusuf aw usturat al-na'im al-sabic), 153 Youth of a Woman (Shabab imra'a), 88, 133, 137 Zaynab, 13, 132 Zeft, 163 Zerda and the Songs of Oblivion, 118, 180, 181, 182 Zuhra, 12

INDEX OF NAMES

c

Abbas, Khayriya, 203 Abd al-cAlim, Mamduh, 117 Abd El-Khalek, All (cAli cAbd alKhaliq), 154, 187 Abd El-Sayyed, Daoud (Dawud c Abd al-Sayyid), 34, 57, 90, 92, 93, 106, 129, 142, 143, 196 c Abd al-Hamid, cAbd al-Latif, 23, 163, 164 c Abd al-Wahhab, Muhammad, 24, 57,61,62, 103,108,111,113, 114 Abdessalam, Chadi, 26, 50, 51, 52, 53, 164, 170, 182, 185 El-Abnoudi, Attiat (al-Abnudi), 161, 203 Abu cAli, Mustapha, 19 AbuNuwas, 166 Abu Self, Salah (Saif), 29, 64, 65, 66, 87, 88, 93, 117, 128, 133, 134, 136-141,170, 172,201 Abyad, George, 70, 91, 108 al-cAdawiya, Rabca, 173 c Akif, Nacima, 103, 104, 109 Alaouie, Borhane, 23, 39, 156, 157 al-cAlayli, clzzat, 31 Allouache, Merzak, 23, 32, 38, 43, 84,95,98, 101, 102, 153 Alloula, Malek (Malik cAllula), 180 Amir, cAziza, 12, 13, 70, 203 Amiralay, Omar (cUmar), 161 al-Andalusi, Ibn Hazm, 97 Antonioni, Michelangelo, 182 c Arafa, Sherif (Sharif), 106, 117 Arrabal, Fernando, 41 Asaaf, Roger, 80 c

Asian, Ibrahim, 57 Asmahan, 28, 105, 108 al-Assad, Hafiz, 155 c Atallah, Amin, 11,70 al-Atrash, Farid, 28, 103, 105, 111, 114, 125 Attia, Ahmed (Ahmad cAttia), 23, 41 c Awad, Mahir, 117 al-cAzawi, Diya', 155 Babai, Brahim, 40, 158 Babylon, 32 Baccar, Jelila (Djalila Bakkar), 79 Badie, Mustapha, 29 Badrakhan, Ahmed (Ahmad), 14, 28,81, 109, 111, 112, 123, 125, 130, 165, 166, 167 Badrakhan, cAli, 142 Badri, Ayyub, 12, 15 Baghdadi, Maroun (Marun), 39 al-Bakri, Asma', 42, 204 al-Bakri, cAtif, 51 Banca di Roma, 11 Barakat, Henri, 63, 93, 94, 105, 114, 128, 134, 140, 141,202 Bartok, Bela, 120 Bayyumi, Muhammad, 11, 70 Beccar, Selma (Salma Bakkar), 203 Behi, Reda (Rida Bahi), 161, 162 Belkhayat, Abdelhedi (cAbd al-Hadi bil-Khayyat), 28 Beloufa, Farouk (Faruq Billufa), 39, 99, 100 Ben Ammar, Abdellatif (cAbd alLatif b. cAmmar), 62, 177 Ben Baraka, Souheil (Suhail b. Baraka), 23, 39, 40, 122, 158, 159

Index of Names Ben Halima, Hamouda (Hamuda b. Halima), 97, 98, 186 Ben Lyazid, Farida, 40, 203, 204, 206, 207 Ben Mabrouk, Nejia (Nadjya b. Mabruk), 23, 39, 59, 193, 203, 204 Ben Mahmoud, Mahmoud (Mahmud b. Mahmud), 23, 41, 195 Benani, Hamid (Binani), 23, 36, 39, 95, 96, 186 Bendeddouche, Ghouti (Ghuti b. Didush), 151 Benhadouga, Abdelhamid, 89 Bergmann, Ingmar, 182 Beshara, Khairy (Khayri Bishara), 34, 106, 129, 142, 161 Bin Hadj, Rashid, 153,206 Bin Mahdjub, cAbd al-cAziz, 30 Bonaparte, Napoleon, 168, 169 Bonvelli, 11 Bouamari, Mohamed, 148, 149, 152 Bouanani, Ahmed (Ahmad Buc Anani), 95 Bouberas, Rabah, 153 Boudjedra, Rachid (Rashid BuDjidra), 100 Boughedir, Ferid (Farid Bu-Ghidir), 35,41,42,67 Bouguermouh, Abderrahmane, 84 Boumedienne, 29 Bourguiba, 201 Bouzid, Nouri (Nuri Bu-Zid), 23, 35, 39, 41, 58, 99, 186, 193, 194, 200, 201 Brecht, Bertolt, 79, 127 Burqiya, Farida, 203 Butrus, Raymond, 23 CAAIC (Centre Algerien pour 1'Art et 1'Industrie Cinematographique), 32,40 Carioca, Tahiya, 103, 136 Carne, Marcel, 183 CCM (Centre Cinematographique Marocain), 16, 33, 160 Chaath, Ghaleb (Ghalib Shacth), 35, 161, 187, 188 Chahal, Randa, 39, 161, 203 Chahine, Youssef, 23, 34, 35, 39, 40, 42, 51, 56, 62, 98, 105, 106, 117,

251

128, 134, 135, 137, 138, 167-169, 177, 186, 188-192 Chamoun, Jean (Shamcun), 161 Channel Four, 41 Chaplin, Charlie, 115 El-Cheikh, Kamal (al-Shaykh), 128, 134 Chekov, 133 Chereau, Patrice, 191 Chikly, Shemama also Shamama, Albert, 10, 12 Chouikh, Mohamed (Shuikh), 150, 151, 153 cine-buses, 17 Cinematographe Lumiere, 10 CNC (Centre National de la Cinematographic), 16 Codsi, Jean-Claude, 45 Daghir, Assia, 13, 165 Daldoul, Hassan (Hasan Daldul), 41 Dar al-tamthil al-carabi, 108 Darwish, Sayyid, 62, 107 Deren, Maya, 184 Desaix, 169 al-Dighidi, Inas, 204 El-Dik, Bashir (al-Dik), 129, 142, 143 Diyab, cAmr, 106 al-Djabarti, cAbd al-Rahman, 169 Djebar, Assia (Djabbar), 39, 118, 119, 120, 180, 181, 182, 203, 204 Dostoevsky, 122 Doukali, Abdelwahab (cAbd alWahhab al-Dukhali), 28 Driss, Mohammed (Muhammad), 79 Dumas, Alexandre, 122, 123, 124 Edison, Thomas, 11 Eisenstein, 148 ,,Elias, Hanna, 44 ENADEC (Entreprise Nationale Algerienne de la Distribution), 32 ENAPROC (Entreprise Nationale Algerienne de la Production Cinematographique), 32 ENPA (Entreprise Nationale de Production Audiovisuelle), 32, 40 ERTU (Egyptian Radio and TV Union), 43 Europa Hotel, 10 Fadil, Muhammad, 182

252

Index of Names

Faisal (King), 10 Fakhr al-Din, Miryam, 75, 125 Farah, Iskandar, 107 Fares, Tewfik (Taufiq Fans), 31 Fatah, 19 Fathi, Nagla', 188 Fayruz (child actor), 115 Fayruz (singer), 105 FDATIC (Fonds de Developpement de 1'Art et de 1'Industrie Cinematographique), 32 Fellini, Frederico, 182 Ferhati, Jilalli (Djilali Farhati), 23, 39, 40, 160, 202, 203 al-Fihriya, Fatima, 207 Film and Theater Organization, 32 Filmlntadj, 138 First Damascus Festival for Young Arab Cinema, 154 FLN (Front de la Liberation Nationale), 18, 174, 177, 179 Fonds de Soutien a 1'Expansion de 1'Industrie Cinematographique, 33 Fonds Nationales d'Expansion de la Cinemathographie, 33 Ford, John, 183 Fu'ad, Muhammad, 106 Galal, Ahmad, 165 Gamal, Samya, 103 Gammarth studios, 22 Gaumont-Pathe, 21 El-Geretli, Hassan, 80 al-Ghazali, 206 GroupeFarid, 18 Habashi, Samir, 45 Hadad, Sahib, 126 Hadjadj, Blekacem (Bil-Qassim), 43, 84 Hafiz, cAbd al-Halim, 105, 115, 116 Hafiz, Bahiga, 13,203 al-Haggar, Khalid, 42 Haidar, Haidar, 155 Haikal, Muhammad Husain, 132 al-Hakawati, 78, 79 al-Hakim, Taufiq, 70 al-Halladj, 206 Hamada, Khaled (Khalid), 60, 63, 154, 157, 186 Hamam Schneider, 10 Hamama, Fatin, 129 Hamina, Malek Lakhdar (Malik), 32

Hamina, Mohamed Lakhdar, 18, 23, 29, 57, 58, 63, 144-146, 163, 173, 176-178 Hamza, Nadia, 204 Harb, Talaat (Talcat), 12, 13, 15, 22 Hardy, Oliver, 75 Hassan, Nizar, 44 Hatata, cAtif, 42 Hattoum, Mouna, 203 Hawks, Howard, 183 Higazi, Salama, 107 Higher Film Institute, 23 Hugo, Victor, 122 Husain, Nasir, 26 al-Husaini, cAli Zain al-cAbidin, 155 Husain, Taha, 53 Ibn Abi Waqqas, Sacd IbnHisham, 171 Ibn Sacd, 171 Ibn Saud (Sucud, King), 49 IDEC, 23 Idris,Yusuf, 122, 134, 140 c llwi, Layla, 117 Imam Ahmad, 10 al-Imam, Hasan, 25, 116 c lmara, Ibrahim, 25 INSAS (Institut National Superieur des Arts et du Spectacle), 204 Institut National du Cinema, 23 Jadallah, Sulafa (Djad Allah), 19 Jaibi, Fadhel, 41, 79 Jamil, Mohamed Choukri (Muhammad Shukri Djamil), 126, 158 Jawhariya, Hani (Djawhariyya), 19, 20 Jaziri, Fadhel (Fadil), 79 al-Joundi, Dima (al-Djundi), 45 Kahlawi, 103 Kamal, Hussein (Husain), 23, 42, 67, 105, 115, 116, 123, 128, 134 Kamil, Firyal, 203 Kamil, Mustafa, 11 Kanafani, Ghassan, 60, 122, 155, 157 Karim, Muhammad, 11, 13, 61, 103, 108, 109, 111, 113, 132, 133 al-Kashif, Radwan, 42 al-Kassar, cAli, 11, 13, 70, 71, 73, 77, 85, 91, 92, 93, 108 Kechine, Ahmed (Ahmad Kashin), 126

Index of Names Kelthoum (Kulthum), 18, 145, 146 Khalifa, Sahar, 181, 182 Khan, Mohamed, 129, 142, 143 Khayri, Badic, 85 Khemir, Nacer (Nasir Khamir), 42, 53, 54, 55, 97, 98, 195, 196 Khlat, Yasmin, 99 Khleifi, Michel (Khalifi), 23, 39, 118, 181, 198, 199,200 Khlifi, Omar (cUmar Khalifi), 28 Khraief, Bechir, 97 Kramp, Fritz, 14, 112 Ksentini, Rashid (Qusantini), 70 La Sept, 41 Laham, Doureid (Durayd), 27, 36, 37, 67, 73, 74, 75 Lahlou, Latif (al-Hulw), 126, 161 Lahlou, Nabyl (Nabil al-Hulw), 39 Lama, Badr, 12 Lama, Ibrahim, 12, 169 Laskri, Amar, 149 Laurel, Stan, 75 Leger, Fernand, 50 Lledo, Jean-Pierre, 32 Lorca, Garcia, 40, 122 Lotfi, Nabiha (Lutfi), 203 Louhichi, Taieb, 40, 122 Lumiere company, 11 Lumiere, Louis and Auguste, 10,11 Lutfi, Nadia, 116 Maanouni, Ahmed (Ahmad Macnuni), 23, 158, 159 Mahfouz, Naguib (Nagib Mahfuz), 122, 133, 134, 135, 139, 140, 141, 170 Mahmud, °Abd al-cAziz, 103 Makka, cAtta, 15 Malas, Muhammad, 23, 98, 99, 179, 180, 185, 193 Maleh, Nabil (Malih), 63, 154, 155, 157 al-Macluf, Yusuf, 73, 74 Marton, Andrew, 51, 170 Masabni, Badica, 103 Masharawi, Rashid, 39, 44 Masri, May, 161, 203 Masrouki, Habib (Masruqi), 79 al-Mausili (brothers), 166 Mazif, Sid cAli, 35, 201, 202 Merbah, Mohamed Lamine (alYamin Mirbah), 153, 177

253

Mesbahi, Abdallah (cAbd Allah alMisbahi), 28, 104 Mesguich, Felix, 11 Mesnaoui, Ahmed (Ahmad alMasnawi), 28 Metro-Goldwyn Mayer, 21 Mina, Hanna, 122, 155, 186 Miquel, Andre, 122 Misr al-cAlamiya, 186 MisrBank, 12, 13 Misr Company for Cinema and Performance, 14 Misr Studio, 12, 14 Mizrahi, Togo, 71, 92, 123, 131, 166 Moliere, 69, 75 Morcos, Norma (Murqus), 44 Mu'zin, Marwan, 157 al-Mugi, Ibrahim, 51 Muhammad, Usama, 23, 38 Muhi al-Din, Muhsin, 168 Muhi'1-Din, 70 Mukhtar, Mahmud, 53 Munir, Muhammad, 106 Murad, Layla, 90 Mursi, Ahmad Kamil, 26 Mustafa, Husam al-Din, 172 Mustafa, Niyazi, 14, 28, 72, 78, 114 Nadjar, Fatiha, 153 al-Nahas, Hashim, 161 al-Naqqash, Marun, 69, 75 Nasr, George, 126 Nasrallah, Yousry (Yusri), 34, 42, 192 Nasser, 25, 56, 169, 170, 189, 192, 197 National Film Organization (Egypt), 31,32 National Film Organization (Syria), 21,22 New Cinema Society, 154, 185, 187 OmniaPathe, 10 ONCIC (Office National pour le Commerce et 1'Industrie Cinematographique), 21, 30-32, 36,40, 186 Oracle, 10 Orfi, Wedad (Widad), 12 Ouatar, Tahar (Tahir Wattar), 147 Pathe-Company, 10 Paton, Alan, 122

254

Index of Names

PDFLP (Popular Democratic Front for the Liberation of Palestine), 20 PFLP (Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine), 19 Piccoli, Michel, 191 Pidutti, Jordano, 12 Pinochin, J., 16 PLO, cinema department, 20 PLO, culture section, 20 Prevost, Abbe, 123 Pudowkin, 148 Qaci, George, 126 Qalci, Nihad, 73, 74, 75 al-Qattan, Omar (cUmar), 44 Quintin, D., 16 Quwatli, 180 Rachedi, Ahmed, 18, 19, 30, 152, 173-175 Rafla, Hilmi, 27 Rahbani (brothers), 105 Rashid, Ahmad, 161 al-Rashid, Harun, 166 Ray, Man, 50 Reggab, Mohamed, 158 Renoir, Jean, 183 Resnais, Alain, 182 Revolutionary Council (Iraq), 32 Riad, Mohamed Slim, 29, 31, 35, 88, 89, 150 Richter, Hans, 50 al-Rihani, Nagib, 13, 70-72, 78, 85, 90,91, 108 Rizq, Amina, 172 Rosito, Victor, 11 Rosselini, Roberto, 51 Rosti, Estephane, 12 Rouiched (Ruwishad), 29, 67, 178 RTA (Radio-Television Algerien), 32,39 al-Rumi, Magda, 106 Rushdi, Fatima, 13, 203 Saab, Jocelyne, 39, 161, 203, 204 Sabah, 28, 105 Sabrin, 118 SAC (Service Algerien du Cinema), 16 al-Sadat, Anwar, 32, 35, 142, 143 Saddiki, Taieb (al-Tayyib al-Sadiqi), 163 al-Saghira, Nagat, 111 al-Sacidi, Yacqub, 169

Saladin, 169 Salih, Taufik (Taufiq), 23, 60, 128, 133, 134, 137-140, 154-156, 185, 197 Salim, cAtif, 27 Salloum, Jayce, 45 Salman, Ibrahim, 43 Samed, 188 Samih, Wali al-Din, 170 Sanuc, Yacqub, 69 Sarhan, Shukri, 139 SATPEC (Societe Anonyme Tunisienne de Production et d'Expansion Cinematographique), 21,22,33,40,41, Scharfenberg, Robert, 14 SDC (Service de Diffusion Cinematographique), 16 Seif, Samir, 34 Selim, Kamal (Salim), 129, 130, 131 Service du Cinema (Morocco), 33 Service du Cinema National (Algeria), 18 Shadya, 103 Shahin, Muhammad, 22, 157 Shahin, Yahia, 172 Shamama, Albert also Chikly, Shemama, 10, 12 al-Sharif, Nur, 142 al-Sharqawi, cAbd al-Rahman, 134, 137, 170 Shauqi, Ahmad, 70 Shauqi, Farid, 87, 136 Shukuku, 109 al-Sibaci, Yusuf, 170 Siddiq, Khalid, 9, 126, 154 Sidqi, Amin, 11 Sigma 3 collective, 38 Smihi, Moumen (Mu'min Simihi), 39,95 Soueid, Mohamed (Muhammad Suwayd), 45 Srour, Heiny (Hayni Surur), 39, 161, 181,203 Studios Africa, 17 Studios Souissi, 17 Suleiman, Elia (Sulayman), 39, 44 al-Tabari, 171 Tarnir, Zakariyya, 155 El-Tayeb, Atef (cAtif al-Tayyib), 35, 36, 129, 142, 143

Index of Names Taymur, Mahmud, 70 Tazi, Mohamed Ben Abderrahmane (Muhammad b. cAbd al-Rahman al-Tazi), 28, 40, 67, 104, 158, 159,202 The New Theater, 78, 79, 80 al-Tilmissani, Kamil, 130, 131 Tlatli, Moufida, 107, 203, 205, 206 Tolbi, Abdelaziz (cAbd al-cAziz Tulbi), 147, 148 Touita, Okacha (cUkasha Tuita), 179 Tousson stock exchange, 10 Tsaki, Brahim, 23 al-Tukhi, Ahmad, 171 c Uf, Samir, 51 c Ukasha, Tharwat, 26 Umm Kulthum, 24, 81, 82, 103, 107, 109, 110, 111, 112, 166 United Artists, 21 Vautier, Rene, 18 Verdi, 123 Visconti, Luchino, 59 Volpi, Mario, 12, 103 Vulinich, Bosko, 22 Wagdi, Anwar, 25, 77, 85, 113, 115

255

Wahbi, Yusuf, 12, 13, 49, 70, 71, 91, 108 Wahdat al-Film al-Tadjribi, 50 al-Warshah, 80 Yahia, Djacfar b., 166 al-Yasseri, Faycal (Faisal al-Yasiri), 126 Yasin, Ismacil, 109 Yazdigird, 170 Zaydan, Djirdji, 166 Zayid, Muhsin, 189 ZDF (Zweites Deutsches Fernsehen), 39, 41, 161 Zemmouri, Mahmoud (Mahmud Zimuri), 177, 178 Zikra, Samir, 23, 36, 38, 99, 197, 198 Zinat-Koudil, Hafsa, 153, 203 Zinet, Mohamed (Zinat), 152 Zola, Emile, 122, 133 al-Zubaidi, Kaiss (Qaiss), 23, 154, 155, 186 zul-Fiqar, clzz al-Din, 63 al-Zurqani, cAli, 123 Zvoboda, Andre, 18

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