This month marks my first full-year as a columnist for Esquire Saudi, it will also mark one year of me waiting to be invited to the opening of the Red Sea Film Festival in Jeddah. I’ve mentioned my desire to be invited to the event more than once when writing these opinion pieces, but they do not always make it to the final version—the editor tells me it has something to do with the word count…
So therefore, good reader, I have decided that the only way to further my case is to write this entire article to be about the region’s most exciting film festival, and how do I attract the organisers to invite me along to the next one in December 2023. [Editor: Well played, Abdullah.]
So I thought I’d dive into the world of Saudi cinema—well, at least that’s how it started. However, the more I researched—and by that I mean spending hours on YouTube watching random things to relax after work—I found myself compelled to ask myself some questions that seem rather a cliché, but are no doubt still important. The questions are: Is art a message? Or, in other words, does something have to covey a message to be considered art? (هل الفن رسالة؟)
It started with me watching a program from the ’90s that used to be aired on ART television. The show was called An Hour Of Purity (ساعة صفا), and during it, the presenter Safa Abu Al Saud interviewed the much-loved Egyptian actress and producer Nadia Al Jendi. In the interview, Al Jendi said that filmmaking has message to send to the community, and that actors have to convey that message.
Al Jendi was then asked about a film, Wild Desire (رغبة متوحشة), that she made in 1991.
The film was based off of an Italian play by Ugo Betti, and Al Jendi’s film became a huge success and is still revered as one of the great films of Egyptian cinema at the time.
Coincidentally, that same year, another film was made based off the same play. This one was called, The Shepherd and The Women ( الراعي و النساء), and starred Egyptian icons Soad Hosny, Yousra and Ahmad Zaki.
The interviewer asked Al Jendi how the films compared to each other, and her response was that there was no comparison, Wild Desire—which also starred Soheir El-Morshidy, Mahmoud Hemida and a young Hanan Turk—was a huge commercial success, achieving record Box Office numbers, while the other one stuttered.
Intrigued by the idea of comparison, I decided to re-watch both films. I started with The Shepherd and The Women and was captivated by the subtle and nuanced performances by the trio of stars. The film’s story was told in an understated way, but one that was powerful. Their expressions said so much with by saying so little—honestly, I was blown away.
Then I came to watch Wild Desire and it took me only a few seconds to identify the difference. This was a film purpose-built for commercial success. The costumes were grand, the acting was over the top, the cinematography was pure entertainment and action. It was a blockbuster, and no wonder it set Box Office records—it was purpose-built to do just that.
In a wonderful moment of serendipity, it was by watching An Hour of Purity, that I had my own moment of clarity. I never thought that I had a critical eye for cinema, but now looking back with a more mature, analytical eye, I can see that indeed Al Jendi was correct—despite being based on the same source material, the two films were not comparable at all, although I came to my conclusion via very different reasons.
But back to the Red Sea Film Festival. As we are currently living in a great and hugely creative moment for Saudi cinema, we are at the point were we should be asking ourselves, if art is a form of communicating, then what is it that we want from our art? Which direction do we want it to take? What is the marker of success, the Box Office, or the artistic craft? And, finally—and more importantly—do you think with my new talent of film critiquing, I will finally get my invitation to the Red Sea Film Festival?
Abdullah Al-Khorayef is a columnist for Esquire Saudi