A burst of new acting talent leaves Nehad Selaiha anxious about the future One tends to forget how much acting talent lies around waiting to be cultivated, polished and put on display. On two occasions this month I was strongly reminded of this fact. The first was a repeat performance of Ayyamna Al-Helwa (literally, "Our Sweet Days"), the production which marked, in mid-April, the graduation of the first crop of students from The Studio. Launched by the Creativity Centre under the umbrella of the Cultural Development Fund in December 2002, and generously funded by the same establishment, The Studio was conceived as a kind of free, mini-theatre school or academy, or, as it is frequently (and rather disquietingly) described, a small-scale 'star factory'. The idea of The Studio was the brainchild of Khaled Galal, the director of both the Creativity Centre and the State Youth Theatre Company. More than anyone in the Ministry of Culture (with the exception of Huda Wasfi perhaps), Galal -- who is still in his thirties and has earned his training as actor and director the hard way, joining the Theatre Institute for four years after finishing university, then spending a year in Italy followed by many directing workshops wherever he could get them -- knows how difficult it is to get coaching in the arts and what a huge demand there always is for such a service. Imagine a country of over 70 million, with half the population young people, and only one theatre institute in Cairo (with a small branch in Alexandria) which, together, at best, can only admit 80 students per year. Assuming there are only 50, or 20, or even 10 thousand young people with theatrical talent and ambitions in this country, the ratio of supply to demand still remains a glaring, tragic offence. No wonder the response to Galal's idea, once the project was announced and applications invited, was staggering. Within a few days, more than 2000 young men and women had applied. Many were university students or graduates, active in university theatre where Galal had first discovered his talent and learnt his first steps and he doubtlessly would have loved to admit them all. But places were limited and out of the 2150 applicants only 74 were accepted: 50 to train in the arts of performance; seven in directing; and 17 in stage and costume designing. In the course of two years, however, the number continued to dwindle: while some were expelled for doing commercial work on the side in the struggle to economically survive, which The Studio's rules strictly forbid, many, mostly students with lessons and assignments to cope with or living on the outskirts of Cairo, so far away from the school, dropped out on account of the rigourous schedule set out by Galal which demands daily attendance for long hours, sometimes stretching to 12 and occasionally winding up at two or three in the morning. Often enough, some of them could not make the trip home and ended up spending the night in make-shift beds at my daughter's flat in Giza. Of the seventy-four admitted in May 2003, only 41 made it to the end. To guarantee quality and credibility, Galal carefully picked his instructors and coaching staff from among the most respected names in the field: while he took care of the acting and improvisation classes himself, he assigned the teaching of voice and elocution to Nagat Ali, the directing course to Isam El-Sayed, stage- designing to Nagui Shakir, costume-designing to Nivene Raafat and Na'ima Agami, singing to Imad El- Rashidi and dancing to Diaa Shafiq and Mohamed Mustafa. He even roped in Shirley Shalabi to give his acting students lessons in 'etiquette' Western-style. The progress of the students in The Studio's three departments was publicly tested and monitored at regular intervals through concerts, performances and exhibitions. In all, The Studio presented 98 performances at the Creativity Centre since studies began in April 2003, and some of that work was so fresh, so vigorous, so exceptionally disciplined on the technical side, it far outstripped many a professional production in the state theatre. The five takes on Shakespeare's King Lear by five young directors, played on successive nights last year, a product of the directing workshop in collaboration with The Sudio's actors and members of the stage and costume designing workshops, were a master stroke and quite amazing in their impact; and when Emergency Landing, written and directed by Galal himself for his acting students, was selected to represent Egypt in the international competition of the Cairo Experimental festival in 2004, it came as no surprise to many. Why was Sweet Days then, intended as the crowning, collective demonstration of The Studio's achievements, such a disturbing, ethically and artistically questionable event? All the time I followed the progress of Galal's Studio and its productions it had never occurred to me to look beneath its glittering artistic surface to examine its underpinning ethos and ideological bearings. True, I had often felt vaguely uncomfortable about the actors' habit of regularly jumping off stage at the end of every performance to embrace and kiss whatever celebrities happened to be in the first row -- film stars, television and cinema producers and directors or big tycoons. They were ostensibly invited by Galal, and at great effort, for the benefit of his students. More than once, however, I caught myself wondering if it was not like putting cattle on the market, teaching them to lick their prospective masters' hands and obsequiously cuddle up to them and remembering that gruelling American movie They Shoot Horses, Don't They. The idea was distressing and I would soon force myself to push it down or try to see it in a more attractive, comforting light as a way of airing talent and giving it exposure where the chances of work existed. Sweet Days, however, was a cruel eye-opener and a cynically ironical misnomer. Though intended to show us the brave struggle of these young people to develop themselves into real artists against great odds, as I like to think Galal meant it, it unfolded like a cheap, shallow, sentimental, third-rate, back-stage Hollywood melodrama, with the dream of fame, wealth and glamour taking centre stage and eroding the faintest glimmer of the concept of the integrity of the artist or the real significance of theatre as something more than glitzy, lucrative and mind-numbing entertainment. The influence of American commercial showbiz -- crass and garish, drab and squalid -- of razzmatazz -- hype and razzle-dazzle -- was everywhere and quite sickening to watch. I remembered with deep chagrin Galal's brave efforts in the university theatre, the independent theatre group he formed then and christened Encounter, and his poignant production of Harold Pinter's Mountain Language which opened the first Free Theatre Festival at the Small Hall of the Opera House in 1990. Those were the days my friend. It was before the worst aspect of American culture, the most vapidly commercial, had overtaken the world in the name of globalisation and swept many away in a colossal tidal wave of cheapness and superficiality to their destruction. "What a great mind is here overthrown," Ophelia said of Hamlet; and with her I mourn the terrible, sad waste of great promise. This is yet another depressing instance of the realisation falling far short of the dream, even sending the dream in fearful flight, screaming to the skies. But if Galal, still in his thirties, could be excused for selling out to the market ethos and succumbing to the myth of American cultural superiority, what excuse can one find for an old veteran of the theatre like Samir El- Asfouri who had seen better days? For a long time he harassed Al-Hanager's director, Huda Wasfi, to do an acting and improvisation workshop at her prestigious centre. She had hosted some of the most famous directors in Europe, Egypt and the Arab world to do workshops there; why not him? Indeed, why not? He has been in the theatre for over 40 years and some of his work could favourably compare with the best in European theatre. Wasfi, however, had misgivings, and justifiably so. Since he left Al-Tali'a (Avant-garde) Theatre, where he was artistic director for nearly 20 years (from 1975 to 1994) and did his best and most creative work, El-Asfouri has turned to the commercial theatre; and though his imaginative bravado has retained its vigour, albeit slightly depleted and somewhat soured, seeming to favour shortcuts and shun real challenges, his technical control of his material and actors has palpably grown lax. But because Wasfi knew, like anyone familiar with El- Asfouri's work, that he is usually at his best and most creative with amateurs and unknown actors, she could not but give him the chance. When El-Asfouri's workshop was announced, there were hundreds of anxious, hopeful applicants. What they sought, expected, or hoped for is anybody's guess. Possibly they had heard about his previous, magnificent theatrical conquests and adventures and wanted to learn from him. More likely, however, is that they knew he worked with stars in the commercial theatre and could possibly give them an opening there. In any case, 600 applied and out of those 50 were selected to train with him. The workshop lasted for over two months. What took up and took place in those long, daily sessions remains a mystery; no outsiders, especially critics, were allowed anywhere near the place. One of the participants, however, told me that they studied neither acting, voice nor movement, but spent most of the time improvising on the theme of the Napoleonic campaign on Egypt. This was palpably obvious in the general technical sloppiness which bedevilled every aspect of Historical Reportage, the demonstration which marked the end of El-Asfouri's workshop. Everywhere you could see how he had consistently opted for the easiest routes, encouraging his trainees to adopt a facile, shallow approach to the complex historical period they worked on and project it through a mixture of farcical caricature, insipid, gratuitous clowning and gross burlesque in which all the Egyptian characters appeared like cretins and dithering idiots and the French like fetid libertines or effeminate drunkards, with whorish, marionette-like females in tow as accessories. El-Asfouri wagered the success of his show on the enthusiasm and physical energy of his 50 young men and women and on the many circus and broad, popular comedy routines and stereotypes (consistently clumsily performed) that thickly overlaid the flimsy, tattered script. Energy, however, unless properly channeled, formally controlled and orchestrated, can end up as pandemonium -- a lot of senseless rushing around and a merciless, cacophonous din. As such, it can hardly sustain a show, particularly a thoroughly nihilistic one. Masquerading as a topical political skit on the current situation in the Arab world in relation to the West, Reportage ended up debunking everything and negating all human values and activities, including theatre. While Sweet Days ironically seemed to appropriate and propagate a flimsy version of "the American dream" long after it has lost credence in its own land, Reportage, despite a spurious political mask, seemed to care about nothing -- neither art nor history, the past or the present, or even those young people who poured their energy into it.
