For many years, Arab cinema has been scampering for world attention, attempting to overcome the long-held stigma that the budding films of the region don't travel well abroad. The presence of Arab films in major festivals has increased over the past few years. Nadine Labaki has become a household name in international fest circuits, putting the developing Lebanese cinema on the map. Egyptian indies have become a staple attraction in fests like Toronto and Venice (who have been particularly generous in their support of our young local talents). Moroccan cinema — the most daring and exciting in the region — is expected to a have stronger presence in Cannes over the next few years. Palestinian cinema, meanwhile, is going through the motions, trying to redefine itself beyond the traditional, predictable storylines of the recent past. As for Jordanian cinema, the less said about both its filmmakers and its future the better. The so-called Arab Spring has gifted Arab cinema with a golden opportunity it never even dreamt of. Festivals the world over, big and small, are showing unprecedented interest in Arab cinema, salivating over any works with overt political messages that would incidentally spice up their selections. (The shunning of Daoud Abdel Sayed's superbly subtle “Messages from the Sea” by international fests two years ago over less artistic but politically obvious pictures is a case in point). This week, the Berlin Film Fest became the first major international film festival to present an entire line-up of Arabic films under the umbrella of an Arab Spring program that also includes several seminars and discussions given by the likes of “Kite Runner” star and political activist Khalid Abdalla, Townhouse curator Sarah Rifky, director of the Semat independent film company Hala Galal, in addition to a host of artists, filmmakers and curators from Syria, Lebanon, Tunisia and Morocco. This newfound Arab film mania begs the following questions: What is the real artistic value of these films? How will they travel in other world fests? Do they have any chance of acquiring theatrical or cable (VOD, POV) release anywhere beyond their indigenous market (which, apart from Egypt, is largely negligible in terms of box-office revenue)? Most importantly, what kind of legacy will these films leave? Can they inspire any development in Arab cinema? A look at the last edition of the Dubai International Film Fest gives a precise, objective indication of the current state of Arab cinema and where it's heading. The Abu Dhabi Film Fest is growing more prudishly, and arguably wisely, selective in their Arabic film line-up, beating competing fests at their own game by securing the rights for the most buzzed-about titles in the region in addition to a number of titles it has co-financed via the Sanad fund. Doha, meanwhile, is still suffering from an identity crises after an edition that was widely panned by Arab and international critics alike (2012 could prove to be its make or break year). To give itself a competitive edge over its rivals, Dubai has ventured to establish itself as the ultimate showcase for discovering and unearthing new talent ignored by other fests. The gamble has paid off in previous editions, but with the last one — held in December — the destitute reality of Arab cinema began to surface. A quick look at the Muhr Arab Feature competition demonstrates this point. None of the 10 featured entries justified their inclusion in the section; the few merits of two or three titles that did show some exciting signs were far outweighed by the same irredeemable defects that spoiled their predecessors. Jordanian film A prime example is Yahya Al-Abdallah's “The Last Friday” from Jordan. The Libyan-born filmmaker's debut feature has been the subject of extensive discussion ever since it premiered in Dubai. The handful of critics aside, though, the film was largely met with indifference. Its inclusion at this year's Berlinale has come as a surprise for several filmmakers and critics, including this one. Starring Ali Suliman and Yasmine Al-Masri — the star-crossed couple from Palestinian filmmaker Najwa Najjar's “Pomegranates and Myrrh” — the film centers on a 40-year-old car salesman attempting to come up with money for an urgent surgery in four days. His endeavor proves to be more arduous that anticipated, forcing him to weigh on his relationship with his young son and rich, empathetic ex-wife. The first part of the film — which won the Special Jury Prize, best actor for Ali Suliman and best score in Dubai — promises an intriguingly futile existential quest that sheds light on the emasculation of the modern Jordanian man. Abdallah adopts a measured pace reminiscent of Antonioni, impregnating his drama with plenty of silence. The visual style — comprised primarily of softly-lit, long unbroken takes — perfectly supplements both the mood and drama of the first part of the film. The true colors of the story soon surface though, and what was initially presumed to be a fascinating philosophical foray into the mind of a man searching for his place in new Jordan transpires into another muddled soapy drama with heavy inclinations towards petty sentimentality. What the story essentially boils down to is a wobbly, insubstantial anecdote about a goalless, disgruntled middle-aged man failing to cope with the challenges of parenting. There's a slight commentary about the growing class disparity and the rift in familial relations caused by neo-capitalism, but it's too vague, too shallow, too inert to make an insightful statement about Jordan. Abdallah's style thus feels like a gimmick to cover up the hollowness of this disfigured cinematic experience. With all its grave flaws, “The Last Friday,” nonetheless, has been regarded by some critics as a milestone in the trajectory of Jordanian cinema. That doesn't really say much about the big picture of an infant, unexciting cinema deeply steeped in the lazy, flat aesthetics of TV. “A Seven Hour Difference” is one such example. Deema Amr's debut feature tells the story of a cross-culture romance between a Christian Italian-American and a Muslim Jordanian. While leading a seemingly blissful life in New York, the couple starts to face reality when the boyfriend travels to Amman to propose to his girl and meet the family. Amr uses the urbanized Jordanian capital to unveil the hypocrisies and contradictions embedded in the unquestionable traditions and norms, but both the treatment and the message are blunt, obvious and valueless. The incredibly tedious direction doesn't show a hint of imagination; this humorless, self-important corpse of a film looks, moves and feels like a late TV special, peppered with insufferably clunky dialogue featuring gems such as “You think love is enough?” “I'm tired of being your secret American boyfriend” and “Think of us, your family.” The melodramatic heritage of TV is a burden bogging down the entire Jordanian cinema — and not just in narrative features but in documentaries as well — whose products thus far do not point to any promising direction. The stories that have come out of Jordan have been largely inane, unimpressive and utterly forgettable. The impression you get about Jordan from these films is that it resembles a well without water; a nation whose social reality doesn't encourage great stories. The filmmakers themselves haven't dared to shatter boundaries and experiment; their stories aren't only lacking proper aesthetics but mature, interesting and unfamiliar ideas. Familiarity is in fact the greatest bane of Arab cinema; a look at the current state of the rest of the region demonstrates this point.
Next week: More on Moroccan and Lebanese cinemas, a startling Syrian documentary and the future of Arab festivals. Randa Karadsheh and Thom Bishops in a scene from Deema Amr's "A Seven Hour Difference."
