Energy, energy, energy, and the desire to interact Profile by Yasmine El-Rashidi I work it out. Marianne Khoury has probably slept for 500 hours in the last four months. This is not normal. The average person will have slept about 900. But the figures are not really that surprising. She is, by her own admission, obsessive when it comes to work -- a fact that has propelled her to the forefront of the regional film industry. "I like throwing myself into things," she chuckles. "I believe you have to if you want to stand on your own and continue to produce and be independent. I can't get involved in something unless I'm convinced. I am extremely stubborn, but if I'm convinced then I must do it. When I get to that stage, it means I'm passionate about it. And once I am passionate about something, I become obsessive!" She talks fast, and laughs voraciously and a lot. Fatigue has clearly not set in. We sit in the hall area of Galaxy Cinema complex early on a weekday morning. The place is already buzzing with activity. The six-screen complex is hosting the European Film Panorama -- screenings of 84 documentaries and features. The event is Khoury's brainchild, and when it began, she relocated to the venue. "Literally," she laughs. "I decided I needed to be here all the time so I moved my office in. I didn't bother asking. I just brought my things and staff and parked myself here." The office consists of a long, wide desk stationed by the entrance to the auditorium the Festival is using. On it are piles of papers, flyers, notebooks, a pen holder and a laptop. From here the festival operates. And it operates efficiently at that, judging by its success. "It's amazing," she says. "I never expected it to work out this way. I felt there was a demand but couldn't calculate exactly how much. Which is why we're doing this, because the idea is to have a year-round screen to show these kinds of films -- different cinema, European, classics, Arab cinema, and also shorts. And other than 'needing' to be here to make sure everything is going as planned I also wanted to monitor audiences, to get a feel for what they want, and who they are." She was told that turnout would be low, especially given the start of the academic year. Of the 200 seats in the theatre, some cautioned, not more than 50 would be occupied. It turns out they were wrong. Most shows sold out days in advance, and the demand for certain films, such as Omar Sharif's Monsieur Ibrahim et les Fleurs du Coran, has been so high that additional screenings had to be scheduled. Even at the midnight show, which begins closer to 1am, people were clamouring to get in. "It's amazing!" she repeats. "And it's been so interesting as well to be here and see the audience. Each screening brings a different type. At one o'clock the ladies who have not been to the cinema for the past 30 years come. At 6.30pm we have a lot of teenagers. At midnight it's always a mix of ages and styles and looks." Marketing was the key. Khoury devised a direct marketing campaign through flyers, a website and the widely popular Nile FM, Negoum FM and Melody TV. "We didn't have a big budget, we couldn't place big ads in the local papers, so we approached it in a different way. The flyers we sent to schools brought an incredible response. Almost every morning we have a troop of schoolchildren. Today we have 240 coming! I told them the theatre couldn't seat that many and they said they didn't care, they would come anyway and sit on the floor." Marketing, however, is only one element in the success story. Evolving audience demand for certain movie genres is another. "There's a huge shift," Khoury reflects. "Documentaries are booming. It's something I keep thinking about, that maybe people are fed up with made-up stories, that maybe they want to feel things and know more. Maybe it's a direct reaction to the times we are living in, to the problems we face and everything that's happening in the world. It's chaotic and I feel everyone is lost, so I think sometimes people are thirsty for real stories." She trails off, seemingly calm amid the increasing commotion around her. It takes a moment for her to snap back. "That's my analysis, at least," she picks up. "Also, another thing to think about, is that it has become extremely expensive to make features. In the 1950s and 1960s, 200 Egyptian films were made annually, there was an industry. Now maybe something like 20 films are made on average, so every film is a big event. And unless you are extremely talented, and use the tools available in the best possible way, you can't really make it in cinema, it's too hard. With documentaries the cost is much less. The personal investment though is absolutely huge, and unless you are willing to make it you can't do it." Raised eye-brows hint at what is to come. "I worked in banking before this," she smiles, quickly glancing around her to make sure things are under control. "I studied economics and political science, finished my studies at the American University in Cairo in 1980, then did an MA in economics at Oxford. My father was also a producer/distributor, but he didn't want me to work in this field." A half-smile indicates seeming bemusement at how things turned out. "I think maybe because he had gone through difficult experiences. He was a big distributor in the 1950s -- during the golden years of cinema. But then during Nasser's time we all left, went to Lebanon, where he had to start all over again. Maybe that's why?" She pauses, but does not waste too much time over it. "Growing up, it's not that I wanted to go into film. I knew that I shouldn't," she elaborates, a laugh breaking out as she speaks. "So maybe this grew within me. Maybe there was an element of 'you shouldn't do that' and therefore you want to." Marianne is not to keen to talk about what is clearly professional success. "I don't think of myself and my career and goals and image on a day-to-day basis," she says, almost shyly. "I just do," she explains, swallowing the rest of her words and fiddling with her phone. "You know, growing up my father always used to tell me, 'your uncle is brilliant but crazy, you shouldn't work with him'." Her uncle is Youssef Chahine. "He's my uncle from my mother's side. Both he and my father worked in the industry, but they didn't bring each other in, they just found each other." But it was not the family connections that put her in the place she is today. "My father was determined that I work in economics. He came to Oxford for an OPEC conference, and went around telling people 'my daughter's studying here, you must hire her'. When I came back to Cairo I worked for 15 days as a translator for the producer of the film Gallipoli with Mel Gibson but then went into banking, credit analysis, for two years. I enjoyed the bank but knew I wasn't going to stay." In 1982 she entered film. It was the year her father died and perhaps, in a way, the move was a means of getting closer to this man she lost so young. It began with her fiddling on the location of Chahine's Hadouta Masriya (Egyptian Story), until eventually, much later, he offered her the post of executive producer of Wada'an Bonaparte (Goodbye Bonaparte). "It was a huge challenge, and I accepted the responsibility recognising that it was either make or break," she recalls. "I was completely crazy, working and not sleeping for two, three days. There was energy, energy, energy!" The more she produced, however, the more she began to feel frustrated. She wasn't quite fulfilled. "But I didn't have the courage to make my own film. I didn't dare." It took 10 years before she took that step, and her first excursion into directing was a documentary, Zaman Laura (The Times of Laura), on the Egyptian-Italian ballerina Laura Laurella. "It was at the time that digital cameras came onto the market. I started playing around, and I had a few friends that sort of helped and encouraged me to do it, because I wouldn't have dared otherwise. At the beginning, when I started, I didn't realise that I was making a film," she laughs. "I asked Laura what she thought of the idea, because I felt that she was definitely a character. My daughter used to go to her and when I used to pick her up, I would see Laura with her cigarette, standing tall." Marianne tilts her head up and curves her back. "You know," she moves on, "according to her, she's been 85 for 15 years!" "I felt it was an interesting idea, but it was just an outline. Then when I started working on it with a friend we discovered that she was a treasure. Little by little we learned fascinating things we could use. So the film started developing as we were doing it. And then I started to speak to people who knew her, and then I found that I was so involved with them that I had a responsibility. Every time I would meet someone they would ask me, 'so, how's the film'. It was then I realised I had to finish." We are interrupted. It is one of many diversions -- a phone call, a fax that needs instant response, a remote control that's missing, flyers that need to be sent and people that must be called. Something is missing, a person is missing, the film is about to run late. In the midst of it all she asks about her children, Sara and Youssef. None of it fazes Marianne. She is quick to respond, and focussed in her replies. "I want to try out our own projector later," she calls out to one of her assistants. "Don't fiddle with anything now. Don't fiddle with anything now." She turns to me and laughs. "You have to repeat things 10 times," she sidetracks. "You know my brother didn't live in Egypt for a time. When he was away he used to think I was crazy because I used to repeat everything I said. 'Why are you repeating yourself,' he would ask me. He's been back a while now. He's doing the same." The laughter ends abruptly, as Khoury resumes the story. "Laura," she begins. "It was interesting. I had four versions of editing. Every time I showed it to someone they would tell me 'why did you do this, you should start with the historical element'. So I did four versions, one was emotional, one was historical, each one different. Everyone I sat with messed up my head so I'd juggle the material again." She takes a deep breath, calls out to someone to answer the phone, asks another to take away her ringing mobile. "In the end I went back to the one I liked most, the original version." The audience liked it. And her uncle liked it. "She's crazy like me," he told the press after its first screening. Crazy, of course, implying creative ingenuity. Much has happened since then, and Marianne Khoury has become a driving force on the regional documentary scene. She produced and directed Ashiqat Al-Cinema ( Women who Loved Cinema), the first in a series on Arab women pioneers co-produced with directors from across the region. Although now she thinks she would cut it by 30 minutes if she were to do it again, the piece still aptly reflects the person who she is and that which inspires her. The main character is Nadia Wassef, a researcher Marianne met by chance. "I met her at the launch of her book, Daughters of the Nile, which she did with her sister. I knew when I saw her she was right for the film. I didn't want to work with an actress. I wanted someone to accompany me, someone who would inspire me. I didn't want an actress because I didn't want to tell someone to do this, do that. Instead I wanted to put her in a situation and see how she felt, how she reacted -- to document." "The documentary process is completely different from fiction. In fiction you can have a storyboard and you go to the location, which you've been to before and measured and you know where the camera will go, and how everything will be done. This is fiction � la Youssef Chahine. There is structure." "Documentary is different," she repeats. "When you go to a location there is something that happens between you and the place, you and the people. There's a reaction and there's absolutely no way you can predict it. A situation is created and based on that you build upon or around. This is how the flow comes. You may know sort of what you want, but then you go and something happens, and it clicks. Like in writing I suppose." And it is the things that happen, the seemingly mundane elements of every day life, that engage Marianne. In the opening scene of Women who Loved Cinema the audience is introduced to Nadia at the beginning of her day -- waking up, getting dressed, dealing with the turmoil of the bathroom scales, struggling with the mirror and the images it reflects. Clothes are tried on, discarded and flung onto the bed before Nadia is ready to venture into public space. "Those seven minutes were about introducing a character who is confused, frustrated, not sure what to do, not very confident about herself. And in a way, yes, it was a part of me," she says contemplatively. "You know, when I was young, I was an observer. Very shy, very quiet. I suppose documentary is natural for me in that sense, because it offers an outlet for expression, to share my perspective on the world, and to develop relations of course. Looking back I would approach the piece differently now, but that's what growth is. Now I'm definitely feeling better about myself, more confident. I have certain expectations of myself, and since I started producing my own documentaries I feel a different kind of energy, a different satisfaction." Satisfaction, however, does not mean she has any plans to stop. Or even pause. Documentary, for her, has become a way of life. "I have a weakness for documentaries because I love to work with people," she says, slowing down slightly and softening her words as she reflects on herself. "I like the interaction, I like that emotion and the relationship that transpires. Working with others is very nourishing, it gives you energy and opens you up to the world. It's very enriching, and that inspires me. Life is about people. Life is about our relationships, our interactions, what we do every day, what we're thinking. Maybe it's because all my relations, family, friends, were intense while growing up," she says, smiling. "Maybe it's just my way of reacting to the world."
