Transnational Arab Stardom: Glamour, Performance and Politics 9781501393228, 1501393227

Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
Title
Copyright
Contents
Contributors
Part one The Arab Diva: Glamour in Pan-Arab Performers
1 Reading Umm Kulthum through Film: Egyptian Woman, International Star and Haunting Legacy (Laura Lohman)
2 Fame, Infamy, Renown and Celebrity in the Life of Asmahan (Sherifa Zuhur)
3 ‘Subversive to Boot’: Tahia Carioca, an Imagined Geography of Egypt (Carolina Bracco)
4 The Modern Marianne of Cairo: Arabness and Cosmopolitanism in Dalida’s Stardom (Barbara Lebrun)
5 Feiruz: Deconstructing a Legacy (Salma Yassine and Vicky Panossian)
Part two The Intersections of Gender, Class and Sexuality in Arab Stardom
6 Differently Empowering: The Performativity of Strong Female Leads by Faten Hamama and Hind Rostom (Wessam Elmeligi)
7 The Sexually and Politically Dissident Stardom of Lubna Azabal (Kaya Davies Hayon)
8 ‘For Those That Haven’t Given Up, Love Is Resistance’: Hamed Sinno and the Power and Perils of Mashrou’ Leila’s Music (Lowr
9 ‘Egypt, Africa!’: The Sonic Stardom of Mohamed Ramadan (Claire Cooley)
10 A ‘Little Narrative’: Elderly Actresses in Contemporary Egyptian Cinema (Dina Mohamed Abd Elsalam)
Part three Power and Politics: The Ideologies and Reception of Arab Stars
11 Habiba M’sika and Haydée Chikly: Tragic Transnational Fandom and the Feminist Legacy of the Earliest Stars of Arab Cinema
12 Stars in Arms: Egypt’s Movie Stars and the Free Officers (Ifdal Elsaket)
13 Reflections by a Filmmaker: On Omar Sharif – Stardom, Personas and Identity Redefined (Mark Lotfy)
14 Elia Suleiman: The Reluctant Star (Hania A. M. Nashef)
15 Jamel Debbouze: Intersectionality, Diaspora and Transnational Stardom (Will Higbee)
Index

Citation preview

Transnational Arab Stardom

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Transnational Arab Stardom Glamour, Performance and Politics Edited by Kaya Davies Hayon and Stefanie Van de Peer

BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC Bloomsbury Publishing Inc 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 29 Earlsfort Terrace, Dublin 2, Ireland BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in the United States of America 2024 Copyright © Kaya Davies Hayon and Stefanie Van de Peer and contributors, 2024 Cover design: Bahia Shehab Chapter artwork developed at Type Lab at The American University in Cairo, under mentorship of artist Bahia Shehab (https://www.bahiashehab.com/) All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Inc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Davies Hayon, Kaya, editor. | Van de Peer, Stefanie, editor. Title: Transnational Arab stardom : glamour, performance and politics / edited by Kaya Davies Hayon and Stefanie Van de Peer. Description: New York : Bloomsbury Academic, 2024. | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Summary: “A richly illustrated collection, structured along chronological, geographical and thematic lines, this book offers a significant new approach to Arab film studies and to star studies by expanding both fields through critical engagement by scholars from across the globe”– Provided by publisher. Identifiers: LCCN 2023025281 (print) | LCCN 2023025282 (ebook) | ISBN 9781501393228 (hardback) | ISBN 9781501393266 (paperback) | ISBN 9781501393235 (pdf) | ISBN 9781501393259 (ebook other) | ISBN 9781501393242 (epub) Subjects: LCSH: Arab motion picture actors and actresses. | Fame. | Motion pictures–Arab countries–Appreciation. | LCGFT: Essays. Classification: LCC PN2960.A67 T73 2024 (print) | LCC PN2960.A67 (ebook) | DDC 791.430917/4927–dc23/eng/20230829 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023025281 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023025282 ISBN: HB: 978-1-5013-9322-8 ePDF: 978-1-5013-9323-5 eBook: 978-1-5013-9324-2 Typeset by Newgen KnowledgeWorks Pvt. Ltd., Chennai, India To find out more about our authors and books visit www.blo​omsb​ury.com and sign up for our newsletters.

CONTENTS

List of Contributors  viii

Introduction: The Multi-Directionality of Transnational Arab Stardom  1 Kaya Davies Hayon and Stefanie Van de Peer

Part One  The Arab Diva: Glamour in Pan-Arab Performers 1 Reading Umm Kulthum through Film: Egyptian Woman, International Star and Haunting Legacy  23 Laura Lohman

2 Fame, Infamy, Renown and Celebrity in the Life of Asmahan  43 Sherifa Zuhur

3 ‘Subversive to Boot’: Tahia Carioca, an Imagined Geography of Egypt  63 Carolina Bracco

4 The Modern Marianne of Cairo: Arabness and Cosmopolitanism in Dalida’s Stardom  79 Barbara Lebrun

5 Feiruz: Deconstructing a Legacy  99 Salma Yassine and Vicky Panossian

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Part Two  The Intersections of Gender, Class and Sexuality in Arab Stardom 6 Differently Empowering: The Performativity of Strong Female Leads by Faten Hamama and Hind Rostom  115 Wessam Elmeligi

7 The Sexually and Politically Dissident Stardom of Lubna Azabal  133 Kaya Davies Hayon

8 ‘For Those That Haven’t Given Up, Love Is Resistance’: Hamed Sinno and the Power and Perils of Mashrou’ Leila’s Music  149 Lowry Martin

9 ‘Egypt, Africa!’: The Sonic Stardom of Mohamed Ramadan  165 Claire Cooley

10 A ‘Little Narrative’: Elderly Actresses in Contemporary Egyptian Cinema  185 Dina Mohamed Abd Elsalam

Part Three  Power and Politics: The Ideologies and Reception of Arab Stars 11 Habiba M’sika and Haydée Chikly: Tragic Transnational Fandom and the Feminist Legacy of the Earliest Stars of Arab Cinema  203 Stefanie Van de Peer

12 Stars in Arms: Egypt’s Movie Stars and the Free Officers  221 Ifdal Elsaket

13 Reflections by a Filmmaker: On Omar Sharif – Stardom, Personas and Identity Redefined  237 Mark Lotfy

CONTENTS

14 Elia Suleiman: The Reluctant Star  253 Hania A. M. Nashef

15 Jamel Debbouze: Intersectionality, Diaspora and Transnational Stardom  267 Will Higbee

Index  291

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CONTRIBUTORS

Dina Mohamed Abd Elsalam is Associate Professor at Alexandria University, Egypt, where she teaches Literary Theory, Classical Literature, Autobiography and Film. She is an Egyptian indie filmmaker with numerous awards to her name. She is also a novelist, essayist and short story writer. Carolina Bracco is Adjunct Professor of Gender and Feminism in the Arab World at the University of Buenos Aires, Argentina. Her research focuses on the image and the social imaginaries of women in Arab cinema with a particular focus on dancers in Egyptian film. She is currently completing a research project on Third World Cinema in Latin America and the Arab World (1954–75), exploring the composition of new gender roles, shared imaginaries and the role of Arab and Latin-American female filmmakers at the time. Claire Cooley is a lecturer in the Department of International Visual Studies at Tufts University, USA. She has published (and has forthcoming) articles in Film History, JUMP CUT, Spectator, Middle East Journal of Culture and Communication, and Sounding Out! and an essay in an edited volume on industrial networks of cinema in India. She is currently writing a book on the interconnected history of cinema between the Middle East and South Asia. Kaya Davies Hayon is Lecturer in Film and Media at the Open University, UK. Her research examines the intersections of gender, sexuality and ethnicity in contemporary Maghrebi cinemas. She has published articles on these areas in a number of leading journals, including Studies in French Cinema, Alphaville and Paragraph. Her monograph, Sensuous Cinema: The Body in Contemporary Maghrebi Film, was published in 2018 by Bloomsbury. Wessam Elmeligi is Assistant Professor, Director of the Center for Arab American Studies and Director of the Comparative Literature Certificate and Arabic Translation Certificate at the University of Michigan-Dearborn, USA. His Arabic poetics project formulates theoretical frameworks of Arabic literature. In his book, The Poetry of Arab Women from the Pre-Islamic

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Age to Andalusia (2019), he unpacks Arab women’s classical poetry as a poetics of rejection. His second book, Cultural Identity in Arabic Novels of Immigration: A Poetics of Return (2021), examines Arabic migration narratives. His forthcoming book, Dystopia in Arabic Speculative Fiction: A Poetics of Distress (2024), studies Arabic speculative fiction. Elmeligi has also written and illustrated two graphic novels, Jamila (2017) and Y and Y (2016). Ifdal Elsaket is Assistant Director of Arabic and Islamic Studies at the Netherlands-Flemish Institute in Cairo, Egypt. Ifdal received her PhD in History and Arabic and Islamic Studies from the University of Sydney, Australia, where she studied the history of cinema in Egypt, 1897–1952. Her work has appeared in the International Journal of Middle East Studies and Arab Studies Journal. Alongside Philippe Meers and Daniel Biltereyst, she recently co-edited the collection, Cinema in the Arab World: New Histories, New Approaches (2023). Will Higbee is Professor of Film Studies in the Department of Communication, Drama and Film at the University of Exeter, UK. His work focuses on questions of national and transnational cinemas, with a particular focus on cinemas of the Maghreb and its diaspora. He is the co-author of Moroccan Cinema Uncut (2020), Post-beur cinema (2013) and Mathieu Kassovitz (2005), and the co-editor of De-Westernizing Film Studies (2012). He was the Principal Investigator of the AHRC-funded Transnational Moroccan Cinema project and the subsequent project to restore, digitize and distribute two key Moroccan films from the 1980s and 1990s – A Door to the Sky (1989) and The Cliff (1997) – to new audiences in Morocco and around the world. Barbara Lebrun is Senior Lecturer in French Cultural Studies at the University of Manchester, UK. Her research focuses on French popular music and the representation of ethnicity, gender, generation and other cultural identities, across so-called mainstream and alternative music genres. She is the author of Dalida. Mythe et mémoire (2020) and of Protest Music in France (2009; winner of the IASPM 2011 Book Prize). She is also co-editor, with Catherine Strong, of Death and the Rock Star (2015) and the editor of Chanson et Performance (2012). Laura Lohman is Assistant Provost for Faculty Development and Innovation, director of the Center for the Advancement of Faculty Excellence and professor of Music at North Central College, USA. She has published on faculty development, hiring and evaluation, instructional design and

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technology and music. Her books include Researching Secular Music and Dance in the Early United States: Extending the Legacy of Kate Van Winkle Keller (2021), Hail Columbia! American Music and Politics in the Early Nation (2020) and Umm Kulthum: Artistic Agency and the Shaping of an Arab Legend, 1967–2007 (2010). Mark Lotfy is an Egyptian experimental filmmaker and producer. He explores the boundary between fictional narratives, documentary film and media art. His practice questions the everyday, the contingent and the virtual. He established Fig Leaf Studios in 2005, focusing on the work of emerging filmmakers. He produced I Am Afraid to Forget Your Face (2020), directed by Sameh Alaa, which won the short film Palme d’Or at the 2020 Cannes Film Festival. Mark also established, with fellow filmmakers, Cinedelta, an independent documentary film school that aims to create opportunities for young filmmakers through exchanges with international film experts. Lowry Martin holds a JD from the Texas Tech University Law School and a PhD from the University of California at Berkeley, and is associate professor of French Language and Linguistics at the University of Texas at El Paso where he is department chair and teaches French/Francophone literature and film. He is affiliated faculty both in Women’s and Gender Studies and the Center for Inter-American and Border Studies. Martin’s articles appear in French Forum, Lingua Romana, Journal of Bodies, Sexualities, and Masculinities among others. His current book manuscript, Sapphic Mosaics: Fantasy, Desire, and the Cultural Production of Paris-Lesbos, is under revision for the University of Nebraska Press and examines the creation of lesbianism as a cultural phenomenon during the French Third Republic. Hania A. M. Nashef is a professor in the Department of Mass Communication at the American University of Sharjah, UAE. Her research interests are multidisciplinary, publishing on literature and media. Her publications have included articles on comparative/postcolonial literatures, media representations, Arab and Palestinian film, and literary journalism. She is the author of Palestinian Culture and the Nakba: Bearing Witness (2019) and The Politics of Humiliation in the Novels of J. M. Coetzee (2009), and she has peer-reviewed journal articles and chapters on J. M. Coetzee, Mahmoud Darwish, José Saramago and Raja Shehadeh. Vicky Panossian is a second-year master’s student of Sociology and Social Anthropology at the Central European University in Vienna, Austria. Her research focuses on contemporary interpretations of kinship structures within Arab diaspora groups. She is interested in topics that range from

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Middle East cultural studies to anthropologies of heritage and memory making among Arabic speaking migrant community members. Bahia Shehab is a multidisciplinary artist, designer, political activist and historian whose work focuses on the interaction and intersection of modern identity and ancient cultural heritage. Her imaginative combination of calligraphy and Islamic art history produced cutting edge, beautiful, impactful street art during the Arab Spring and continues to inform her work as an educator and designer. Having always been concerned with identity and preserving cultural heritage, she investigates art history to reinterpret contemporary Arab politics, feminist discourse and social issues. Her culturally oriented work enables her to use history as a means to better understand the present and find solutions for the future. Stefanie Van de Peer is Reader in Film and Media at Queen Margaret University, UK. Her research focuses on the position of women in Arab and African cinema. As a film historian, she has a special interest in feminist film archives. Her publications include Women in African Cinema: Beyond the Body Politic (co-authored with Lizelle Bisschoff, 2021) and Negotiating Dissidence: The Pioneering Women of Arab Documentary (2017). She is currently running a Royal Society of Edinburgh-funded project on Global Women’s Film Heritage, in which participants investigate transnational networks of collaboration among feminist filmmakers. Salma Yassine is a master’s student of Arts in the Critical Gender Studies program at the Central European University in Vienna, Austria. She is interested in topics related to gender and sexuality in literature, film and media. Her research focuses on queer studies in contemporary Arab cultural contexts. Sherifa Zuhur is Director of the Institute of Middle Eastern, Islamic and Strategic Studies at the University of California, Berkeley, USA. Her research covers gender and Islamic movements, the arts, politics and social change in the Middle East. She is the author of Popular Dance and Music in Modern Egypt (2022) and Asmahan Secrets: Woman, War and Song (2000), and editor of Colors of Enchantment: Theater, Dance, Music and the Visual Arts of the Middle East (2001). She is a musician, research academic and singer, and has been a visiting faculty member at the American University in Cairo, US Army War College, Massachusetts Institute of Technology and other institutions.

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Introduction: The Multi-Directionality of Transnational Arab Stardom Kaya Davies Hayon and Stefanie Van de Peer

The Palestinian actress Hiam Abbass has risen to prominence against the backdrop of 9/11, the War on Terror and the growing hostilities between Euro-American nations and parts of the Arab world. She has appeared in nearly 100 films and TV series from across the globe, which, as Hannah Brown writes, is ‘an astounding achievement for an actress born in a small, Middle East country where she is part of a minority’ (2021). Born in Nazareth to an Arab Muslim family, Abbass moved to France in the 1980s but did not begin acting professionally until she was in her thirties (‘Hiam Abbass’ n.d.). She is best known for films that traverse the Arab world, are multilingual and typically cast her in roles that problematize stereotypes about Arab Muslim women and (older) female sexuality. Not only has she embodied a broad spectrum of Arab women from different ethnic, national and social backgrounds, but her versatility as an actress has allowed her to work across genres and to avoid being typecast in stereotypical roles as either an oppressed woman or a dangerous terrorist (Shaheen 2012). Abbass’s career started in Palestinian theatre, and her theatrical performance style verges between understated and pared down, on the one hand, and melodramatic, on the other, at times channelling Palestinian

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political seriousness, or the excess and glamour associated with the divas of the Golden Age of Egyptian film. She is a versatile actress who embodies a true sense of plurality and gives credence to the importance of the ‘everyday’ Arab woman in all her facets. Her performances have given shape to women of different nationalities and have incorporated multiple languages in films from Palestine, Syria, Egypt, Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia and more. In fact, Abbass has stated that she sees a real danger in how the media portrays Palestinians or Arabs as a ‘mass’ and that she finds it important to bring female individuality and uniqueness to her roles (Davies 2021). Abbass not only embodies the significance of politicized Arab independent cinema but also performs the transnational nature of Arab cultural identity. Though initially linked to arthouse films made and distributed outside of mainstream circuits (such as the Tunisian film Red Satin [Amari 2002], the Israeli films The Syrian Bride [Riklis 2004] and The Lemon Tree [Riklis 2008], and the Palestinian film Amreeka [Dabis 2009]), Abbass became recognizable internationally and amongst more commercial and mainstream audiences with her appearances in major Hollywood blockbusters like Blade Runner 2049 (Villeneuve 2017), her role in the hugely popular HBO series Succession (Armstrong 2018–present) and her presence in the Golden Globe-winning series Ramy (Youssef 2019–present). In the majority of her roles, she adopts a very physical performance style in which she utilizes her body as an expression of modern Arab womanhood, both through her sensuality and her (ageing) sexuality. This performance style is exemplified in Red Satin, in which Abbass’s casting as a middle-aged mother and belly dancer works, in part due to her transnational identity as a Palestinian living abroad (in London, Paris and elsewhere) and in part due to her ability to express her sexuality freely and theatrically. In addition to her experience in front of the camera, Abbass has worked as an advisor on Steven Spielberg’s Munich (2005) and Alejandro González Iñárritu’s Babel (2008), and has also turned her hand to directing, releasing her first feature film, Inheritance, in 2012. Her career not only subverts the typical lifespan of female stars but also challenges the limited popularity and recognizability of Arab actresses globally. Abbass is an excellent example of a transnational Arab star whose relatability extends across different cultural contexts and beyond national and regional geographical boundaries. Together with stars like Amr Waked, Hafsia Herzi, Lubna Azabal, Jamel Debbouze, Rami Malek and Nadine Labaki, Abbass forms part of a generation of transnational Arab stars who have gained notoriety and fame in film and screen industries across the globe and who are popular amongst audiences in different geographical and cultural contexts. That they have been able to attain global stardom in the context of geopolitical tensions between the ‘West’ and the Arab world is testament to their collective star power and to their ability to embody and dramatize key issues in global cultural politics. On the whole, these stars

INTRODUCTION

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have either managed to avoid reductive ethnic or national typecasting or have used their ethnic and national difference to their strategic advantage (Qiong Yu 2017: 4). The roles they have performed have tended to challenge pernicious stereotypes and have broadened the range of characters available to Arab actors to encompass figures other than ‘the bearded Muslim fanatic, the oppressed, veiled woman [and] the duplicitous terrorist’ that have all ‘emerged with renewed force since 9/11’ (Morey and Yaqin 2011: 2). And yet, despite their growing recognition in Hollywood, European and other film industries, these Arab stars often retain a strong degree of loyalty to the development of cinema in the Arab region and continue to support and perform in films made by local directors. In fact, they often have huge appeal within the Arab world and are celebrated for their talent, exportability and cultural resonance with different generations. This is certainly true of Abbass, who has continued to work on independent films and with Palestinian and Arab directors since gaining fame in Hollywood. She has appeared, most notably, in films like Dégradé (2015) and Gaza Mon Amour (2020) by twin Palestinian directors Arab and Tarzan Nasser and has cast local Palestinian actors and her own previous co-stars in her directorial debut Inheritance, which tells the tale of a wedding in Galilee. If the appeal of contemporary Arab stars speaks, in part, to their role in ‘dramatizing … the tensions of cultural change’ (Meeuf and Raphael 2013: 2), this is also true of the older generation. Despite not always rising to prominence in a globalized world where popular media products circulated with ease across borders, the older generations of Arab stars managed to achieve recognition both within the Arab region and sometimes beyond it. Indeed, major Egyptian stars such as Omar Sharif and Umm Kulthum became household names globally and remain key referents for the younger generation of stars. And yet, despite the emergence of a new generation of Arab stars and the continuing importance of the older generation, academic studies of stars, transnational stardom and world cinemas have neglected to attend to Arab performers or have only included isolated studies of major international (often Egyptian) stars. Most of the work on Arab stars remains confined to cultural studies and appears in texts on Middle Eastern history and culture. As such, it does not tend to engage with film and visual culture studies approaches or perspectives, or take into consideration the transnational dimension of many Arab stars. This edited collection, entitled Transnational Arab Stardom: Glamour, Performance and Politics, provides the first sustained attempt to look at Arab stardom as a transnational phenomenon. It includes fifteen chapters on stars from Syria, Lebanon, Palestine, Egypt, Tunisia and Morocco, and from the global Arab diaspora. The contributors attend to some of the neglected first stars of Arab cinema from the 1930s; shed new light on major historical stars from the Golden Age such as Umm Kulthum, Omar Sharif, Feirouz and Asmahan; create space for the new generation of Arab

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stars such as Lubna Azabal, Mohamed Ramadan and Jamel Debbouze; and broaden contemporary understandings of stardom to include (queer) performers like Mashrou’ Leila. Each chapter is grounded in the context of local and regional film cultures and film industries but also attends to the transnational circulation of Arab stars and their images both within and beyond the Arab world. In doing so, this collection seeks to broaden the concept of transnational stardom not just by including Arab stars but by looking critically at understandings of stardom and star studies from a multifaceted Arab perspective. Our non-hierarchical approach to stardom includes an effort to avoid using other cinemas as a starting point and to avoid comparisons with other film cultures. We emphasize an approach rooted in a deeply transnational sensibility, which thrives on plurality and a multiplicity of voices. As such, we not only explore stardom through the diverse and interdisciplinary lenses of production, performance, intertextuality, audiences, fandom and reception, but also from the perspectives of geographically dispersed and ethnically diverse scholars, film critics and industry professionals. The multifaceted nature of Arab stardom, then, is reflected in our multi-directional approach. The wealth of starting points in this book informs a pluri-vocal and multi-stranded web of knowledge that nonetheless aims to provide a coherent engagement with ideas of Arab stardom. In this introduction, we look at the three constituent parts of our collection’s title – transnational, Arab and stardom – asking first how the stars we collectively analyse relate to and broaden the concept of transnational stardom. Next, we query what is meant by the term ‘Arab’ and discuss who counts as an Arab star. Finally, we examine the notion of stardom and unpack the meaning and usage of concepts of special relevance to Arab stars. We argue that Arab stars need to be understood as transnational, and we attempt to develop new approaches to star studies that allow space for glamour, performance and politics, and the charismatic and affective appeal of the Arab star both within and beyond the Arab world. In what follows, we examine key texts on transnational stardom and outline how our collection relates to and broadens the concept of the transnational star by highlighting the multifaceted and polycentric dimensions of Arab stardom across the generations.

The Transnational Nature of Arab Stardom In recent years, film studies has seen an explosion of interest in the concept of transnational stardom and a number of key texts have emerged that have sought to relate the concept of the transnational to global stars. For example, Russell Meeuf and Raphael Raphael’s book, Transnational Stardom: International Celebrity in Film and Popular Culture (2013),

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analyses the circulation of film stars and celebrities across national borders, and argues that ‘stars attain transnational resonance at very particular moments of historical crisis or transition, offering up ideologies, emotions and sensations informing subjectivities that are able to manage or assuage the tensions of historical crisis’ (2013: 6). Meeuf and Raphael show how stars can be read as sites of cross-cultural exchange and might negotiate conflicting ideological and cultural discourses around issues such as gender, sexuality, ethnicity, class and nationality (2013: 2). Though they do not engage with Arab stars, Meeuf and Raphael’s approach is vital for understanding the transnational circulation of stars as well as their ability to act as sites of cross-cultural and ideological signification. Building upon Meeuf and Raphael’s work, Andrea Bandhauer and Michelle Royer argue, in Stars in World Cinema: Screen Icons and Star Systems across Cultures (2015), that Hollywood has tended to remain at the centre of transnational star studies, despite attempts to decentre its privileged position as a locus of power and as a global referent. Accordingly, Bandhauer and Royer attempt to turn attention away from Hollywood by focusing on stars from across five of the world’s continents (2015: 1). They adopt a pluricentric approach, whereby they refuse to ‘privilege any one star or community’ (2015: 2), emphasizing ‘the interconnectedness of cinemas between cultures, rather than a dichotomised approach that would oppose the West to the non-West, Hollywood to national cinemas or dominant to Third Cinema’ (2015: 3). Their book includes a chapter on an Arab star (Umm Kulthum) (by Ifdal Elsaket who also contributes a chapter to this book) and attempts to decentre Hollywood stardom by bringing diverse stars and cultures into dialogue with one another, thereby undermining traditional binaries and overturning hierarchies between Hollywood and other star systems. While the multiplicity of voices and stars in Stars in World Cinema is exciting and expands our shared understanding of stardom, its expansive nature makes it less interested than our own work in attempting to draw out broader conclusions about transnational or global stardom. Whereas Bandhauer and Royer look at transnational stars from across the globe, we seek to enable a sustained engagement with a regional cinema that has played a significant part in shaping an understanding of transnational stardom through waves of global recognition and rejection. In Revisiting Star Studies: Cultures, Themes, Methods (2017), Sabrina Qiong Yu and Guy Austin also challenge the dominance of Hollywood in favour of more local models. They look at the developments of screen stardom and take into account previously marginalized or overlooked stars (such as disabled stars, porn stars, child and animal stars). In the collection’s introduction, Qiong Yu, like Bandhauer and Royer, argues for a de-privileging of Hollywood but takes issue with the dominant national/ transnational approach in star studies and, instead, ‘[suggests] using the notion of translocal stardom to scrutinise the travel of stars and star texts

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beyond the local context’ (2017: 18). For Qiong Yu, the concept of the trans-local not only helps to set up a more equal and non-hierarchical relationship between different local stardoms, of which Hollywood is one, but also helps us to see beyond nation-states and their associated national stereotypes (2017: 19). While Qiong Yu’s criticisms of the concept of the transnational are no doubt justified, we remain committed to its use here because we believe that Arab stars negotiate different local, regional, national and cultural identities and because their images are engaged in a constant flow of movement between and beyond the countries that make up the Arab world. Many stars from the region and the diaspora lead decidedly transnational lives, performing in different Arab and world cinemas, and doing promotional work across the Arab region and in its global diaspora (Kraidy 2015: 164). Furthermore, as Marwan Kraidy writes (and as our earlier dissection of Abbass’s stardom shows), some leading Arab stars ‘have multinational biographies’ and perform in multiple different dialects and languages, ensuring that they have broad appeal across different national and linguistic contexts (2015: 164). Diasporic Arab stars and stars with Arab heritage who have been born and/or raised in the West also add to this picture as they often draw on multiple cultural and cinematic heritages, move between different national film industries and perform in a variety of languages aimed primarily at different national and linguistic audiences. As such, it is imperative to see Arab stars as transnational and to examine them through a framework that highlights and prioritizes what are, at times, their multiple affiliations to different cultural constructs. In this collection, we adopt what Will Higbee and Song Hwee Lim term a ‘critical transnationalism’, which engages critically and productively with ‘the interface between global and local’, and which ‘moves away from a binary approach to national/transnational’ (2010: 10). We find this concept useful as it not only encourages alertness to the ‘specific historical, cultural and ideological contexts’ (Higbee and Hwee Lim 13) involved in the production of stars, but also invites an awareness of the relationship of the post-colonial and the diasporic to the dissemination of star images and to their resonance at particular historical and cultural moments. This is vital when discussing Arab stars, not least because of the region’s complex (neo-) colonial pasts, but also because of the dominance of the Egyptian star system (discussed in detail in the next section of this introduction) and because of the different ways in which Arab stars and their images are marketed, exported and consumed in diverse local and regional contexts. Furthermore, the concept of critical transnationalism helps us to avoid pitting the West against the Arab world and, instead, allows us to move beyond binary thinking to consider the ways in which Arab stars destabilize this dualism and encourage a more polycentric mode of engagement.

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The Cultural Identity of Arab Stars Thus far, we have argued that Arab stars are transnational and have hinted that the region itself needs to be understood through this lens. But what exactly do we mean when we talk about ‘Arab’ stars? What do we understand by the term ‘Arab world’ and, indeed, by the denomination ‘Arab cinema(s)’? Questions about how to name and define the Arab region have been debated heatedly by academics. However, there remains no consensus on terminology. In Arab Cinema: History and Cultural Identity, Viola Shafik emphasizes the sheer diversity of the Arab world, arguing that it is not the monolith it is often perceived to be but is ‘made up of different communities, peoples, states, and governmental and societal forms’ (2007a: 1). In fact, as Shafik observes, the so-called Arab world is not linguistically, ethnically or culturally homogenous, with people from different religious sects and affiliations inhabiting the region (2007a: 1). Islam is the dominant religion (but even within this religious category, there is variation between different sects, such as Sunni, Shia, Druze and Alawites) and Judaism and Christianity are also heavily represented (Shafik 2007a: 1). Linguistically, there is no standardization; there are many different regional dialects of Arabic, and other languages also exist, such as Tamazight and Kurdish (amongst others) (Shafik 2007a: 1). As a result, Shafik concludes, ‘to include such a heterogenous region in a single study is problematic even when the subject is confined to a relatively clear phenomenon like feature film’ (2007a: 1). Certainly, the Arab world is complex and multifaceted. However, this should not dissuade us from looking at the region as a whole and from attempting to navigate those idiosyncrasies that make it geographically, politically and culturally different from other places in the world. In Hanan-al Cinema: Affections for the Moving Image, Laura U. Marks looks at films from the region but uses the term ‘the Arabic-speaking world’ as she believes this to be a ‘flexible definition that does not essentialize ethnicity or religion’ and does not exclude North Africa (2015: 9). She rejects the more commonly used term ‘the Middle East and North Africa’ and its acronym MENA because ‘the map it brings to mind is a Muslim map’ that ‘excludes sub-Saharan Africa, South Asia, Islamic Central Asia, and Indonesia’ (2015: 9). Others outside of academic contexts prefer the acronym SWANA (South West Asia and North Africa), which they view as a decolonial and ethnically and culturally inclusive term, and one that is favourable to ‘Middle Eastern, Near Eastern, Arab World or Islamic World’, all of which ‘have colonial, Eurocentric, and Orientalist origins and … conflate, contain and dehumanize [their] people’ (Swana Alliance). Clearly, there are nuances to each of these terms and none of them completely encapsulate the complexity of such a diverse region. In this

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collection, we have had to be pragmatic about our word choices and the way in which we indicate our own positionality – as editors, as chapter authors and as part of a collective of authors who come from around the globe: we have people writing here from Latin America, from Europe, from the United States of America, from the African continent and from the Arab world. We choose to use the terms ‘Arab world’ and ‘Arab stars’ because we feel they are the least ethnically and culturally delimiting, and also the most clearly understood beyond the academic world. SWANA provides a useful expansion on MENA; however, acronyms like these are not readily used in the region itself and can be obscuring to non-specialist readers. Our use of the terms Arab world and Arab cinemas is intended to be as inclusive as possible and to encompass the many different languages, ethnicities, cultures, geographies and religions that make up this diverse region, as reflected in the chapters and in the positionality of the authors. Accordingly, our understanding of what constitutes an Arab star is wide-ranging and incorporates stars who originate from the Arab world and who come from a range of different ethnicities and religions. For instance, this collection includes stars who belong to Arab, Jewish and Amazigh ethnic groups and who identify as Muslim, Christian, Jewish and non-religious. It also includes Arab stars who are of dual or multiple heritages and have been born and/ or raised in other parts of the world but still have some cultural or familial connection to the region. Our understanding, then, of the term ‘Arab star’ is necessarily transnational, encompassing as it does a range of national, regional, religious, ethnic and linguistic identities, and spanning stardoms across geographical and national boundaries, both within and beyond the Arab world. Still, not all stars and star systems are created equally, and this collection is at pains to avoid glossing over the power imbalances between different cinemas in the region, and to take into account the structural advantages and disadvantages that certain stars have to face, largely as a result of their geographical location. In this sense, it would be remiss of us not to acknowledge the fact that the Egyptian film industry has dominated the production and distribution of stars in the region significantly and, as Shafik argues, has served as a model for industries across other parts of the Arab world (2007a: 2). Egypt 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’ (Shafik 2007a: 2). The 1940s, 1950s and 1960s are generally considered the Golden Age of Egyptian Cinema and a time when, as Andrew Hammond has observed, Egyptian films ‘fed the dreams of the entire Arab world’ with now renowned stars such as Faten Hamama, Hind Rostom, Soad Hosni, Tahia Carioca, Umm Kulthum, Omar Sharif and others gaining fame and notoriety across the region and, in some cases, globally (2007: 121). Egyptian cinema at this time was considered the ‘Hollywood on the Nile’ (Darwish 1998) and was able – largely due to its hugely popular

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stars – to reach both the eastern and western parts of the region (Shafik 2007a: 26–7).1 The result was that popular Egyptian genres, especially the melodrama and the musical, not only inspired cultural production across the Arab world but also, as Shafik observes, ‘caused the audience in many regions to acquire at least a passive knowledge of the Egyptian dialect’ (2007a: 27). Egyptian cinema’s dominance also meant that aspiring stars from across the region flocked to Cairo in the hope of finding fame and fortune (Al-Mahdy 2020). In this respect, the film industry in Egypt contributed in no small part to shaping the careers and renown of stars from all over the Arab world (see Chapter 2 of this collection on the Syrian star Asmahan for an example), as well as of stars from within its own borders. Today, the Egyptian film industry remains a key hub and one that creates stars who function as key commodities in the promotion and marketing of film. As Shafik observes, ‘An audience commonly recognizes a film by the names of the star performers and not by its director’ (2007b: 197). Stars’ images adorn the pages of magazines, newspapers and postcards, as well as large billboards dotted around major Arab cities. While not wanting to reiterate the dominance of Egyptian film in the region, this collection pays due notice to the inspirational and talented stars that made up the Egyptian star firmament during the Golden Age, with chapters dedicated to Omar Sharif, Faten Hamama and Hind Rostom, Tahia Carioca and Umm Kulthum, and including those born elsewhere but working in the Egyptian film industry, such as Dalida and Asmahan. However, it also looks to incorporate lesser-known contemporary indie and arthouse Egyptian stars and to counterbalance the overwhelming focus on Egypt in studies of Arab stardom by giving equal weight to stars from other parts of the Arab world and its diaspora. But even when discussing those ‘minor’ stars, or stars of the different Arab systems, it is important to note that the Egyptian impact on cinema has been so substantial that Lebanese, Syrians and Palestinians, as well as Moroccans and Tunisians, have been impacted by its structures.

Stardom in and Beyond Arab Cinema Having delineated our usage of the term ‘Arab’ and explained that it encompasses a broad understanding of the cultural identity of a region that has, historically and politically, undergone many significant changes, we now turn to our conceptualization of Arab stars. In particular, we outline how this book brings together diverse understandings of stardom and star studies from geographically, historically and politically disparate backgrounds, and how these elements influence our understanding of the characteristics of Arab stardom. We ask: What is unique about Arab stars? How might we

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understand stardom in the Arab world, and how have different film cultures, industries and star systems shaped and produced Arab stars? As we have already established, Arab stars, like Arab cinemas, are a heterogeneous group with multiple different affiliations and performance styles, and with influences taken from across the globe. While scholars like Qiong Yu have advocated a move away from looking at stars through the lenses of glamour, charisma and desirability (2017: 2), the chapters in this collection suggest that these frameworks remain key for understanding some (though not all) Arab stars. In fact, divadom, glamour, performativity and melodrama are heavily associated with the performance styles of many Arab stars, particularly those who came of age during the Golden Age of Egyptian cinema. The Arab diva has a special dispensation in the history of Arab cinema. As Dalle Vacche explains, the word ‘diva’ is historically used to refer to the main actress, singer and character on the opera stage, but has slowly adopted a more negative connotation as an arrogant and temperamental woman (Dalle Vacche 2008: 1). Etymologically, ‘diva’ remains close to the word ‘divine’, except of course that the diva is simultaneously mortal and superhuman, particularly to their legions of fans (as is explored by a number of the chapters in this collection). The quintessential Arab diva is perhaps Soad Hosni, also nicknamed the ‘Cinderella of Egyptian cinema’, due to her rags to riches life story. Though she is not as famous in the West as Faten Hamama or Hind Rostom, Hosni had a hugely influential 30-year career in Egyptian melodrama. Her stardom grew out of the way in which her life appeared to imitate her art to such an extent that her star persona became inseparable from her actual identity and her enigmatic (and tragic) public life (Abdel-Fadil and Van Eynde: 12). The mystery surrounding Hosni’s personal life fed into her stardom and has continued past her death through the many rumours surrounding her suicide in London in 2001.2 She was said to have a divine way of dancing, an ethereal beauty and an innocent reputation, all of which fed into and developed understandings of the Egyptian star as a diva. As the contributors to this book show, alongside Hosni, several major stars from this era were venerated and idolized for their talent, glamour and charismatic on- and offscreen personas, and have continued to have a major impact on the acting and performances of more contemporary stars. In many ways, though, Hosni was the quintessential Egyptian diva, precisely because of the manner in which her life imitated that of other stars of Egyptian cinema who likewise had risen to incredible fame in a short period of time and who had similar rags to riches stories (see, e.g. the chapters on Umm Kulthum, Feirouz and Asmahan in this collection). Despite the diversity of stardom in the Arab world, there are some clear synergies in the way Arab stars have been represented on screen and these arise primarily in the acting and performance styles of some of the stars. Melodramatic acting styles have been emphasized through dramatic

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close-ups in static shots, monumental sets and spectacular costumes and make-up. Historically, many Arab stars have drawn from other cultural modes such as music, singing and dancing, and have integrated these modes into their performances. The talent necessary for musical performances is highly significant in Arab film cultures. Shafik (2007b) has explained at length how early Egyptian cinema was, in many ways, established as the dominant industry precisely because of the significance of song in Egyptian culture, specifically the impact of radio on popular culture. Musical stars were established well before cinema became an industry, but the importance of song was key to its blossoming. As Shafik explains, ‘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’ (2007b: 24). The merging of music and film also led to the establishment of popular genres such as the melodrama and the musical (or the musical melodrama), and of stars such as Umm Kulthum and Asmahan. Likewise, ‘dance, in particular belly dance, as well as music and songs were considered indispensable’ (Shafik 2007b: 25). The training and talent required for belly dancing translated into an immense admiration and veneration of stars such as Tahia Carioca, Samia Gamal and Naima Akef, not just in Egypt but around the world. This particular aspect of Arab stardom continues to have an impact on the contemporary film industry. Belly dancing is still seen as an important aspect of Arab cultural heritage, typically for women performers. What has changed, perhaps, is the gaze directors use to represent the inherent power of the dance and the ways in which the actresses or dancers perform their agency (see, e.g. Hiam Abbass’s performance in Red Satin, or Hafsia Herzi’s dance in The Secret of the Grain (Abdellatif Kechiche 2007), or Hanan Turk’s beautiful dance in Dunia, Kiss Me Not on the Eyes (Jocelyne Saab 2005)). Though the veneration of these singing and dancing stars has softened, the respect for the Arab cultural heritage they represent continues through younger stars’ commitment to musical modes of expression. While the focus of this collection is primarily on historical and contemporary film stars, we have also included chapters on music stars like Umm Kulthum and Dalida who have worked in film, on the dancer Tahia Carioca and on more contemporary musicians like Mashrou’ Leila and Mohamed Ramadan, precisely because of the crucial role that singing and dancing continue to play in the definition and formation of Arab stardom. If Arab stars are often venerated for their glamour and desirability, this is not to say that they are in any way vacuous or superficial. Rather, as many of the chapters in this collection indicate, Arab stardom plays a complex role in navigating politics, and both mainstream and independent Arab stars are often characterized by their decidedly political star images. In an article on revolutionary celebrity in the Arab world, Kraidy argues that this political dimension is a ‘distinctive feature of Arab celebrity’ past and present and

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needs to be understood as transnational because it ‘[spills] over national boundaries’ (2015: 165). As the chapters in this book show, historic stars such as Habiba M’sika, Faten Hamama, Asmahan and Feiruz either upheld or subtly challenged the political status quo, while more contemporary stars like Mashrou’ Leila and Lubna Azabal have used their roles and performances to explicitly criticize and expose political and ideological tensions across the Arab world. The entwinement of entertainment and politics in the work of these Arab stars is not unique, but does operate as an important category in the analysis of Arab stardom and as one that necessarily intersects with its transnational dimensions. In the final section of this introduction, we briefly outline which stars we cover and how they are treated by the contributors to this collection. Each contributor recognizes the challenges that different national cinemas and their film stars have faced and grounds their analyses of stars from across the Arab world and the diaspora in detailed knowledge of regional contexts and histories. Their understanding of Arab cultural identity is not restricted to the geographical space of the Middle East, but instead examines how Arab stardom has existed throughout the world. As such, this book represents a deliberate attempt to create a multi-directional understanding of the Arab star, moving from interrogations of private lives to public personae and screen lives, and back again from one art form to another, from medium to medium, from country to country and from one language to another. Whilst some of the chapters do engage with different screen media (such as television) and with the rise of social media and its role in the exhibition and circulation of stars, we do not include an extensive focus on relatively new phenomena such as (reality) TV stars or social media stars. We do recognize that this is a rich and fruitful area and one into which further investigation is needed.

A Note on Structure and Chapters This book is divided into three overlapping parts, each of which brings together analyses of Arab stars that highlight their multiple transnational and transcultural dimensions whilst also remaining attentive to specific local cultures, histories and contexts, and to wider geopolitical issues or tensions that might impact how the stars are perceived and received within and beyond the Arab world. We move from an exploration of divadom and glamour, to engagement with the intersections of gender, class and sexuality, and, finally, to a deep-dive into the political ideologies and reception of Arab stars globally. Within these sections we have attempted to include a sense of historicity, although due to the multi-directionality of stardom in the Arab world, older/past stars also appear in the sections on performativity and ideology. Stars, as icons and symbols, are intricately connected to

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contemporary ideologies or political discourses as well as to the way in which these change over time, and so their cultural capital constantly morphs and changes direction. As will become apparent from the chapter summaries, the contributions also bring in methodologies and approaches that often highlight the affective appeal of the transnational Arab star and the embodied dimensions of Arab stardom in particular. In doing so, the chapters in this collection highlight oversights and omissions in the field of star studies, which, up until now, has focused largely on stars as texts and has neglected to take into consideration recent cultural theories of embodiment and affect. Bandhauer and Royer go some way to redressing this imbalance by giving space to ‘theories of embodied spectatorship and the emotions’ (2015: 4), and a number of our contributors build upon their approach by showcasing the centrality of theories of affect, embodiment, the senses and the emotions to the study of Arab stardom. In the process, they examine how emotions and affects become attached to the Arab star body and attempt to understand how these more intangible aspects to stardom impact the perception and reception of stars audiences across contexts. The first part, ‘The Arab Diva: Glamour in Pan-Arab Performers’, includes contributions examining stars who have gained recognition across the Arab region and sometimes globally, and who epitomize the notion of divadom through the music-related glamour and charisma so central to Arab stardom. The contributors all highlight the limitations of Western models of stardom for understanding stars from the Arab world and unpick how concepts such as icon, myth and diva relate to Arab stars. This section begins with Laura Lohman’s chapter (Chapter 1) on the Egyptian star singer Umm Kulthum, in which the author performs readings of the star’s musical films, filmed international appearances and posthumous reception in order to better understand how she has challenged concepts of Egyptian and Arab femininity. Lohman deftly argues that Umm Kulthum’s films contributed to a shaping of her star persona and promoted a form of chaste femininity that nonetheless allowed her to retain a distance from her own rural roots and that reinforced her associations with piety, authenticity and pan-Arab nationalism. Asmahan, the great Arabic singer of Syrian origin, had a brief but exciting musical film career in Egypt. In Chapter 2, Sherifa Zuhur returns to previous work she has done on Asmahan’s career and life, exploring her pan-Arab identity and appeal, and the construction of her stardom through the press media and public discourse, which aided the Egyptian star system. As a talented, beautiful singer, Asmahan became a film star in the early days of the studios, which propelled her and other young women to stratospheric fame. She died tragically at a very young age, which has in some ways conserved her memory, as the public continues to think of her as youthful, daring and beautiful. Asmahan’s specific legacy places her among those tragically killed

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and whose celebrity lives on in an Arab nostalgia for the Golden Age of the Egyptian musical. Further exploring the themes of performance and iconicity, Carolina Bracco (Chapter 3) examines Tahia Carioca’s belly dancing performances and her significance in international understandings of belly dancing. This chapter strikes an affective and reflective note, mediating on the author’s own relationship with the famous Egyptian belly dancer. Bracco re-reads the appropriation of Carioca’s image in post-colonial (male) scholarship and performs a biographical analysis of her stardom that highlights its transnational and ideological dimensions as well as its legacy today. Barbara Lebrun’s chapter (Chapter 4) on the pan-Arab and cosmopolitan star Dalida maps her ‘flexible Arabness’ (p. 79) across her songs and films and in media discourses. Lebrun engages with theories of transnational celebrity, cosmopolitanism and multimodality to unpack how Arabness relates to Dalida’s stardom. Analysing Dalida’s reception and portrayal in media discourses, songs and film, Lebrun emphasizes the affective and emotional dimensions of her subject’s stardom as well as her cosmopolitanism, transnationalism and ambivalent Arabness. In Chapter 5, Salma Yassine and Vicky Panossian dissect the stardom of the Lebanese singer Feirouz, examining the star as a cultural and artistic icon, and arguing that her image is often used to communicate certain narratives of Lebanese national identity. They look at Feirouz’s iconic status and different legacies and analyse the affective and emotional appeal of her songs and lyrics, unpacking how they resonate at local, regional and international levels. The second part of this book, ‘The Intersections of Gender, Class and Sexuality in Arab Stardom’, brings together contributions that look at how different genders, sexualities and classes interact and intersect in the on-screen and off-screen personas of Arab stars from across different geographical and temporal spaces. Wessam Elmeligi’s chapter (Chapter 6) opens this section by discussing some of the most iconic roles of two divas of the Egyptian silver screen, Faten Hamama and Hind Rostom. He performs a close feminist reading of their roles as actresses and as stars, arguing that these two mainstream actresses became the victims of a star system that typecast them and investigating how the two stars challenged their typecasting through their re-appropriation of the male gaze. The chapter closes with a reflection on the international significance of these two Egyptian stars in Lebanese and Moroccan, but also in European and American, cinemas, thus making explicit the transnational relevance of Egyptian stardom. In Chapter 7, Kaya Davies Hayon discusses Lubna Azabal as a star of independent Arab cinema who specializes in subversive roles that enable her to be read as a sexually and politically dissident star. This dissidence emerges not solely from her characters’ sexual and ideological identities but from affective modes that encourage the spectator to read her performances as subversive critiques of Western imperialist politics. Davies Hayon queries

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the extent to which Azabal’s performances can be read as registering a challenge to imperialist ideologies that reproduce heteronormative racial and sexual politics. Continuing the attention paid to music and performance in Part I, Lowry Martin’s chapter (Chapter 8) on the queer Lebanese band Mashrou’ Leila shows how various kinds of resistance to entrenched structures of power in the Arab world continue to be enacted through music, videos and lyrics. While not film stars, Mashrou’ Leila are highly interested in visual representation and their videos are in many ways small filmic narratives. Martin acknowledges that music and song have always played a deep and abiding role in Arab cultures and uses Mashrou’ Leila’s work to show how musical performances continue to bridge cultural and religious differences and create a shared history and affective catalogue. In Chapter 9, Claire Cooley looks at the controversial Egyptian singer Mohamed Ramadan, examining his many songs and performances to argue that the star’s sonic body projects specific ideas about race, class and masculinity that resonate internationally. Cooley argues that Ramadan’s co-optation of global hip-hop iconography through social media platforms like YouTube and Instagram has allowed him to reach both regional and global audiences. In the process, Ramadan benefits from a mobility that stands at odds with his attempts to assert a unifying pan-African identity. Next, Dina Mohamed Abd Elsalam (Chapter 10) analyses the representation of elderly female stars in contemporary Egyptian cinema since the 1990s. She discusses the disparate industries of commercial, popular and independent/arthouse cinema in Egypt and the ways in which elderly actresses move between these industries as their bodies and abilities change. Elsalam shows how these actresses occupy different roles in mainstream and indie films and argues that their ability to circulate across the Arab region and beyond is dependent on whether their films adopt a popular genre or are more suited to arthouse festival circuits. The third part, entitled ‘Power and Politics: The Ideologies and Reception of Arab Stars’, collates chapters that examine the intersections of power, politics and entertainment in Arab stardom. Stefanie Van de Peer (Chapter 11) looks at Habiba M’sika and Haydée Chikly, the very first African and Arab female stars. Both were Jewish stars whose careers were tragically cut short in spite of enormous popular and critical success. Through a problematization of archival practices, this chapter first engages with the significance of ethnicity, social class and fandom and then with the role gender plays in canon formation and the subsequent obscurity of female stars. Next, Ifdal Elsaket (Chapter 12) looks at the relationship between Egypt’s major stars of the Golden Age and the Egyptian political classes, arguing that the Free Officer’s coup d’état of 1952 relied heavily on the mobilization of celebrity and star endorsements, thereby ‘reflecting a new relationship between postcolonial politics and popular culture’ (223).

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Rather than focusing on star biographies, Elsaket provides a fascinating analysis of the institutional relationship between Egyptian stars and the state that demonstrates how these stars shaped political experience across the Arab world. In Chapter 13, Mark Lotfy, an indie filmmaker, writes up the research he has done for a film he planned on global Egyptian film star Omar Sharif. Lotfy’s biographical excavation of Sharif’s life is rooted in the filmmaker’s perspective about the simultaneous persistence of his image and the obscurity of his voice so typical of actors deeply embedded in hierarchical star systems. The reader is taken through Lotfy’s examination of the multidirectionality of Sharif’s journey through the global film world and, in the process, discovers the journey of a young contemporary artist engaging with his country’s silver screen heritage. In her chapter on Palestinian director-actor Elia Suleiman (Chapter 14), Hania A. M. Nashef discusses reluctant stardom. She uses Suleiman as a case study to explore what happens when an actor-director self-consciously creates their own star image as a reluctant star in a film culture that is so multi-directional as to be quintessentially transnational. In his silent, deadpan presence as a witness, Suleiman implicates his audience in the slippery concept of stardom. A reluctant star, for Nashef, is a star who operates on the margins and whose presence is as much about cultivating a sense of accountability in the audience as it is about expressing the essence of the Palestinian experience. The comedic Franco-Moroccan actor Jamel Debbouze has become one of contemporary French cinema’s most visible and bankable stars, argues Will Higbee in Chapter 15. Higbee discusses the star as an actor, polyglot and producer and argues that his stardom bridges traditional modes of consumption, production and hyper-consumerist modes of celebrity. Debbouze is a quintessential intersectional star, combining diverse identities of class, race, ethnicity, ability, language and religion, and Higbee’s chapter navigates how Debbouze’s Arab and French identities are best understood through the lenses of transnational, diasporic and intersectional stardom. Each chapter in this book is enriched with a visual interpretation of the writing by a young artist. These artworks were brought to us by renowned Egyptian artist, activist and academic Bahia Shehab, who curated a collection of artistic interpretations of the legacies of the stars present in this book, obtained through a workshop she organized with her students at the American University in Cairo in January 2023. These digital images draw on the artists’ own impressions and knowledge of the stars and merge this with the arguments made by each of the chapter contributors to this collection. As such, they accompany each chapter in lieu of an abstract, as the image distils the essence of the chapter in a visual response. Shehab has also provided the cover image of the book, for which we extend to her our gratitude.

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The very wide variety of artistic, critical and scholarly pieces included here speaks to the collection’s desire to avoid approaching these diverse stars from a distanced or wholly privileged academic perspective. Instead, we seek to bring together academics, artists, filmmakers and film critics from across the globe, all of whom write from a place of deep affection for the stars they study. In so doing, we have sought to generate a collection that is rooted not in Anglophone scholarship or Euro-American perspectives on Arab stars but is shot through with the multi-directional and methodologically diverse approaches of a set of contributors from all over the world and with different backgrounds and experiences. Including diverse contributors has been of particular importance to us as editors as neither of us identify as Arab. While we have worked on filmmaking from this region for several years, we have been keen to incorporate the perspectives of those originating from and living in the Arab world, in order to avoid imposing our own biases and viewpoints, and to ensure the collection is true to its intention to bring to the forefront the voices of scholars living and working in the region. This book represents a labour of love. It has been collectively produced against the backdrop of a changing political and cultural landscape globally due to events like the Covid-19 pandemic and movements like #MeToo and Black Lives Matter, all of which have contributed to shaping our approach to the subject matter. We hope that Transnational Arab Stardom will provide a useful basis for anyone interested in Arab stars. However, we are aware that – as with all collections of this nature – it contains blind spots and areas that merit further investigation, for example, the impact of the Arab Spring on stardom, or the growing centrality of social media in shaping stardom and celebrity. We believe that this collection, with its myriad contributions shedding new light on established, iconic and emerging stars, presents an exciting starting point for the study of Arab stardom and opens up doors for further study in this area. In particular, we would urge those interested in this area to engage in further investigations into stars such as Hiam Abbass, Hafsia Herzi, Nadine Labaki, Rami Malek, Amr Waked and others who we were unable to include here; into explorations of the burgeoning area of digital and social media stardom; and into the fields of audience reception and fandom. By taking the first steps to mitigate the under-representation of Arab stars in transnational film and star studies, we hope to not only bring new perspectives to bear on this area but to inspire new avenues of investigation that build upon and develop the exciting work collated in this collection.

Notes 1 The study of the Arab world is often divided into Maghreb studies and Mashreq studies. In Arabic, ‘maghrib’ means west and ‘mashreq’ means east. While this

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division makes sense in pragmatic terms, it is not useful in the study of Arab cinema, due to the exchange between Egypt and the Maghreb, and the impact Egyptian cinema has had on the region as a whole. In fact, this distinction between east and west is a direct result of colonialism, and a response to the huge popularity of the Egyptian star system and ‘Hollywood on the Nile’. In 1946 the French established Studios Africa in Tunisia, to compete with the dominance of Egyptian cinema (Shafik 2007b: 16). These studios were entirely French in that they had no local staff on their books and as such had no long-term impact on Arab filmmaking. In the 1950s this studio was moved to Algeria, and subsequently failed with Algerian independence. 2 Lebanese filmmaker Rania Stephan made the archival film The Three Disappearances of Soad Hosni (2011), which consists entirely of VHS tape fragments of the star in her acting roles and through interviews. The film highlights the intertwined nature of the Egyptian Golden Age and Hosni’s stardom.

Filmography Amreeka (2009), [Film] Dir. Cherien Dabis, Palestine: First Generation Film. Babel (2006), [Film] Dir. Alejandro González Iñárritu, USA: Paramount Pictures. Blade Runner 2049 (2017), [Film] Dir. Denis Villeneuve, USA: Warner Bros. Pictures. Dégradé (2015), [Film] Dir. Arab Nasser and Tarzan Nasser, Palestine: Le Pacte. Dunia, Kiss Me Not on the Eyes (2005), [Film] Dir. Jocelyne Saab, Lebanon/ Egypt: CDP. Gaza Mon Amour (2020), [Film] Dir. Arab Nasser and Tarzan Nasser, Palestine: Les Films du Tambour. Inheritance (2012), [Film] Dir. Hiam Abbass, Israel, France, Turkey: Diaphana Films. The Lemon Tree (2008), [Film] Dir. Erin Riklis, Israel: IFC Films. Munich (2005), [Film] Dir. Steven Spielberg, USA: Universal Pictures. Ramy (2019), [TV series] Dir. Ramy Youssef, USA: Hulu. Red Satin (2002), [Film] Dir. Raja Amari, Tunisia: Zeitgeist Video. The Secret of the Grain (2007), [Film] Dir. Abdellatif Kechiche, France: France 2. Succession (2018), [TV series] Dir. Jesse Armstrong, USA: Warner Bros. Television Distribution. The Syrian Bride (2004), [Film] Dir. Erin Riklis, Israel: Koch-Lorber Films. The Three Disappearances of Soad Hosni (2011), [Film] Dir. Rania Stephan, Lebanon: Joun Films.

References Abdel-Fadil, M., and K. Van Eynde (2016), ‘Golden Age Divas on the Silver Screen: Challenging or Conforming to Dominant Gender Norms?’, Journal of African Cinemas, 8: 1, 11–27.

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Al-Mahdy, D. (2020), ‘The Golden Age of Egyptian Cinema’, Ahram Online, 7 April 2020. https://engl​ish.ahram.org.eg/News​Cont​ent/50/1209/366​778/AlAh​ ram-Wee​kly/Focus/The-gol​den-age-of--Egypt​ian-cin​ema-.asp​xonl​ine (accessed 16 August 2022). Austin, G., and S. Qiong Yu, eds (2017), Revisiting Star Studies, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Bandhauer, A., and M. Royer, eds (2015), Stars in World Cinema: Screen Icons and Star Systems across Cultures, London: Bloomsbury. Brown, H. (2021), ‘Watching Hiam Abbass’, Tel Aviv Review of Books, Spring 2021. https://www.tarb.co.il/the-pale​stin​ian-isra​eli-actre​sss-jour​ney-from-thegali​lee-to-intern​atio​nal-star​dom/ (accessed 16 August 2022). Dalle Vacche, A. (2008), Diva: Defiance and Passion in Early Italian Cinema, Austin: University of Texas Press. Darwish, M. (1998), Dream Makers on the Nile, Cairo: American University in Cairo Press. Davies, E. J. (2021), ‘“People Want Imperfection”: Hiam Abbass on Succession, Ramy and Playing Complex Women’, The Guardian, 16 February 2021. https:// www.theg​uard​ian.com/tv-and-radio/2021/feb/16/hiam-abb​ass-interv​iew-suc​cess​ ion-ramy-comp​lex-women (accessed January 2023). Hammond, A. (2007), Popular Culture in the Arab World: Art, Politics, and the Media, Cairo: American University in Cairo Press. ‘Hiam Abbass’ (n.d.), Rotten Tomatoes. https://www.rot​tent​omat​oes.com/celebr​ity/ hiam​_abb​ass (accessed 16 August 2022). Higbee, W., and S. Hwee Lim (2010), ‘Concepts of Transnational Cinema: Towards a Critical Transnationalism in Film Studies’, Transnational Cinemas, 1(1): 7–21. Kraidy, M. (2015), ‘The Politics of Revolutionary Celebrity in the Contemporary Arab World’, Public Culture, 27(1): 161–83. Marks. L. U. (2015), Hanan-al Cinema: Affections for the Moving Image, Cambridge: MIT Press. Meeuf, R., and R. Raphael (2013), Transnational Stardom: International Celebrity in Film and Popular Culture, New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Morey, P., and A. Yaqin (2011), Framing Muslims: Stereotyping and Representation after 9/11, London: Harvard University Press. Qiong Yu, S. (2017), ‘Introduction: Performing Stardom: Star Studies in Transformation and Expansion’, in G. Austin and S. Qiong Yu (eds), Revisiting Star Studies, 1–22, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Shafik, V. (2007a), Arab Cinema: History and Cultural Identity, Cairo: The American University in Cairo Press. Shafik, V. (2007b), Popular Egyptian Cinema: Gender, Class and Nation, Cairo: American University in Cairo Press. Shaheen, J. (2012), Reel Bad Arabs: How Hollywood Vilifies a People, Northampton, MA: Olive Branch Press. Swana Alliance, https://swanaa​llia​nce.com (accessed 16 August 2022).

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PART ONE

The Arab Diva: Glamour in Pan-Arab Performers

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1 Reading Umm Kulthum through Film: Egyptian Woman, International Star and Haunting Legacy Laura Lohman

Umm Kulthum epitomizes the contradictions that have long been fundamental to star studies. On the one hand, the Egyptian singer and actress achieved stardom by defying key expectations of an Egyptian woman. On the other hand, she sustained her career and expanded her fan base by carefully tailoring her image in relation to such expectations, both through her career in Egypt and her international performances. As was true for the historical female performers she portrayed in several films, sustaining her career required navigating boundaries separating proper and improper (Nielson 2017: 76). Film was a prominent site through which she negotiated those boundaries and articulated her image. While Umm Kulthum achieved star status in the 1920s, Elsaket notes that ‘it was during her cinematic career, as she combined visual and aural representations, that her star persona acquired sharp focus’ (2015: 39). Still known as the ‘Star of the East’, Umm Kulthum’s image has been continuously shaped through representation on screen. This chapter uses readings of her musical films, filmed international appearances and

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FIGURE 1.1  Reading Umm Kulthum through film. Source: Designed by Sara Elmeniawy.

posthumous reception through film to chart how her rise to fame, shaping of her persona and international reception have articulated and challenged concepts of Egyptian and Arab womanhood and stardom. The first section contextualizes Umm Kulthum’s rise to fame and outlines the mutual benefits afforded young Egyptian singers and the early-twentieth-century Egyptian film industry. The second section examines how her films delineated concepts of Egyptian and Arab womanhood by reading her performances against representations of women in film and popular print media. The third section articulates how her international on-screen appearances later in her career related to the mature persona that she diligently cultivated. The final section considers how her posthumous reception through film has reinforced varying representations of Egyptian and Arab womanhood. With particular attention to the film Looking for Umm Kulthum (Shirin Neshat 2017), this section considers her haunting legacy and its interaction with contemporary conceptions and experiences of Arab womanhood. Umm Kulthum provides an intriguing case that highlights the limits of stardom through reference to Western models.

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Singers and the Early Egyptian Film Industry Umm Kulthum’s career illustrates the mutual benefit exchanged between Egypt’s singers and its early film industry. Following the first film shootings in Egypt in 1897, the 1920s brought growing attention to short films and documentaries and the expansion of women’s roles from acting to producing and directing films (Shafik 2001: 24–5, 36–7). From 1935, films could be made entirely in Egypt with the establishment of Studio Misr, which focused on feature films. As the film industry emerged, Umm Kulthum transformed from a singer of religious songs traversing the Nile Delta to a polished singer of romantic songs on the Cairo entertainment scene. Recognizing her childhood vocal talents, her father had included her in his musical group that performed at weddings and holidays in Delta villages. She was dressed in a boy’s coat to mitigate potential reputational damage from public performances associated with drunkenness and other vices (Danielson 1991: 303; Danielson 1997: 44–5). As others saw her musical talents, they convinced her father to relocate his family to Cairo. Adapting to urban tastes, she began performing and recording romantic songs accompanied by talented performers on the ‘ud (lute), qanun (zither), nay (reed flute), violin and riqq (tambourine); they replaced the chorus of male village relatives criticized for their rough singing and uncouth interactions with audiences. She exchanged her rural garb for stylish urban dresses. She obtained increasingly favourable recording contracts in the 1920s, and by 1928 took over from her father control of her contracts and finances (Danielson 1991: 299). She quickly became a regional star, with a 1932 concert tour taking her to Tripoli, Damascus, Baghdad and Beirut (Wegerhoff 2019). Along with recordings and radio broadcasts of her performances, the third crucial medium for Umm Kulthum’s rise to fame was film. Once sound films appeared in 1932, the next decade established key film genres and the Egyptian star system. Leading genres included the musical film, melodrama, comedy, historical films and Bedouin films. The first film stars came from established entertainment traditions such as theatre and music, as the ‘singing star’ was already the primary draw in musical theatre (Danielson 1991: 296). Starring musicians included Umm Kulthum, Mohammed Abdel Wahab, Layla Murad and Farid al-Atrash. Belly dance also became a common film element, and dancers Badia Masabni, Tahia Carioca and Samia Gamal were among early film stars. Egypt’s film industry benefited from musical films’ broad appeal, and recording companies and singers in turn benefited from exposure and image enhancement offered by sound film (Elsaket 2015: 37, 39). Roughly a third of

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Egyptian films produced between 1931 and 1961 were musicals. Musicians often starred in melodramatic films involving an aspiring musician’s love story or love inappropriate to one’s rank (Shafik 2007: 112). For example, in the musical The White Rose [al-Warda al-Bayda] (Muhammad Karim, 1933), which appeared before Umm Kulthum’s first film, composer and singer Mohammed Abdel Wahab played a poor young man in love with his wealthy employer’s daughter. Through international distribution of such musical films and recorded songs, the Cairene dialect of Arabic became known and understood widely throughout the Middle East (Shafik 2001: 40, 46). Reflecting the star status and popularity she had already achieved through concerts, recordings and radio, Studio Misr’s first film, released in 1936, was also Umm Kulthum’s first film: Widad (Ahmad Badrakhan, Fritz Kramp and Gamal Madkoor 1936). Unlike actresses in other emerging film industries, such as early Indian and Iranian cinema, Umm Kulthum exhibited significant control over her image, film roles, plots, casting and music. For Widad, she provided the plot concept and helped Ahmad Rami write the screenplay (Cooley 2021; Danielson 1997: 89; Elsaket 2015: 43–5; Starr 2020: 156). Given Umm Kulthum’s high degree of control over her image, music and films, it is worthwhile to consider more closely how her film appearances related to changing concepts of Egyptian and Arab womanhood.

Womanhood in Umm Kulthum’s Feature Films Umm Kulthum’s films exhibit several commonalities, including their relationship to her life story and representations of Egyptian and Arab womanhood. Her film roles reinforced key aspects of her life narrative, including her modest background. In all six of her films, she played a woman from a lower socio-economic background: a slave girl in Widad Dananir (Ahmad Badrakhan 1940) and Sallama (Togo Mizrahi 1945), and a poor mother, daughter and nurse in Song of Hope [Nashid al-Amal], (Ahmad Badrakhan 1937), Aida (Ahmad Badrakhan 1942) and Fatima (Ahmad Badrakhan 1947), respectively (Elsaket 2015: 45). She selected these roles from a wider range of images of Egyptian and Arab womanhood. When Umm Kulthum came to fame in 1920s Cairo, celebrities represented a new culture of urban entertainment, particularly through their appearances in print media such as magazines and newspapers. Female performers, including theatre actresses and singers, became widely recognized figures (Metcalf 2008: 341). These celebrities, working women, added to the changing imagery of Egyptian women. For example, the Egyptian New Woman, who emerged at the turn of the century, was

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equipped to educate and raise responsible children, manage a home and, by doing so, support national advancement. Her younger counterpart, the Modern Girl, sported a bob and lipstick and was more concerned with vanity, self-indulgence and commodities. Print advertisements metonymized Egyptian womanhood through a slender elite woman, no longer secluded at home and visually distinct from both her middle-class counterparts and the working woman engaged in agriculture, trade or craft. The standard of female beauty articulated through these figures was slender, clean, fair and European (Russell 2004: 2–3; Russell 2010: 20, 29–30). Amid these developments, Umm Kulthum’s posed photographs show the influence of varied Western fashions and hair styles as she shed her ‘countrified’ image (Danielson 1991: 298) and developed a more sophisticated urban one. By the 1930s a new phase of celebrity developed as sound film eclipsed theatre as the dominant dramatic form (Metcalf 2008: 343). Common character types included virtuous Bedouin girls, young aristocratic women, singers, dancers, reluctant prostitutes and vamps (Shafik 2001: 42–4). Film sets and star photographs were influenced by contemporary Hollywood trends. Umm Kulthum’s film photos from this period reflect new Western styles, like the centre parted, softly waved and pinned hairstyle featured in Song of Hope. In contrast to the Egyptian New Woman, Umm Kulthum’s films set in contemporary Egypt showcased the working urban Egyptian woman. She played a singer, actress and nurse in these films, and all the plots highlighted her character’s virtue, even as these working roles were looked down upon or occupied a problematic status through association with vices such as prostitution, drunkenness and drugs (Danielson 1991: 303; Danielson 1997: 232). In Song of Hope, her character Amal’s working outside the home is necessary to support her ill daughter Salwa after being abandoned by her scoundrel husband Ismail. The film tracks Amal’s rise to fame as a singer and Studio Misr film star, aided by Salwa’s paediatrician, Assem. Portraying Amal as either concerned for her daughter, singing her feelings in private or at work on set or stage, the film keeps off the screen the vices long associated with public performance. It carefully communicates her professional success through sets conveying her growing wealth rather than through extravagant behaviour. And it maintains Amal’s virtue through the skeletal portrayal of her romantic relationship with Assem, set in relief by the starkly contrasting depiction of Ismail’s wickedness. Fatima illustrates how Umm Kulthum’s films and roles modified her star image beyond that established through 1920s imagery. In Fatima, she played the title character, a virtuous nurse, while European standards of beauty and behaviour were embodied by her foil, the elite Mirvat. Through these contrasting characters, Fatima focuses on the divide between poor and rich and the tensions between Egyptianness and modernity represented through foreignness (Mokdad 2013: 221). As Russell has noted, ‘The construct

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of new womanhood that emerged in Egypt at the turn of the century represented the infiltration of new ideas, fashions, and goods, tempered by a cultural authenticity and burgeoning nationalism, both of which encouraged indigenous concepts of morality and virtue’ (Russell 2004: 3). Reflecting continued articulation of such indigenous concepts, in Fatima, the strong contrast established between Mirvat and Fatima defines morality and virtue for Egyptian women through alcohol, sex, abortion, language and music. Moreover, the antithetical relationship established between the characters reinforced Umm Kulthum’s cultivation of a persona associated with authenticity, modesty and Egyptianness (Mokdad 2013: 219). If, as Elsaket notes, Umm Kultuhm’s repeated portrayals of a ‘hardworking, poor and chaste woman’ enhanced ‘her personification of ideal Egyptian femininity’ (2015: 45), her roles in historical films disseminated concepts of Arab womanhood. Three of her films were set in a historical imperial court with Umm Kulthum playing a qayna or singing slave girl. To explain her connection to these roles, Umm Kulthum emphasized that the sincerity of the slave girl and the modesty of historical heroines mirrored her own valuing of sincerity and modesty (Danielson 1997: 90). Taken at face value, her statement clarifies how opting for historical characters allowed her to cultivate modesty without portraying a rural woman close to her own origins and undermining the new image she had cultivated soon after relocating to Cairo. Her emphasis on modesty served her own star image more than it reflected the historical reality of singing slave girls or qiyan in Islamic court culture from the eighth century. Qiyan were considered concubines and represented the highest level of courtesanship. Moreover, in historical accounts, they were associated with seduction and manipulation of men, in contrast to Umm Kulthum’s emphasis on modesty and sincerity, and were used to symbolize moral decay (Nielson 2012: 248, 250, 257; Starr 2020: 142). The simpler explanation for Umm Kulthum’s portrayal of these early performers is that it facilitated music’s incorporation into plots and helped overcome her lack of acting training by foregrounding her musical talents. Moreover, playing qiyan enabled Umm Kulthum to cross social statuses through her characters as they moved from poor backgrounds into elite circles by maximizing their musical talents, a trajectory that mirrored her life story and underscored her efforts to produce successive bodies of song that held appeal for various segments of Egyptian society. Even as historical evidence may not attribute sincerity and modesty to qiyan, Umm Kulthum’s qayna films took pains to preserve such qualities as cultivated in her own image. Such an approach was an important means of controlling her star image, as Elsaket has noted that the wording and typography in advertisements of films such as Widad conflated the title character and the singer-actress to the point that ‘the film itself thus becomes a mere medium through which the main attraction – Umm Kulthum as Widad, or Widad as Umm Kulthum – could be promoted’ (Elsaket 2015: 46).

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Character portrayal, plot and editing made these film roles consonant with Umm Kulthum’s star image. In Sallama, the title character played by Umm Kulthum is first sold to the merchant Ibn Suhayl and then to Ibn Abi Rumana in the caliph’s court in Damascus. It is the only one of Umm Kulthum’s three qayna films in which her character’s virginity is addressed. Supporting this portrayal, three male characters are made effeminate: Ibn Suhayl, Ibn Abi Rumana and the eunuch guarding the women’s area. This both eliminates their sexual relationship with Sallama and preserves for Umm Kulthum’s image a contemporary sense of honour (Starr 2020: 148– 53). Plot and editing were crucial in Widad, in which she plays a qayna loyal to her wealthy owner Bahir. Despite her being sold to pay off his debts, sexual infidelity is eliminated through the plot – she is sold to an old, ill man (Elsaket 2015: 45) – until the rape that is implied through the abrupt cut from her being confronted in a dark staircase by his nephew to her sailing away to be reunited with Bahir (Starr 2020: 143–4). This model of loyalty resonated with Arab audiences. Historical films like Umm Kulthum’s often focused on the Umayyad and Abbasid periods, considered a ‘golden age of Islam’ (Shafik 2001: 67) and regionally relevant. Sallama was successful in the Arab world, including Iraq (Starr 2020: 156). The regional appeal and impact of Umm Kulthum’s portrayal of an Arab woman in historical and melodramatic plots can be seen in the memoir of the Lebanese woman Kamila as recorded by her daughter Hanan al-Shaykh (2009: 128–29). After unknowingly being engaged to her brother-in-law at the age of fourteen and subsequently forced to marry him, Kamila started seeing her true love Muhammad in Beirut. They visited the theatre to watch Dananir. Based on the historical figure Dananir al-Barmakiyya, the film evoked the grandeur of the ninth-century Abbasid reign of Harun al-Rashid through elaborate sets, dialogue in elevated Arabic (fusha) and quotations from the Abbasid-era poet Abu Nuwas (Shafik 2007: 81–2). Viewers used the characters’ experiences to understand their own. For Kamila in 1940s Beirut, the film’s main point was that true love is doomed to end in death. She concluded from the film’s ending that her own relationship awaited the same fate. Her love Muhammad made a different connection, focusing on the concept of loyalty rather than death. He injected into their relationship an expectation that Kamila match Dananir’s loyalty to her love Jafar, responding to the film’s emphasis on loyalty through songs like ‘Ya fuadi’; Dananir’s wandering the ruins of Jafar’s palace singing a lament after his death and Harun al-Rashid’s declaration that she was ‘the symbol of loyalty’. Through such film representations and interpretations, Umm Kulthum played a significant role in reinforcing conceptualizations of love and loyalty for Arab audiences across the region. Other elements of Umm Kulthum’s qayna films strengthened their regional appeal while reinforcing elements of her star image. Most notably, in Sallama, Umm Kulthum recited the Quran, the first filmed recording of recitation

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by a woman. In this memorable scene, screenwriter Bayram al-Tunisi fused elements from two centuries-old anecdotes about the singing girl Sallamat al-Qass so that she, rather than her pious male admirer, recites the Quran. While Umm Kulthum’s possible input on the scene remains speculative, scenes like this enhanced her self-representation as a pious Muslim woman (Danielson 1997: 141–6; Elsaket 2015: 45; Hammond 2012: 129–31) while capturing the broad vocal training of qiyan. By drawing on and taking creative liberties with historical reality, Umm Kulthum’s qayna films were able to ‘exploit her star persona while enforcing her connection to piety, modesty and authenticity’ (Mokdad 2013: 221).

Refining an International Image through Film How did Umm Kulthum’s film appearances impact her persona? Elsaket has argued that Umm Kulthum used film ‘to reach a wider audience and consolidate her public persona’ (Elsaket 2015: 39). Other actresses played a variety of female characters, including vamps, femme fatales and spoiled elites. In contrast, Umm Kulthum focused on characters that reinforced key elements of her image. She portrayed historical women performers with humble backgrounds whose trajectories mirrored aspects of her life narrative and who exhibited virtues such as loyalty with relevance to a broader Arab world. She selected contemporary roles of virtuous working women as elite, European-influenced conceptions of Egyptian womanhood circulated in the early twentieth century. In Egypt, as Elsaket has argued, ‘She became the symbol of a new post-colonial order, and her image was tied to a nation trying to reconfigure itself after decades of British occupation and monarchical rule’ (2015: 37). Yet Elsaket also noted that Umm Kulthum is remembered not as much for her films of the 1930s and 1940s but more ‘as a classic musical figure of the 1960s and 1970s’ (2015: 37). This remembrance, which extends beyond Egypt, is due in part to her trips to perform across the Middle East and North Africa in the late 1960s and early 1970s following Egypt’s defeat in the Six-Day War, trips that tapped into strains of pan-Arab nationalism and were also captured on film. Building on the broad appeal of her historical characters associated with a distant Arab past, she further cultivated and enhanced her image and fan base through her live concert performances outside Egypt. After attracting French and North African audiences to her concerts in Paris in late 1967, from 1968 through 1971, she performed in Tunisia, Morocco, Libya, Sudan, Lebanon, Kuwait and Abu Dhabi, with film footage of her concerts and trips still circulating today (Lohman 2010; Maspero Zaman 2016; The National, n.d.). During this time she also came

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to the attention of listeners in North America, including Bob Dylan (Cott 2006; Lohman 2010: 5). This post-war phase of her career illustrates the intertextual and multimedia basis of star images, including their reinvention and refashioning (Yu 2017). For musical film stars like Umm Kulthum, audio recordings and concert performances often contributed to that image along with films, their promotion, images, interviews, critics’ commentary and press coverage of star’s activities and private life (Dyer 2003: 2–3). Umm Kulthum used these varied means to cultivate her post-war image as a charitable, humanitarian, patriotic and pious woman (Lohman 2010: 24–30, 63–89). She formed a women’s framework for her postwar activism, calling together Egyptian women’s organizations in a larger umbrella association, the National Assembly of Egyptian Women, whose members met in her home to organize their hospital work, gathering of donations, communication and guidance on economizing. She addressed both working women and housewives in her radio appeals for donations and steadfastness (al-Malakh 1967). Through photoshoots in Egypt and the broader Arab world, she presented herself enacting maternal roles: holding a Sudanese newborn, visiting Tunisian orphans, meeting with Libyan school children and playing with children of her extended family in Egypt (Lohman 2010: 68–71). Such representations responded to and reinforced constructions of motherhood in shaping female celebrity (Negra and Holmes 2011: 9). Like Egyptian actresses earlier in the twentieth century, who took on several versions of the New Woman in public, private and business (Metcalf 2008: 326), Umm Kulthum transgressed gender norms by working and not being dependent on male family members. Despite having no children of her own to support, she worked publicly and independently while simultaneously cultivating a maternal image in media texts that reinforced existing concepts of Egyptian and Arab womanhood. Cultivating this maternal image addressed an unusual void in her life, as she did not conform to the cultural expectations of early marriage and motherhood as established through a patriarchal fertility mandate (Inhorn 1996: 12–13). Conforming to these expectations would have likely ended her career early, as a patriarchal gender contract would have empowered her husband to exert control over her behaviour, particularly in public (Moghadam 2003: 126). That it was conceivable that a husband could prevent such an iconic artist from continuing to perform in public is confirmed by press coverage in the 1940s and 1950s when she was first engaged and later married. In addition to cultivating a maternal image, she presented herself as a pious Muslim woman. She did so through media interviews, photographs and tours beyond Egypt. She visited religious sites while touring abroad and revealed details about her private religious practices. These were noteworthy and selective disclosures by a woman known for keeping her private life out of her interviews with the press, despite the longstanding pressures and

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practices of putting female stars’ private and public lives on an equal footing in press coverage (Lohman 2010: 71–8; Metcalf 2008: 359–60). While Umm Kulthum is often described as having a public persona, following more recent literature, multiple personas can be identified in her post-war filmed appearances (Rudolph 2020; Smith 2005). One of these was a musical persona, distinguished by the humour and pleasure shown in her filmed interaction with audiences such as those in Tunisia (‘Oum Kalthoum en Tunisie’ 1968; Rudolph 2020). Playing with the element of surprise and the varied emotions conjured by the recollections of love in the song ‘The Ruins’ [‘al-Atlal’], she visibly relished in her ability to draw huge audience reactions simply by singing ‘ah’ during instrumental interludes or by performing an extended build up to a qafla (musical cadence) concluding a section of the lyrics. Such interactions illustrated her mastery of the musical conventions essential to tarab, a state of ecstasy achieved by musicians shaping their performances based on audience feedback (Racy 2003). She maintained this mastery of tarab while performing abroad for audiences filled with men and women of varied social classes and backgrounds who often visibly and audibly appreciated her improvisational skill and artistry (Lohman 2010; Tlatli 2013). Another persona was the one she cultivated in interviews. In filmed interviews she presented herself as knowledgeable, serious and in control. She was forthcoming with extended answers when talking about her trip to Morocco, reporting on Moroccan women, clothing, food, language, historical architecture and wedding customs. She responded as a cultural ambassador between Arab nations (‘Oum Kalthoum au Maroc’ 1968). It was a different matter when interviewers approached her private life, as seen in her filmed interview by Egyptian actress and television host Najwa Ibrahim (Nasser 1968). When Ibrahim said, ‘We want to know the greatest love in your life,’ Umm Kulthum offered a broadly relatable but unrevealing response: ‘The greatest love in my life isn’t for a single thing: love for parents, love in the family is an unending cycle, love for the homeland, love for friends, love is not for just one thing.’ In response to Ibrahim’s desire to ‘know Umm Kulthum the person’, she gave up little, saying simply, ‘I tell you, I love forbidden foods’ and offering no more details or anecdotes (Nasser 1968). With such techniques, she controlled access to her private life on film, a tactic traceable to early career controversy when women performers’ private lives were regularly represented in newspapers and magazines (Danielson 1997: 64, 84, 112–13; Metcalf 2008: 167–70, 180, 327–9). An interview at the Paris Hôtel Ritz in 1967 exposed her determination to maintain her carefully cultivated image through televised film footage. When television announcer Salwa Hijazi asked about her invitation to perform in Paris, Umm Kulthum sidestepped the real chronology of concert arrangements predating the war, which would have undermined the charitable image she had cultivated so consistently since Egypt’s defeat.

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She tersely acknowledged that her fee was the highest ever received by a performer in Paris and avoided elaboration. And when she confirmed that nearly all of it would be donated to the war effort, she did so with the short comment, ‘It’s not too much,’ a comment that shifted attention to her act of charity instead of her ability to negotiate the highest fee. She used several questions to assert her commitment to her country, naming the obelisk, a part of ‘our country’, as her favourite place to visit in Paris and citing her desire to return to ‘my country’ as the reason for inquiring about her return flight promptly after her concert. After struggling to engage Umm Kulthum in a comparison of France and Egypt, Hijazi gave up and asked her to comment on French fashion and women (Boerpoel 2009). Umm Kulthum’s ready praise for French women complemented the praise and respect they had conveyed for her in concert footage, footage that she had a hand in editing and that framed her as an icon admired by women abroad (Lohman 2010: 65; Maspero Zaman 2016; Salih 1967). Umm Kulthum’s influence and control over her image as illustrated in these interviews runs counter to a common conception of stardom. Stardom has often been situated at what Ruth Barton has described as ‘the intersection of top-down manipulation – studio-generated ‘news’ items and celebrity gossip – and bottom-up expectation – that is, the public’s pleasure in the melodrama of stardom’, leaving the star with limited impact. This conception can be traced to the influence of early Hollywood on star studies. As Barton has explained, ‘Somewhere within this equation lurks the figure of the star herself, although often having only minimal influence on the projection of their identity, particularly in the case of stars from the classical Hollywood era’ (Barton 2011: 83). Umm Kulthum clarifies the importance of a broader consideration of star studies encompassing diverse film industries and figures to develop a more accurate understanding of how stars in varied contexts may be able to play key roles in shaping their images (Yu 2017).

Umm Kulthum’s Haunting Legacy The regional and international fame that Umm Kulthum earned in her lifetime continued and expanded after her death. Her international posthumous reception in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries included vocal cover versions, instrumental renditions and dance remixes created by Lebanese, Palestinian, Israeli, Tunisian, Algerian, Moroccan, Canadian and Arab American artists (Lohman 2010: 149–54, 160–6). Film solidified certain tropes in her posthumous reception. Nearly requisite footage, as seen in Michal Goldman’s documentary Umm Kulthum: A Voice Like Egypt (1996), includes the huge crowds gathered for her funeral in 1975, improvisation, scenes of her singing in her earlier films and audience

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reaction in her concerts. Particularly when coupled with photographs from her childhood and early years in Cairo, such footage reiterates a rags-toriches story of success through talent and hard work validated by emotional reactions from fans across Egypt and the Middle East. The prospect of romantic relationships with men became another trope in posthumous representations. The 1999 Egyptian Ramadan biopic television series Umm Kulthum had six men seeking her affections in succession, with the cumulative effect of portraying the singer as a continuous object of male desire. Likewise, Muhammad Fadil’s 2000 film Kawkab al-Sharq foregrounded romantic relationships with several men and portrayed her as an affectionate, vulnerable and emotional woman. Such portrayals inflated elements of her romantic life on screen in an attempt to locate the icon in relation to traditional gender categories despite her not marrying early in life or having children (Lohman 2010: 117–121). A different take on womanhood dominated the film Looking for Umm Kulthum (2017). Director Shirin Neshat abandoned her planned biopic and instead explored her fascination with the singer (Rothe 2017). As her biopic transformed into a film within a film, Neshat drew from her own experience by centring the narrative on an exiled Iranian filmmaker’s efforts to create a film about Umm Kulthum. Neshat admitted that through her focus on the singer, she sought answers about herself (Kunst und Film 2018). Her film therefore explored questions like ‘How can we as women become successful? Does this mean that we have to sacrifice personal lives and issues and expectations that are deeply traditional?’ and ‘What is the price a woman pays in her pursuit of greatness?’ (Hmood 2017; Talks at Google 2018). As Neshat focused on the challenges women face in balancing career aspirations and maternal expectations (Rothe 2017), the exiled filmmaker Mitra struggles with her teenage son’s disappearance and challenges of working in an industry dominated by men. Internationally screened and reviewed, the film was criticized by Egyptian commentators for historical inaccuracies and a non-Egyptian, Neshat, interpreting the Egyptian icon (Hussein 2018). The latter criticism was ironic given the film’s reliance – in what Haliloğlu has called an ‘overly expository script’ – on clichés that Egyptians regularly repeat to foreigners about Umm Kulthum, such as her being the ‘fourth pyramid’ of Egypt (Haliloğlu 2018). Unlike earlier films about the icon, Looking for Umm Kulthum spotlighted how Umm Kulthum did not meet the expectations of womanhood in her time. Neshat used the protagonist Mitra’s reflections on her own life as a vehicle to do so. Mitra says she deserved the punishment of her son’s disappearance because she had turned her back on everyone, ‘a heartless woman after fame and career. Like Umm Kulthum?’ Mitra shares Umm Kulthum’s focus on work, and while Neshat struggled to obtain the details about the singer’s private life necessary to explore the possibility that she sacrificed her personal life or motherhood, Mitra seems forced to choose

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between functioning as a mother and realizing her career aspirations. Hmood (2017) noted, ‘The audience is meant to confront the reality that even with hard work, talent and the seizing of opportunities, there is a chance that Umm Kulthum became an icon primarily through sacrifice: of family, romance and her right as a human to be imperfect. In the end, we’re left with one last question: is it worth it?’ Umm Kulthum haunted both Mitra and Neshat. After trying to include a scene of Umm Kulthum singing poorly, Mitra’s collaborators insist that it be cut and she leaves the project. Umm Kulthum appears and tells her ‘I like your fire’ but asks why she would portray her failing on stage. Mitra admits, ‘I guess I got tired of you and your greatness.’ The line echoes Neshat’s acknowledgment in interviews of her struggles in dealing with the singer’s mythical, rather than human, status (Talks at Google 2018). Neshat used Mitra’s perspective to explain this process of coming to terms with Umm Kulthum’s haunting but impenetrable legacy. Facing a failing personal life and professional criticism, Mitra ‘starts to see a contradiction between how she has thought of herself – as being very strong – and her real, weak and failing self’. Neshat continued, ‘She wonders what her subject might have felt in a similar situation and this is like a form of revenge. She wants to say, Umm Kulthum was a human being like me, and brings her down – that gets her fired’ (Khanjani 2017). Neshat’s work brings into focus the challenge of Umm Kulthum’s status as icon. As Marija Antic concluded, when Neshat abandoned her biopic, she failed to reveal ‘the real person behind the iconic status of Umm Kulthum’ (Antic 2021: 180). Unable to obtain the information needed to create the biopic, Neshat could not penetrate the icon’s opacity. As Zachary Xavier has explained, ‘The icon is transparent in its mode of direct signification, but this transparency comes with an opportunity cost of any other divergent meaning, rendering the icon opaque in the fixation of its signification,’ signification that in Umm Kulthum’s case includes Egyptian and broader Arab nationalism. As Xavier continues, ‘This dilemma instils the star icon with a constitutional honesty by virtue of those features made transparent, but with this direct denotation arises an evasive inaccessibility’ (Xavier 2021). This inaccessibility becomes most prominent in the scenes of Looking for Umm Kulthum that inject common articulations of her iconic status, such as Arabs emptying the streets to gather around radios on Thursdays to hear her concerts. While Mitra claims near the film’s end to have finally understood Umm Kulthum and wants to show in her own film-within-a-film ‘the real human being beyond the myth … not just this heroine, this icon everyone admires and loves but no one really knows’, Neshat’s film could not achieve this. Instead, Neshat could only highlight the constructed nature of the icon (Antic 2021: 173). Since the debut of Looking for Umm Kulthum, film has remained a model and influence on Umm Kulthum’s posthumous reception as new

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technology shapes her contemporary presence. Technological advancements such as photorealistic 3-D modelling enabled the nearly one-hour hologram featured in Saudi Arabia in the 2019 live production ‘Virtually Spectacular’ (Saeed 2019a). Directed by 32-year-old Jordanian national Hasan Hina and relying on performances by Egyptian actress Sabrine, who starred in the 1999 Ramadan television series Umm Kulthum, the collaborative production built on the broader Arab audience that Umm Kulthum had cultivated. Sabrine performed Umm Kulthum’s songs for motion capture to supply body data and muscle reactions that made the hologram more realistic than earlier rotoscope holograms (Cairo Scene 2019; Hamad 2019; New Dimension Productions 2013; Saeed 2019a). The production drew on film for inspiration. Hina explained, ‘We created very special one-minute sequences for each song for the way Umm Kulthum is going to appear [on stage]. Each one of those transitions is infused with the colours of her dress. … It’s not just like, ‘Here you go, here’s what Umm Kulthum looked like … No, it has to be like a movie – there’s a buildup, there’s a story and there’s an end.’ The result was described as Umm Kulthum performing her songs ‘Inta ‘Umri’, ‘Sirit al-Hubb’, ‘Alf Layla wa Layla’ and ‘Lissa Fakir’ with live orchestra accompaniment (Hamad 2019). Audience members described the show as physically stunning with remarkable attention to detail. While some noted that it lacked emotion and audience interaction (Saeed 2019b), Bedirian (2020) summarized the effect as an ‘eerie nostalgia’ brought about by stunning technology and contingent on the audience’s ability to suspend disbelief and imagine themselves ‘in the presence of the legendary singer’. That presence continues to be leveraged for multiple purposes, as her holograms were featured in the Cairo Opera House and Abdeen Palace in 2020 to ‘confront vulgarity and redirect attention to our arts heritage’ in the wake of the popularity and banning of electro street music called mahraganat (Agence France-Presse 2020; Al-Masry al-Youm 2020).

Conclusion Umm Kulthum’s image and reception have been continuously shaped through representation on screen. Her career illustrates the mutual benefit exchanged between Egypt’s singers and its early film industry. Reflecting the star status and popularity she had already achieved through concerts, recordings and radio, she not only starred in Studio Misr’s first film but also exerted control over her film roles, plots, casting and music. Shortly after the New Woman emerged in the early twentieth century, Umm Kulthum’s films set in contemporary Egypt showcased another option, the working urban Egyptian woman, and through them she modified her star image beyond that established through 1920s photos. Her qayna films offered strong regional appeal while reinforcing elements of her star image through emphasis on

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sincerity, modesty and loyalty. Following the Six-Day War, she used film as one of several means to cultivate her international star image as a charitable, humanitarian, patriotic and pious woman. She readily took on the persona of a cultural ambassador between Arab nations while carefully controlling access to information about her private life in filmed interviews. Umm Kulthum’s control over the information and multimedia presentations that shaped her star image has had long-lasting consequences. Posthumous film representations have sustained her star status and life narrative shaped in part through the trajectories of characters she portrayed in feature films. These posthumous accounts have responded in varied ways to her representations of Egyptian and Arab womanhood issued over several decades as she matured from a new rising urban star to a regional icon and cultural ambassador. But they also reflect the challenges that Umm Kulthum’s control over her image still poses to posthumous interlocutors like Shirin Neshat who struggled to obtain the information necessary to realize her envisioned biopic. Such struggles underscore the importance of a broader consideration of star studies to reach a more accurate understanding of how stars in varied contexts may play key roles in shaping their images. In this effort, Umm Kulthum provides a valuable case that highlights the limits of defining stardom through reference to Western models.

Filmography Aida (1942), [Film] Dir. Ahmed Badrakhan, Egypt: Studio Misr. Dananir (1940), [Film] Dir. Ahmed Badrakhan, Egypt: Studio Misr. Fatima (1947), [Film] Dir. Ahmed Badrakhan, Egypt: Studio Misr. Kawkab al-Sharq (2000), [Film] Dir. Muhammad Fadil, Egypt: Funun lil-Sinima wa al-Fidiyu. Looking for Umm Kulthum (2017), [Film] Dir. Shirin Neshat, Vienna: Filmladen Filmverleih. Sallama (1945), [Film] Dir. Togo Mizrahi, Egypt: Studio Misr. Song of Hope (1937), [Film] Dir. Ahmed Badrakhan, Egypt: Studio Misr. Umm Kulthum (1999), [Television Mini-series] Dir. Inam Mohammad Ali, Egypt. Umm Kulthum: A Voice Like Egypt (1996), [Film] Dir. Michal Goldman, USA: Filmmakers Collaborative. The White Rose (1933), [Film] Dir. Muhammad Karim, Egypt: Studio Misr. Widad (1936), [Film] Dir. Fritz Kramp and Gamal Madkoor, Egypt: Studio Misr.

References Agence France-Presse (2020), ‘Iconic Arab Singer Umm Kulthum to “Star” in Cairo Hologram Concert’, The Times of Israel, 29 February. https://www.timeso​fisr​

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ael.com/ico​nic-arab-sin​ger-umm-kult​hum-to-star-in-cairo-holog​ram-conc​ert/ (accessed 2 May 2021). Antic, M. (2021), ‘Beyond the Voice of Egypt: Reclaiming Women’s Histories and Female Authorship in Shirin Neshat’s Looking for Umm Kulthum (2017)’, The European Journal of Life Writing, X: 169–89. https://doi.org/10.21827/ ejlw.10.37918. Barton, R. (2011), ‘Rocket Scientist!: The Posthumous Celebrity of Hedy Lamarr’, in D. Negra and S. Holmes (eds), In the Limelight and Under the Microscope: Forms and Functions of Female Celebrity, 82–102, London: Continuum. Bedirian, R. (2020), ‘The Eerie Nostalgia of Watching Umm Kulthum’s Hologram Concert at Dubai Opera’, The National, 10 August. https://www.then​atio​naln​ ews.com/arts-cult​ure/music/the-eerie-nostal​gia-of-watch​ing-umm-kult​hum-sholog​ram-conc​ert-at-dubai-opera-1.1061​921 (accessed 5 July 2023). Boerpoel. (2009), ‘Umm Kulthum Interview’, YouTube video, 17 July. https://www. yout​ube.com/watch?v=SzhP​QBuL​ER4 (accessed 5 July 2023). Cairo Scene. (2019), ‘Umm Kulthum Holograph to Bring Her Back to Life at Dubai Opera’, 27 December. https://www.faceb​ook.com/Cai​roSc​ene/vid​eos/ umm-kult​hum-holog​ram-to-bring-her-back-to-life-at-dubai-oper​aas-a-word-ico​ nic-do/4513​6876​2219​627/ (accessed 5 July 2023). Cooley, C. (2021), ‘The Problem of Respectable Ladies Joining Films: Industrial Traffic, Female Stardom and the First Talkies in Bombay and Tehran’, in M. Mehta and M. Mukherjee (eds), Industrial Networks and Cinemas of India: Shooting Stars, Shifting Geographies and Multiplying Media, 35–47, New York: Routledge. Cott, J., ed. (2006), Bob Dylan: The Essential Interviews, New York: Wenner. Danielson, V. (1991), ‘Artists and Entrepreneurs: Female Singers in Cairo during the 1920s’, in N. R. Keddie and B. Baron (eds), Women in Middle Eastern History: Shifting Boundaries in Sex and Gender, 292–309, New Haven: Yale University Press. Danielson, V. (1997), ‘The Voice of Egypt’: Umm Kulthum, Arabic Song, and Egyptian Society in the Twentieth Century, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Dyer, R. (2003), Heavenly Bodies: Film Stars and Society, 2nd edn, New York: Routledge. Elsaket, I. (2015), ‘The Star of the East: Umm Kulthum and Egyptian Cinema’, in A. Bandhauer and M. Royer (eds), Stars in World Cinema: Screen Icons and Star Systems across Cultures, 36–50, New York: Bloomsbury Publishing. Haliloğlu, N. (2018), ‘Shirin Neshat Looks for Umm Kulthum in Her New Feature Film’, Daily Sabah, 6 January. https://www.dai​lysa​bah.com/cin​ema/2018/01/06/ shi​rin-nes​hat-looks-for-umm-kult​hum-in-her-new-feat​ure-film (accessed 5 July 2023). Hamad, M. (2019), ‘How the “Umm Kulthum Hologram” in Dubai Will Look’, Gulf News, 24 December. https://gulfn​ews.com/pho​tos/entert​ainm​ ent/how-the-umm-kult​hum-holog​ram-in-dubai-will-look-1.157720​1672​810 (accessed 5 July 2023).

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Hammond, M. (2012), ‘The Morphing of a Folktale: Sallama and the Priest’, Middle Eastern Literatures, 15(2): 113–36. http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/14752​ 62X.2012.695​680. Hmood, Z. (2017), ‘“Looking for Umm Kulthum” Confronts the Harsh Realities of Fame’, Ryerson Folio, 9 October. http://ryers​onfo​lio.com/tiff-rev​iew-look​ ing-oum-kult​hum/ (accessed 29 June 2020). Hussein, N. A. (2018), ‘Film about Egyptian Superstar a Hit Everywhere but Egypt’, Al-Monitor, 21 June. https://www.al-moni​tor.com/origin​als/2018/06/ why-egypti​ans-hate-new-film-on-oum-kult​hum.html (accessed 5 July 2023). Inhorn, M. C. (1996), Infertility and Patriarchy: The Cultural Politics of Gender and Family Life in Egypt, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Khanjani, R. S. (2017), ‘Beyond Biopic: An Interview with Shirin Neshat’, MUBI, 10 October. https://mubi.com/noteb​ook/posts/bey​ond-bio​pic-an-interv​iew-withshi​rin-nes​hat (accessed 5 July 2023). Kunst und Film. (2018), ‘ “Looking for Umm Kulthum”: Interview with Shirin Neshat about Her Movie on the Egyptian Singer’, YouTube video, 6 June. https://www.yout​ube.com/watch?v=dQLt​RsPJ​YdE (accessed 5 July 2023). Lohman, L. (2010), Umm Kulthum: Artistic Agency and the Shaping of an Arab Legend, 1967–2007, Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press. al-Malakh, K. (1967), ‘Umm Kulthum tatahaddath ila al-mar’ah al-‘amilah thumma ila rubbat al-buyut’ [Umm Kulthum talks to the working women and then to the housewives], al-Ahram, 21 July, 1. Maspero Zaman. (2016), ‘Taghtiyyat Salwa Hijazi li Rihlat Kawkab al-Sharq Umm Kulthum al-tarikhiyaah ila Baariis’ [Salwa Hijazi’s Coverage of the Historical Trip of the Star of the East Umm Kulthum to Paris.], Youtube Video, 7 August. https://www.yout​ube.com/watch?v=PoA-3EGk​sno (accessed 5 July 2023). al-Masry al-Youm. (2020), ‘A Blast from the Past: Umm Kulthum Hologram to Take the Stage in Abdeen Palace’, Egypt Independent, 13 November. https://egypt​inde​pend​ent.com/a-blast-from-the-past-umm-kult​hum-holog​ ram-to-take-the-stage-in-abd​een-pal​ace/ (accessed 5 July 2023). Metcalf, C. G.-W. (2008), ‘From Morality Play to Celebrity: Women, Gender, and Performing Modernity in Egypt, c. 1850–1939’, PhD diss. University of Virginia. Moghadam, V. M. (2003), Modernizing Women: Gender and Social Change in the Middle East, 2nd edn, Boulder: Lynne Rienner. Mokdad, L. Y. (2013), ‘Egypt’, in C. K. Creekmur and L. Y. Mokdad (eds), The International Film Musical, 213–26. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Nasser, N. (1968), ‘Umm Kulthum: Hiwaar Tilifiziyuunii Naadir’ [Umm Kulthum: Rare Television Dialogue] YouTube video. https://www.yout​ube.com/ watch?v=xLuA​opJv​Qmc (accessed 5 July 2023). The National. (n.d.), ‘Umm Kulthum’s Concert in Abu Dhabi in the 1970s’, YouTube video. https://www.yout​ube.com/watch?v=odQJe​Bhi-6M Negra, D., and S. Holmes, eds (2011), ‘Introduction’, in D. Negra and S. Holmes (eds), In the Limelight and Under the Microscope: Forms and Functions of Female Celebrity, 1–16, London: Continuum. New Dimension Productions. (2013), ‘Umm Kulthum Hologram for MBC Opening’, Vimeo video, 29 March 2018. https://vimeo.com/262359​184 (accessed 5 July 2023).

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Nielson, L. (2012), ‘Gender and the Politics of Music in the Early Islamic Courts’, Early Music History, 31: 235–61. Nielson, L. (2017), ‘Visibility and Performance: Courtesans in the Early Islamicate Courts (661–950 CE)’, in M. Gordon and K. A. Hain (eds), Concubines and Courtesans: Women and Slavery in Islamic History, 75–99, New York: Oxford University Press. ‘Oum Kalthoum au Maroc’ (1968), YouTube video, 28 August 2016. https://youtu. be/Uyy6​IF1t​g7I (accessed 5 July 2023). ‘Oum Kalthoum en Tunisie’ (1968), YouTube video, 23 August 2013. https://youtu. be/go9​ZYd-Yqio (accessed 5 July 2023). Racy, A. J. (2003), Making Music in the Arab World: The Culture and Artistry of Tarab, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rothe, E. N. (2017), ‘The Price Women Pay: Talking with Shirin Neshat about “Looking for Umm Kulthum” in Venice’, Huffington Post, 13 September. https:// www.huffp​ost.com/entry/the-price-women-pay-talk​ing-with-shi​rin-nes​hat-about​ _b_5​9b7d​15de​4b08​f663​2c07​6e7 (accessed 5 July 2023). Rudolph, P. (2020), ‘Björk on the Gallows: Performance, Persona, and Authenticity in Lars von Trier’s Dancer in the Dark’, IASPM Journal, 10: 22–42. 10.5429/2079-3871(2020)v10i1.3en (accessed 5 July 2023). Russell, M. L. (2004), Creating the New Egyptian Woman: Consumerism, Education, and National Identity, 1863–1922, New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Russell, M. (2010), ‘Marketing the Modern Egyptian Girl: Whitewashing Soap and Clothes from the Late Nineteenth Century to 1936’, Journal of Middle East Women’s Studies, 6(3): 19–57. Saeed, S. (2019a), ‘Egypt’s Greatest Diva: The Team behind Perfecting the Hologram for Umm Kulthum’, The National, 23 January. https://www.then​atio​ nal.ae/arts-cult​ure/music/egypt-s-great​est-diva-the-team-beh​ind-per​fect​ing-theholog​ram-for-umm-kult​hum-1.817​008 (accessed 5 July 2023). Saeed, S. (2019b), ‘Umm Kulthum’s Hologram Performs Stellar Concert in the Desert of Saudi Arabia’, The National, 26 January. https://www.then​atio​naln​ ews.com/arts-cult​ure/music/umm-kult​hum-s-holog​ram-perfo​rms-stel​lar-conc​ ert-in-the-des​ert-of-saudi-ara​bia-1.818​249 (accessed 5 July 2023). Salih, R. (1967), ‘al-Tilifizyun ya‘rud ba‘d ghad ula haflat Umm Kulthum fi Baris’ [Day after Tomorrow Television Presents the First of Umm Kulthum’s Concerts in Paris.] al-Akhbar, 26 December, 2. Shafik, V. (2001), ‘Egyptian Cinema’, in O. Leaman (ed.), Companion Encyclopedia of Middle Eastern and North African Film, 23–129, New York: Routledge. Shafik, V. (2007), Arab Cinema: History and Cultural Identity, Cairo: American University in Cairo Press. al-Shaykh, H. (2019), The Locust and the Bird: My Mother’s Story, trans. R. Allen, New York: Anchor Books. Smith, J. (2005), ‘Showing Off: Laughter and Excessive Disclosure in Burt Reynolds’ Star Image’, Film Criticism, 30(1): 21–40. Starr, D. A. (2020), Togo Mizrahi and the Making of Egyptian Cinema, Oakland: University of California Press. Talks at Google. (2018), ‘Looking for Umm Kulthum: Shirin Neshat’, YouTube video, 17 July. https://www.yout​ube.com/watch?v=RrIx​8OOu​NhA (accessed 5 July 2023).

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Tlatli. (2013), ‘Extrait: Khaled Tlatli sur la visite de Oum Kalthoum en Tunisie’, YouTube video, 29 August. https://www.yout​ube.com/watch?v=jQXd​cuuW​jHY (accessed 5 July 2023). Wegerhoff, C. (2019), ‘Umm Kuthum’s Heiresses: Arabic Music Days at the Pierre Bolez Saal’, Arabic Music Days, 27–32. https://issuu.com/barenb​oim-said-akade​ mie/docs/19092​6_ar​abic​musi​cday​s_is​suu (accessed 5 July 2023). Xavier, Zachary (2021), ‘James Dean: What Makes a Film Icon’s? Cinema Scholar. https://www.cinema​scho​lar.com/james-dean-what-makes-a-film-icon/ (accessed 26 June 2022). Yu, S. Q. (2017), ‘Introduction: Performing Stardom: Star Studies in Transformation and Expansion’, in S. Q. Yu (ed.), Revisiting Star Studies: Cultures, Themes and Methods, 1–22, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press.

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2 Fame, Infamy, Renown and Celebrity in the Life of Asmahan Sherifa Zuhur

Asmahan, the great Arabic singer, born Amal al-Atrash in 1917, had a brief but exciting musical film career in Egypt.1 She died at a very young age, and therefore the public has continued to think of her as youthful, daring and beautiful. This contrasted with her supposed rival, the singer Umm Kulthum, who headed the music syndicate for a time, and grew older and matronly, commanding respect as a veritable institution after offering extremely popular monthly public concerts for forty years as well as private concerts. The last of Umm Kulthum’s six films was made in 1947, either for health reasons – she had thyroid problems and suffered from inflammation of her eyes – or because she simply did not wish to continue in this metier. In comparison to Umm Kulthum’s strong manner, Asmahan appeared fragile and feminine and had no opportunity to produce as vast a legacy of songs. Likewise, Asmahan’s brother, the singer Farid al-Atrash, who lived into early old age, was considered, like Umm Kulthum, a musical legend and appeared in thirty-one films. Asmahan would have made more films had she lived, as she was a natural on screen and likely would have been cast as a singer in more musical films playing the role of a singer, just as her brother cast himself as a musician/composer/singer, and co-produced his own projects (as did many actors and singers in this time period). In this chapter,

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FIGURE 2.1  Fame, infamy, renown and celebrity in the life of Asmahan. Source: Designed by Nelly Ashmawy.

I return to previous work I have written on Asmahan’s career and life and revisit ideas around her pan-Arab identity and appeal and the construction of her stardom through the press media and public discourse and gossip that aided the Egyptian star system. As a singer of huge talent and as a beautiful young woman, she became a film star in the early days of Egypt’s film studios, which propelled her and other young women to stratospheric fame. When I first used the term ‘diva’ to describe Asmahan (Zuhur 2000b: 1–23), I borrowed it from the world of opera, in which the star is known as La Tebaldi, La Bartoli or La Divina (Maria Callas). I believe the term began to be used by Egyptians writing in languages other than Arabic in the early 2000s, just as today the term ‘queen’ is applied to entertainers, models and actresses. It is not really an Arab cultural concept and the terms in Arabic for a female singer – fannana and mutriba – have declined in their status value because female entertainers have been under attack by Islamists in Egypt since the late 1970s. Only a true diva is regarded as such. In any case, Asmahan’s specific legacy places her among those who have tragically died at a young age and whose celebrity lives on in an Arab nostalgia for the Golden Age of the Egyptian musical.

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Asmahan’s Public Persona and Personal Life Asmahan’s career as a singer might never have happened but for several unusual circumstances. First, the Druze leader of Syria’s militant resistance against French occupation, Sultan al-Atrash, was a paternal relative (her father’s cousin). When the French bombarded the area in which this family, the Turshan, were leaders (and feudal lords) and lived, her mother ‘Alia decided to flee the area and travelled to Beirut and then Egypt. If not for ‘Alia’s musical talents (she was self-trained, sang and played the oud, a lute with a large body and a short neck) and her independent thinking (she was reportedly one of the first women to drive an automobile in Beirut), Asmahan’s mother might not have had the courage to remain in Cairo when her husband demanded she return to Syria (Zuhur 1998: 81). Without a musical upbringing, Amal would not have been discovered as a musical talent, alongside her brother Farid (who became a composer and a great oud player) by her mother’s contacts in Cairo, one of whom, the composer Daoud Hosni, gave Amal her stage name, Asmahan. He and others also taught her music. Asmahan’s family, with the exception of her mother and brother Farid, did not want her to pursue a musical or cinematic career, even though she had begun singing at Mary Mansur’s sala (nightclub) in the early 1930s. They arranged for a cousin named ‘Ali Mustafa to travel to Egypt to meet her with the intent of marriage. He was accompanied by Hasan al-Atrash of the ‘Era branch of the family. Hasan, then already in his fifth marriage, fell in love with her. At first her mother opposed this match and then set a number of conditions. ‘Alia’s conditions were a certain sum in gold, that Asmahan would have a house in Damascus (which was livelier than the Jabal Druze region), that she would be excused from wearing the heavy Syrian izar (veil) and that she could visit Egypt whenever she wished (Zuhur 2000a: 171). Hasan mostly met ‘Alia’s conditions (other than the house in Damascus), and Asmahan travelled to Syria with Hasan. However, Asmahan became unhappy in the more isolated and conservative Syria, after her exciting career in Egypt. Her longing for the world of art was then the main contributing factor propelling her back to Egypt and to her cinematic and musical career. For this reason she can be identified with women who sought freedom and struggled against family disapproval, like actress, filmmaker, composer, director and producer Bahija Hafiz, whose family disowned her and accepted condolences for her death while she was still living (Gitre 2019: 116). Asmahan sang a song in the film Happy Day [Yom Sa’id] dir. Muhamed Karim 1939), but did not appear onscreen, to the music of Mohammed Abdel Wahab,

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the composer/musician who co-starred in the film. She also sang and recorded various striking songs which were hits at the time, such as ‘If Only Buraq Could See for a While’ [‘Layta li-l-Buraq ‘Aynayn Fitra’], ‘I Beseech you in the Name of my Father and my Mother’ [‘Asqiniha bi Abi, Inta wa Ummi’], ‘Our Separation’ [‘Farq Ma Bayna’], ‘The Story of Two Eyes’ [‘Hadith ‘Aynayn’], and ‘The Birds’ (known as ‘Ya Tuyur’, [‘Taghrid al-Balabil’]) (Zuhur 2000: 180), and then co-starred with her brother in the film The Triumph of Youth [Intisar al-Shabab] (Ahmad Badrakhan 1941). Badrakhan (1909–1961), this film’s director and screenwriter, who was the first Egyptian to be sent to Europe to learn cinema, the author of the first book in Arabic about cinema and the scriptwriter of the first film produced by Studio Misr, married Asmahan in an ‘urfi marriage (a contractual marriage that is less acceptable than a shari‘ah one) that was broken up by their families. The film was a fictionalized version of the siblings’ own situation as immigrants to Egypt who, as artists, were socially incompatible with upper-class Egyptians. A pasha’s son, Muhiy falls in love with Asmahan’s character, Nadia, and marries her, but his mother insists on a divorce when she discovers that Nadia is a singer. Yet, due to their talent, expressed through an operetta staged within the film, the two young artists triumph and their love interests return to them. The themes of social mobility and immigration were associated by the public with Asmahan and Farid, as subsequently were the themes of her second film, Passion and Revenge [Gharam wa Intiqam] (Youssef Wahbi 1944), which dealt with treachery, revenge, death and the artistic temperament (Zuhur 1998: 98). These themes also reflect issues that were prevalent in her own personal life, thus adding to the myth of Asmahan’s legendary stardom. As a victim of intense gossip, her name was linked to several influential political individuals in both Egypt and Syria (including her husband Hasan al-Atrash who became a Minister of Defence). She played a rumoured role in the military events of the Second World War, acting as a courier for the Free French and British forces to the Druze, prior to their invasion of Syria. Following this mission, she was rumoured to be spying, or attempting to sell secrets to foreign entities. While the Arab world of her day was cosmopolitan in certain ways, as, for instance, in the mélange of Cairo (with its Egyptian majority, and Levantine, Sephardic, Maltese and Sudanese people and other Africans and Europeans), people tended to either know a great deal or very little about the politics of other regions. Thus, Asmahan’s friend and first biographer, the editor Muhammad al-Taba‘i (about whom more will be said subsequently), was not terribly familiar with the situations and circumstances that Asmahan faced while in the Levant and presumably depended on her own remarks and his own readings for his account of her experiences. He may not have been able to understand the full significance of her comments. Shortly before her death, she was involved in a violent incident with her then-husband Ahmad Salim (1910–1949), actor, writer,

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film producer, director, radio presenter and ladies’ man. The final incident leading up to her legendary celebrity (or infamy) beyond her musical and cinematic achievements was her death in a car accident while traveling to the vacation spot Ra’s al-Barr along with a friend, wearing a yellow silk dress and with a novel by controversial French female author Collette in her lap (Zuhur 2000b: 159). Asmahan’s untimely demise in 1944 in this car accident is rumoured to have been an act of foul play. The heavy sedan went into a roadside canal as the driver opened his door and jumped out and survived. There were additions to the story which claimed that after the two women were sent to hospital, a pro-German figure Aziz al-Masri interrupted or disallowed lifesaving surgery. Yet, Asmahan’s family was informed and believed that she died on impact as communicated in a police report. The public revelled in conspiracy theories, and the death of celebrities and stars often led to gossip and mythologizing. The chauffeur’s survival and his supposed improved economic circumstances after the accident invited continued comment, though her own family members (whom I interviewed in the early 1990s) accepted her death as accidental. Although most femicides are committed by close male relatives (world-wide, not only in the Middle East where these may be characterized as crimes of honour), the public preferred to conjecture that Asmahan’s foes, who might have arranged the accident, were politically motivated. I tried to carefully research the political claims but also considered those of male relatives – Ahmad Salim, as her most recently jilted husband, who she had embarrassed; Hasan al-Atrash, her previous husband and father of her daughter, but he was not in Egypt at that point; and her brother Fu’ad, who was very opposed to her lifestyle but I thought was unlikely to have acted to hurt her at this point in her life (though he had previously beaten and verbally abused her). Her biographer al-Taba‘i, who as a long-time editor and media professional, was well aware of public sentiment, created extra suspense around her death by releasing information about a strange incident that had occurred to her on a previous road trip to Ra’s al-Barr. He describes how she was practicing the lyrics of a song that included lines of a poem by the blind, medieval poet, Abu al-‘Ala al-Ma‘ari (973–1057) which refers to a grave from the time of ‘Ad (a civilization struck down by Allah in pre-Islamic Arabia). During her practice, suddenly, she heard the music of a Druze funeral mixed with the sounds of an old mill, as it would have sounded in Suwaida, Syria, and this caused her to faint2 on the very spot where her fatal accident would later take place (al-Taba‘i 1961: 106–7). Other elements of gossip adding mystery to the singer’s death stated that a fortune teller predicted Asmahan’s death ‘by water’, noting that she had also been born on the water. All of these observations tend to emphasize the common popular belief in Egypt and throughout the Arab world that one’s death is controlled by fate (‘written’ or predestined) and that nothing can prevent it. Clearly,

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this is not a comforting thought, but it allows people to resign themselves to seemingly unfair or untimely deaths. Another (cinematic) event that added fire to the fuel of Asmahan’s mythologization through death was her character’s death in the plot of her second film Passion and Revenge. This was not originally in the script, but a decision made when Asmahan herself died before the film could be completed and which expressed the idea that the public would greatly mourn the death of an artist. In the film, her love interest, a violinist played by Youssef Wahbi, goes mad in response to her passing. By this time, she was part of a newly emerging system of celebrities and new ideas about female film stars, who – as female actors and singers – were immensely popular, often even more so than male entertainers. Through their professional and personal lives, played out in public, these female stars challenged the public’s existing notions of female seclusion and virtue. Indeed, these women engaged in physical display of their beauty, voices and personalities. Many were working class and seen as not being respectable women, even if they came from or partially from an elite background. I have previously described this as the ‘troubled discourse over women’s entry into public space, in this case, the arena of public entertainment’ (Zuhur 2000: 215). In part, this stems from women’s bifurcated entertainment roles in the nineteenth century, performing either in private homes as has developed from a courtesan/slave tradition, or as street entertainers, ghawazi¸women of a tribal background who were said to have immigrated to Egypt from Syria and earlier from India. The best of the former group, ‘awalim, were very skilled musically. In the first quarter of the twentieth century, distinctions arose between those acting, singing and dancing, and men often specialized in any one talent, but women needed to – and might be cast – in all three skill areas. This could be held against those who were less talented (Gitre 2019: 104) say, in acting, than singing. Unlike contemporary vocal stars whose voices are sometimes enhanced with pitch-correcting technology, and benefit from more sophisticated amplification and better recording technologies, Asmahan’s agile voice, wide vocal range and emotional delivery were natural and the basis of her legendary fame and renown. She was considered a rival of the great singing star, Umm Kulthum, who outlived her by many decades. In fact, Asmahan admired Umm Kulthum tremendously and the two met and enjoyed music together, ‘sitting Arab-style on the carpet’ (Zuhur 1998: 86). In this period, some composers like Muhammad Qasabji, were experimenting with modernist elements in their compositions. He preferred offering these to Asmahan, who sang them more easily, due to her facility in solfège and her wider vocal range as compared to Umm Kulthum. Qasabji left Umm Kulthum’s takht in 1941, lending credence to competition between the two singers, as Umm Kulthum turned to Riyadh al-Sunbati and others like Zakariyya Ahmad who offered what has been called a neo-traditionalist style of composing in the new long song, the ughniya.

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Syrian or Egyptian Star? Asmahan was of Syrian-Lebanese origin,3 but during her lifetime she became entirely associated with Egyptian culture due to the nationalization campaigns in Egypt under President Gamal abd al-Nasser which partially erased – or at least altered – the public memory of some of Egypt’s musicians and artists of other regional backgrounds. She has been reclaimed posthumously as a Syrian star in some publications chronicling important Syrian figures. She is best thought of as a musical film star in Egypt, or as a pan-Arab singer, since her recordings were sold throughout the Middle East. In the 1880s, nightclubs became really popular in Egypt. Around the same time, the country, and especially cities like Alexandria and Cairo, were really multicultural, Cairo being around 20 per cent populated by foreigners. Foreign and Egyptian women, often older singers, were usually the managers of nightclubs. Music was not regarded as a respectable occupation for a woman, especially as the singers came from an earlier Egyptian tradition, the ‘awalim, a type of female performer who showcased her multiple talents such as singing, dancing, reciting poetry and often also playing a musical instrument. There were very famous ‘awalim who earned higher fees. These performers provided entertainment in private homes, though later on they performed in public and recorded (Zuhur 2022: 29), and then, the term came to specifically refer to entertainers at weddings. Such an entertainer’s career was unthinkable for women in Syria, particularly among certain elites. However, for women singers, financial need was a partially acceptable excuse for bringing dishonour on their families. In fact, when one of the films in which Asmahan starred was screened in Syria, a young man shot at the screen out of outrage at the sight of her appearance with her hair uncovered. In an interview I conducted with her family, a family member apologized saying that they wished they had not regarded her singing as a dishonourable occupation. They acknowledged that they had done so unfairly, though treating her brother Farid al-Atrash as a cultural emissary of the Druze sect and Syrians in general. Her career in Egypt benefited from developments in the dissemination of music through which recording companies gradually increased their business and reach with new technology at the end of the 1920s. There were also a number of state-sponsored programmes of Arabic music on radio at the time. Thirdly, the arrival of the talkies, or sound in cinema, was an enormously influential factor in Asmahan’s career (Vernon 1995: 141). Even if a career as a singer had been within the realm of possibilities in provincial Syria or in Damascus, she would have had to travel to Beirut to record. Moreover, the musical genres of the new sound films being made in Egypt were more pan-Arab in nature (Vernon: 141), although some of her Levantine identity was incorporated into her second film, Passion and

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Revenge, in a scene at a summer holiday spot in Lebanon via her costume and her singing and improvisational style. Both Asmahan and her brother Farid could be considered as important personalities from the Druze community. As one of many smaller religious groups in Lebanon and Syria, the Druze sect broke away from Isma‘ili Islam in the eleventh century. Today, the majority of the sect live in Syria, Lebanon, Israel or Jordan. The Druze are endogamous, do not convert others and have maintained deniability when under threat, which is referred to as taqiyya, concealing one’s identity. The Druze have their own articles of faith and acts of worship (Swayd 1998: 33–41) and also keep many aspects of their religious beliefs secret, or accessible solely to their religious elite. Overall, their views, role in history and politics, and beliefs are not well known in the broader Middle East. They have identified with Arab causes, such as the Arab nationalist struggle in the Syrian rebellion of 1925–27 against the French led by Asmahan’s relative, Sultan al-Atrash (for which he and his fighters were exiled). Swayd has pointed out that Asmahan’s brother, Farid al-Atrash, rarely referred to himself as a Druze (Swayd: 13). Thus, Asmahan’s (and Farid’s) Druze identity was less visible in Egypt and regarded simply as an Eastern Arab identity like that of many other residents in the preNasser years. Asmahan’s custom of carrying a small Qur’an in her handbag and reading from it is identical to that of many Muslim women in Egypt, or the Levant. She assimilated into the Egyptian / Cairene general Arab-Muslim identity, a trait that enabled her fan base to identify with her more easily than if she had been explicit about her Druze identity. Her importance and fame derived from her musical ability and physical beauty and were enhanced significantly by the contemporary and historical gossip about her life and lifestyle, rather than her religious identity or national background. Simultaneously, in Egypt in the first quarter of the twentieth century, there was an emphasis on nationalism and anti-British attitudes, and a de-emphasis on sect (in this case, the division between Muslims and Christians) in songs and themes of vaudeville theatre, in which using the language and expressing the feelings of the common people were essential to create a sense of solidarity (Fahmy 2011: 127). Such songs were especially prominent in the theatre of Naguib al-Rihani, whose family background was Iraqi and Egyptian Christian and whose plays called for unity against the British. In Egypt, the publicization of entertainers’ appearances and romances was part of the construction of the star system in which Asmahan was included. As such, her marriages and rumoured romances interested her fans. And yet, there were and still are Egyptians who did not, or do not know, that Asmahan lived part of her life in Syria or that she was of the Druze religious sect. The songs she sang and recorded are generally thought of as Egyptian or pan-Arab songs (with a few exceptions that I’ll discuss) of a vintage, style and level of complexity that make all but a few of them rarely

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performed today. Certain songs employ Western elements, as, for example, ‘Ya habibi ta‘ala’, which is set to a tango rhythm, with a piano introduction. The song is allegedly an adaptation by composer Madhat ‘Assam (a friend of ‘Alia’s mother and the first director of the Egyptian [national] Radio) of a Cuban song ‘El Huerfanito’ composed by Bienvenido Julian Gutiérrez (1904–1966) and sung by Antonio Machin (Vega 2020).4 It was sung by Lebanese actress Mary Kwiny (also known as Mary Queeny) in Wife by Proxy [Zawjat bi al-Niyaba] (Ahmad Galal 1936) (Zuhur 2000: 87) (a film that appeared when Asmahan was still in Syria). Except for her brother’s compositions, all composers of Asmahan’s songs were Egyptians. During my field research in Syria, I was queried by a proregime acquaintance about the topic of my project. ‘Farid and Asmahan?’ he said, ‘You mean the Egyptian singers?’ I responded that they were Syrians, and he rebutted, ‘But they sang in the Egyptian accent’. Though they also sang in classical Arabic, depending on the song, use of Egyptian colloquial was employed by many non-Egyptian singers who were part of the panArab music scene. Indeed, as Viola Shafik has shown, Egyptian colloquial was the industry’s central language and as such it was also exported to the rest of the region, as the language of cinema, in other media (radio, television and later video) and in lyrics (2007: 27). Although she certainly was famous during her lifetime, as a pan-Arab artist, Asmahan has gained fame and renown in the world of Arabic music, and celebrity, primarily through the mysterious circumstances of her death and the stories that have appeared about her life, true or not. She was reputed to have lived ‘for love’ – an idea that fascinated the Moroccan feminist writer, Fatima Mernissi. Mernissi testifies that, when she was growing up, she acted in her cousin Chama’s plays in her family’s home in the city of Fez. Frequently, these plays fictionalized the life of Asmahan, ‘a woman [with] both love and a career … exploring and exhibiting her talents as an actress and a singer’ (Mernissi 1994: 106). Mernissi devotes an entire section of her memoir to Asmahan, for the life she and her family imagined for Asmahan was so unlike the lives of most women, whether in Syria or Morocco, whose marriages were arranged and were not expected to pursue love. Furthermore, a married woman was not normally allowed a career of any kind by her husband, much less one in acting and singing where other, unrelated men, could see her (for that reason, many artists, in Egypt and elsewhere, gave up their entertainment careers upon marriage). That Asmahan divorced and remarried several times, and was rumoured to be romantically linked with others, enhanced this daring reputation. The fact that she struggled with her family to obtain and retain her relative freedom was either not known at that time to Mernissi, or, to be expected, given the emphasis on public virtue in women’s lives. Fiktur (Victor) Sahhab placed Asmahan among the seven most important figures in Arabic music, together with Sayyid Darwish, Muhammad

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al-Qasabji, Umm Kulthum, Zakariya Ahmad, Mohammed Abdel Wahab and Riyadh Sunbati. He explains his criteria as these being those figures who most influenced modern Arabic music. I think some have wrongly interpreted his writing that Asmahan melded Western and Arabic styles of singing into a new conception of Arab women’s singing (Sahhab 1987), as meaning that she sang in a Western style. Her range of genres and vocal abilities was extremely wide.5 Other critics have explained the public’s new favourite singers as following a shift in the style of women’s singing away from the traditional ‘alima vocal style to the more modern mutriba style. Also the song’s subject matter focused on women’s lives in plaintive and often rather indecent taqatiq (the plural of taqtuqa, a short and light-hearted song) musical format (Lagrange 2009). The meaning of ‘alima later shifted, coming, before the time Asmahan began to sing publicly, to mean a singer of the lower classes who sang (or danced) at weddings, but the distinction about female singers’ ‘new sound’ in the twentieth century and changes in song formats (Lagrange 2014) should help us understand why certain singers, and Asmahan among them, were important in shaping aesthetics going forward. The rumours and gossip concerning Asmahan’s personal life and her pursuit of personal freedom attest to her celebrity, though it was the opinion of musicians and aficionados that lent credence to her renown. A star system was extremely important to the financial success of the early Egyptian film industry. This was the result of name recognition, at first, carried over from the theatrical troupes which had toured Egypt and the Levant. Those actors who transitioned easily to the big screen, and who sang, already had some fame and celebrity which translated to box office sales. Younger performers who pleased in a film or two often reprised similar roles. Also, the plots were a perfect place to try out debates on social issues, particularly those related to the changing status of women. Movie and musical stars relied on the publicity given to them in Cairo’s newspapers and magazines. An actress in vaudeville, Rose al-Youssef (1898–1958), quit the stage to establish a magazine, named after herself, Ruz al-Yusuf, which at first focused on entertainment and then as well on politics (Zuhur 2021: 146). In this magazine and in other publications, the stars’ attendance of artistic and social events, their photographs and the stories about them augmented public interest in the pre-television years. The editor of Ruz al-Yusuf, Muhammad al-Taba‘i, struck up a friendship with Asmahan, and he wrote a series of articles about her which were later compiled into a biography. This relationship was important to her career (al-Taba‘i provided Asmahan with connections to composer Mohammed Abdel Wahab, for instance). However, al-Taba‘i was more conservative and conventional than she was, and in some cases his opinions on her mannerisms make her appear déclassé, and his assessment of her artistic temperament were also limited perhaps by the views of his era. These views

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interfered with their relationship, and one may infer his understanding of her. These were published in a series of articles which appeared after her death and these were later compiled into the book with which al-Taba‘i intended to spill secrets, address rumours about Asmahan and comment on the tragedy (as he saw it) of her brief life. Her brother’s biography, prepared as a rebuttal to what he saw as a scandalous account of her life, and other books by male authors tended not to provide any details about her craft, music, and were inclined instead to exaggerate and titillate readers with aspects of Asmahan’s activities. Singers’ recordings were also advertised with little pamphlets providing a photo, biographical details and the words of the songs. Often the music sheets themselves were disseminated by the early recording companies, as they wanted to create interest in their products. These made their way throughout the Arab world. Not everyone could afford a gramophone, or a phonograph, but the radio carried singers’ voices into every home and coffee shop. Music thus dominated the entertainment scene completely, with singers and musicians famous before they broke into the film industry. This fed into the way in which musical films came to dominate ‘Nilwood’ – Cairo, Hollywood on the Nile – when sound arrived in the industry (Guermazi 2021: 129). Film and musical stars often romanced and married one another, and sometimes even more than once. One example is Ahmad Salim, a film director and actor who married Asmahan, and later married other entertainers and personalities, like Khayria al-Bakri, Amina al-Barudi (Asmahan’s friend), Tahia Carioca (the famous dancer) and actress Madiha Yusri. Asmahan’s mother, ‘Alia Mundhir, had experienced terrible financial circumstances after her husband ceased sending her support from Syria. Her husband thought this would be the way to force her to return to the Jabal Druze, but she refused. Instead, she was allegedly aided by a mysterious well-wisher, a Baron ‘Ikrane’ (Crane). She also worked and did laundry, but mostly, because she could play the ‘oud (favoured in these years for women) (Arinç, Moser and Stokes 2017),6 she also sang at musical gatherings and recordings. ‘Alia did not, however, become a ‘singing star’ or acquire fame at the level of Asmahan. It was from her mother and the exposure to certain singers that both Asmahan and her brother learned to sing in the Levantine styles, yet they were also able to perform masterfully in the musical styles then preferred in Egypt. The complex political history of the 1920s through the 1940s with the establishment of the French Mandate in Syria and in Egypt, a quasiindependence with British control over finances, the military and politics, and then the events of the Second World War, and subsequently Egypt’s important position in the pan-Arab music industry, meant that Asmahan’s particular talent was important in how it reflected the interplay of Arab nations. So, for instance, the comedian Bishara Wakim (1890–1949) played

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Levantine characters in her films to situate them, and her singing was used to indicate locality. In particular, Asmahan’s performance of a mawwal in the song ‘My Village’ [‘Ya Dairati’] stands out in the film Passion and Revenge. This song could not have been sung by an Egyptian singer as the style is that of the rural mijana and ‘ataba as demonstrated by singers like Wadi‘ al-Safi. The lyrics pertain to the struggle of the Druze against the Ottomans and allude to women so powerful that they sent their men into battle with a challenge. The song lyrics are attributed to Asmahan’s relative Zayd al-Atrash and the melody to her brother, Farid, but much of it is, in fact, improvised. The lyrics read: O, my village, there is no shame for you. Don’t blame your shame on those who are treacherous. We quench our swords’ thirst [with the blood] of the enemy’s tribe. Like the agreement, we don’t cheapen you for the Ottomans. We must mount the steeds on the night of evil and strengthen Sultan’s leadership. I claim our trampled rights for us. O, my village, we are your guiding force. Asmahan’s ability to sing this improvised style of singing proves her suitability to the Syro-Lebanese popular vocal traditions, even and perhaps especially within the Egyptian film industry. Asmahan is dressed in a shami (Eastern Arab) style robe worn on top of a white collared blouse. Her hair is done up in Victory rolls (a style popular during the Second World War). She is flanked by a Levantine female chorus. By the time this film was made, she was already a celebrity, and this was reflected in the film, in which she plays a singer, dressed in Arab finery that signals where she is from – an environment foreign to Egypt but nonetheless Arab. In the same film, she sings the very modernist (for the time) song, ‘When Will You Know, When?’ [‘Imta Hata’araf Imta?’], which announces her love for the protagonist. This was certainly a sophisticated pan-Arab urban song for that time. The convoluted plot is that she wants to enact revenge on the violinist Gamal (Wahbi) because she thinks that he has killed her former lover. It turns out that her former lover was not so wonderful, and she comes to love Gamal. But they are not fated to live happily ever after, as she dies in an automobile accident, and he loses his mind with grief. In this film, she also sings the beautiful song ‘Ahwa ahwa’ while entertaining a large party with Arab coffee, dressed in a different type of Arab attire, the silver-stamped material called tulle talli. One could compare the songs in this film with the very traditional and folk-inspired song ‘May God’s Prayers and Blessings [be] upon You’ [‘Alayka Salat Allah wa Salamuh’] in the musical maqam (sets of notes, more like a mode than a scale) Bayati, which commemorates the annual pilgrimage to Mecca, the hajj, to which Muslims travel from afar, and describes some of the marvellous aspects of Mecca.

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Asmahan’s Many Personal, Professional and Public Personas Asmahan was pressured into giving up singing and return to Syria to marry her cousin, Hasan al-Atrash, who was already married and had children. One explanation of why she agreed was given by al-Taba‘i in the book that he entitled Asmahan Tells Her Story [Asmahan tarwi qisatha] (1961) as if it were autobiographical. In the article, he claims that Asmahan told him she needed to flee her mother’s treatment of her as a goose who laid golden eggs – meaning that her mother relied on her income. It’s impossible to ascertain if this was an actual complaint or if he made it up. He describes the negotiations between her mother and Hasan in detail, which certainly added to Asmahan’s complicated story. She travelled to Syria, where Hasan later became a Minister of Defence and his personal and family status made him important to the colonial French (and later also to the Vichy) government. It was because of Hasan that Asmahan was called a ‘princess’ – he had been dubbed an ‘amir’ by the French. The press made much of the idea of a ‘princess’ who dared to sing (Zuhur 1998: 83). Though Asmahan had agreed to the arranged marriage with Hasan, she became unhappy and isolated in Syria and had some disagreements with her in-laws. She longed for her active musical life in Egypt and fell into a depression, even though Hasan built her a new house in Suwaida and they moved there from the village of al-Era. She attempted suicide in Damascus according to one account and she insisted on returning to Cairo to give birth to a daughter. Once in Cairo, she returned to her independent and rather wild lifestyle and active career. Hasan divorced her later, when the film (The Triumph of Youth, Ahmed Badrakhan, 1941) appeared. Another reason that she was severely criticized was that she insisted on living alone in Cairo where women who divorce, are widowed or remain single are expected to remain with or move back with their natal families, and she took an apartment in the Immobilia building. Her older brother Fu’ad could not deal with this behaviour from his sister, and he beat her. She reportedly drank to excess and was so unrepentant that her brother Fua’d called her the evil twin of Asmahan (Zuhur 2000a: 99). She also gambled – a vice allowed to her brother, Farid, but not her. Her lifestyle may also have been deemed wild because Asmahan was pursued by men, and she often remarried. In early 1940 her name was linked, at least in friendship, to Ahmad Hassanayn Pasha, an aide and tutor to King Faruq. By 1941, she was with director Ahmad Badrakhan, but because she had no record of her divorce from Hasan, she married Badrakhan with a civil contract. Both of their families were upset with this and put so much pressure on them that the marriage was dissolved (Zuhur 2000a; Zuhur 2021: 172–3). Perhaps on the rebound, she then agreed to the mission to Syria, and at Hasan’s insistence and against Druze rules she remarried him.

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After leaving Hasan, she returned to Egypt, and to get a visa she married actor and director Ahmad Salim, though the marriage was more than an arrangement from his side. As is the nature of the gossip media, aspects of her story that were not necessarily true attracted viewers and readers. For example, her song ‘Layali al-Uns fi Fienna’ gave rise to the idea that she had been in Vienna, though she never visited the Austrian city. In Vienna, a tour popular with Arabs was offered under this title. People associated her with the dancing of the Viennese waltz alluded to in the song. Vienna is painted as a heavenly place, contrasting it with the Middle East. The song shows Asmahan’s versatility as it shifts from the waltz tempo of the taslim (refrain) and its ‘Western colour’ (lawn gharbi) to lawn tarab (the colour of Arabic classical or traditional music) when it reaches the words, ‘ma bayn ranin al-kas’ (Zuhur 2021: 87). Nostalgia is a serious affliction in the Arab world, and it allowed many to be pulled into Asmahan’s orbit. It was a way of freeing the figure of Asmahan from the tropes about her Druze family’s patriotism and conservatism while simultaneously binding her to them. Due to nostalgia, modern programmes for female singers often still include a few of Asmahan’s songs (not the most difficult nor the most interesting), though she was not the most prolific of singers and her songs are very difficult. Nostalgia explains why there was tenure to the claim that she was a princess. Why else would her own brother, Fu’ad (then in his nineties), insist to me that I should call her Princess Amal? Her mother ‘Alia recorded under the title of Amira (Princess) ‘Alia al-Mundhir, an apparently fictitious title added for commercial purposes. Her husband Hasan was granted the title of Amir by the French, but this did not extend to her. Why would her great-granddaughter perform her songs rather than more modern repertoire? It reminds the public of her family legacy and the belief that without that family legacy she would be unmemorable (Snaija 2021). However, at the other end of the spectrum of this family legacy trope, her brother Fu’ad insisted that his honour had been damaged by accounts of her life and so he filed lawsuits, including one against al-Taba‘i, and as previously explained, he had Fumil Labib write his version of his sister’s life to combat certain revelations that he thought dishonourable (Labib 1962). This stance did not ultimately prevent a film and a television series about Asmahan (2008) from appearing in recent years, as the public continues to be enthralled by her talent, career and life. Another example of the many half-truths and fictionalizations around Asmahan’s life is the idea that she was a spy – to the point that there are two Arabic books suggesting this in their titles (Abu al-‘Aynayn 1996; al-Jaza’iri 1990). While it is true that she carried out a mission that benefitted the Druze, Syria and the Free French and British allies she supported, it did not involve ‘spying’. She merely conveyed the Allies’ intention to invade in a specific message to the Druze. To Egyptians who could not countenance sympathies with the British, that might be a reason for this label, but

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not all Egyptians supported the Axis cause. Her brother also held mixed nationality and travelled between Jabal Druze (now known as the Jabal ‘Arab, the Druzes’ area) and Egypt, accompanying Gamal abd al-Nasser to Syria later on, but he was not accused of being a spy. Asmahan’s story contains references to the Mata Hari subplot of female entertainers. In my archival research I found that Asmahan was barely mentioned, but the French and the British were quite interested in her husband Hasan and kept tabs on ‘Ali Mustafa al-Atrash. Her mission to Syria about which al-Taba‘i wrote that she was paid a large amount, does not appear in the reopened classified official records that I reviewed. It was rather in gossipy, essentially orientalist accounts by the British that she is described as a would-be spy, seeking money, one example being MP Edward Spears’ memoirs. In fact, her trip to Syria was caused by the fact that her husband Hasan, tired of her overspending and staying in expensive hotels during their second marriage, had cut her off financially. Her stepbrother Munir explained that there was no other way to get her to come home to Suwayda and spend time there (Zuhur 2000b: 144). Spears’ account that she was on board a train bound for Istanbul, and he interrupted that journey, forcing her to disembark. His assumption was that she would sell information to the Germans, since he had refused to pay her and so had General Catroux. But this was based on no evidence at all, and her stepbrother, Munir, was aboard the train with her as she needed a male companion to travel. He testified that he saw no such plot underway, though he was a young teenager at the time and might not have noticed everything. Asmahan’s full but tragic life ended before the nationalizations carried out by President Gamal abd al-Nasser, which forced Egyptian minorities and non-Egyptians who had lived in Egypt for decades or longer to leave the country. The tax authorities cracked down on entertainers who were thought to have violated the law by not paying taxes, including Farid al-Atrash. When he did so, he was subjected to an erasure of his legacy from Egyptian musical heritage. Had Asmahan lived, this would probably have happened to her as well. Many entertainers and artists left Egypt and ended up in Lebanon. Up to this period, Egypt had been welcoming and cosmopolitan, but with the toughening of nationalization laws matters changed. Asmahan’s specialization in Arabic music in a period long before the advent of a world music scene in Europe meant that she did not enjoy international fame during her lifetime. She acquired some transnational fame and celebrity posthumously, though mainly in circles with some familiarity or interest in the Arab world, its music and art. For example, she was selected to be among the Arab divas covered in the Institut du Monde Arabe’s 2020–21 project and she was the subject of film projects by European-based or Western-trained and oriented directors (The Unbearable Presence of Asmahan, dir. Azza al-Hassan, 2014; Asmahan, une diva orientale, dir. Silvana Castano, 2014; Asmahan la Diva, dir. Chloe Mazlo,

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2019; and there is also Asmahan, dir. Hisham Bizri, 2005 – described as a film poem it is a montage). Due initially to her brother Fu’ad’s legal objections, and then to other family efforts, it took a long time for her to be the subject of a biographical thirty-part film series (musalsal) in Arabic, a regional project, Asmahan starring Sulaf Fawakhrij (dir. Nejib Ayed, 2008). This was not an international film but was consumed in the region. Asmahan’s family members took to the court to try and stop the screening in both Egypt and Syria (Pearson 2008). When I wrote my book on Asmahan, it was difficult to find a publisher, and so I published with an academic centre that had specialized in the topic of Middle Eastern women via the writings of Middle Eastern women. Earlier still, when I sought a grant for a documentary film on her life, my original endeavour prior to the book, I was told she was not famous enough to be of interest to American viewers. Asmahan paid a price for trying to have it all – her freedom and her career – and that price was also paid to some degree by her daughter. Her daughter was raised by Hasan al-Atrash who reputedly did not care to speak much of Asmahan. Indeed, it was not until much later that Asmahan’s name was reclaimed by her granddaughter and greatgranddaughter as people began to relish the stories of their foremothers who struggled in various ways in entertainment and other occupations. The field of Arabic music has changed radically with global trends and newly dominant genres veering away from the traditional vocal skills and aesthetics that had shaped Arabic music, and because the regional Islamic revival has caused many to reject secular music. And yet the Arab world still also delights in old songs, as we hear children and young teens performing difficult songs in television competitions such as Arabs Got Talent Kids. Asmahan is becoming a nostalgic memory linked to a regional Arab past in which musical abilities and performances were the focus of comment, enhanced by a star system which shaped aesthetics, reputations and – most of all – a sense of individual lives lived in the public eye and reflecting a panArab world in which Asmahan was thought to live an enchanted life and yet she was subject to social approbation and anger from her social milieu whilst being revered for her art and tragic beauty.

Notes 1 Her birth year is contested by her biographers, one of whom contends that her passport was physically altered, and in my own biography of her, I explain the reasons that I believe her birth could not have been later or earlier than 1917 as that was when her family escaped from Turkey, sailing from Izmir to Beirut and then returning to Syria. To find out more, see Sherifa Zuhur (2000b: 24–5). 2 Druze funeral music and orations at funerals are very special and were described by ‘Ali Jihad Racy (1971). See also Kathleen Hood (2007).

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3 According to law and custom, the father’s nationality determines that of his child. Asmahan’s father was Syrian, and although her mother was from what is now Lebanon, it was part of the Ottoman province of Syria at the time of Asmahan’s birth. Amal/Asmahan’s birth was at sea, en route from Izmir in Turkey to Beirut, Lebanon. It is not clear why Asmahan did not obtain Egyptian citizenship in 1927 when she might have legally. We may conjecture that in Cairo, then a multicultural melting pot, there was no need. 4 The song had been recorded in a Cuban-Arabic fusion by the Lebanese producer Michel Elefteriadis, sung by Hanine (Abou Chakra). After my book on Asmahan appeared, a music fan wrote to me about this project, sending samples of the song from old recordings from all over Latin America. The Elefteriadis version of the song and its film is not mentioned in this article by Vega which is about another film on the song. 5 I discussed aspects of her singing and her command of various genres in Asmahan’s Secrets, 167–97. 6 The oud was, in the nineteenth and earlier half of the twentieth century, considered an instrument suitable for women, and an accomplished bride might be able to play it. The popularity of the oud for women faded after the 1950s, and women tended to become singers rather than instrumentalists, although Arabic classical music and world music enthusiasts as well as some younger Arabs have been trying to reverse this trend.

Filmography Asmahan (2005), [Film] Dir. Hisham Bizri, Egypt/USA: Muqarnas Film. Asmahan (2008), [TV series] Dir. Chaouki Mejeri, Egypt: LTV Production. Asmahan, la Diva (2019), [Film] Dir. Chloé Mazlo, France: Doncvoilà Productions. Asmahan, une diva orientale (2013), [Film] Dir. Silvano Castano, France/ Switzerland/Lebanon: Amka Films Productions. Happy Day [Yom Sa‘id] (1939), [Film] Dir. Mohamed Karim, Egypt: Mohamed Karim. Passion and Revenge [Gharam wa Intiqam] (1944), [Film] Dir. Youssef Wahbi, Egypt: Studio Misr. The Triumph of Youth [Intisar al-Shabab] (1941), [Film] Dir. Ahmad Badrakhan, Egypt: Talhami Films. The Unbearable Presence of Asmahan (2014), [Film] Dir. Azza El-Hassan, Austria/ Qatar: Mischief Films. Wife by Proxy [Zawjat Bialniyaba] (1936), [Film] Dir. Ahmed Galal, Egypt: Lotus Films.

References Abu al-‘Aynayn, Sa‘id (1996), Asmahan, lubbat al-hubb wa-l-mukhabarrat, Cairo: Dar Akhbar al-Yom.

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Arinç, Chihat, Christian Moser and Martin Stokes (2017), ‘Nostalgia and the Female Oud Player’. Oudmigrations, 6 February. Fahmy, Ziad (2011), Ordinary Egyptians: Creating the Modern Nation through Popular Culture, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Gitre, Carmen K. (2019), Acting Egyptian: Theater, Identify and Political Culture in Cairo 1869–1930, Austin: University of Texas Press. Guermezi, Amal (2021), ‘Les comédies musicales, symbole du cinema égyptien’, Divas d’Oum Kalthoum à Dalida, Paris: Editions Skira Paris and Institut de Monde Arabe, 129–37. Hood, Kathleen (2007), Music in Druze Life: Ritual, Values and Performance Practice, with an introduction by A. J. Racy, London: Druze Heritage Foundation. al-Jaza’iri, Sa‘id (1990), Asmahan al-lahn al-khalid: Dhahiyya al-istakhbarat, London: Riad al-Rayyes. Labib, Fumil (1962), Qissat Asmahan, yarwiha Fu‘ad al-Atrash. Beirut: n.p. [republished as Labib, Fumil (2019), Qissat Asmahan, yarwiha Fu'ad al-Atrash, Beirut: Dar al-Jadid]. Lagrange, Frédéric (2009) ‘Women in the Singing Business: Women in Songs’. History Compass, 7(1): 226–50. Lagrange, Frédéric (2014), ‘045 – Awalem 3 – Doroub El Neghm’, Rawdat al-Balabil (a podcast) AMAR Foundation, 30 January. https://www.amar-fou​ ndat​ion.org/045-awa​lem-3 (accessed 18 July 2023). Mernissi, Fatima (1994), Dreams of Trespass: Tales of a Harem Girlhood, New York: Basic Books. Pearson, Rya (2008), ‘‘Asmahan Tops During Ramadan: Egyptian Audiences Tune into Historical Series’. Variety, 14 October. Racy, ‘Ali Jihad (1971), Fu’neral Songs of the Druzes of Lebanon. Master’s thesis, University of Illinois. Sahhab, Fiktur (1987), al-Sab‘a al-Kibar fi Musiqa al-‘Arabiyya al-Mu‘asira, Beirut: Dar al- ‘Ilm lil-Milayin. Shafik, Viola (2007), Arab Cinema: History and Cultural Identity, Cairo and New York: The American University in Cairo Press. Snaija, Olivia (2021), ‘The Divas of the Arab World’, Newlines Magazine, 27 May 2021. https://newl​ines​mag.com/photo-ess​ays/the-divas-of-the-arab-world/ (accessed 1 January 2023). Swayd, Sami S. (1998), ‘Introduction’, in The Druzes: An Annotated Bibliography, 33–41, Kirkland, WA: ISES Publications. al-Taba‘i, Muhammad (1961), Asmahan tarwi qisatha, Beirut: al-Maktaba al-tujjari lil-taba’ wa al-tawzi‘ wa al-nashr. al-Taba’i, Muhammad (2008), Asmahan Tells Her Story, Dar al-Shorouk Press. Vega, Jésus (2020), ‘“Ya Habibi, The Story of a Song”: The Music That Unites Us’, Artburst, 18 November 2020. https://www.artbur​stmi​ami.com/film-thea​ ter-artic​les/ya-hab​ibi-the-story-of-a-song-the-music-that-uni​tes-us (accessed 1 January 2023). Vernon, Paul (1995), ‘Cairo Practice’, in Folk Roots, 141. https://boli​ngo.org/audio/ texts/fr1​41ca​iro.html (accessed 1 January 2023).

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Zuhur, Sherifa (1998), ‘Asmahan: Arab Musical Performance and Musicianship under the Myth’, in Images of Enchantment: Visual and Performing Arts of the Middle East, 81–108, Cairo: The American University in Cairo Press. Zuhur, Sherifa (2000a), ‘An Arab Diva in the Gendered Discourse of Biography’, in Rudi Matthee and Beth Baron (eds), Iran and Beyond: Essays in Middle Eastern History in Honor of Nikki R. Keddie, 167–85, Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda Publishers. Zuhur, Sherifa (2000b), Asmahan’s Secrets: Woman, War and Song, Austin: Center for Middle Eastern Studies, University of Texas. Zuhur, Sherifa (2021), ‘Asmahan: un modèle de musicalité’ and ‘Les divas sur grand écran’, in Divas d’Oum Kalthoum à Dalida, 81–9 and 143–55, Paris: Editions Skira Paris and Institut de Monde Arabe. Zuhur, Sherifa (2022), Popular Dance and Music in Modern Egypt, Jefferson, NC: McFarland.

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3 ‘Subversive to Boot’: Tahia Carioca, an Imagined Geography of Egypt Carolina Bracco

Of all the stars in the Arab firmament, Tahia Carioca may be the longestlasting and most versatile, the one who Egyptian and wider Arab and transnational audiences have been most enthralled with. More than twenty years after her death, current Egyptian media still depict Carioca through articles and TV shows like the Ramadan series Carioca (Omar al-Shaikh) launched in 2012 and starring Wafaa Amer, which, although arguably biographical, proposed a very free interpretation of the dancer’s life. While her life was certainly lived in full view of the public, Egyptian and foreign journalists, academics, performers and audiences are still trying to unravel the mysterious truth of the life of this diva. Here I understand diva to be a word related to the divine, and so in poetic terms I describe her as a heavenly body that made the earth move around her. Her memory lives on not only as a great dancer but, more importantly, as a star whose unique charm, talent and trajectory inspired reflections, debates and theories on dance, Arab women’s bodies and the relationship between art and politics in Egypt and elsewhere. She was a gifted actress, is considered to be the greatest oriental dancer of all time,1 a nationalist and she was also – perhaps problematically – known for her many marriages. First and foremost, however, she was an Egyptian woman who loved her country and her people and whose life and career positioned her as a

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FIGURE 3.1  Tahia Carioca, an imagined geography of Egypt. Source: Designed by Salma Elbarbary.

transnational star given her permanence and worldwide popularity as an icon of oriental dance. In this chapter I describe the personal journey that brought me to Carioca, during a research trip to Cairo, and the archival work I conducted during that period. I attempt to delineate a biographical history of the dancer and actress in an effort to highlight her stardom through both her artistic and political commitments. A narrative of her life seemed appropriate as, I will show, stories abound that are impossible to verify now but that reflect the mythologization of a diva of the silver screen in Egypt, who experienced independence, decolonization, nationalization and many other political movements that have made Egypt the complex country it still is today. When I arrived in Cairo in July 2007 to research Egyptian dancers, I was instantly attracted by Carioca’s life and achievements. What I learned about her kept me in the country for four years and built an unbreakable bond between us. Such an approach would not have been possible without the help of my friend Nabiha Lotfy, who was making a film on Carioca at the time and who invited me to live with her while conducting my research. During my stay, I had the opportunity to go through her archive. From my friend Nabiha and from our shared study subject Carioca, I learned

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the meaning of gada’ana (usually translated into English as ‘generosity’ or ‘magnanimity’), which I treasure to this day. Since Edward Said wrote his famous essay on Carioca in 1990, many Arab intellectuals, who had typically thought of oriental dance as a minor and even vulgar art, started to think and write about her in a different way.2 In his article ‘Homage to a Belly Dancer’, Said offers a detailed account of Carioca’s career that is intimately linked to his experience of her body. Despite his disappointment at her performance in the late 1970s, about which he rather misogynistically claims ‘she had turned into a 220-pound swaggering bully’ (1990: 7), he travelled to Cairo with the sole intention of meeting her fifteen years later. One can assume that the meeting meant more to Said than to Carioca who had become a pious woman. In fact, I would argue that their meeting, and therefore the article, says more about Said than about Carioca, considering how he represents her in his autobiography, recalling an anecdote from his adolescence in Cairo: And for the first time in my life I thrilled to what was the most unmistakably erotic scene I had ever seen: Tahia Carioca, the greatest dancer of the day, performing with a seated male singer, Abdel Aziz Mahmoud, around whom she swirled, undulated, gyrated with perfect, controlled poise, her hips, legs, breasts more eloquent and sensually paradisiacal than anything I had dreamed of or imagined in my crude auto-erotic prose. I could see on Tahia’s face a smile of such fundamentally irreducible pleasure, her mouth open slightly with a look of ecstatic bliss tempered by irony and an almost prudish restraint. We were totally transfixed by this fetching contradiction, our legs soft with trembling passion, our hands gripping the chairs paralyzed with tension. She danced for about forty-five minutes, a long unbroken composition of mostly slow turns and passes, the music rising and falling homophonically, and given meaning not by the singer’s repetitions and banal lyrics but by her luminous, incredibly sensual performance. (Said 1999: 216) Through his sexualized and fetishistic description of the spectacle of Carioca’s body and her movements, Said links his own sensual and sexual pleasure to her dancing: her performance takes him to an unknown place, creating a ‘fetching contradiction’. The paradox was, for Said, the immediacy of her sensuality and the impossibility of grasping it. As such, in problematically colonial language rooted in psychoanalytical literary criticism, he identifies Carioca as ‘Other’ and as a mystery that must be overcome linguistically for full understanding, ultimately defining her as ‘untranslatable’. In an article he wrote later he adds: ‘Every culture has its closed-off areas, and in spite of her overpowering and well-distributed image, Tahia Carioca inhabited, indeed was, one of them’ (2001: 231). The terms ‘untranslatable’ and ‘closedoff’ merge in Said’s sexualization of Carioca, turning her into an Other not only for the non-Egyptian/Arab but also for him. Since he cannot ‘penetrate’

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her, he makes her a representative of an ‘impenetrable’ culture, repeating the colonial gesture his work critiques and framing Carioca in a pathologized way for non-Egyptian/Arab audiences through his interpretation. Moving away from his role as an intellectual and indulging in this account of an intimate and personal experience, Said orientalises Carioca by putting himself in the place of the European travellers of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries to the point of calling her ‘alma, and he even admits this is a word used by Edward Lane and Gustave Flaubert. This word refers to historical courtesans and dancers, and in more contemporary vocabulary it is associated with the women who are in charge of a group of dancers. This was a role that, as we will see, Carioca herself performed later in her career. In a recent article, Ala’ al-Din al- ‘Ala (2020) points out the importance of Carioca for the development of the theory of post-colonial studies and its focus on popular art. Oriental dance was one of the main subjects of orientalist writers’ obsessions, and writing about Carioca could be seen as a kind of male re-appropriation of colonized art (the oriental dance) and of colonized women’s bodies. This explains why not only Said (1990, 1999, 2001) but also Galal Amin (2007), Suleiman al Hakim (2000) and many other Arab men have written about Carioca. This constant re-reading of her life in a masculine context indicates more about the male (colonial) views of Egyptian women and Egyptian society than it does about the dancer’s life or stardom. In these men’s writing, Carioca’s body became a territory of appropriation, re-appropriation and constant dispute, embodying the tensions and contradictions between the West and the Orient and the colonized and the colonizer and exploring their fixation on gender roles and Egyptian and Arab femininity. Even her stage name, as we will see, was an allegory of a time of cultural and identity contestation. While most of the articles written and published on Carioca typically split her life into sections such as ‘nationalist’, ‘artistic life’, ‘love life’, Amin (2007) proposed a more overarching approach arguing that her life represented eighty years of Egyptian history. He claims that every turning point in Carioca’s life coincided with a turning point in Egyptian history and that this fact differentiates her from other stars like Abdel Halim Hafez or Umm Kulthum, to whom he also dedicates chapters of his book Personalities with History (2007). Following Amin’s approach, it seems illogical to disentangle Carioca’s political life from her artistic career, and indeed it is more appropriate to start studying the relationship between art, politics and Carioca’s stardom from the beginning.

Discovering an ‘Unknown Continent’ According to historical anecdotes that are doubtlessly based in the mythologization of the diva’s rags to riches story, Carioca’s early life was

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shaped by the patriarchal values of both her family and Egyptian society. She was born in Ismailia in 1919 under the name Badaweya Muhammad Abu ‘Ala al-Quraim al Nidany. After her father died, she was taken to her brother’s house to work as a servant, but one day, overhearing street musicians, she joined them dancing. Her brother, feeling she had dishonoured the family, shaved off her hair and chained her to the bed so that she would not escape to her mother. Badaweya was only twelve years old when her nephew freed her and gave her two piastres, advising her to run away. She got onto a train to Cairo hoping to find Suad Mahassen, a Syrian singer who was a family friend. When the inspector asked for her train ticket, she started crying, so the sympathetic passengers around her collected the money to pay for her ticket so that she could keep the little money she had (Lotfy 2009). Upon arriving in Cairo, she found Imad al-Din Street, where the main cabarets were located, looking for Suad Mahassen only to discover that she had settled in Alexandria. Again, the young girl started crying, eliciting sympathy from passers-by who took her to Alexandria. These two events where strangers helped her out of a difficult situation came to define her personality: she became a very generous person, a gada’ (generous, magnanimous). The young Badaweya stayed in Alexandria for some time, working as a comparse (extra) for Suad Mahassen, until Mahassen decided to return to Syria, handing her troupe over to Badia Masabni, a Lebanese artist who owned a cabaret in Imad al-Din Street. Because she was still very young, Masabni adopted Badaweya and baptised her Tahia. Badia was already an important figure in the flourishing entertainment industry in the country. She became a mentor to the girl and taught her that she should not focus on what people say but on the music. Carioca would follow her advice for the rest of her life, both on and off the stage and screen. Famously, Carioca developed a dance style that was so deeply connected to the music that she came to embody it in her rhythms, as if her body were translating the music with its movements and as if she was having an intimate experience with her body while performing. She would compose small and delicate movements and then, suddenly, look around to the public with her well-known smile, and start rounding out and moving around, sharing this intimate experience with the public. Indeed, as an art form, the oriental dance was intimately linked to Egypt’s colonial history and the spectacularization of the colonized female body. As a performative art, it was presented for the first time in the cabarets of the 1920s and 1930s, where audiences were composed primarily of foreign soldiers and high-class Egyptians. This new style was different from the traditional dances, as it made more use of torso, arm and hand movements. Moreover, this style of dance was often performed in high heels or on tiptoe, which elevated the dancer’s body (van Nieuwkerk 1995: 62). In those early years of semi-independence, in which colonial attitudes clashed with nationalist sentiments, the cabaret stages offered more than

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just dance – diverse entertainment for a mixed audience of both Westerners and Arabs consisted of satiric monologues, burlesque dances and popular songs. They were truly transnational spaces, which were fully influenced by Western arts, but also fervently nationalistic. Many typically Western artistic expressions were ‘Egyptianized’, which added a ‘local taste’ to the foreign trends, until they started to be perceived as ‘typically Egyptian’ and were promoted as such (Kassem 1995). In that multicultural environment, and inspired by the success of the film Flying Down to Rio (Freeland 1933) starring Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers dancing a carioca dance to sambainspired music,3 Carioca asked choreographer Isaac Dixon to choreograph a carioca for her to perform in Badia’s cabaret. The performance was received with immense enthusiasm, to such an extent that through word of mouth, the news of this dance spread and audiences started to ask for it every night. This gave rise to the famed stage name Tahia Carioca and, soon, the dancer became a veritable celebrity in Casino Badia. The Western influence on the dance therefore comes through the Hollywood stars and the film, but the origins of the dance being Latin American speaks not only to the globalization of the entertainment world at this time, it also announces an early affinity between Latin American and Arab anti-colonial sensibilities. By claiming ownership (taking carioca as a name) of the dance, Carioca established her identity as a star with global ambitions beyond the oriental nature of her mixed audiences’ understanding of the dance. In fact, according to the great musician Mohammed Abdel Wahab, she ‘liberated the Oriental dance from a foreign influence’ (Hakim 2000: 2). For this reason, while she was decidedly globally inspired, her success was perceived as a patriotic phenomenon. In terms of the media, by the mid-1930s, Cairo had experienced a veritable boom. The development and huge popularity of radio, records and magazines was rapidly followed by the establishment of a powerful film industry that allowed artists to gain regional as well as international fame. Her circumstances converged on this historical moment, and the year 1945 became a turning point in the life of Carioca. By this time, her sister had died, and she had become the guardian of her eight nieces and nephews.4 Facing significant economic hardship as a consequence, she resigned herself to dancing for the allied troops even though Great Britain was still the occupying power in Egypt and she was a fervent nationalist. The situation changed that same year, when – after several minor film roles – Wally Eddin Sameh chose her as the female lead in the film The Lady’s Puppet [Libat el-Sitt] (1946), alongside actor Naguib al-Rihani. The film tells the story of an Egyptian family that works at weddings and festivities. The family in the film are musicians and their daughter, performed by Carioca, is a dancer. Her role is the classic Egyptian character bint al-balad, literally translated as ‘country girl’, and represented as the typical girl from a popular neighbourhood: noble, brave, smart and whose knowledge comes from the

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so-called school of life. She stands out for her generosity and ambition but places her honour above everything else (Messiri 1978). In this role, Carioca ‘combines coquetry and glamorous attire with a concern for reserve and modesty in dressing. [She] is perceived as fahlawiyya, clever, unable to be fooled but likely to fool others’ (van Nieuwkerk 1995: 112). Although she performed this role in a very naturalistic way, Carioca later recounted that she was extremely worried about acting in front of al-Rihani, who was a huge star at the time. After rejecting the role for some time, Carioca finally relented but has stated that when she was at the studio with al-Rihani, she felt so intimidated that she could hardly speak. Years later, al-Rihani would describe her and her body as an ‘unknown continent’ (al-Din 2020), once again highlighting how (Arab) men perceived her body as uncharted territory to be conquered or (re)appropriated. His condescending attitude towards her as a young, first-time actress and as a dancer (with the associated reputation) was also obvious from his worries about the film: Al-Rihani was so preoccupied with the audience’s reaction, that he did not attend the premiere at Cinema Studio Misr on 25 January 1946. He was proved wrong, and The Lady’s Puppet became one of the most popular films that year. Due to the tremendous success of her first leading role in a film, Carioca signed a five-year contract with Fox Company to work in Hollywood. In interviews she testifies that during her time there, she was paid a salary and attended a few castings but did not manage to shoot any films due to pressures from the Zionist lobby in the industry. She stayed for two years until she was able to resign from her contracts with Fox – although at huge personal expense – and return to Egypt (Al Mustaqbal TV 1997). Consequently, while the quality of her professional performance and her huge popularity enabled her to travel and experience the international (Hollywood) film industry, her personal nationalist commitments prevented her from really partaking in the industry and becoming an international star in Hollywood. Internal paternalistic and political power structures conspired to define her in limited terms as a national signifier for Egypt and Arab femininity, rather than a performer and professional actor with potentially huge global appeal, again also reminding us of the sexualization of Carioca by internationalist scholars like Said.

The Politicization of a Performer The 1950s was an important time for Carioca, as she developed from a dancer into an actress, contributing significantly to Egyptian cinema’s Golden Age and, as an influential star with an already-established clarity of political allegiances, inspiring in her fans the growth of a political consciousness linked to her nationalistic fervour. The Free Officers movement overthrew King Farouk in July 1952, ending decades of British colonial rule and local

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complicity. A period of sociopolitical change in Egyptian history thus started, with the rise of President Gamal Abdel Nasser as a national, regional and even global icon of the anticolonial struggle; the emergence of pan-Arabism; a series of inclusive policies and the development of the country through import substitution and industrialization; the nationalization of the Suez Canal in 1956; and other measures adopted by the regime. Already in 1951, a group of guerrillas had been fighting the British Army in Suez (Vatikiotis 1992). Carioca became strongly aligned with this nationalistic, anti-imperial political agenda. A relatively unknown fact is that Carioca transported weapons in her car to Ismailia to be distributed to the commandos there (Akhbar al-Nuyum 1994). Given her celebrity status and fame, nobody dared to check the boot of her car. However, after the revolution, Carioca became disenchanted with the new regime. At a muchpublicized event, she said ‘Farouk left but Farouks came instead’, indicating that she felt the Free Officers were just as corrupt as the dethroned King (Lotfy 2009). This was the first time she came into confrontation with the new regime. The second time came in 1953, when she was jailed in the context of what was later known as ‘The National Front Case’. The National Front was composed of various organizations in opposition to the Officers’ rule. Carioca joined the Front, where she met and married a former officer of the Egyptian Army, Mustafa Kamal Sidqi. Her participation in the Front was made public when she led the Egyptian delegation to the International Conference of the Youth held in Bucharest, between 10 and 20 August 1953. She performed an oriental dance and wore a traditional Egyptian costume at the parade. Carioca’s participation in the Front changed her view of the world and strengthened her political involvement due to her newly found revolutionary spirit. When she returned to Cairo, she was willing to play a role in the movement that was at the time followed closely by the National Security Forces. She held meetings at her home and hid some of the Front’s members, such as the journalist Salah Hafez. Carioca and her husband were arrested in 1953. She spent three months in prison pending investigation with no charges, while her husband remained in prison for longer. Interestingly, Carioca was – together with her friend from the Front, Marie Rosenthal – one of the first women to be arrested by the regime. I had the chance to talk to Rosenthal in the summer of 2009 about this experience. She recalled the following: The police felt that they had not done enough because they did not know how this Egyptian delegation was formed. The delegation participated with sixty-three members, and was headed by this famous artist, but the forces did not know anything about their moves in advance. They reacted by monitoring us closely and by summoning Tahia. … She told me afterwards that they made her wait for the head of the department

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more than ten hours, who then ordered her to make a full report of the trip and the network that had supported it. Tahia refused, and said to him: ‘Tell me clearly what I am being accused of and do not force me to participate in covering up for your mistakes.’ They liberated her at the time, but we knew that her defiance would be punished later. (Bracco 2019a, 2019b) After a few months, Rosenthal, Carioca and other women involved in the movement were taken to prison, where they spent some time together. Carioca was the oldest of the women prisoners. She prepared breakfast, had her cell open and even tried to teach them to dance ‘but we were terrible dancers’, recalled Rosenthal (Interview with the author in Cairo 2009). Their morale was high and, after her release, Carioca was even more committed than before to fighting for the democratization of the country. Even while opposing the regime, she did not ignore the nationalist cause, as becomes evident from her participating in several national campaigns, the way other stars like Umm Kulthum also did. For instance, Carioca participated in the armament week of 1955, which related to the regime’s efforts to nationalize the Suez Canal. Another way in which Carioca’s commitment to the national cause and her opposition to the Free Officers became apparent is through the growing film industry. One of the main interests of the Free Officers was to spread their policies and measures by controlling the media (Bracco 2019b). Their narrative on the ‘new Egyptian woman’ is a perfect example. The Free Officers nationalized the film industry, and cultural policies stated that a very specific image of Egypt needed to be portrayed on screen. As such, a new cinema started to blossom in Egypt after the revolution, which was rooted in a desire to show the nationalist fervour and veneration of Nasser in films about the common people, the lower classes, both in the urban and in the rural areas of the country. Scriptwriters and directors who came to fame in this period include Salah Abu Seif, who is the most revered of them, regarded as ‘the artist of the Egyptian people’ (Tawfiq 1969), and Youssef Chahine. Although a fervent critic of the state management of the film industry, Carioca acted in many films of that time. Aside from a couple of exceptions, she largely left behind her role as a dancer for that of the mature woman, a femme fatale, a ma’alema (chief woman) or a mixture of both. In 1956, Salah Abu Seif cast her to lead one of his most important films, The Youth of a Woman [Shabab emraa] (1956). In the film, Carioca plays an attractive and seductive middle-aged woman, Shafaʾat. She is wealthy and has divorced her husband, who still lives in her house, where she also rents out rooms. Imam (Shukry Sarhan), an innocent young man, arrives in the city from the countryside to study at Al Azhar University and leases one of her rooms. Shafaʾat seduces him as her ex-husband watches them closely with jealousy and tries to separate the new couple. The femme fatale leads the young man astray: Imam starts drinking and abandons his studies and his naive girlfriend, Shadia. When Imam

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attempts to leave Shafaʾat and rekindle the relationship with his ex-girlfriend, Shafaʾat threatens to report him falsely for robbery if he refuses to marry her. The wedding is already under way when Imam’s parents come to visit him and Shafaʾat’s ex-husband interferes to separate them, pushing her down the stairs. With her death, the young man is liberated from marriage and the world is freed of this woman’s wickedness. There is only one dance scene in the movie, remembered by Said with admiration: There is one great scene, in which Tahia pulls her young husband away from a street celebration that features a young belly dancer who has captivated the inexperienced student. Tahia takes him into their house, sits him down and tells him that she will show him what real dancing is like. Whereupon she treats him to a private performance that positively smoulders, proving that, middle-aged or not, she still is the finest dancer, the most formidable intellect, and the most desirable sexual object around. (1990: 6) In his analysis of the film, Amin observes that at the time the audience sympathized with the jealous ex-husband, lamented the decadence of the young man and rejoiced at the death of Shafaʾat, however tragic it might seem today (2007: 214). To understand the public’s agreement with Shafaʾat’s punishment, it is useful to read the perception of cinema critic Mustafa Darwish: In the film, she [Carioca] plays the femme fatale, a woman who takes advantage of young men, makes love with them because she is rich, and she is a baladi [local] woman. The writer [Amin Yusef] and the director tried to present a kind of woman that would put people off, an evil woman … It is a very moralistic film. In the end, she is punished because of her behaviour, because she sleeps with men. That is why she dies in that horrible way. (2009) Viola Shafik has a more interesting approach to the characterization of Shafaʾat as a femme fatale, more precisely ‘an elderly femme fatale’. She writes: The character of this elderly vamp thus bears much resemblance to the image of the nurturing but also possessive mother. The son is too weak to unite with another woman unless this (symbolic) mother is destroyed. Crucial, too, is the weakness of the symbolic father figure whose revolt, crystallised in the killing, comes rather late and as an act of despair. (2007: 145–6) In light of this psychoanalytic reading, the death of Shafaʾat may also be interpreted as the old and corrupt government being replaced with a new and more virtuous generation of leaders. Indeed, I would say that Carioca’s

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body is objectified and comes to represent one aspect of the political environment at this time in which the Nasser government was so involved in the film industry, using it as a national PR machine. The film was nominated for the Palme d’Or at the Cannes Festival. According to Amin, some government officials were worried about the film taking part in the festival since it depicted scenes of poverty that could damage the image of the country. In the end, Nasser consulted Hussein Fawzy, a renowned intellectual and at the time sub-secretary in the Ministry of Culture, who gave his blessing for the Egyptian delegation to attend the festival (2007: 209). From this film onwards, Carioca would frequently play the role of the oversexualized evil woman, as opposed to the chaste, virtuous girl she specialized in earlier on in her career. It could be argued that the Egyptian film industry simply did not provide sympathetic roles for ‘elderly’ women (bearing in mind Carioca is only 37 at this stage). In 1958, she and the other renowned dancer Samia Gamal shot the only film that unites these two legends of Egyptian dance: My Dark Darling [Habibi al Asmar] (Hasan El-Saifi 1958). The title of the film is taken from Mohammed Abdel Wahab’s famous song, to which Samra (Gamal) dances in the opening scene. Gamal plays the role of a bint al balad bewitched by a cabaret dancer played by Carioca who, again, is punished with death in the end of the film. In both films, Carioca’s body is scrutinized by male characters and subjected to an unapologetic male gaze. Close-ups of her and Gamal’s legs, breasts, hips, provocative eyes and lips evoked male desire and fantasy, turning the woman into an Other, a sexualized object. The woman moving into a male space represents an object bearer of (nationalist) meaning, merchandise to be consumed and controlled. The male desire for possession and female ‘sexual omnipresence’ (Mernissi 1975) meet in the merchandized female cinematic body. The ‘uncontrollable’ power of female strength had to be exploited but controlled as well. In line with this approach, the appearance of the local femme fatale in state-controlled cinema seemed part of a larger project to discipline women. The role of the Egyptian femme fatale was to delimit women’s burdens by showing what an evil woman was like and what kind of fate was in store for her. To be credible, she had to be completely local, baladi, in her manners and customs but necessarily opposed to the banat al-balad not only in her behaviour but also in age. Carioca excelled at playing this subversive role.

From Cabaret to Politics to Political Cabaret Carioca was always fully aware of her age and the roles she felt she should play according to every stage of her life. In 1960, at the relatively young

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age of 41, she decided to cancel all the contracts that contained dancing scenes after witnessing how the public mocked a senior dancer: ‘One has to know when to stop’, she said to her manager (Lotfy 2009). She had already accomplished many memorable performances in her career that no other dancer had or would attain. Among the most important was one in which she danced at an Umm Kulthum performance. This unique event took place at the Ahly Club where she danced to the famous song ‘Sing for Me a Little’ [‘Ghanily shuaya shuaya’], which Umm Kulthum had explicitly requested.5 In 1961, Carioca launched a theatre company together with her last husband, the playwright and actor Fayez Halawa. Since the genre of political theatre that the company developed – cabaret siesi (political cabaret) – was devoted to criticizing the regime, the government would not give them a venue. As such, they performed in schools, in hospitals and anywhere they were given the opportunity. When asked about her favourite of all the plays the company performed, Carioca invariably answered Shafiqa the Copt, written by the journalist Galil al Bendari, a close friend. The play was a fantasized biography of a dancer from the beginning of the twentieth century who was rich and successful but died in misery and social rejection. Carioca would always reflect on the fact that this was the ultimate destiny for a female artist. This play was adapted for the screen in 1963 in Hasan al-Imam’s series of ‘melodramas of dancers’ starring Hind Rostom. The last of this series was the huge box office hit Pay Attention to Zuzu [Khaly Balak mn Zozo] (1972), where Carioca performed her last film role related to her career as a dancer. Based on real events, the play told the story of Zuzu, a dancer-student, played by Soad Hosni. Zuzu’s parents are musicians and their daughter a dancer. The plot bears marked similarities to The Lady’s Puppet, which had catapulted Carioca to fame almost thirty years earlier. However, Pay Attention to Zuzu introduces some themes pertinent to the context in which it was performed, since it sheds light on the social conflict between the rich and the poor – a constant tension in post-revolutionary Egyptian society (Bracco 2019a). Carioca performs the mother of the dancer, an ‘alma, a role that she reprised the next year in the screen version of Sugar Street [Al Sukareya] (1973), the third part of Mahfouz’s famous trilogy, also directed by Hasan al-Imam. In interviews, Carioca often claimed that she loved theatre more than cinema: I love theatre and performance, thanks to Badia Masabni, although it is so tiring. I also made political theatre when nobody dared to criticise what was going on in the country and I faced lots of hardships, including censorship. They went crazy when they found sincere words and started to cut parts of the scripts, and nobody would protect me except for the

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late president Nasser. I loved him very much. (‘Adb al-Gani and al Zuhiri 1997: 27) This statement is proof of the complexity of Carioca’s public persona. She was brave enough to criticize the regime before the 1967 defeat, when the romance between the president and the Egyptian people was at its height. Her well-known affection for Nasser seemed not to contradict the fact that he was the head of the regime that she criticized so strongly. One of her most polemical plays was The Mule in the Teapot. It objected to the Soviet presence in the country and was ultimately cancelled. In the end, it was Long Live the Delegation!, which increased the seriousness of the problems faced by the theatre company. The play, which was also antiSoviet, was released after Nasser’s death and was banned by his successor, Anwar al Sadat. Once again, the relationship between the president, the dancer and the regime proved highly complex: in the 1940s, Al Sadat had built a good relationship with Carioca when she hosted him in her sister Maryam’s farm in Ismailia when he was hiding from the British army (Khorshid 1999). Still, in 1972, Carioca took the banning of the play to court and won the case against the Ministry of Culture. This ultimately made the play a huge success due to all the publicity that the banning and the court case had provoked. The next decade marked Carioca’s last active years, before she started to wear the veil, as can be observed in her films and interviews of the late 1990s. When asked about why she decided to wear the veil, she answered that, as an elderly woman, she had become closer to God and that she regretted exposing her body when she was young (Al Mustaqbal TV 1997). This reflection can be linked, as Amin proposes, to a turning point in Egyptian history: at a time when most women in Egypt were wearing the veil – either as a legitimate way to move around in public spaces or as an identity marker, or for other reasons – so was Carioca.6 In 1981, after twenty years of marriage, Carioca separated from Halawa. After a long and very publicized divorce, her energy and money were depleted, leaving her in a vulnerable situation. When she finally got divorced from Halawa, she moved into a room on Tahrir Street. According to Raga’ al Guedawy’s testimony in Nabiha Lotfy’s documentary Carioca. Pages of a Life (2009), some people secretly helped her. For example, a Kuwaiti sheikha gave Carioca an apartment as a present for life, where she spent her last years with some members of her family. The year 1986 also gave rise to a protest in the actors’ union against Law 103, which was seen as an abuse of actors’ liberties and their legal rights. Although Carioca was unwell, she went to the union, participated in the sit-in and slept on the floor. When the union decided to go on a hunger strike, she joined them too, as is shown in Yousef Chahine’s film Alexandria Again and Forever (1989). In 1988, Chahine invited Carioca

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to join him, Ali Badrakhan and others on a trip to Cyprus organized by the Palestinian Liberation Organization. They wanted to hold a festival in support of the First Intifada and to sail to Haifa, but due to an Israeli ban on entry they could not. This shows that even in her very final years, she remained committed to social and political causes she believed in, and was a visible and passionate activist for the rights of artists, also supporting other artists’ involvement in and commitment to political causes.

Open-Ended Remarks The most difficult challenges researchers face in their discovery of Carioca are located around separating fact from myth. Due to the immense popularity of Carioca as a dancer, a film actress and a theatre performer, and due to her complex relationships with politics and with politicians, stories and events have become either legendary or skewed or both. Said’s writing about Carioca is an interesting example of this. Even in her own retellings, she would change anecdotes, perhaps because in her final days she could not remember everything with precise detail, did not want to remember or started to believe the popular, fictional stories surrounding her persona. Carioca is a star whose body is still entwined with the Egyptian national identity. Her image is present in commodified visual art and objects. She has become part of the Egyptian national conscience. Indeed, she occupies a status that other famous dancers, such as Samia Gamal or Soheir Zaki, have never had. Throughout this chapter, I have attempted to show that even after her death, Carioca still has a lot to say about the past and present of Egyptian society, precisely due to her star status and because of the many different narratives circulating about her, her public persona and her private life. She has danced, she has acted and she has become one of the great iconic divas of Egyptian and, indeed, Arab culture.

Notes ‘Subversive to Boot’ is a quote taken from Said’s famous (or infamous) piece on Tahia Carioca’s career. https://www.lrb.co.uk/the-paper/v12/n17/edw​ard-said/ hom​age-to-a-belly-dan​cer (accessed 1 January 2023). 1 I use the term ‘oriental dancer’ instead of others such as ‘belly-dancer’ since that is what Carioca used to call herself: raqasa sharqia (oriental dancer). 2 Those interested can read more about this in the collection The Secret Passion: The Intellectuals and the Oriental Dance (Al-Hajiri 2019). 3 As a proper noun, the Carioca refers to a group dance in which dancers hold hands. As a ballroom dance it signifies a choreography which was first introduced to the wider world in the film Flying Down to Rio. In Portuguese,

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‘carioca’ is a demonym used to refer to anything that originates in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. 4 One of her nieces, Raga’ al Gaddawi, would later follow in her aunt’s footsteps and engage in her own career as an actress in 1950. 5 She had also danced at the wedding of Queen Farida and King Farouk in 1938. Carioca was enamoured of Farida, who she referred to as the ‘only queen of Egypt’. She was very angry at Farouk when he divorced her in 1948. Although many stories are told about her relationship with the late King, she danced only on one other occasion in his presence – in the Opera House where a parliamentary event was held. 6 For a detailed discussion on the veiling phenomenon among Egyptian actresses, see Shafik (2007: 197–201).

Filmography Alexandria Again and Forever (1989), [Film] Dir. Yousef Chahine, Paris and Cairo: French Ministry of Culture, La Sept, Ministere des Affaires Etrangeres, Misr International Films. Carioca (2012), [Film] Dir. Omar al-Shaikh, Cairo: Egy Media Production. Carioca. Pages of a Life (2009), [Film] Dir. Nabiha Lotfy, Cairo: Al-Taqaddom for Journalism and Media. Flying Down to Rio (1933), [Film] Dir. Thornton Freeland, New York: RKO Pictures. The Lady’s Puppet (1946), [Film] Dir. Wally Eddin Sameh, Cairo: Al-Sharq al-aswad. My Dark Darling [Habibi al Asmar] (1958), [Film] Dir. Hasan El-Saifi, Cairo: Hasan El-Saifi. Pay Attention to Zuzu [Khaly Balak mn Zozo] (1972), [Film] Dir. Hasan al-Imam, Cairo: Sout al Film. Sugar Street [Al Sukareya] (1973), [Film] Dir. Hasan al-Imam, Cairo: United Cinema. A Woman’s Youth [Shababd emraa] (1956), [Film] Dir. Salah Abu Seif, Cairo: Wahid Farid y Kamal Karim.

References ‘Adb al-Gani, H., and G. al Zuhiri (1997), Interview with Tahia Carioca, Al-Kawakib, 26–7, Cairo (Arabic). Al-Hajiri, M. (2019), The Secret Passion: The Intellectuals and the Oriental Dance, Cairo: Riad El-Rayes Books (Arabic). Al-Mustaqbal TV (1997), Interview with Tahia Carioca in the TV Show ‘Stay at Home’. Beirut. Amin, G. (2007), ‘Tahia Carioca or Eighty Years of the Life of the Egyptians’, in G. Amin (ed.), Personalities with History, 205–18, Cairo: Dar al Shoruq (Arabic).

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Bracco, C. (2019a), ‘The Changing Portrayal of Dancers in Egyptian Films. Three Roles in the Career of Tahia Carioca (1946, 1958 and 1972)’, Anthropology of the Middle East, 14(1): 6–22. Bracco, C. (2019b), ‘The Creation of the Femme Fatale in Egyptian Cinema’, Journal of Middle East Women’s Studies, 15(3): 307–29. Darwish, Mustafa (2009), Interview with the Author in Cairo. al-Din al- ‘Ala, A. (2020), ‘The intellectuals and the Oriental Dance’, Al-Jumhuriya. https://www.alju​mhur​iya.net/ar/cont​ent/%D8%A7%D9%84%D9%85%D 8%AB%D9%82%D9%81%D9%88%D9%86-%D9%88%D8%A7%D9% 84%D8%B1%D9%82%D8%B5-%D8%A7%D9%84%D8%B4%D8%B1% D9%82%D9%8A (Arabic) (accessed 11 April 2021). El-Messiri, S. (1978), Ibn al balad. A Concept of Egyptian Identity, Leiden: E. J. Brill. Hakim, S. (2000), Tahia Carioca, Between Dance and Politics, Cairo: Dar al Khilal (Arabic). Kassem, M. (1995), ‘Adaptation, égyptianisation et remake’, in M. Wassef (ed.), Egypte 100 ans de cinema, 238–47, Paris: Institute du Monde Arabe. Khorshid, H. (1999), ‘The Times Between Dance and Politics’, Masa’ al Kher, 2 September, 1999, Cairo: 57–9 (Arabic) Mernissi, F. (1975), Beyond the Veil, Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Nieuwkerk, K. van (1995), A Trade Like Any Other: Female Singers and Dancers in Egypt, Cairo: American University Press. al-Nuyum, A. (1994), ‘Tahia Carioca, Tears and Smiles of a Life Journey’, 15 May, 18–19 (Arabic). Rosenthal, Marie (2009), Interview with the Author in Cairo. Said, E. (1990), ‘Homage to a Belly-Dancer’, 7–9, London Review of Books, 13 September. https://www.lrb.co.uk/the-paper/v12/n17/edw​ard-said/hom​ age-to-a-belly-dan​cer (accessed 1 January 2023). Said, E. (1999), Out of Place: A Memoire, New York: Vintage Books. Said, E. (2001), ‘Farewell to Tahia’, in S. Zuhur (ed.), Colors of Enchantment, 228–32, Cairo: AUC Press. Shafik, V. (2007), Popular Egyptian Cinema, Cairo: American University in Cairo Press. Tawfiq, S. (1969), An Artist of the People, Salah Abu Seif, Cairo: Dar al-Misr al-Tiba’ (Arabic). Vatikiotis, P. J. (1992), The History of Modern Egypt, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University.

4 The Modern Marianne of Cairo: Arabness and Cosmopolitanism in Dalida’s Stardom Barbara Lebrun

The Institut du Monde Arabe in Paris is the official centre for the promotion of cultural and diplomatic ties between France and the member states of the Arab League. As a museum, its mission is to showcase ‘the diversity of cultures, ethnicities, languages and faiths of the Arab world’, through regular exhibitions (IMA n.d.). This focus on diversity was certainly on view in a 2021 exhibition entitled ‘Arab Divas: From Oum Kalthoum to Dalida’, which presented the work of two very different performers.1 Both were women singers born in twentieth century Egypt, yet whereas Umm Kulthum fostered Nasser’s Arab nationalism with her traditional songs in Arabic, the pop star Dalida was professionally anchored in France and recorded very few songs in Arabic, only adding ‘Arabness’ to her multifaceted music persona late in her career. Taking its cue from this exhibition, this ­ chapter – the first Englishlanguage publication to examine this topic – considers the diffuse and plural meanings of the ‘Arab diva’ Dalida (b. Yolanda Gigliotti, 1933–1987), mapping her flexible Arabness across songs, films and media discourse from the mid-1950s to the present. Dalida was professionally ‘French’ given her career engineered in Paris, but she was also ‘Arab’ by virtue of territorial, linguistic, musical and affective features. Indifferent to Arab nationalism, she developed a peripheral, diasporic, unstable and sometimes reluctant

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FIGURE 4.1  Arabness and cosmopolitanism in Dalida’s stardom. Source: Designed by Bahia Shehab.

Arabness which was closely intertwined, and sometimes at odds, with French national identity. Drawing upon theories of transnational celebrity, cosmopolitanism and multimodality, this chapter disentangles the complex contribution of Arabness to Dalida’s stardom and of Dalida to a global sense of Arab cultural achievement. Alternating the focus between Egypt, Lebanon, France and North America, I show that Dalida the ‘Arab star’ is a proposition that makes sense to people and institutions differently, depending on the time, place and art form (songs or films) in question. The Arab side of her stardom is revealed as both geopolitical, reflecting and shaping France’s diplomatic ties with Arab nations, and profoundly personal, a source of pride and emotion, but also of fear and incomprehension. Subtle and deeply textured, Dalida’s Arabness is ambivalent and this is arguably its strength.

Transnational Stardom, Fluid Arabness Dalida was one of France’s best-selling female pop singers of the twentieth century, with around 140 million records sold during her lifetime and since

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(Orlando, n.d.). Spotted in Paris in 1956 by the record producer Eddie Barclay, she quickly became a serial chart-topper in France in genres including Mediterranean exotica (‘Bambino’, 1956), yéyé (‘Itsi bitsi, petit bikini’, 1961), romantic ballads (the duet ‘Paroles, paroles’ with film star Alain Delon, 1973) and disco (‘Monday, Tuesday [Laissez-moi danser]’, 1979). Releasing around 500 songs in French and obtaining French citizenship in 1961, Dalida is celebrated today not only as a singer whose musical identity collapses notions of exoticism, tragedy and gay-friendliness but also as a canonically French artist (Lebrun 2020). Although French music critics routinely disparaged her as a ‘mere’ performer during her lifetime, her work has been re-evaluated recently and the French state, with funding from the Paris municipality, has promoted the ‘patrimonialization’ of her memory through toponyms, monuments and events, such as the 2021 IMA exhibition. Dalida was not born in France, however, and her foreignness relative to France was instrumental in the construction of her star appeal. As an Italian national with Calabrian origins, dark hair and an Italian accent when speaking and singing in French, she ideally fitted the French vogue for Mediterranean exotica in the 1950s. Based in France, she developed a career as a multilingual artist, recording an additional 400 songs in languages other than French and toured extensively in Europe, Quebec and Japan, with frequent performances on Italian and German television. Multilingual and well-travelled, Dalida epitomizes the definition of an international star whose physical and cultural exchanges between different national contexts forge ‘contact zones’, or emotional connections between disparate audiences and localities (Meeuf and Raphael 2013: 4). Her global fame is still evidenced today by the dozens of languages visible in the comments section of her YouTube videos. Arabness, in this context, is only one of Dalida’s many identities and hardly the most pronounced. Despite her vast musical output, she only recorded six songs in Arabic: ‘Salma ya salama’ (1977), ‘Helwa ya baladi’ (1979), ‘Aghani Aghani’ (1982), ‘Aksan nass’ (1985), ‘Gamil el soura’ (1985) and ‘Lebnan’ (1988, a posthumous release), all concentrated in the last ten years of her career. Similarly, her live performances in the Arab world are substantial (about five times in Algeria, four in Lebanon, three in Egypt and once or twice in Morocco, Tunisia, Jordan, Abu Dhabi and Turkey – an ‘oriental’ and majority Muslim country), but they are far outnumbered by those outside it.2 It is true that two Egyptian films bookend her acting career: A Glass and a Cigarette [Sigara wa Kass] by Niazi Mustapha (1954) and The Sixth Day [Le Sixième jour] by Youssef Chahine (1986). But she played a very minor role in the first, and the second was a bizarre, misunderstood flop which is discussed below. On the surface then, Dalida does not appear much of an ‘Arab star’. Her Arab meaning, therefore, is more qualitative than quantitative, dependent on context and interpretation. Like all cultural identities, Arabness

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is a ‘mobile consciousness’ and ‘plastic intellectual construct which people can join, discard and change’ (Anon n.d.). Although Islam is historically inseparable from it, religion is not its sole marker, and contemporary Arabness mainly binds the members of its community through ‘cultural stuff’, such as language and customs (Webb 2016: 352). Moreover, because Arabness is decoupled from citizenship and race, it is not limited to the political ‘Arab world’, but stretches over potentially any territory (whether real or imaginary, physical or virtual), over friendships, collaborations and intertextuality, and can express itself in Arabic, and not. Born in Cairo, occasionally performing in Arabic, travelling throughout the Arab world, Dalida certainly demonstrates a degree of Arabness, yet its characteristics and the ways in which she signifies it need to be established here. Dalida’s Arab meaning is further complicated by the (post-)colonial context of her career. The artist was born and raised in Egypt but moved to Paris in 1955 (Christmas 1954 to be precise), where her quick rise to stardom from 1956 onwards coincided with the country’s loss of its Arab colonies and interests (Algerian War 1954–62; Suez crisis of 1956). If her Italian and Catholic background did not make Dalida a colonial subject for France, her Egyptian provenance was sufficiently problematic for the French media to occult or gloss over it for many years (Lebrun 2020: 184). Meanwhile, the changing demographics of post-war France, with Arab immigrants and European exiles from the Maghreb, helped swell the ranks of listeners potentially identifying with her international trajectory. Focusing on Arabness invites us, then, to re-conceptualize Dalida as a transnational rather than an international star. Where the adjective ‘international’ implies relations of parity between the different contexts straddled, ‘transnational’ points instead to relations of unevenness, mobility and variant scales between its different nodes (Meeuf and Raphael 2013: 4). As a concept and a practice, transnational stardom reveals tensions and variations of meaning, both within a given setting and in between settings, shaping a polycentric and geopolitical artist. Dalida’s Arab stardom is a case in point. Her connotations shift continuously with time, place and media and echo power struggles within the ‘Arab world’ and the ‘West’, and between the two. Working my way backwards, I first establish the enormous affection that exists today for Dalida as an ‘Arab’ star before exploring the more confused meanings around her Arabness during her lifetime, first as a French singer and second as the lead actress in The Sixth Day.

Arab Pride Posthumously, Dalida’s Arabness is unequivocally affirmed through the facts of her birth in Egypt, her travels in the Middle East and her singing in Arabic. Dalida was born in 1933 to Italian parents in Shubra, the district of

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Cairo historically home to Coptic Christians. In the late nineteenth century, under British rule, Shubra became home to the large numbers of Christian immigrants who fled rural poverty in Greece and, like her two sets of grand-parents, Italy. Overlapping with long-established Egyptian residents, these European and immigrant communities tended to use French as their lingua franca, and Dalida (who went to a Catholic French-speaking school) did not grow up speaking Arabic; she had to learn it phonetically for her handful of songs and film roles (Rihoit 1995: 451). Yet the very inclusion of this language in her career matters enormously, affectively speaking, for Arabic speakers and Arab observers, who tend to perceive her through the somewhat narrow prism of this linguistic competence. For instance, the pan-Arab outlet Al Bawaba presents Dalida as ‘the singer born in the Shubra neighbourhood’ who recorded ‘Helwa ya Baladi’ (Anon 2013), while Gulf News, a UAE-focused publication based in Dubai, sums up her career in just two Arabic songs, ‘Salma ya salama’ and ‘Helwa ya Baladi’ (Anon 2019). In The National, Abu Dhabi’s daily paper, she is introduced as Egyptian-born, Arabic is listed first among her many languages and she is proudly described as ‘one of the Arab world’s first crossover stars’ (Ghazal 2017). The same journalist then quotes a cultural authority, the director of events for the Abu Dhabi Ministry of Culture, saying that ‘she had that Arabic identity and Arabic style of singing …. In this region, her Arabic songs from the 1970s are the most beloved …. Most of the love for Dalida originates from her genuine affection for the Arab world’ (in Ghazal 2017). In Egypt, some fans were disappointed in 2017, upon the release of the biopic Dalida by French director Lisa Azuelos, that the film did not emphasize ‘the Egyptian star’s attachment to her country’ more (Moheb 2017). Whether coming from disgruntled fans or a state official, these claims verify the social theory according to which nations historically subjugated by the ‘imperial centers of the West’ actively construct, through popular culture, their sense of ‘cultural uniqueness’ (Regev 2007: 133). Arabic speakers insist on connecting Dalida’s professional success to a Cairene point of origin, with emotional parallels further justifying her attachment to the motherland and their attachment to her (we love her; she loved us). Perhaps inevitably, a certain essentialism underscores this process, with only one ‘Arabic identity’ possible, one ‘Arabic style of singing’. Equally, narratives of greatness can build on shaky foundations, as when another piece from Al-Bawaba makes the mistake of celebrating ‘the late Lebanese singer Dalida’ (Anon 2010). Elsewhere, an error frequently repeated in Dalida’s biographies is the claim that she won the beauty title of ‘Miss Egypt 1954’. In fact, she only won second prize in the little-known ‘Bathing Beauties’ competition, in June 1954, but the confusion, partly encouraged by the artist herself, has allowed biographers and fans to anchor her celebrity in a prestigious point of Egyptian and Arab origin (Lebrun 2020: 200–5).

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At other times, accumulation serves as evidence. When interviewing Dalida’s current producer and brother Orlando, on the occasion of the thirtieth anniversary of her death, the Francophone Beiruti publication L’Orient le Jour praised Orlando’s ‘native-sounding Arabic accent’, before reeling off a list of local landmarks and individuals that Dalida, apparently, used to know: the restaurant Ajami, the cinema Dunia, the hotel Saint-Georges, the Casino, the Piccadilly theatre, the boulevard Hamra, the singer Feirouz, and even L’Orient le Jour’s own journalist, Samir Nasri (Dagher 2017). As if building a case, proof of her Arab or more specifically Lebanese identity is assembled item by item. Lebanon does, in fact, hold a special place in Middle-Eastern narratives of Dalida’s greatness for having a physical ‘memory site’ dedicated to her in the Tannourine Cedars Forest, north of Beirut, since 2010. Protected by the Ministries of Environment and Tourism, this nature reserve boasts remarkable cedar trees (the country’s national symbol) and a wooden bust of Dalida in the middle of a clearing, accompanied by a plaque commemorating her ‘deep attachment to Lebanon, multiple visits, and her song dedicated to our country’.3 Reciprocity (her attachment, our monument), accumulation (multiple visits) and materiality (a song, a statue) all combine to stake the crucial place of Lebanon in Dalida’s achievements. Furthermore, her Arabness is given a didactic role to play when inscribing her life and work in politically troubled times. As the Lebanese Civil War raged on during the latter part of her career, her songs from that period, with their lyrics of personal independence, came to symbolize resilience and anti-sectarianism. Writing in the United States as a Lebanese exile, one ardent fan interpreted both her French-English disco anthem, ‘Monday, Tuesday (Laissez-moi danser)’ (1979), and her Arabic dedication to Lebanon, ‘Lebnan’ (1988), as ‘hymns of liberation and joy’ that encapsulate ‘the spirit of the Lebanese people’ (Ghandour 2018). Another journalist for L’Orient le Jour likewise compares Dalida to a site of reconciliation between communities in conflict, whether political factions in Lebanon, faith groups in the Arab world (Christians, Muslims, Jews and atheists) or Arabs and non-Arabs in France where, he claims, Islamic extremism and anti-Muslim prejudice have stifled the lives and representations of Arabs (Makhoul 2017). Defining Dalida’s stardom as a ‘point of convergence and unity’ for different citizens, this observer argues that Dalida’s Arab connection helps to remind the French that Arabs are not all dangerous jihadists. Precisely articulating the theory of transnational stardom, he recognizes the artist’s geopolitical function as a troubled ‘contact zone’, where ethnic and ideological power struggles converge but also, ultimately, collapse. Simultaneously French, Italian and Egyptian, as well as Arab and not Arab, Dalida is, he concludes, an ‘ecumenical prayer site’, a ‘Marianne figure we are all infinitely missing’ (Makhoul 2017). Comparing Dalida to Marianne makes sense. Although the allegorical figure of Marianne has evoked French Republicanism since 1792, she is, like

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all symbols, polysemic, with her wider meaning encompassing the twin ideas of popular revolt against despotism and equality for all. Dalida is ‘Marianne’, then, because her professional success and international fame overlap with, and even channel, those aspirations of Arabness that resonate with French Republicanism: diversity, tolerance, liberty. She is ‘Marianne’, too, because her initial foreignness relative to French citizens actuates the noble principle of universalism, the legal recognition that Arabs (among others) can be French, and France Arab. French commentators have indeed underlined the symbolism of Dalida as a site of ‘Franco-Arab encounters’ (Liauzu and Liauzu 2002: 174), some even putting her at the service of decolonizing mentalities: for Le Monde, Dalida’s music and fame forced ‘post-war multiethnic France to confront its colonial history’ (Mortaigne 1998). Like French Republicanism, however, whose theoretically race-blind universalism is frequently accused of white-washing, Marianne is a white figure, and the fact that Dalida was from an Italian, Christian background inevitably maps her meanings onto (ex-)settler politics. Since the wars of decolonization, Arab nationalism has dissolved the multi-ethnic, multilingual communities that were characteristic of colonial urban centres; European settlers, who were more or less violently expelled, have sometimes felt the loss of ‘harmonious relations with their Arab neighbours’ since decolonization (Barclay 2018: 245). In the case of Algeria, pieds-noirs frequently admire Dalida by expressing their identification with her journey to France from Egypt, a once-colonial and emerging Arab nation-state like Algeria (see Lebrun 2020: 61 and 193). Yet it is not just pieds-noirs but other exiles and diaspora members from the Maghreb and the Middle East who see their lives reflected in her, whether or not they have European ancestry. The Franco Tunisian novelist Colette Fellous insists that Dalida’s voice, with its layers of Italian, French and Arabic accents, summons ‘our selves walking a tight-rope between the Orient and the Occident’ (Fellous 2010: 100). The academic Marlène Barsoum, who grew up in Alexandria in a partItalian family, explains Dalida’s appeal among the wider Egyptian diaspora thus: ‘We love her because many of us left a world which we loved. She was part of that world, part of the cosmopolitan Egypt’ (Barsoum 2021). Like the figure of Marianne, the notion of cosmopolitanism nicely encapsulates the affective power and ambiguities of Dalida’s Arabness. Sometimes discredited as the preserve of jet-setting tourists unable ‘to form lasting attachments to place and others’ (Featherstone 2002: 2), cosmopolitanism is best defined, here at least, as a condition in which ‘the otherness of the other is included in one’s own self-identity and self-definition’ (Beck, cited in Regev 2007: 126). Not only are immigrants and exiles, from all economic backgrounds, cosmopolitans, but so is anyone who, even travelling vicariously, simultaneously appreciates a sense of specificity in a place, language or culture and recognizes shared values beyond it. Situated on a local-global continuum, sometimes reformulated as glocalization or

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partial cosmopolitanism, this understanding of cosmopolitanism reconciles the acknowledgement of ‘particular-national glories’ with a ‘consciousness of the world as a whole’, its dual concern being to ‘celebrate difference and search for commonality’ (Robertson 1995: 45). This is an ethical kind of cosmopolitanism, where acknowledging local ways of being invites empathy and obligation to others (Featherstone 2002: 2). Formulated thus, Dalida is cosmopolitan precisely when her Arabness is acknowledged, when her specific Arab locality (itself elastic and extending from Shubra, Cairo and Egypt to the ‘Arab world’) becomes juxtaposed to, and typically reconciled with, something beyond itself like Paris, France, ‘the West’. She is cosmopolitan, too, because her identity is narrativized with reference to human fragility and cultural dislocation: it is telling, I think, that Colette Fellous uses the precarious metaphor of the tight-rope walker to articulate the risk of fragmentation when one life contains many ‘worlds’. Cosmopolitanism, finally, is not just articulated in the past. In her discussion of Dalida, Barsoum, who is a scholar of the Egyptian-born novelist Andrée Chedid, invokes this author to reject nostalgia, observing that ‘too much indulgence in nostalgia can freeze one in a way that is not generative’ (Barsoum 2021). Inviting diaspora members like herself to resist nostalgia for a ‘lost cosmopolitan Egypt’, Barsoum hopes for new cosmopolitan encounters in the future. At once abstract and material, and working hard as a posthumous product, Dalida the star helps Barsoum and others to articulate their affective, psychological and ethical attachments to several places and times at once, including (and not limited to) Christian Arabness and pre-Nasser Egypt.

Erasing and Affirming Arabness While Dalida has enjoyed strikingly widespread posthumous admiration, her critical reception in France during her life was often negative, her Egyptian provenance leading to ambivalence and misunderstandings at best and downright hostility sometimes. In Egypt in 1954, Dalida (then known as ‘Dalila’) was a starlet who played the small part of a vamp in the Egyptian musical drama Sigara wa Kas. In her main scene, she seduces the hero with a Gilda-esque song and dance, wearing a black shoulderless sheath dress inspired by Hollywood glamour. In Paris in 1955, left to her own devices, she found small singing parts in cabarets where she reproduced the same heavily accessorized seduction, with necklaces and loop earrings, heavy make-up and revealing outfits. From April 1956, however, as soon as Eddie Barclay spotted her potential, he set about removing her ‘oriental vulgarity’, as he bluntly explains in his memoirs (see Lebrun 2020: 47–52). Barclay sought to mould Dalida into an exotic singer for French audiences, compatible with middle-class Parisian

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tastes, which meant going on a diet to shed her ‘oriental curves’, removing her ‘excessive jewellery’, and dressing in chic, pared-down Christian Dior New Look outfits. Barclay insisted she keep her dark hair, sexy smile and Italian accent; but at a time when French fashion encouraged a freer, untamed look à la Bardot, a vamp was too glamorous, old-fashioned and ‘oriental’ for mainstream success (Lebrun 2020: 56–9). Musically, Barclay selected Portuguese, Spanish and Italian songs for Dalida, which, when sung in French with her Italian accent, evoked a hazy sense of Mediterranean ‘difference’, albeit squarely Western, even Parisian, in imagination. But this exoticism never overlapped with oriental or Arab features, even around 1959–61 when France enjoyed the brief fad of variété francarabe. This plurilingual pop genre was best illustrated by Bob Azzam’s hit ‘Mustapha’ (1960): songs musically mixing tropical rhythms (rumba, cha-cha-cha) with discreet oriental touches (darbouka percussions, handclaps), linguistically mixing French and Italian with banal Arabic words (‘Mustapha’, ‘habibi’, ‘couscous’) and visually presenting the Orient on record covers and televised performance, as the place par excellence for leisurely cocktails among well-heeled, ethnically diverse liberals (Lebrun 2020: 186–9). In Dalida’s case, however, French journalists were hesitant and contradictory about her point of ‘origin’, frequently insisting that she was born in Calabria and rejecting her birth in Egypt as implicitly degrading (Lebrun 2020: 183–4). Decades later, in 1986, Dalida was still summoned on French television to clarify exactly where she had been born (Poivre d’Arvor 1986). When commentators conceded that she had at least grown up in Egypt, this often gave rise to jokes about Cleopatra, or Samson and Delilah. The French media, especially in the 1950s and 1960s, was both indifferent and uneasy vis-à-vis the complexities of contemporary Egypt and preferred to ignore them. Dalida’s early career was so ‘un-Arab’, in fact, that in the diplomatic context of the late 1950s, she aligned symbolically with the French occupation of Algeria and with Zionism. She performed twice for the French contingent in Algiers in 1958 and 1959, and the 18th regiment of parachutistes, notorious for committing war crimes against Algerian civilians, proudly made her its ‘godmother’ (Rihoit 91–2). In 1959, she recorded in Hebrew ‘Hava Naguila’, arguably ‘the most Jewish’ of contemporary folk songs, closely associated with the birth of Israel (Loeffler 2006). While she never expressed her personal support for the Jewish state, the following year threats were made by Egyptian groups against her family, who still resided in Cairo (Rihoit 1995: 315). Thus, even when Arabness was absent from her music and persona, it remained a liminal presence tinged with shame, danger and demands. By the mid-1970s, the international situation and her career had changed, enabling a more pro-Arab shift in her biographical discourse and musical

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engagements. Politically, France established itself as the key interlocutor of Western-Arab diplomacy following the Six-Day War, and professionally, Dalida who by then had a twenty-year career behind her, was often invited to reminisce about her journey to success. On French television, she recalled her childhood in Egypt with fondness, inviting a camera crew to Cairo for a ‘pilgrimage’ documentary Dalida pour toujours (Dumoulin 1977), extracts of which were broadcast on French TV. By 1977, Dalida was also a 44-year-old singer desperate to court new audiences, her latest reinvention as a glamorous disco queen having raised critical eyebrows in France (Lebrun 2020: 261). Following a successful series of concerts in Cairo and Alexandria in July 1977, her producer, the ever-resourceful Orlando, suggested she sing in Arabic. This was a risky move for a well-established French star, given the total absence of Arabic pop in the French charts and the general abundance of negative Arab stereotypes in French culture (Mulvey 2017). Dalida herself became the butt of derisive, essentialist jokes, such as when the French comedian Thierry Le Luron mocked her Egyptian background by appearing, in a televised sketch, dressed as a mummy, flanked by a man in a djellabah and dark glasses (introduced as ‘Laurence d’Arabie’) and a pantomime camel (Poivre d’Arvor 1986). Nonetheless, Orlando’s hunch was spot on, and Dalida’s first Arabic song, ‘Salma ya salama’ (1977), was a huge hit on both sides of the Mediterranean. This Egyptian folk tune, originally sung by Nile boatmen, was modernized with new lyrics in French and Arabic, and with music (composed by the Cairo-born French musician Jeff Barnel) that resembled the 4/4 beat of disco, led by bass guitar and bass drum, while foregrounding oriental arrangements: semitones and mordents in the strings; the use of a gong, clarinet and handclaps; and aeolian and phrygian minor modes in alternance. Dalida’s music had never sounded like this before, and if ‘Salma ya salma’ added yet another layer of exoticism to her music persona, it had the merit, in France, of conveying a subtle and versatile Arab identity. Indeed, two versions of the song circulated at once, one bilingual in French and Arabic, performed in an orientalist costume (harem pants and embroidered jacket, a belt of tinkling coins, loop earrings and bracelets), and the other monolingual in Arabic, performed in ‘modern’ clothing with a plain brown shirt, knee-length skirt, leather boots and discreet jewellery.4 In their difference and combination, these versions shaped a fluid Arabness that was not (just) orientalist, and certainly not threatening or comic – a cosmopolitan Arabness ostensibly at ease in varied settings, influenced by, yet bypassing, a specific sense of locality. ‘Salma ya salama’ entered the French Top 20 in November 1977 and stayed there for eight weeks, peaking at no. 6 in early December.5 Thanks to its regular broadcast on Somera, France’s state-funded pan-Arab radio station in Cyprus, the track also enjoyed rapid success throughout the Middle East,

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interestingly remapping the direction of travel of Arabic songs in the process. While the music of Arab performers had tended to go from East to West until then (Umm Kulthum, Fayrouz), generally following diasporic routes, Dalida showed that Paris could be the centre of successful Arabic pop production. Moreover, the song’s polycentric existence, straddling Egypt and France, the East and the West, enabled its geopolitical function through a triangulation with Israel. On 19 November 1977, ‘Salma ya salama’ was chosen by an Israeli committee to welcome Anwar al-Sadat in Jerusalem, a pro-Arab gesture extended to the first leader of an Arab nation-state to formally visit Israel (McKinney 1998: 31). Sadat’s visit was certainly problematic for Arab nationalists, but it was considered an ‘audacious peace enterprise’ by many in the West (Péroncel-Hugoz 1987), eventually leading to the Camp David Accords. That Dalida’s music formed the accompaniment to this diplomatic coup reveals the complex cosmopolitan symbolism of her career, seen as partly Egyptian when convenient, seen as French too, and never narrow.

The Sixth Day (1986) In 1986, Dalida’s Arabness was further highlighted when she starred in Youssef Chahine’s The Sixth Day, shot in Cairo and performed in Arabic. The star easily crossed national borders for this project, travelling from France to Egypt, but the film did not cross media or taste boundaries so successfully. By combining literature, drama, Hollywood musicals and French pop stardom, it confused audiences and proved one intertextual challenge too far. Chahine’s The Sixth Day is the film adaptation of the novel by Andrée Chedid (1920–2011), published in France in 1960. Set in a historically undefined but contemporary Egypt (there are motor vehicles), the story follows the old Om Hassan, also known as Saddika, as she travels obstinately through Cairo and on the Nile with her sick grandson, convinced against all evidence that he will recover from cholera on ‘the sixth day’. The novel’s rational organization into three parts of six chapters belies its sickening descent into chaos, as cholera ravages the child’s body, causes adults to betray each other and fills Om Hassan with hallucinations. On the sixth day, the child and his grandmother die in quick succession, her obstinacy having been utterly pointless.6 Coming after Albert Camus’ La Peste (1947) and Jean Giono’s Le Hussard sur le toit (1951), The Sixth Day is arguably ‘on trend’ as a post-war French novel fascinated by the vulnerability of human nature and the absurdity of death. Like these, it shares a decidedly un-exotic Mediterranean cityscape (Oran, Manosque, Cairo), devastated by putrefaction and fear. The Sixth Day is, however, unrepresentative of Chedid’s wider writing. Born in Cairo in 1920, Chedid emigrated to Lebanon in 1942 before settling definitively

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in France, where she gained renown as a poetess and novelist with a focus on multiculturalism, often presenting hybrid identities as both the cause of and the remedy for violence and trauma (Barsoum 2010: 445). In The Sixth Day, however, the female protagonist moves in a small world of poor and superstitious Egyptians, whose implicitly Muslim customs (conveyed by greetings, dress, names) generate conflict with and mistrust towards the only educated urbanite (the character of the nurse). Om Hassan becomes unwillingly entangled, at one point literally, with a pestering busker and his monkey, and remains indifferent to those around her, except her dying grandson. Thus, whereas in most of Chedid’s fiction cosmopolitanism can suture political and personal divides, here this theme cries out by its absence. Despite its harrowing subject, this novel was a minor publishing success in France with five editions between 1960 and 1986, and six more since the film. Chahine had reportedly admired it for many years before contacting Chedid regarding its adaptation and deciding to cast Dalida in the lead role (Rihoit 1995: 440). In doing so, Chahine absorbed the existing connotations of Dalida as a famous pop singer (glamorous, cosmopolitan, superficial for French critics), which stood at odds with the role of Saddika (unsexy, rural, earnest). Now, while stars are contradictory and their appeal lies in conveying a degree of ambivalence, they still need to be recognizable. In The Sixth Day, those looking for ‘the star’ Dalida could not find her, and those who enjoyed the film did so precisely because the usual celebrity had vanished. Caught between these contradictory demands, Dalida’s Arabness was reconfigured in new ways. As a literary adaptation negotiating the celebrity of a singer, the film The Sixth Day is an inter-medial product maximizing the association of its co-creators, Chedid, Chahine and Dalida, with each other. The star value of Dalida secured the backing of producers, with subsidies from the French Ministry of Culture and a deal with Sygma Agency for photos during shooting (Rihoit 1995: 462 and 455). As a Franco-Egyptian production, the film was shown at the Venice Biennale and the Montreal World Film Festival. In turn, both Chedid and Chahine conferred their auteur credentials to the pop singer, who had never before played a lead role or been associated with ‘high culture’. Dalida’s association with Andrée Chedid resonated particularly positively in 1986 France, thanks to the critical success at the time of Louis Chedid, the novelist’s son and anti-racist songwriter. The film itself positively impacted the book’s sales, with a new edition coinciding with its 1986 release and two subsequent editions reproducing film stills on their covers since. Nonetheless, navigating between artistic worlds does not necessarily generate popular appeal, and the film was a commercial flop with mixed reviews. In North America, the critic for Variety had clearly never heard of Dalida, who recognized that her performance ‘anchored the entire film’ while mis-identifying her throughout as ‘Dalida Moshen’, by conflating her

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name with the misspelt first name of the male lead. He found that the film’s ‘third world flavor’ had a ‘dismal prospect’ of making it in the United States, conceding that it might, just about, ‘find an audience in France and other Western locales with large Arab émigré populations’ (Rich 1986). This critic’s dismissive comments reveal that Dalida’s appeal as a ‘world star’ was far from universal. In France, meanwhile, where working-class Arab immigrants tend to prefer popular comedies and Hollywood blockbusters (Moine 2014: 583), the film failed at the box office. Released in early December 1986, with an initially healthy 21,362 admissions that month, the film’s overall admission figures, going into 1987, stopped short of 50,000, less than 1 per cent of the ticket sales enjoyed by France’s highest grossing film of 1987, the Australian comedy Crocodile Dundee (5.8 million admissions). It also did far less well than Chahine’s previous film, Adieu Bonaparte, which was in competition at Cannes in 1985 and saw 156,000 admissions in six months (CNC 2021). Whether or not audiences knew Dalida beforehand, then – and they definitely did in France – the film was a disappointment. In Egypt, a tension between the star’s celebrity and the film’s content surfaced. The film premiered in Cairo on 29 September 1986, at the cinema Le Moderne in Shubra, and the prodigal daughter was welcomed by an immense crowd blocking the traffic (Rihoit 1995: 467), yet local critics dismissed the adaptation as tonally different from the novel and found Dalida too coquettish for the role (Darwish 1986; Hammond 2007: 158). It was only in France, despite its limited commercial success, that The Sixth Day attracted positive reactions, but these came exclusively from highbrow critics writing for Télérama, Libération and Les Cahiers du Cinéma. Unanimously, they focused on Dalida’s unusual role and Chahine’s directorial audacity: Libération praised Dalida’s ‘perfection’ as an ‘Arabophone dressed in black’ (Daney 1986); Télérama repeated emphatically: ‘Superb, Dalida is superb …. This film is a great film’ (Trémois 1986); and shunning the notion of literary fidelity, Les Cahiers admired the film for ‘not [being] the staid visualisation of a novel’ (Toubiana 1986: 6). As cinephiles, these critics appreciated the film’s tensions and the incongruity between the narrative and its star, seeing eye-to-eye with the director Chahine in this respect, if no one else. Active since the early 1950s, Youssef Chahine (1926–2008) had a prolific career best described as eclectic, with forays into melodrama, screwball comedies, film noir, social protest and musicals among other genres, and ‘sometimes astounding switches of genres’ within one film (Kehr 1996: 23). In this respect, his twenty-ninth film The Sixth Day epitomizes his hybridity, juxtaposing the cholera drama of Chedid’s novel with a musical comedy, via the much expanded and rejuvenated role of the street busker, Okka (played by Mohsen Mohieddine). The opening credits pay homage to Hollywood musicals with a dedication to ‘Gene Kelly who filled our childhoods with joy’, and while the first scene briefly evokes a cholera epidemic and

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introduces Saddika, the longer second scene finds her crying inside a cinema theatre, watching an Egyptian melodrama, with Chahine himself playing the projectionist. Later, Okka clowns about while name-checking Singin’ in the Rain, and there are further nods to both Egyptian and Hollywood films throughout (Chahine 2007). As well as mixing drama and musicals, then, The Sixth Day functions as a mise-en-abyme of Chahine’s own role in the history of world cinema, with the setting of the action in 1947, harking back to a time, like the mid-1980s, of escapist entertainment in the Egyptian film industry (Gaffney 1987: 63). By inserting scenes of confrontation between British soldiers and nationalist students, absent from the novel, Chahine also commented obliquely on the cyclical evolution of his country and art. Chahine’s films often return to the theme of duality and the sensual symbolism of water (Kehr 1996), and The Sixth Day also conforms to type there. The peddler Okka is fidgeting constantly in direct contrast to the stoical Saddika, and their other differences (male/female, young/old, happy/sad, active/still) represent the two sides of human nature, opposed yet potentially reconciled. The last third of the film, set on the Nile from Cairo to Alexandria as per the novel, offers some comfort to the characters as Okka expresses his sexual desire for Saddika, allowing her to laugh, sing and smoke hashish with him. Yet this journey on the Nile resolutely diverges from the novel with its optimistic conclusion, as Saddika leaves her dead grandson behind in the final scene, climbing out of the boat to ascend a staircase towards the midday sun. By transforming the original story to reflect his own interests, and casting Dalida against type, Chahine affirmed his status as the strong-willed auteur of a narratively complex, self-reflexive film. It takes a cinephile (or a scholar) to decode and appreciate his intentions, and high-brow French critics wore their knowledge on their sleeves. Writing for Les Cahiers du Cinéma, Serge Toubiana (1986: 4) hailed The Sixth Day as an Egyptian film overcoming the obstacles of a ‘hostile’ environment, riddled with poverty, officialdom and ‘Arab fanaticism’. Citing Vincente Minelli, Jean Renoir, Bertold Brecht and Sergei Parajanov, he found Chahine’s juxtaposition of cholera and Gene Kelly not incongruous but daring, the smart representation of ‘nonreconciliation’ or ‘a search for a point of balance’. Impressed by Dalida’s acting skills, Toubiana (1986: 7) praised her restraint and appearance of resignation and the ‘risk’ she took in speaking Arabic. Preferring risk, instability and pared-down aesthetics to balance, coherence and seduction is typical of avant-garde discourse, but this particular avant-garde maps onto symbolic dichotomies around Arabness. In Les Cahiers, Chahine is congratulated twice for avoiding ‘fanaticism’, and for managing to create a ‘generous’, ‘progressive’, ‘non-dogmatic’, ‘political and humanist’ film (Toubiana 1986). Without much middle ground, the critic enthuses about the director’s ability to articulate a cosmopolitan, possibly Christian, Arabness.7 Meanwhile, in Télérama and Libération, the

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authors praise the ‘risks’ taken by Dalida in setting her modest, unglamorous appearance as an Arab widow in direct opposition to the ‘flashy sparkle and warble’ of her disco queen image (‘tape-à-l’oeil, strass et roucoulades’). Only by ‘assassinating her own myth’ as a glamorous pop singer can Dalida become ‘great’ and ‘superb’ (Léon and Séguret 1986; Pascaud 1986), her transformation being complete as a restrained Arab in an experimental film. For these critics, therefore, Arabness became a catalyst for aesthetic excellence, with two versions of the ‘good Arab’ taking shape according to intellectual, upper-class conceptions of taste and ethnicity: Chahine is not ‘fanatical’ (Islamist terrorist), and Dalida is not ‘sparkly’ (vulgar).

Conclusion Several points must be emphasized in conclusion. Firstly, the fact that Dalida’s career made room for the expression of Arabness is sufficiently rare, for a French artist, to merit recognition and praise. Despite occasional embarrassment, ridicule or exploitation, a strong sense of Arab belonging suffused her songs, biography and films, and was met with a generally positive reception among fans of popular music, French film critics and generations of individuals attached to the Arab world, whatever their backgrounds. Secondly, the framework of transnational stardom has allowed us to reveal the many Arab identities that Dalida encapsulated and point to the frictions, blind spots and shifts in meaning that her Arabness entails. She was alluringly vampish in 1954 Egypt but accused of Zionist sympathies four years later; she was light-hearted in ‘Salma ya Salama’ (1977) but a posthumous pasionaria in January 2011 when her song, ‘Helwa ya baladi’, was broadcast on Ta’rir Square during the Egyptian Revolution (Guibal 2011). In France, moreover, cultural gatekeepers have tended to situate her role as Saddika in The Sixth Day, noble and stoical, in praiseworthy antagonism to her sexy and implicitly vulgar success as a pop star. Film critics made that point in 1986, and the curators of the IMA exhibition on ‘Arab Divas’ repeated it in 2021 when they stated that her role in this film was ‘a unique opportunity to break with her glamorous image as a singer’ (Bouffard and Boghanim 2021: 158). If ‘glamorous images’ must be left behind, this is perhaps predictable snobbery on the part of cultural authorities, but their critical appreciation of Dalida in this particular performance ignored, ironically, the personal trauma experienced by the artist during the shooting and release of the film. Sadly, as her official biographer reports (Rihoit 1995: 447–50), poor planning by Chahine disturbed Dalida’s other projects and triggered debilitating anxiety; she found the Galal studios in Cairo depressingly derelict; Chahine’s preference for single takes required exhausting levels of concentration; in February 1986, a mutiny by the Central Security Forces

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was violently repressed by the regime in the immediate vicinity of the studio, leaving dozens dead and hundreds wounded. The local poverty, strife and corruption disgusted Dalida, who cut her time in Cairo short (Rihoit 456). To cap it all, and despite her pride at being trusted as an actress, she became demoralized by the down-beaten character of Saddika. Chahine had wanted Dalida, known for her past suicide attempts, to channel her ‘inner suffering’ on screen, but facing her visual representation as an older, long-suffering woman became psychologically distressing (Rihoit: 451–7). For Dalida, then, Chahine’s version of Arabness was upsetting rather than a cause for celebration. She entered a deep state of crisis in 1986 and eventually killed herself in May 1987, within six months of the film’s French release. Of course, suicide is a multifaceted action that cannot be attributed to a single cause, and this film and its director are not to blame. But the enthusiasm of Chahine and French critics for the particular Arabness performed by Dalida in The Sixth Day contrasts with the artist’s own ambivalence towards it. If transnational stardom points to unevenness between settings, the role of Saddika certainly exposes tensions regarding what constitutes a good character, a good Arab, even a good working environment and a good life. Nonetheless, it is a star’s exhausting privilege to signify a multitude of meanings both in life and in death. The star Dalida has not stopped working since her death in 1987, as her meanings continue to ripple across songs, exhibitions, social media conversations and, mea culpa, scholarship. So, at a time when Arab identities are subject to intense scrutiny and misinterpretation, including in France, examining Dalida’s ambivalent Arabness is essential to reaffirm the multiple meanings contained in the single signifier ‘Arab’. Far from being vapid constructions, pop stars communicate identification and togetherness, individual trajectories and collective pleasure. Born in Egypt and energized by her encounter with France, Dalida gave life to a subtle, complex, richly textured Arabness, whose primary symbolism remains cosmopolitan generosity.

Acknowledgements With warm thanks to Andrew Hammond, Marlène Barsoum, Meriem Bougherira, Sam Flynn and Monique Ménager of Centre National de la Cinémathèque.

Notes 1 The name of Egyptian star Umm Kulthum has many spellings, and throughout this book we use Umm Kulthum, the most common way of spelling it in English. Where we quote from others, we respect the different approach.

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2 http://dal​ida-fore​ver.over-blog.com/pages/Concerts_in​tern​atio​naux​_de_​1955​ _a_1​987-1041​670.html (accessed 18 April 2022). 3 Thanks to Noha Nemer for alerting me to this site. See TripAdvisor (no date) for a selection of photos: https://www.trip​advi​sor.com/Loca​tion​Phot​oDir​ectL​ ink-g4689​687-d7187​994-i37326​058-Tannourine_​Ceda​r_Fo​rest​_Nat​ure_​Rese​ rve-Tanno​urin​e_No​rth_​Gove​rnor​ate.html. 4 Respectively on 2 October 1977 at ‘L’École des fans’ (Antenne 2) and on 29 November 1977 at ‘Midi Trente’ (TF1) (Dalida: une vie 2007). 5 http://www.top-fra​nce.fr/html/hebdo/cadre.htm. 6 The central theme of enlisement or stagnation is perfectly rendered, in the 1968 and 1969 editions, by the muddy pastel illustrations of Jacques Pecnard (Chedid 1969). 7 Perhaps, not incidentally, Serge Toubiana was born in Tunisia in a Sephardi Jewish family, and his enthusiasm for Chahine may be tinged, in 1980s France, by fear of anti-Jewish Islamist extremism, such as the 1982 attack on the Rue des Rosiers, Paris.

Filmography Adieu Bonaparte (1985), [Film] Dir. Youssef Chahine, Egypt/France: Misr Studio. Crocodile Dundee (1986), [Film] Dir. Peter Faiman, USA: 20th Century Fox. Dalida (2017), [Film] Dir. Lisa Azuelos, France: Pathé Distribution. Dalida pour toujours (1977), [Film VHS] Dir. Michel Dumoulin, France: René Chateau Video. Dalida, une vie (2007), [8-DVD box-set] Paris: Barclay/Orlando production. Sigara wa Kass (1954), [Film] Dir. Niazi Mustapha, Egypt: AFD Studio. The Sixth Day [Le Sixième jour] (1986), [Film] Dir. Youssef Chahine, 2007 DVD, France/Egypt: LCJ Editions/Misr International.

References Anon. (2010), ‘Nicole Saba Portrays Dalida in Ramadan’, Al Bawaba, 19 July. Anon. (2013), ‘Bring on the Drama! Bushra’s Back and Ready to Play Dalida’, Al Bawaba, 20 October. Anon. (2019), ‘Dalida Tribute Coming to the Dubai Opera’, Gulf News, 2 June. Anon. (n.d.), ‘Concerts internationaux’, dalida-forever.over-blog.com (accessed 18 July 2023). Barclay, F. (2018), ‘Remembering Algeria: Melancholy, Depression and the Colonising of the Pieds-noirs’, Settler Colonialism Studies, 8(2): 244–61. Barsoum, M. (2010), ‘Writing War and Peace in the Novels of Andrée Chedid’, Journal of North African Studies, 15(4): 439–50. Barsoum, M. (2021), email conversation with author, 21 June.

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Bouffard, E., and H. Boghanim, eds (2021), Divas. D’Oum Kalthoum à Dalida, Paris: Skira/Institut du Monde Arabe. Camus, Albert (1947) La Peste, Paris: Gallimard. Chedid, A. ([1960] 1969), Le Sixième jour, Paris: René Julliard. CNC (2021), ‘Films sortis en novembre et décembre 1986’ and ‘Exploitation Le Sixième jour et Adieu Bonaparte’, Centre National de la Cinémathèque. Dagher, C. (2017), ‘Devant Feyrouz au Piccadilly, Dalida a oublié les paroles de ses chansons…’, L’Orient le Jour, 6 May. Daney, S. (1986), ‘Chahine comme au premier jour’, Libération, 3 December, 38–9. Darwish, M. (1986), ‘Al-Yawm al-Sādis: bayna Shadīd wa Shāhīn’, Al-Hilal, November, 136–41. Featherstone, M. (2002), ‘Cosmopolis: An Introduction’, Theory, Culture and Society, 19(1/2): 1–16. Fellous, C. (2010), Pour Dalida, Paris: Flammarion. Gaffney, J. (1987), ‘The Egyptian Cinema: Industry and Art in a Changing Society’, Arab Studies Quarterly, 9(1): 53–75. Ghandour, T. (2018), ‘All My Little Worlds: An Ode to Dalida’, The Wesleyan Argus, 26 April. Ghazal, R. (2017), ‘Looking Back at the Troubled Life of Legendary Egyptian-Born Crossover Star Dalida’, The National, 4 February. Giono, Jean (1951), Le Hussard sur le toit, Folio. Guibal, C. (2011), ‘Dix-huit jours au cœur du Caire’, Libération, 19 February. (accessed 5 July 2023). Hammond, A. (2007), Popular Culture in the Arab World. Arts, Politics, and the Media, Cairo: American University in Cairo Press. IMA (n.d.), ‘Présentation du musée’. Paris: Institut du Monde Arabe. https://www. imar​abe.org/fr/musee/prese​ntat​ion-du-musee (accessed 5 July 2023). Kehr, D. (1996), ‘The Waters of Alexandria: the Films of Youssef Chahine’, Film Comment, 32(6): 23–7. Lebrun, B. (2020), Dalida. Mythe et mémoire, Marseille: Le Mot et le Reste. Léon, P., and O. Séguret (1986), ‘Dalida d’amour’, Libération, 6 December, 38. Liauzu, C., and J. Liauzu (2002), Quand on chantait les colonies, Paris: Syllepse. Loeffler, J. (2006), ‘Hava Nagila’s Long, Strange Trip’, My Jewish Learning. https:// www.myjew​ishl​earn​ing.com/arti​cle/hava-nagi​las-long-stra​nge-trip/ (accessed 5 July 2023). Makhoul, Z. (2017), ‘France 2017: Dalida’, L’Orient le Jour, 6 May. McKinney, M. (1998), ‘La France Arabe’, in A. Hargreaves and M. McKinney (eds), Post-Colonial Cultures in France, 26–39, New York: Routledge. Meeuf, R., and R. Raphael (2013), ‘Introduction’, in R. Meeuf and R. Raphael (eds), Transnational Stardom: International Celebrity in Film and Popular Culture, 1–16, New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Moheb, Y. (2017), ‘New Biopic Dalida: Story of a Diva’s Melancholy’, Ahram Online, 24 March. https://engl​ish.ahram.org.eg/News​Cont​ent/5/32/261​416/ Arts--Cult​ure/Film/New-bio​pic-Dal​ida-Story-of-a-divas-mel​anch​oly.aspx (accessed 5 July 2023). Moine, R. (2014), ‘Contemporary French Comedy as Social Laboratory’, in A. Fox, M. Marie, R. Moine and H. Radner (eds), A Companion to Contemporary French Cinema, 567–619, Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell.

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Mortaigne, V. (1998), ‘La ritournelle de Mademoiselle Bambino’, Le Monde, 5 August. Mulvey, M. (2017), ‘What Was so Funny about Rabbi Jacob? Comedic Film between History and Memory’, French Politics, Culture and Society, 35(3): 24–43. Orlando (n.d.), ‘Carrière’, Dalida.com. https://dal​ida.com/carri​ere-dal​ida/les-reco​ mpen​ses.html (accessed 5 July 2023). Pascaud, F. (1986), ‘La Reine d’Egypte’, Télérama, 6 December, 30–1. Péroncel-Hugoz, J. P. (1987), ‘La mort de Dalida l’Egyptienne’, Le Monde, 5 May, 1. Poivre d’Arvor, P. (1986), [TV programme section] ‘Dalida: retour aux sources du Nil’, À la folie, pas du tout, TF1. https://www.yout​ube.com/watch?v=Yx4X​d5z_​ w0g (accessed 5 July 2023). Regev, M. (2007), ‘Cultural Uniqueness and Aesthetic Cosmopolitanism’, European Journal of Social Theory, 10(1): 123–38. Rich (1986), ‘Montreal Festival Reviews: Le Sixième jour’, Variety, 17 September, 18. Rihoit, C. (1995), Dalida, Paris: Plon. Robertson, R. (1995), ‘Glocalization: Time-Space and Homogeneity-Heterogeneity’, in M. Feartherstone, S. Lash and R. Robertson (eds), Global Modernities, 35– 53, Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Publications. Toubiana, S. (1986), ‘Cinéma à tiroirs. Le jour le plus long’, Les Cahiers du cinéma, 390: 2–7. Trémois, C. M. (1986), ‘Dansons sous la mort’, Télérama, 6 December, 32–3. Webb, P. (2016), Imagining the Arabs. Arab identity and the rise of Islam, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press.

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5 Feiruz: Deconstructing a Legacy Salma Yassine and Vicky Panossian

Nouhad Wadie’ Haddad, also known as Feiruz, is a Lebanese woman who is often considered to be the artistic face of Lebanon; by the mid-1900s, Feirouz was dubbed the ‘First Lady of Lebanese singing’, while the BBC referred to her as ‘the greatest living Arab diva’ (‘Le Libanais Wadih el-Safi, géant de la chanson arabe, décède à 92 ans’ 2013). Feirouz’s fame is one that has come to concern critics of the Levant who have looked into the extent to which Feirouz’s persona represents the totality of her Lebanese identity (Howling 2005). By 1979, Feirouz had already sold over 10 million records. The themes of Feirouz’s songs and plays ranged from sorrow to nostalgia, mostly targeting tourists and those who were not permanent residents of Lebanon. Feirouz’s romanticizing discourse regarding Lebanon is a critical one, yet it is one that has come to shape the contemporary Lebanese person’s ideological standpoint. Being exposed to Feirouz’s songs in almost every setting for decades, some anthropologists argue that the Lebanese people have begun romanticizing their experience through a Feirouzian lens (Nassr 2018). The term ‘Lebanese’ should be loosely interpreted throughout the chapter. While some people have called Feirouz the ‘Jewel of Lebanon’, we argue that Feirouz does not represent the totality of the Lebanese identity. In the following paragraphs, we deconstruct Feirouz’s fame by looking at its ideological constituents – from historical, sociocultural, and lyrical angles. We also delve into the extent to which Feirouz’s stardom can be deemed to be neocolonial and politicized. Most of Feirouz’s songs were composed by her husband and his family members, who also wrote plays for her to perform. Her husband, Assi, was

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FIGURE 5.1  Feiruz: Deconstructing a legacy. Source: Designed by Salma Safaan.

one of the Rahbani brothers who were a renowned family of musicians and composers. Their fame in the Arab world was based on a multitude of songs and plays, most of which were performed by Feirouz. Her son, Ziad, eventually took on the role of being her creative director and songwriter, and managed Feirouz’s artistic career (Acee 2011). Dana Acee argues that ‘exactly how much agency Fariouz has had during her career has often been debated and Fairouz has come under much scrutiny for what little she may have done to shape her career’ (Acee 2011). This chapter aims to investigate the multi-layered features and pillars on which the Feirouzian legacy is built. It also aims to question the facets that render her eligible to represent and alter the artistic identity of Lebanon. Feiruz is not merely a cultural and artistic figure; rather, she is often used as a representation of Lebanese identity and Lebanon’s local, regional and international image. This chapter is broken down into several sub-topics, each considering the narrative of the proliferation of Feirouz’s stardom. Feirouz is celebrated for having songs regarding almost every element of Lebanese culture, from descriptions of the hospitable neighbour to the romanticization of the Lebanese Civil War. However, while Feirouz’s fame is rooted in cultural elements of Lebanese identity, her vast diasporic audience

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globally and within the Arab region gives shape to a transnational iteration of Lebanon’s artistic image.

Historical Grounding Feirouz’s fame took root in the small traditional city of Baalbek, where the esteemed Baalbek festival took place. The very essence of the Baalbek festival was created as though to promote Feirouz and the Rahbani ideologies. In 1944, the Baalbek festival was inaugurated by L’association nationale pour le maintien et le développement de la culture Libanaise (The National Association for the Maintenance and Development of Lebanese Culture), which managed the stage of the festival. ‘It was, namely, an act of reclaiming from Europe what Lebanon had already pioneered’, write Al-Khazin and Ilyan, explaining the extent to which the Baalbek festivals were represented by the neocolonial lyrics of the Rahbanis as sung by Feirouz (Al-Khazin and Ilyan 1970). In this specific context, the terms neocolonial and nationalism are not mutually exclusive since there are variations of the colonial mindset that were deeply internalized by certain Christian factions of Lebanese society, thus resulting in a neocolonial mind-set that includes some variations of nationalist agendas (Reed 1987). Lebanese cultural identity is complex in terms of its multi-layered and interconnected constituents. Lebanon is an Arab-Levantine country that was ruled by France for almost twenty years (Al Ariss and Sidani 2016). After the dismantling of the French mandate, a neocolonial pro-France and pro-mandate ideology governed a faction of Lebanese society, mostly Lebanese Christians, who labelled and referred to the identity of Lebanon as Phoenician instead of Arab (Boonstra 2017). Support for Arabism was mostly linked to Lebanese Muslims who were not in favour of Western intervention on Lebanese ground (Moore 2018). These differing ideologies remained woven into the social fabric of Lebanese society before, during and after the eruption of the fifteen-yearlong Civil War in 1975, which was fuelled by sectarianism (Elias 2018). This sectarianism contributed to the Phoenician-Arab conundrum that proposes segregated means of national identification. When looking at the history of the Baalbek festival, there’s a reference to the narrative of Cadmus, the mythological founder of ancient Greece, who had Phoenician parents, enabling Lebanese people to identify with him (Woodhouse 2004). The significance of this reference was not to reconcile ancient Greek history with the Lebanese people but rather to reinforce the subtle Phoenician narrative of some of the Rahbanis’ discourse. Asher Kaufman explains how certain Lebanese people use the historical reference to Phoenicianism in order to separate themselves from the broader Arab world, arguing that their origins can be traced back to the crusaders from the French shores arriving to the Levantine region (Kaufman 2001). This

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narrative is further reinforced by the role of the Christian Maronite church adhering to a non-Arab discourse regarding Lebanon and the Lebanese identity (Kaufman 2001). The Baalbek festivals instigated an image of Feirouz that contemporary Lebanon still upholds (Al-Wali 1992). However, we would argue that it is a cultural expression of the neocolonial mind-set of the previous century that was propagated throughout the annual Baalbek festivals through their reference to the Phoenician Cadmus. These festivals were a major pillar for the development of Feirouz’s stardom and her eventual iconicity. They enabled Feirouz to reach a broader and more diverse audience, which included several layers of Lebanese society, tourists and international news reporters. The early stardom of Feirouz continues to be one that has had a drastic impact on people’s perception of her legacy. There’s a common myth that circulates among the people of Baalbek regarding the power of Feirouz’s voice. It is said that, on a cloudy night, as Feirouz walked on the stage and sang a song calling to the moon, the clouds drifted apart and all the stars began to shine, circulating the full bright moon (Boustany 1987). Yet, Feirouz’s fame during these festivals was built on her songs and performances, which were mostly composed by the Rahbani brothers. Thus, one can conclude that Feirouz’s rise to fame was built on the artistic agency of the Rahbani family who were in charge of most of her musical and theatrical performances. Feirouz’s social status and affiliation with the Rahbani family served her social narrative. Aside from giving her an identity imbued with a relatively privileged social status, it enabled her to be a member of a community whose voice was notably heard. However, this identity came with social implications and restrictions that had a direct impact on her role as a Lebanese star and on her eventual status as an icon. Scholars argue that Feirouz’s attempts to depoliticize her identity through her apolitical artistic productions were combatted by nationalist discourses discreetly implemented in her various songs and plays (Habib 2005). These discourses can be traced back to references to the Lebanese Civil War and the collective memories related to it (d’Armagnac et al. 2019). For instance, in 1963, Feirouz released an album written and composed by her husband Assi and his brother Mansour titled Return of the Army or Awdat al ‘Askar, which includes several songs referencing the Lebanese pastoral scenery but also talking about the return of the young soldiers from their fight. Another example would be the 1974 musical theatrical production of The Night and the Lantern (Al-Laylu w Al-Qindīl), which includes a bolder version of a sectarian narrative. With its first appearance on the stage of Casino du Liban, a venue known for its French-oriented style, the play illustrates the heroism of a person who is willing to sacrifice their life to save a village (Stone 2010: 61). Playing on the narrative of the Lebanese village needing a saviour, we get to see the extent to which a particularly neocolonial agenda is being propagated. Within the play, Feirouz calls upon the saviour

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to help the villagers from those targeting their peace; some researchers argue that this narrative can be read as referring to the threats of the Civil War and simultaneously focuses on alienating certain factions of Lebanon from their counterparts (Stone 2010: 61). The themes and discourses propagated within this play were exclusionary. They reflected the structure of urban segregation during the Civil War when it comes to the interconnectedness between urban space and sectarianism. For example, some villages were completely inhabited by one sect with minor exceptions, and people who did not belong to those villages were perceived as threatening outsiders who needed to be outcast. Feirouz’s references to various collective atrocities are often revisited when observing the discourse of sociopolitical turmoil in other Arab nations as well (Acee 2011: 15–16). Some might use this as a starting point to argue that Feirouz is indeed a representative of Arabisms while we would like to reflect on and question that claim by highlighting the origins of her fame and stardom.

Social Representation A critical glance at the contemporary Lebanese people’s iconizing of Feirouz demonstrates a vivid distinction between those who respect her fame and those who identify with it. Feirouz’s social representation, as discussed, reflects ideological inclinations that can easily be traced to her music and theatre. For example, Said Akl wrote the introduction to one of the Rahbani Brothers’ musical plays.1 It is important to note that Said Akl was a prominent modern Arabic poet known for his anti-Arab statements and ideologies, notably for stating that ‘I would cut off my right hand just not to be an Arab’ (Nisan 2003). With that in mind, and contrary to common belief, Christopher Reed Stone demonstrates that instead of representing the entirety of the Arab and/or Lebanese realm, Feirouz represents the Christian national elite and Phoenician ideology – similar to Akl (Stone 2010: 64). Both musical theatres as well as community appearances from 1940 to 1963 point at Feirouz’s activism regarding her envisioned stance of a predominantly Christian Lebanon. In what follows, we question whether Feirouz represents the Lebanese nation or one of its ideologically Phoenician subsets. Other anthropological variables will be examined in tandem with lyrical expressions from Feirouz’s albums in order to shed light on the nature of the Feirouzian legacy. Consequently, bearing in mind that Feirouz is currently known as the ‘Jewel of Lebanon’, the title becomes a questionable one when looking at the political ideologies behind the Baalbek festivals that gave rise to her fame. Lebanon is known and praised for its multicultural nature, bringing together people across different sects and religions. However, there are two major subsets of this multicultural reality. Conversely, there are societal factions, predominantly Christians,

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who believe in the supremacy of the French (Maltzahn and Bellan 2019). Even within contemporary Lebanese discourse, the inclination towards the French is often embodied by either the adoption of the language or particular cultural expressions, which – in theory – ought to bring together the Lebanese and the French (Maltzahn and Bellan 2019). However, while some still consider Lebanon to be an ‘extension of France’, others consider themselves to be Arabs, separate from the French narrative (Maltzahn and Bellan 2019). We argue that Feirouz being the ‘Jewel of Lebanon’ is a neocolonial claim, although with a nationalist tone. This title was bestowed upon her during the Baalbek festivals before the Civil War, where Lebanese civilization was glorified through acts of patriotism and nationalist plays (Stone 2010: 31). Yet, critically looking at the nature of the Baalbek festivals and the way they were established, we notice a sense of alienation from the traditional Lebanese narrative in order to create a new capitalist representation of Lebanon as an ancient civilization through marketing and commercializing as touristic tools for financial gains (Stone 2010: 44). One factor that ought to be highlighted is the fact that the brochures of the Baalbek festival were one of the very few representations of Lebanese culture in print media. Hence, it was their capitalist and funding-based nature that made them reach popularity, rather than it being the by-product of representative talents (‘History | Baalbeck International Festival’ n.d.). Nonetheless, the irony is that the popularity of the Baalbek festivals does not stem from their capitalistic nature but rather from their patriotic one. While Feirouz was given the title of ‘Jewel of Lebanon’, most Lebanese people were not based in Baalbek and were unaware of Feirouz’s fame or popularity. Media agencies in neighbouring countries, for example the Syrian Chronicles, called Feirouz ‘the Christian singer’ rather than ‘the Lebanese one’ (Immerzeel 2009). Hence, Feirouz, although Lebanese, was not representative of all, or even the majority of, Lebanese people.

Feminizing the Nation through Art Women’s bodies are often used to represent the nation and to gender its salvation and continuation. Women are often assigned the labour of ‘birthing’ the nation, while men are naturalized as citizens of the state upon which the nation relies (Yuval-Davis 1997). In this gendered context, Feirouz might be expected to symbolically birth and carry the nation. However, we argue that Feirouz, the ‘ambassador’ of the nation, does not represent the whole of the Lebanese nation but rather selective factions of it. Those factions mainly encompass those who romanticize the nostalgic nature of her lyrics, which evoke certain sentimental emotional dimensions. Similarly, Stone indicates how the stage as a space desexualizes Feirouz’s body as a

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female figure capable of being an active agent when it comes to love (Stone 2010). He justifies this by linking her commitment to the thought or concept of love instead of her representation as a loving agent. Feirouz is rather occupied with playing the role of the traditional village girl/woman who must represent her nation (Stone 2010). Despite performing the role of a lover in some of her songs, the general aura of these songs is built on nostalgic elements that are dense with cultural and natural imagery such as in ‘Shayef El-Baḥer Shō Kbīr’, meaning ‘See How Vast the Sea is’, which creates a dialogue between the singer and an unknown lover by drawing on a parallelism between her love and Mediterranean natural elements, mainly the sea and the forest.

The Three Levels of Feirouzian Influence After providing an analytical overview of Feirouz’s rise to fame from historical and cultural angles, we now delve into an analysis of the influence that Feirouz’s music has on different social levels. Despite national ideological discrepancies, certain monuments, literary canons and artists represent the Lebanese nation as a potentially undivided entity. One of these is the hyper-iconized multidisciplinary artist and writer Gibran Khalil Gibran (Howling 2005). Similarly, Feirouz’s persona has evolved to become a Lebanese reference and she can be considered to be a national landmark whose name and image are tied to Lebanon (Howling 2005). The Feirouzian legacy can be measured on three different levels: internationally, nationally and a combination of the two. Her fame and influence represented the country on an international level in the sense that the terms ‘Feirouz’ and ‘Lebanon’ became mutually inclusive when perceived by internationals, mainly Westerners. Her legacy also encapsulates the notions of home and homeland on a national level for those residing on Lebanese land. She is highly regarded especially on the international level by those who left Lebanon, such as expats and diasporic communities. Hence, the nostalgic content of her songs and performances, and the nostalgia she physically represents, remain important in the commodification of Feirouz’s stardom. At the international/non-Arab level, she is perceived through a lens that orientalizes her voice, face and presentation; she is rendered an exotic woman who wears traditional attire and sings intriguing melodies that often evade their comprehension since they utilize the colloquial Lebanese dialect of the Arabic language. On the national/regional level, she is represented by the emotional labour of retrieving the bygone Lebanese past in her music – a past that Lebanese people and Arabs from neighbouring countries did not have the chance to be part of yet are allowed to imagine, live and relive through her songs (Issa 2019). Her songs pay homage to an old, irretrievable Lebanese village lifestyle and an unattainable romantic attachment for traditionalism

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and its features. On the third national/international/diasporic level, Feirouz represents a keepsake of Lebanese nostalgia that compensates for unlived memories and experiences of Lebanon; national, international and diasporic communities often consider her to be their means of reconciliation and connectedness to their roots (Issa 2019). The national details that Feirouz speaks of – be they traditional, contemporary or timeless – are ones that Lebanese expats and diasporic communities lack in their current place of residence. Thus, Feirouz as an artist and an archetypal national character is perceived differently by various groups of people based on what she offers each of them and its respective value according to them. This fluidity in her star persona is precisely what enables her to live on as an icon and what allows her legacy to have different meanings for different communities.

Thematic and Linguistic Deconstructions of Feirouzian Music In order to ground and further elaborate on the distinction between the three levels of Feirouzian influence, we offer thematic and linguistic analyses of the content of Feirouz’s music as a continuation of earlier discussions on the historical and soicocultural contexts that fuelled her legacy. We can trace particular themes and symbolisms embedded within Feirouz’s songs that diversely serve her three levels of impact. When analysing these themes, we examined word choices and recurrent jargon that create thematic patterns across her songs. Bearing in mind that the audience members belonging to the first level – internationals – would not necessarily be familiar with the Arabic language, one can conclude that the themes of the songs would not resonate with them because they cannot comprehend the meaning behind them. Consequently, Feirouz’s fans and audience members who do not have sufficient knowledge of Arabic would be influenced primarily by her voice, appearance and persona (Issa 2019). Audience members categorized within the second level – Lebanese nationals – might feel represented by Feirouz due to particular thematic nuances in her song lyrics. The majority of Feirouz’s songs reflect the traditional Lebanese lifestyle in a manner that revives a lost traditionalism (Hayek 2019). Many of the artist’s counterparts, such as Wadi‘ el-Safi, have touched on this subject of romanticizing and beautifying traditional Lebanese monuments, places and objects in an attempt to salvage them from being forgotten. Across the span of different time frames and albums that she produced, an arbitrary selection of songs generated several main themes that emotionally appealed to her fans. They included the mentioning of old Lebanese towns and villages such as Himlaya (Ḥimlāyā) and Tannourine (Tannūrīne) in

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her song ‘El-Bōsta’, meaning ‘The Bus’ in the colloquial Lebanese dialect. Another theme that we could trace was the use of an old and often obsolete colloquial Lebanese dialect when referring to particular objects. These include terms such as ‘el-‘arabiyyī’, meaning ‘the car’; ‘el-mashāwīr’, meaning ‘the outings’; ‘ḥarj zhūr’, meaning ‘a collection of flowers’; and ‘dekkān’, meaning ‘small shop’ in her songs ‘’Akher Iyyām El-Sayfiyyī’, ‘Shattī Ya Dinyī’ and ‘’Addaysh Kān Fi Nās’, respectively. The titling of songs also carries a connotation tied to the traditional scheme of Lebanese relationships. Song titles such as ‘Yā Jār’, meaning ‘O Neighbor’, and ‘Taḥt El-‘Arīshī’, meaning ‘Under the Vine’, romanticize the Lebanese understanding of neighbourhoods and social relationships that are known for their closely knit communities. For instance, vines are known for shielding groups of people gathered underneath them, mainly families and neighbours, from the sun. From a symbolic perspective, vines protect and preserve the strong fabric of socialization. Many of Feirouz’s songs are a curation of such symbols that are unified in the purposes they serve. Some of these symbols represent characteristics that identify Lebanon as a concept, such as its Mediterranean nature (Messeder 2018). Al-Wali states that he does not believe in the Lebanese musical input that is broadcast on radios. He speaks of how some musical reserve is built on hyper-romanticizing Lebanese mountain beauty, which Feirouz and other singers such as Sabah advocated for, to serve people who were not necessarily familiar with or attached to these concepts of national aesthetics (Al-Wali 1992). Feirouz is also known for revisiting and often recreating traditional Lebanese songs, hymns and chants, some of which are known as ‘mawāwīl’.2 Her revival of such national reserves rendered her a national legacy not only in the eyes of the locals but also expats and members of the diaspora. Many of Feirouz’s songs also reinforce the nostalgic narrative associated with the third level of Feirouzian audience members: expats and diasporic Lebanese communities. The themes that emphasize nostalgia serve the diasporic community as a compensation for their inability to experience an authentic Lebanese lifestyle (Issa 2019). Thus, they would find a sense of familiarity in the lyrics, which evoke an emotionality and constitute the definition of a homeland, its features and the objects associated with it. Feirouz’s lyrics often combine natural elements and the need to return to the homeland. In one of her songs, ‘Nassam ‘Alaynā El-Hawā’, meaning ‘The Breeze Blew Upon Us’, she asks the breeze to take her back home as she expresses her fear of growing old in the estrangement or alienation of a country that is not Lebanon. She also caters to the emotional labour of missing and yearning for the homeland and those who represent it through songs that evoke a sense of reunion such as ‘Raḥ Nerja‘ Netlā’ā’, meaning ‘We will Meet Again’. One of her infamous songs is ‘Bḥebbak Ya Lebnān’, meaning ‘I love you, Lebanon’,

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in which she expresses immense love for Lebanon despite all the hindrances and destructions that the country has suffered. She explicitly states that she will remain in the homeland and endure the pains accompanied with that decision. A similar scenario is recurrent in her song ‘Mā Tez‘al Mennī’, meaning ‘Don’t be Saddened by Me’, where she initiates a one-sided conversation with the homeland. She says that it would have been easy for her to leave but she decided not to because she loves her homeland. Such lyrics insinuate that Feirouz might be blaming expats and diaspora members for leaving Lebanon, thus invalidating their experience and negating their sense of love and attachment to their homeland. The concept of nostalgic compensation becomes more complicated when applied to the scheme of the Lebanese Civil War. One of Feirouz’s latest songs titled ‘Yemken’ is an Arabized version of ‘Imagine’ by John Lennon, written by her daughter Reema Rahbani. It could be applied to the international structure of the world and its wars, yet certain lyrics only resonate with the Arab-Lebanese experience of oppression and sectarianism, specifically when referring to elements such as religion, (sectarian) division as opposed to unity, wars and immigration in relation to each other, which are direct references to the Lebanese Civil War. As the lyrics express, the latter would be the major reason behind expats and diaspora members leaving their homeland and seeking better opportunities abroad. Language and dialect use are other variants that play a fundamental role in analysing Feirouz’s representative stance from an Arab regional perspective. Colloquial Lebanese dialect is part of the Levantine region that also includes Syria, Jordan and Palestine. Stone explores the characteristics and repercussions of utilizing variations of colloquial Lebanese within the dialect itself when it comes to the Rahbani theatricals (Stone 2010). He discusses the Rahbani family’s choice to adhere to ‘their’ national dialect, which is either a ‘standard’ dialect understood by most or a Christian and/ or mountain Lebanese dialect (Abu Murad 1990). In what follows, we expand on the interchangeable use of dialects based on specific contexts in Feirouzian songs. Despite the fact that many Feirouzian songs included rare instances of code-switching from colloquial Lebanese dialect to Modern Standard Arabic for diversity and clarity purposes, the general scheme of her songs is built on the colloquial Lebanese dialect.3 In linguistic terms, Levantine Arabic is the closest in composition to Modern Standard Arabic, compared to Maghrebi Arabic colloquial dialects and their sub-dialects (Solimando 2021). Despite its Levantine origins, Lebanese Arabic is not heavily regarded or relied on; the dialect sometimes falls victim to sarcasm or mockery due to its ‘lenient’ nature and ‘light’ lexical variety (Solimando 2021). Similarly, the language used on the brochures of Feirouz’s concerts and festivals is interesting. The Baalbek festival, labelled as one of the most prominent festivals that gave rise to her legacy, was advertised using three languages: Arabic, English and French, with the latter being the dominant

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one (Stone 2010). Such a prioritization endorses the Phoenician identity as a post-French mandate mentality.

Arab Stardoms When comparing Feirouz to her counterparts in the Arab world, one could consider prominent names like Asmahan, Sabah, Farid El Atrash, Warda El Jaza’iriyah, Mohammad Abdel Wahab and Umm Kulthum. Each of these artists attained a personal niche of stardom that they are famous for, and this niche is determined by a set of characteristics related to either their personas or the nature and subject of their art. For instance, Umm Kulthum, the ‘Star of the Orient’, was a pioneer among the artists of her time who represented the entirety of the Arab nations with an emphasis on Egypt, her homeland. From a comparative approach, the major discrepancy in the manner in which both stars, Feirouz and Umm Kulthum, are perceived lies in the degree of reception by their audience members – fandom. Stone states that: ‘Oum Kalthoum’s songs and performances, like Feirouz’s, resonated both within her own country and across the Arab World’ (Stone 2010: 143). However, as mentioned, the content of Feirouz’s songs was a recreation of the Lebanese national and diasporic identities with a romanticized façade. Her music is solely representative of the Lebanese rural and mountain lifestyle with occasional leaning towards other subjects such as the Palestinian cause, immigration and love. Umm Kulthum’s songs heavily rely on basic elements of life such as love and the aftermath of being pained by yearning, with minor exceptions. Her musical spectrum includes remembering the bygone youthful days at one extreme and singing revolutionary chants at the other. Despite the fact that Feirouz has a wide fandom across the Arab world, it would not be precise to refer to Feirouz and Umm Kulthum as equals in terms of their musical heritage and national/regional reserve when examining the differing contents of their music; Umm Kulthum would be deemed pan-Arab as opposed to Feirouz whose Arab identity is at least partly obscured by the emphasis on the Lebanese experience of nostalgia for a specific type of past national reality. Perhaps the distinction between Feirouz’s and Umm Kulthum’s representation of Arab stardom can be read as passive and active attempts at Arab nationalism respectively.

Limitations and Concluding Remarks This chapter unpacks the Feirouzian model of stardom and its constituents from historical, sociocultural and sociolinguistic perspectives that consider her musical and theatrical endeavours in the light of a politicized sectarian Lebanese identity. We argue that what gave rise to her fame was not simply

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her music or theatrical works, but also and primarily her social position as endorsed by the Rahbanis. Since the Feirouzian legacy has rarely been examined, a few gaps here reflect the scarcity of secondary sources written on the matter. Most of our references are dated because of the lack of recent scholarship on Feirouz. As such, we extensively used Stone’s book on the Feirouzian nation because it is one of the few sources available. As star studies encourages the use of non-academic sources such as journalistic articles and primary sources, we hope that consulting such materials will have enriched our readings of the complex composites of Feirouz as a Lebanese and international star of stage and music. Feirouz is often referred to as ‘Lebanon’s Ambassador to the Stars’ (Qingrui 2019). This title remains a prominent one that people use when speaking of Feirouz and her fame. Yet, looking at the origins of her stardom and tracing its trajectory, we argue that Feirouz launched her musical career as a performer known for her vocals and the style of her performances before becoming a star and eventually turning into an icon. In this chapter, we questioned whether her iconicity is representative of the totality of Arabs or a fandom that constitutes some of the local and diasporic Lebanese communities and other Arabs. Therefore, the potency and prominence of her fame and fandom in the Arab world do not necessarily correlate to her role as a representative of a collective Arab identity. We conclude that the transnational stardom of Feirouz, although questionable when it comes to its representative stance, continues to be one based on her fame and iconicity as a Lebanese talent with nostalgic themes and romanticized cultural references that were predominantly established by the compositions of the Rahbani brothers.

Notes 1 Said Akl wrote the introduction to an earlier Rahbani Brothers musical play called ‘The Holiday of Glory’ (1960). 2 Mawāwīl is the plural form of Mawwāl, a popular genre of Arabic vocal music. It constitutes of prolonged vowel syllables of sentimental nature presented before the beginning of a song. For further reading, please see (Maalouf 2011, 220). 3 The Arabic language is mainly divided into two variants: Modern Standard Arabic and Colloquial Arabic. Colloquial Arabic is divided into as many dialects as there are in the Arab world, each having a particular set of characteristics based on the dialect’s lexical and other features as well as its geographical location. For example, the Tunisian dialect (North Africa) is drastically different from the Lebanese or Palestinian Arabic (Levant).

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References Abu Murad (1990), ‘Al-Akhawan Rahbani: Hayat Wa-Masrah’. Beirut: Dar Amjad Li-al-Nashr Wa-al-Tawzi‘. Acee, Dana F. (2011), ‘Women in Sha’bi Music: Globalization, Mass Media and Popular Music in the Arab World’. Bowling Green, OH: Bowling Green State University. https://etd.ohiol​ink.edu/apexp​rod/rws_ol​ ink/r/1501/10?clear=10&p10_ac​cess​ion_​num=bgs​u132​1368​508 (accessed 7 July 2023). Al-Khazin, and Ilyan (1970), Kutub Wa-Udaba’: Tarajum Wa-Muqaddimat Wa-Ahadith Li-al-Udaba’ Min Lubnan Wa-al-‘alam al-‘Arabi, Beirut: al-Maktaba al-‘asriyya. Al-Wali (1992), ‘Fairouz Li-al-Fatayat Wa-Li-Lubnan al-Jabal’, Mulhaq Jaridat Al-Nahar, 9 November. Al Ariss, A., and Y. M. Sidani (2016), ‘Understanding Religious Diversity: Implications from Lebanon and France’, Cross Cultural & Strategic Management, 23(3): 467–80. https://doi.org/10.1108/CCSM-02-2015-0020. Boonstra, J. (2017), ‘Scandal in Fin-de-Siècle Beirut: Gender, Morality, and Imperial Prestige between France and Lebanon’. Journal of World History, 28(3/4): 371–93. Boustany, N. (1987), ‘the sad voice of beirut’. Washington Post, 26 April. https://www.was​hing​tonp​ost.com/arch​ive/opini​ons/1987/04/26/the-sad-voice-ofbei​rut/29f5d​2ab-715a-4ece-9fc8-038a8​24a1​a68/ (accessed 7 July 2023). d’Armagnac, S., F. Guettiche, A. Janand, A. Klarsfeld and H. Cloet (2019), ‘French Insights on Defining and Managing Talents, European Management Review, 17(2): 449–65. https://online​libr​ary.wiley.com/doi/epdf/10.1111/emre.12371 (accessed 7 July 2023). Elias, C. (2018), Posthumous Images: Contemporary Art and Memory Politics in Post–Civil War Lebanon, Durham, NC: Duke University Press. https://www.duk​ eupr​ess.edu/pos​thum​ous-ima​ges (accessed 7 July 2023). Habib, Kenneth S. (2005), The Superstar Singer Fairouz and the Ingenious Rahbani Composers: Lebanon Sounding, Santa Barbara: University of California. Hayek, G. (2019), ‘Where to? Filming Emigration Anxiety in Prewar Lebanese Cinema’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 51(2): 183–201. https:// doi.org/10.1017/S00207​4381​9000​011. ‘History | Baalbeck International Festival’. n.d. https://www.baalb​eck.org.lb/hist​ ory/ (accessed 28 September 2022.). Howling, F. (2005), Art in Lebanon, 1930–1975: The Development of Contemporary Art in Lebanon. Beirut: LAU Press. Immerzeel, M. (2009), Identity Puzzles: Medieval Christian Art in Syria and Lebanon (Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta), Leuven, Belgium: Peeters Publishers. https://www.ama​zon.com/Ident​ity-Puzz​les-Christ​ian-Ori​enta​lia-Lova​ nien​sia/dp/904​2921​498 (accessed 7 July 2023). Issa, D. (2019), ‘The ‘Aura’ of Home Fairouz and the Arab Diaspora of Doha, Qatar’, Middle East Journal of Culture and Communication, 12 (1): 109–26 https://migrat​ionr​esea​rch.com/item/the-aura-of-home-fair​ouz-and-the-arabdiasp​ora-of-doha-qatar/520​882 (accessed 7 July 2023).

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Kaufman, A. (2001), ‘Phoenicianism: The Formation of an Identity in Lebanon in 1920’. Middle Eastern Studies, 37(1): 173–94. ‘Le Libanais Wadih el-Safi, géant de la chanson arabe, décède à 92 ans’ (2013), France 24, 12 October. https://www.franc​e24.com/fr/20131​012-musi​ que-liban-wadih-el-safi-geant-chan​son-arabe-dec​ede-a-92-ans (accessed 7 July 2023). Maalouf, S. (2011), History of Arabic Music Theory: Change and Continuity in the Tone Systems, Genres, and Scales, Waddy, KY: Wasteland Press. Maltzahn, Nadia Von, and Monique Bellan, eds (2019), The Art Salon in the Arab Region: Politics of Taste Making, Würzburg: Ergon Verlag. Messeder, G. (2018), ‘Tropical(Ist) Fantasies: Bossa Nova and Samba in Contemporary Lebanon’, Revista Vórtex, 6(3): 1–25. Moore, L. (2018), ‘Narrating Postcolonial Arab Nations: Egypt, Algeria, Lebanon, Palestine’, London: Routledge and CRC Press. https://www.routle​dge.com/ Narrat​ing-Postc​olon​ial-Arab-Nati​ons-Egypt-Alge​ria-Leba​non-Palest​ine/ Moore/p/book/978036​7667​405 (accessed 7 July 2023). Nassr, G. (2018), ‘Fairouz and the Rahbanis: Nation, Nostalgia, and a Lebanese Cosmopolitan Modern’, Doctor of Philosophy in the Department of Near Eastern Languages and Cultures, Indiana University. https://www.proqu​est. com/openv​iew/5a918​f2b6​3f09​e177​2aad​6e59​cab0​61d/1?pq-origs​ite=gscho​ lar&cbl=18750 (accessed 7 July 2023). Nisan, M (2003), The Conscience of Lebanon: A Political Biography of Etienne Sakr, 1st ed., London: Routledge. Qingrui, J. (2019), ‘Fairuz, Lebanon’s “Ambassador to the Stars”’. https://news. cgtn.com/news/3d3d7​74d3​2677​a4d3​4457​a633​3566​d54/index.html (accessed 7 July 2023). Reed, Michael C. (1987), ‘Gabon: A Neo-Colonial Enclave of Enduring French Interest’, The Journal of Modern African Studies, 25(2): 283–320. https://doi. org/10.1017/S00222​78X0​0000​392. Solimando, C. (2021), ‘Linguistic Interference and Religious Identity: The Case of a Lebanese Speech Community’. Linguæ & Rivista Di Lingue e Culture Moderne, 19(2): 155–70. https://doi.org/10.7358/ling-2020-002-soli. Stone, C. (2010), Popular Culture and Nationalism in Lebanon: The Fairouz and Rahbani Nation. London: Routledge. https://www.routle​dge.com/Popu​lar-Cult​ ure-and-Nati​onal​ism-in-Leba​non-The-Fair​ouz-and-Rahb​ani-Nat​ion/Stone/p/ book/978041​5781​664 (accessed 7 July 2023). Woodhouse, R. (2004), ‘The Greek Prototypes of the City Names Sidon and Tyre: Evidence for Phonemically Distinct Initials in Proto-Semitic or for the History of Hebrew Vocalism?’ Journal of the American Oriental Society, 124(2): 237–48. https://doi.org/10.2307/4132​213. Yuval-Davis, N. (1997), Gender and Nation. London: University of East London. https://uk.sage​pub.com/en-gb/eur/gen​der-and-nat​ion/boo​k203​639 (accessed 7 July 2023).

PART TWO

The Intersections of Gender, Class and Sexuality in Arab Stardom

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6 Differently Empowering: The Performativity of Strong Female Leads by Faten Hamama and Hind Rostom Wessam Elmeligi

The Male Gaze and Gender Performativity in Egyptian Cinema Egyptian cinema has had its share of iconic female stars. During what is sometimes referred to as its Golden Age, between the 1940s and 1960s, female stars played some of the most empowering characters in Egyptian cinema. Among the most iconic stars who presented powerful female characters on the screen were Faten Hamama and Hind Rostom. This chapter analyses their stardom, employing a feminist perspective on the male gaze, a term coined by film critic Laura Mulvey in her influential writing on narrative pleasure in cinema (1988b), in which she brings feminism and psychoanalysis to bear on film studies. It also uses Judith Butler’s notion of gender performativity (1988) to examine how the on-screen characters of the two stars interacted with their gendered stereotypes to offer critiques of Egyptian gendered, societal and political structures. In this chapter, I attempt to unpack these two iconic figures through the lens of these theories, which have not yet been employed in readings of Arab stars.

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FIGURE 6.1  The performativity of strong female leads by Faten Hamama and Hind Rostom. Source: Designed by Fatema Shams.

Mulvey purports that mainstream films are presented with the male perspective in mind and objectify women for the male audience. Cinema’s fascination with the human form is intricately linked to its offer of visual pleasure (Mulvey 1988b: 59). The audience, regardless of its gender, is encouraged to adopt the perspective of a male viewer (Mulvey 1988a: 69). As such, the male gaze dictates the visual presentation of each star and gratifies a heteronormative male perspective that highlights the objectification and sexualization of the female body. As icons of Egyptian cinema, and as stars associated with different types of femininity, Hamama and Rostom have often been represented through a heteronormative male perspective, as the embodiment of innocence and eroticism respectively. Indeed, filmmakers in Egypt often made use of the stars’ physical attributes: whereas Hamama’s slender figure, wide eyes, dark hair, youngish features and the tremor in her voice marked her early on as suitable for characters that embodied the docile Egyptian woman, Rostom was often associated with the male-defined ideal of women with her hourglass figure, full lips, blondish hair and bubbly laughter. This often led to her being cast as a gold digger, a seducer or a femme fatale. Both women, however, used their positions as powerful stars to challenge aspects of their representation.

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Butler argues that, as a public performative action, gender is neither a radical choice nor an imposed inscription. Gender is like a script that can be interpreted, and the gendered body can be enacted in different ways within cultural directives (Butler 1988: 526). In this study, I argue that these two iconic stars stand as key examples of this theory as they repackage gender expectations by intertwining their off-screen personas with their on-screen characterization. Both Hamama and Rostom performed the scripts of their gender, but in ways that enabled them to reinterpret and re-enact the stereotypes attached to their bodies. Often dubbed the ‘Marilyn Monroe of the East’ due to her sexualized on-screen characters, Rostom was far from the male fantasy of the superficial blonde that her appearance suggested. On the other end of the spectrum, Hamama, often referred to as the ‘Lady of the Arab Screen’, embodied some of the most powerful on-screen female characters in Egyptian cinema, with roles that called for women’s participation in political protests, or for changes in women’s right to divorce, thus challenging stereotypes of the subdued wife or daughter. In this respect, both stars overturned male gaze stereotypes, not by changing their appearances, but rather by using the very features that fed those stereotypes to reconstruct their performances of the gender of the on-screen characters they played. This chapter engages with the women’s filmic performances, representation in film criticism and, to a lesser degree, off-screen lives and personas to examine the extent to which they were typecast and to investigate how the two stars challenged their typecasting. It also tackles the transnational dimension of Hamama and Rostom as stars representing female cinematic icons. By discussing their reception outside Egypt, and their presence in world cinema and media, this chapter aims to draw attention to the stars’ transnational significance. It begins by contextualizing Hamama and Rostom’s careers, before discussing their critical representation, some of their key roles in Egyptian cinema and, finally, their significance beyond Egypt.

Shaping Hamama and Rostom’s Careers Hamama often appeared in roles that saw her gain empowerment through a personal journey of discovery. Director Mohamed Karim, known for directing many of Mohammed Abdel Wahab’s musicals, chose six-year-old Hamama for her debut in Happy Day (Abdel Wahab 1939), a role that introduced multiple sides of her star persona. He cast her as the daughter of a landlord whose expressions of empathy and adoration launched her landmark characterization and lay the groundwork for the type of romantic female lead that dominated her adult career. In a stand-out scene, Hamama’s character visits a lonely tenant, carrying a food tray courtesy of her family. She talks with him and pities him when she finds out he has no living

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relatives. He starts crooning ‘I have always lived alone’, but soon it becomes Hamama’s expressive face that is the focus of the camera. In another scene, the same child who watches her neighbour with tearful eyes shows a different side to her personality when she stands on a dining table and delivers an impassioned speech to her enthralled family and the main characters in the movie. Such a complex combination of weakness and strength shaped Hamama’s on-screen characters, carving out her recognizable brand of empowerment and associating her with a type of strength achieved quietly and steadily through endurance, resilience and growth. This combination of weakness and strength has challenged the stereotypes of Hamama’s typecasting. While some critics have viewed Hamama’s roles as focusing on the recurrent motif of a victimized female lead, closer analysis shows that she was often cast as characters that embark upon a journey of empowerment (Razek 2016: 136, 218). After her breakthrough as an adult star in Immortal Song (Barakat 1952), Hamama rapidly skyrocketed to fame, becoming the primary lead star of her films and not just a female character supporting a male lead. Three years after starring with famous singer Farid Al-Atrache in Immortal Song, she starred with another rapidly rising star in music at the time, Abdel Halim Hafiz, in Our Beautiful Days, together with Omar Sharif and Ahmed Ramiz, cementing her position even more (Halim 1955). As Hamama herself matured into an iconic star, her roles grew in strength and she gained a degree of agency in her choice of roles and co-stars fairly early in her adult career. For example, in The Blazing Sun (Chahine 1954), it was revealed that Hamama decided the male star would be Michel Chalhoub, better known as Omar Sharif, who later became Hamama’s second husband. Decades later, she chose another male lead: Mahmoud Yassin in The Thin Line (Barakat 1971), in which Hamama performed as a middle-aged escort for the wealthy who supports a young social climber only for him to shun her when he succeeds. The pattern of Hamama’s characters evolving from weakness to strength is not only maintained in the film but is presented in an exaggerated manner. Her doting love turns into unleashed anger in a memorable scene in which she destroys the designer suits that she bought her lover and calls him the ‘son of a dog’ (which is reportedly the first time this type of profanity was used on screen in Egypt). It is possible to see The Thin Line as a turning point in Hamama’s career. Following this role, she moved steadily away from her earlier typecasting as a victimized young woman into a remarkable array of strong female leads. Her range was impressive: portraying an escort came as naturally to her as playing a mother. In The Empire of M (Kamal 1972) (in which ‘m’ stands for ‘mama’), for example, Hamama plays an affluent single mother overwhelmed by her children’s problems and her love for a man whose sincere attempts to win her children over fail. She eventually leaves her lover and successfully bonds with her children, thus following the pattern

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of embodying a relatively weak character who finds strength at the end. Hamama engages with the motif of motherhood again but as a woman from a different economic class in A Sweet Day, A Bitter Day (Beshara 1988). In this film, she presents a less normative role as she plays a poor single mother who lets her good-for-nothing son-in-law live with them just to have a man in the house but finally kicks him out in a scene that symbolizes that she has finally achieved her independence. In her later career, Hamama supported young new directors (Razek 2016: 56). Daoud Abd El-Sayyed directed her last film, Land of Dreams (1993), in which she appeared as a woman who loses her passport on the day of her flight to see her son who lives in the United States. The film structure mirrors a one-act play, with an anti-hero and an anticlimax, departing from the epic endings in her earlier work. However, she remains true to her usual characterization as a woman who elicits sympathy through her dishevelled appearance and lisp, and who garners enough courage at the end to decide not to travel. In the very last phase of her career, Hamama moved to television in Ms Hikmat’s Conscience (Mohamed Ali 1991), in which she portrays a school principal with impeccable morals who inherits a fortune. Her didactic performance sees Hamama embody a character who reflects the actress herself. She plays a victim of corruption who indignantly fights the system, mirroring the way that Hamama left Egypt in objection to the politics of some senior officials in the mid-1960s (Samak 1977). She lived in self-exile until Nasser himself requested her return (Sabri 2020: 273). Interestingly, Hamama’s off-screen persona and on-screen character went hand in hand. As her star image took shape, the way Hamama presented herself evolved from a child star to a young romantic icon married to the heartthrob Omar Sharif to a very different image after her return from selfexile in the 1960s. Complete with a shorter hairstyle and an affirmative persona projected assertively in television interviews, Hamama was repeatedly shown as reserved and even rather foreboding. This image has persisted after Hamama’s death. In a video posted on a YouTube channel, Hamama is seen taking a break during an unidentified interview from the 1990s (Al-Mughazy 2022). Her discussion with the show host revolves around Hamama’s rejection of questions that could implicate or embarrass other people, and her mannerisms bring comments from viewers of the channel that describe her as ‘ladylike’, ‘strong’, ‘respected’ and ‘elegant’, all qualifiers that would not have been evoked by the early Hamama (Al-Mughazy 2022). Rostom’s early career was entirely different from Hamama’s. She was discovered by Ezzeldine Zhul Fuqar (who later married Hamama) when she auditioned for the film Flowers and Thorns in 1947 (Al-Hakeem 2018: 39–40). From the very beginning, Rostom was presented as a sensual woman and took on roles as seductive characters, sometimes performing as the rival or antagonist to the main female lead. As such, Rostom had to

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contend with her fair share of the male gaze from critics. Television talk show host Mufeed Fawzy dubbed her the ‘Queen of Seduction’ and the ‘Marilyn Monroe of the East’, both of which Rostom rejected for limiting her acting talent (Al-Hakeem 2018: 29). Though she embodied a rich variety of roles as her career developed, she never shunned the sexual appeal of her fiery characters, especially in her films with director Hassan Al-Imam, whose collaboration with Rostom boosted both of their careers (Al-Hakeem 2018: 45). In films with other directors, she perfected her niche image as a sex symbol with a rich personality that contained hidden depths. For example, in Struggle in the Nile (Chahine 1959), Rostom plays a gangster’s moll who relishes driving a wedge between two brothers to steal their money, but ultimately falls in love with one of them, thereby establishing her persona as a potentially dangerous woman who is not immune to the redemptive qualities of love.1 Rostom’s versatility enabled her to move effortlessly among genres, from comedy to tragedy and from literary adaptations to musicals, adorning her character’s sexuality with rich personality traits. In It’s You I Love (Chahine 1957), she plays a refreshingly hilarious gold digger. She starts as the love interest of the character played by co-star Farid Al-Atrache. Her character agrees that he temporarily marries someone else, played by Shadia, to fulfil a will and come into a large inheritance. Soon, however, she meets another person, played by Abdel Salam Al-Nabulsi, who tells her that he has found oil in his land. At the same time, Farid’s character falls in love with Shadia’s character, the wife he is supposed to marry only temporarily. The cast of four leading characters are all gold diggers in the sense that they are after money. However, it is possible to see Rostom’s role as ridiculing fortune hunting by men as much as by women, with an early reference to the impact of oil on relationships and social structures. After perfecting the gold digger role, Rostom mastered its antithesis: the reserved, respectable, sacrificing middle-aged professional, complete with tailored jackets and manicured hairstyles. For example, in Leaving Paradise (Zulfikar 1967), she plays the wife who refuses to see her rich husband (Al-Atrache) waste his musical talent. Al-Atrache’s character is content with not working and remaining with Rostom’s character in their love nest, relying on his inherited fortune. She decides to leave him in an attempt to force him to use his musical talents, taking the approach that suffering motivates great artists. She also plays a university professor supporting a younger man (Hasan Youssef) who falls in love with a younger woman in The Coward and Love (Youssef 1975). She is a nun in The Nun (El Emam 1965), a rare performance that sees her embody a character grappling with faith. In such performances, Rostom challenges her objectification and the male gaze by not displaying her sensuous side and, instead, focusing on constructing the character of a strict professional in the former and a spiritual figure in the latter. Even as the feisty working-class woman Hannouma in

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Youssef Chahine’s Cairo Station (1958) (discussed in more detail below), her sensual performance is not the defining element. In her role as Hannouma, Rostom’s sexuality is not denied but acknowledged and embraced within the totality of a very rich characterization. Hannouma’s pragmatism about living in poverty and being young and beautiful sees her shift between the role of a carefree and entertaining salesperson and a selfish and worried young woman. It is even said that later in her career Rostom turned down the leading role in My Father Is on the Tree (Kamal 1969), a major film in colour, co-starring leading singer Abdel Halim Hafiz, because her role required many kissing scenes, and she apparently wanted to challenge the image constructed about her as a sex symbol, and, possibly, because she was married at the time and the steamy scenes might have caused issues for her marriage (al-Youm Al-Sabie 2019). This range itself gives shape to the full experience of Egyptian women and fed her appeal beyond Egyptian cinema by presenting different character types that were capable of capturing the interest of a wider audience. Rostom retired much earlier than Hamama at the age of 50 in 1979 (Al-Hakeem 2018: 26). For one of her later films, Rostom requested to guest star in A Word of Honour (Mostafa 1973) as the dying wife of superstar Farid Shawqi’s character, a prisoner helped by a compassionate warden to temporarily leave prison to see her. He gives the warden his ‘word of honour’ that he will return. This role emphasizes the fact that Rostom’s choices do not rely on her characters’ physical attractiveness. It also exemplifies her commitment to moral issues, and the film is credited for initiating better legal rights for inmates (Al-Hakeem 2018: 80).

Women’s Rights and Iconic Performances Having outlined each woman’s rise to fame and career trajectories, this chapter now discusses how they both played a key role in supporting women’s rights in Egypt and in challenging normative gender scripts. As already established, Hamama’s on-screen characters highlight women’s abilities to find their inner strength and sometimes tackle women’s rights head on. An early example is Miss Fatima, whose Arabic title, Ustadha Fatima (Wahab 1952), suits a film about a young professional woman finding her place in the male-dominated workforce (Razek 2016: 127).2 Another feminist film that Hamama has appeared in is The Open Door (Barakat 1963), an adaptation of a novel by Egyptian novelist Latifa Al-Zayat. Both novel and film are ground-breaking feminist works depicting the central protagonist’s struggle to participate in her country’s political future, from taking part in street protests with her schoolmates to ending her arranged engagement and joining an activist in his political struggle. Hamama’s role aligns with changing mores around women’s political participation and echoes calls by women like Doriyya

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Shafiq in the 1950s and 1960s for women’s right to vote in Egypt. I Want a Solution (Marzouk 1975) is considered partly responsible for improving divorce laws in Egypt and is cited as an influence on granting women the right to divorce (Razek 2016: 128–30). In a rare reversal, Hamama plays a resilient woman embroiled in an arduous legal battle to obtain a divorce from her husband. Fawzeyah, Hamama’s character, loses her lawsuit and remains legally bound to her abuser. Unlike most of Hamama’s characters, she starts strong but ends defeated. The memorable closing scene of the film has the dignified, middle-aged Fawzeyah rushing out of the courtroom with the camera chasing her wobbly steps as she finally breaks down and cries publicly in frustration. The focus on flawed marital laws established the film as a beacon of women’s rights cinema in Egypt. Though in a different way to Hamama’s roles, Rostom’s roles challenged the visual representation of women. Rostom accepted roles that others might have found too controversial and that criticized the societal suppression of female sexuality and of women’s freedom of choice. For example, in Shafiqa the Copt (El Emam 1963), she plays Shafiqa, a real-life belly dancer (Al-Hakeem 2018: 102) who is disowned by her wealthy Christian family for her work. Shafiqa challenges the conservative views that a dancer cannot be true to her faith and adds the word Coptic to her name on all billboards and posters. In a critique of the fickleness of female stardom, Shafiqa’s rich male fans abandon her as she ages, leaving her desolate and lonely. The portrayal of Rostom’s body in this film can be seen as an example of the male gaze at work as it emphasizes her age and attractiveness to men. For much of the film, the camera focuses on Rostom in full shots, with positions that accentuate her body in tight-fitting dresses. In the later parts of the film, when Shafiqa is poor and older, the camera focuses only on her face, with her shoulders and sometimes even her hair covered by a black shawl, with makeup ageing her. In the earlier scenes, she is frequently surrounded by men, and her posture is strong and her chin is up, whereas in the later scenes, she is alone and is frequently depicted as bent over. In another sharp critique of how female stars are perceived, Rostom mocks her own reputation as a sex symbol when she stars as herself, movie star Hind Rostom, in the film A Rumor of Love (Abdel Wahab 1960). The film is a comedy satirizing the social expectations placed upon women and men. A father (Youssef Wahby) wants his daughter (Soaad Hosni) to marry a young nerdy and prudish man (Omar Sharif) he believes would make a good husband for her. Societal norms dictate that men should have many lovers before marriage, and this is what the daughter expects of her suitor. The family plans to leak a false story that the suitor has had an affair with none other than the greatest sex symbol of all: Hind Rostom herself. The ploy works long enough to allow the daughter and man to spend time together and genuinely fall in love. In a plot twist, Rostom finds out that her name is being used and decides to teach them all a lesson. She shows up

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after the couple are in love, brings along a child and claims the young man is the father. She reveals the prank in a comedic climax after teaching them, and us, a few lessons: social norms about men and women do not have to be true and, perhaps, just as importantly, you objectify Hind Rostom at your own peril. Rostom’s role in the film plays with the male gaze. It uses Rostom’s reputation as a sex symbol then sharply overturns it with another on-screen representation of her off-screen star persona, which contradicts her objectification in most of the film. By having Rostom appear as herself and reject her representation as a sex symbol, the film engages with and manipulates Rostom’s on-screen stereotype, thus imposing her star power over her screen representation. If Hamama and Rostom’s characters have endured as examples of empowering women in various situations, two films stand out among their feat of iconic performances as exemplars of the distinct talent that each star used to turn her characters into agents of empowerment. These films were both produced within a few months of each other, ending the 1950s decade, which some argue was a turning point in Egypt’s Golden Age of Cinema as it heralded a shift towards the more politically orientated themes of the 1960s. Directed in 1959 by Henri Barakat, and based on Taha Hussein’s 1934 novel of the same title (sometimes translated as The Call of the Curlew), the first of these films, The Prayer of the Nightingale, casts Hamama in her most complex role yet as Amna. Amna’s sister, Hanady, works as a maid for the village engineer who seduces her. After Hanady is killed in an honour killing by their uncle, the mother is devastated and Amna is left alone to fend for herself and to plan revenge on the engineer. She goes to the village, learns the secrets of seduction from a local lady of pleasure and works at the local Sheriff’s house, before managing to get hired by the engineer. The plot relies heavily on Hamama’s performance alongside a major male star of the time, Ahmed Mazhar. The two mortal enemies fall in love. Unaware of her identity, the engineer gradually changes and is ready to redeem himself, only to learn from Amna that her plan all along has been to work for him until she could poison him, a murder she has multiple chances to commit but cannot bring herself to execute. Barakat’s ending differs from Hussein’s. The novel ends with a poignant confrontation scene where both characters do not know how to proceed after the revelation of their love-hate relationship and with the spirit of the dead Hanady hanging over them, uniting and separating them at the same time. The film simplifies the ending and offers a melodramatic closure. Amna’s mother’s mind deteriorates with grief. The uncle finds he has no source of income and worries that Amna might bring shame to the family like her sister did. He searches for her and learns of her story with the engineer. The uncle finds the engineer’s house and sees him with Amna, who spots the uncle and tries to run. The engineer turns around and puts himself between Amna and the uncle’s gun, sacrificing his life to protect Amna and

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taking the uncle’s bullet instead. Hamama’s Amna is not just a vengeful woman who falls in love with her enemy. Rather, she is a woman who gains empowerment. She works for the Sheriff’s family, where she learns to read and write, and joins his daughter during piano and French classes. She stays with a Bedouin woman who has been outcast from the community and learns about love and empathy. She conquers her fears and takes a train that was earlier referred to by her family as ‘the ghoul’ because of its terrifying speed and monstrously loud noises. As such, Hamama brings her landmark characterization to one of the most enduring female characters in Arabic literature, focusing as she always does on the process, the growth, the development and the changes that women undergo in order to find their own agency. In a world of men obsessed with results, Hamama’s female character finds power and agency in her journey. Comparable in grandeur to Hamama’s Amna is Rostom’s role as Hannouma in Cairo Station. Entitled The Iron Gate in Arabic, the film is set in the historical train station in Cairo, known for its towering gates. Written by Abdel Hayy Adeeb and directed by Youssef Chahine in 1958, the film revolves around those who make a living around the Iron Gate (such as luggage porters and street vendors). Hannouma is a colddrink vendor in a love triangle with newspaper seller Qinawi (played by Chahine himself as a Quasimodo-type character whose unrequited love for Hannouma fuels his mental deterioration) and Abu Sree (a burly, muscular luggage porter, played by Farid Shawqi, who is Hannouma’s lover and an Iron Gate labour leader trying to organize workers to unionize). The love triangle makes enemies of Qinawi and Abu Sree, and of the businessmen and government officials who fear the rise of unionization. Though bursting with sexual energy, Rostom’s Hannouma is much more than a sex symbol. She is an economically independent working-class woman who stands up to all types of men in the male-dominated world of the railways – from working men on the station to passengers on the train, the obsessed Qinawi and even her lover Abu Sree whose control she rejects. In one remarkable scene, Hannouma takes her basket of cold drinks to the train and sings and dances in the aisle as she opens them for passengers. The celebratory dance encapsulates Rostom’s brand of empowerment. Like Hamama’s characters, the journey is essential. But unlike Hamama, whose characters privately grow more powerful through their often poignant personal journeys, Rostom’s characters celebrate their power publicly, putting themselves out there, drawing attention and challenging onlookers and the male gaze. The characters played by both stars achieve power in different ways and the two stars are visually represented in ways that bring the stereotypes associated with their on-screen performances to mind. In The Prayer of the Nightingale, Hamama is filmed with a focus on her face that subdues her sexual representation. Throughout the film, she stands opposite taller male actors who dwarf her in comparison. When opposite the engineer (played by

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Mazhar, who is, in reality, not much taller than Hamama), the camera angle emphasizes his height in most scenes. However, in the last scene, when her character attains empowerment through her freedom with regards to making decisions, she faces the camera fully, with the engineer in the background framed on a much smaller scale, thereby closing or even reversing the gap between the two characters. By contrast, Rostom’s character is filmed with her body as the central focus of her visual representation. From bathing to dancing, she is shown as a sexualized figure. Her power is also stressed from the start, as she is rarely shown as shorter than her co-star, Farid Shawqi, who was in fact one of the tallest Egyptian actors of his generation. The film thus visually encodes the equality between the two characters as working partners.

Sharing Sleepless If Hamama and Rostom offered different versions of female empowerment on-screen, their shared film Sleepless (Abu Seif 1957) plays with their star personas and exemplifies the different ways in which they challenged dominant gender norms for women in Egyptian society. The film is an adaptation of Ihasn Abdel Qudus’s 1969 novel with the same title, which is itself based on French novelist Francois Sagan’s Bonjour Tristesse (1954). It is not the two women’s first collaboration as they had appeared together in Baba Amin (Chahine 1950) and The Unjust Angel (El Emam 1954) (Sabri 2020: 260). However, it is arguably their most remarkable. The plot follows Hamama’s character, a young woman who has lost her mother and who is so possessive of her wealthy middle-aged father (Yehia Shahin) that she drives a wedge between him and his second wife (Mariam Fakhr El-Din). In an interview, Fakhr El-Din claims she was initially offered Hamama’s role but was recast as the first stepmother in favour of Hamama. She expresses reservations about how Hamama represented the daughter as a villain, claiming she would have represented her as a confused, traumatised victim (ART TV Network Interview with Mariam Fakhr Eldin). This observation sheds light on the agency Hamama had in her performances and also challenges the critical view that she gave in to easy stereotypes of her characters as weak women, showing that she actually made an effort to present them with nuances and complexities. In the film, Hamama’s undeniably complex female villain constantly blames herself and is torn apart by guilt but cannot stop herself from hurting those she loves to satiate her obsessive fear of losing her father. She is not above falsely accusing her uncle (played by Omar Sharif) and stepmother of having an affair, therefore ending the marriage as well as her father’s relationship with his brother. However, she regrets her actions when her former schoolmate, played by Rostom, marries her father. This

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time the second stepmother is unfaithful. Rostom’s character and her lover (Rushdy Abaza) hatch a thinly disguised plan to get their hands on the rich man’s money. In a complex plot twist, the classmate/stepmother finds out that the daughter is having a secret relationship with her father’s friend (Emad Hamdy) and blackmails her into silence. The daughter is forced to watch her father being betrayed by her classmate/enemy, leading to a Hamama/Rostom face off. The physical difference between Hamama and Rostom accentuates their contrasting acting styles and it is possible to see this film as knowingly playing on their star personas. In Hamama’s role, the same inner energy that normally yields power to the victim is turned into a lethal potion secretly unleashed in private poisonous bursts of jealousy and domestic conspiracies that sever relationships and destroy lives. In Rostom’s role, the boisterous joy of living and the energy of her sex appeal are lethal and her character is portrayed as shameless, unfaithful and as a ruthless blackmailer. Instead of the worried knot we normally see on the foreheads of Hamama’s traditional characters, the audience sees a furrowed conniving frown, and instead of the familiar sunny, naughty playfulness of Rostom’s usual characters, they hear a gurgling evil laugh. Hamama and Rostom’s performances both overshadow the talents of the other megastars in the film and their scenes together are among the most charged. According to Rostom, Hamama requested a script change in one of the scenes where Rostom raises her shoes threateningly against Hamama’s face. Rostom agreed to the change, but while playing the role, she sits down, takes off her shoes and dangles them playfully close to Hamama. In such shared scenes, the director makes use of the distinct physical features of the two stars by placing them at angles that contrast Hamama’s subtle depth with Rostom’s raw grit. The male gaze becomes an interesting concept here, as the director capitalizes on their screen stereotypes to have the women perform two villainous female characters. Hamama’s character is dressed rather modestly as opposed to Rostom’s character who celebrates her sexualized appearance. It is common for Hamama in most scenes to hunch over, look sideways or murmur her words, whereas Rostom usually stands straight, looks down at Hamama (who is shorter than her) and speaks up. The colour codes are also interesting, as Rostom often wears flashier colours such as bright red while Hamama wears earthy pastel colours. Both stars depict their characters as strong, complex women, one flashy and the other subdued, and in so doing, these two iconic female leads benefit from the juxtaposition in each other’s powerful performances.

Transnational Work and Recognition As both stars pushed against male-centred critical perspectives in their on-screen roles, they became representatives of women’s issues not only in

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Egyptian cinema but also in Arab cinema. Referred to as the ‘Hollywood of the East’, the Egyptian silver screen in the mid-twentieth century was viewed as a trend setter for cinematic stardom in the region and enhanced the impact that Egyptian stars had beyond Egyptian borders. Hamama received honorary awards across Arab countries, such as the Decoration of Competence and Creation from the King of Morocco and the Decoration of the Cedar Tree by the Lebanese President (both in 2001), as well as an honorary doctorate from the American University in Beirut and the American University in Cairo. In an interview for Al-Monitor, critic Hanan Shuman explains that ‘Egyptian cinema represented the Arab cinema, and this is how Hamama’s roles had an impact on the whole Arab world’ (Hussein 2015). Rostom also received her share of transnational recognition. She was featured in the Hollywood Reporter, praising her performance in Cairo Station (Ibrahim 2013). Perhaps more than Hamama, Rostom was compared to Hollywood figures, namely Marilyn Monroe, Heddy Lamarr and Sarah Bernhardt (Zakariyya 2018). Rostom also received accolades from outside Egypt that included a special award from the Venice Festival in 1957 for her film Women in My Life (1957), directed by Fateen Abdel Wahab. Both stars gained transnational recognition and engaged with international cinema, either through direct contact or through cultural reference. Hamama’s career was seriously interrupted when she left Egypt to avoid what she was concerned was the pressure of recruitment to the secret service (Razek 2016: 120–1). During her travels, Hamama filmed The Great Love (Barakat 1969) in Beirut with Farid Al-Atrache in 1969 (Razek 2016: 47). In 1963, she starred in the Paramount film Shadow of Treason with Johny Bentley directed by George Breakston. In 1971, she starred in a French Moroccan movie titled Sands of Gold, directed by Youssef Chahine. Hamama and Chahine reportedly disowned the film (Razek 2016: 222), perhaps because it was a box office flop, or because it included a kissing scene that is relatively more daring than any in Hamama’s other films. Hamama also starred among a multinational cast in Cairo, directed by UK-based German director Wolf Rilla in 1963. The film starred British actors George Henry Sanders and Richard Johnson. It also starred Egyptian Ahmed Mazhar, Hamama’s co-star in the epic masterpiece The Prayer of the Nightingale. Interestingly, it is that film, though locally produced, that is most recognizable internationally among Hamama’s works, with entries in the thirty-second Academy Awards and the tenth Berlin International Film Festival. The Berlin Festival has acknowledged Hamama repeatedly, with nominations for best film for two of her films, both directed by Chahine, Son of the Nile in 1951 and The Blazing Sun in 1954 (Razek 2016: 307). Cannes Film Festival has also shown some of her films, as early as 1949 with Lady of the House (Morsi 1949), and with nominations for best film for Last Night (El-Shiekh) in 1964 and The Taboo (Barakat) in 1965 (Razek 2016: 307). Hamama has been a frequent guest in other festivals as

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well, including Moscow Film Festival, and was a member of the jury at the Berlin Film Festival in 1964 and the Carthage Film Festival in 1978 (Razek 2016: 307). Similarly, Rostom’s most recognizable work internationally is Cairo Station (Al-Hakeem 2018: 57). It preceded Hamama’s role in The Prayer of the Nightingale in making waves internationally with entries at the thirty-first Academy Awards Foreign Film category and the ninth Berlin International Film Festival. Rostom’s transnational appeal, however, rests also on the comparison to Marilyn Monroe. Rostom and her directors actively toyed with, and deconstructed, the resemblance. In Cairo Station, for example, Qinawi stands in front of a wall that has a torn poster of Monroe’s 1953 film Niagara (directed by Henry Hathaway). The image of Monroe standing in a swimsuit underneath her name in Arabic is a tongue-in-cheek mockery of the comparison between Monroe and Rostom, and a foreshadowing of Qinawi’s rage, since, in Niagara, George, the husband of Monroe’s character, is also jealous and possessive. As argued earlier, Rostom’s character Hannouma’s objectified blonde good looks are challenged in her characterization as an avid fighter for her economic independence and social freedom. While Rostom did not perform in multinational films, she was allegedly offered a role in a film by Alfred Hitchcock that was apparently either intercepted by a rival actress, Berlanti Abdel Hamid, or never reached Rostom as a result of negligence (El-Sharkawy 2020). Film star and biographer Samir Sabry suggests that Hitchcock had a specific image of Rostom that went well with his portrayal of female stars but that Rostom’s rival Abdel Hamid was married to a senior politician and might have used her influence to intercept the telegrams sent by Hitchcock (El-Sharkawy 2020). Interestingly, the connection to Hitchcock is seen in Rostom and Chahine’s landmark film as well. Chahine’s style in Cairo Station has been compared to Hitchcock’s obsessiveness and darkness (Bradshaw 2002), and the film has also been described as a psychosexual thriller with a comedic twist inspired by Hitchcock (Fleming 2022).

Conclusion This chapter has demonstrated the agency that Hamama and Rostom forged for themselves. They used their star power to undermine malecentred stereotypes of women and to perform in roles that evolved as their star personas developed off screen. Whereas Hamama moved from supporting roles as a child and teen to leading roles as an adult, Rostom performed in many brilliant supporting roles, some of which were as iconic as her lead roles. Hamama’s roles often revolved around her journey from pain to power, while Rostom often performed as strong-willed women,

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visibly bubbling with confidence and sexuality, but whose personalities also harboured deep emotions that ranged from love to insecurity and fear. Hamama’s characters often appeared to present a weakness that concealed an inner strength, whereas Rostom’s characters presented a visible strength that tended to hide an inner weakness. Both stars subvert the stereotypes of docility and sexuality attached to their on-screen representations in different ways. What Hamama murmurs, Rostom shouts. But the message is not really that different: power comes with struggle, and in a male-dominated world, women must undergo considerably more than men to survive. Together, Hamama and Rostom present on-screen versions of women who, regardless of the male dominance of the film industry, effectively reshaped women’s roles in film and society, thus enabling them to be claimed as unrivalled female stars of Egyptian and Arab cinemas.

Notes 1 Notice the similarity of the title to Hamama’s The Blazing Sun that might indicate the subtle rivalry between the two stars. 2 Ustadha is a professional title that does not denote marital status, as opposed to anisa, which is closer to Miss, addressing unmarried women.

Filmography Baba Amin (1950), [Film] Dir. Youssef Chahine, Egypt: Zayed Film and Mebazim Film. The Blazing Sun (1954), [Film] Dir. Youssef Chahine, Egypt: Nile Cinema. Cairo (1963), [Film] Dir. Wolf Rilla, USA: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. Cairo Station (1958), [Film] Dir. Youssef Chahine, Egypt: Gabriel Talhami. The Coward and Love (1975), [Film] Dir. Hassan Youssef, Egypt: Hassan Youssef. The Empire of M (1972), [Film] Dir. Hussein Kamal, Egypt: Mourad Ramsis Naguib. Flowers and Thorns (1947), [Film] Dir. Muhammad Abdel-Gawad. Egypt: United Films Company. The Great Love (1969), [Film] Dir. Henri Barakat, Egypt: Barakat Films. Happy Day (1939), [Film] Dir. Mohamed Karim, Egypt: Mohamed Karim. I Want a Solution (1975), [Film] Dir. Said Marzouk, Egypt: Salah Zulfikar Films. Immortal Song (1952), [Film] Dir. Henri Barakat, Egypt: Egypt for Acting and Cinema. It’s You I Love (1957), [Film] Dir. Youssef Chahine, Egypt: Farid Al-Atrache Films. Lady of the House (1949), [Film]. Dir. Morsi, Kamel, Egypt: Lotus Film. Land of Dreams (1993), [Film] Dir., D. Abd El-Sayyed, Egypt: International Production House for Television and Cinema. Last Night (1964), [Film] Dir. Kamal El-Sheikh, Egypt.

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Leaving Paradise (1967), [Film] Dir. Mahmoud Zulfikar, Egypt: Cairo for Cinema Production. Miss Fatima [Ustadha Fatima] (1952), [Film] Dir. Fatin Abdel Wahab, Egypt: Nile Cinema. Ms Hikmat’s Conscience (1991), [Film] Dir. In’am Mohamed Ali, Egypt: Radio and Television Union. My Father Is on the Tree (1969), [Film] Dir. Hussein Kamal, Egypt: The Sound of Art. Niagara (1953), [Film] Dir. Henry Hathaway, USA: 20th Century Fox. The Prayer of the Nightingale (1959), [Film] Dir. Henri Barakat, Egypt: Barakat Film. The Nun (1965), [Film] Dir. Hassan El Emam, Egypt: The Voice of Art. The Open Door (1963), [Film] Dir. Henri Barakat, Egypt: Barakat Films. Our Beautiful Days (1955), [Film] Dir. Helmi Halim, Egypt: Arab Film. A Rumor of Love (1960), [Film] Dir. Fatin Abdel Wahab, Egypt: Dollar Film. Sands of Gold (1971), [Film] Dir. Youssef Chahine, Egypt: Moudallel Films and Petrouka Films. Shadow of Treason (1963), [Film] Dir. George P. Breakston, UK: Paramount. Shafiqa the Copt (1963), [Film] Dir., Hassan El Emam, Egypt: Helmy Rafla. Sleepless (1957), [Film] Dir. Salah Abu Seif, Egypt: Artists Union and Dollar Film. Struggle in the Nile (1959), [Film] Dir. Youssef Chahine, Egypt: Gamal El-Leithy. A Sweet Day, A Bitter Day (1988), [Film] Dir. Khairy Beshara, Egypt: International Telveision Company. The Thin Line (1971), [Film] Dir. Henri Barakat, Egypt: Ramsis Naguib. The Unjust Angel (1954), [Film] Dir. Hassan El Emam, Egypt: Hassan El Emam. Women in My Life (1957), [Film] Dir. Fateen Abdel Wahab, Egypt. A Word of Honour (1973), [Film] Dir. Hossam Eldin Mostafa, Egypt: Gondola for Works of Arts and SamirnTantawi.

References Abdel Razek, Z. (2016), Faten Hamama, Cairo: Elshorouk. Al-Hakeem, A. (2018), Hind Rostom: Zikrayati, Cairo: Al-Kurma. Al-Mughazy, G. (2022), ‘Faten Hamama Interview’, YouTube, n.d. https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=EQr5sqYUgbM (accessed 30 July 2022). Al-Youm Al-Sabie (2019), ‘Why Did Hind Rostom Refuse to Star in My Father Is on the Tree?’, 6 July. https://urlzs.com/gCQir (accessed 9 July 9 2022). ART TV Network (n.d.), ‘Interview with Mariam Fakhr Eldin’, YouTube, n.d. https://www.yout​ube.com/watch?v=_0CB​HwVn​W3w (accessed 5 August 2021). Bradshaw, P. (2002), ‘Cairo Station’, The Guardian, 14 June 2002. https://www. theg​uard​ian.com/film/2002/jun/14/cult​ure.pet​erbr​adsh​aw3 (accessed 28 July 2022). Butler, J. (1988), ‘Performative Acts and Gender Constitution: An Essay in Phenomenology and Feminist Theory’, Theatre Journal, 40(4): 519–31. El-Sharkawy, Y. (2020), ‘She Refused a Handkerchief with Jewellery Inside and Truth that Changed Her: From Hind Rostom-Stories’, Newsy Today, 20

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November. https://www.newsy-today.com/she-refused-a-handkerchief-withjewe lry-inside-and-a-truth-she-changed-from-hind-rostom-stories/ (accessed 5 August 2021). Fleming, S. (2022), ‘Global Cinema Series: “Cairo Station”’, Daily Free Press, 10 February 2022. https://dai​lyfr​eepr​ess.com/2022/02/10/glo​bal-cin​ema-ser​ ies-cairo-stat​ion/ (accessed 8 August 2022). Hussein, W. (2015), ‘Egypt’s Faten Hamama Was More than a Movie Star’, Al-Monitor. https://www.al-moni​tor.com/origin​als/2015/02/egypt-actr​ess-fatenham​ama-women-rig​hts.html (accessed 1 August 2022). Ibrahim, G. (2013), ‘Hind Rostom’, What Women Want Magazine, 3 November 2013. https://whatwo​menw​ant-mag.com/hind-ros​tom/ (accessed 2 August 2022). Mulvey, L. (1988a), ‘Afterthoughts on ‘Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema’ inspired by Duel in the Sun’, in C. Penley (ed.), Issues in Feminist Film Criticism, 57–68, New York: Routledge. Mulvey, L. (1988b), ‘Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema’, in C. Penley (ed.), Issues in Feminist Film Criticism, 69–79, New York: Routledge. Sabri, S. (2020), Hikayaat al-Umr Kullu. Cairo: Aldar Almisriyya Allubnaniyya. Sagan, F. (1954), Bonjour Tristesse. France: Éditions Julliard. Samak, Q. (1977), ‘The Politics of Egyptian Cinema’, MERIP Reports, 56: 12–15. Zakariyya, E. (2018), ‘The Queen of Egyptian Cinema: Hind Rostom’, Al-Dostor, 5 September 2018. https://www.dos​tor.org/2311​722 (accessed 29 August 2022).

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7 The Sexually and Politically Dissident Stardom of Lubna Azabal Kaya Davies Hayon

Lubna Azabal is a Belgian-Moroccan actress who is known for performances that explore gendered and sexual identities in the Arab world and that often position her as a signifier for an anti-imperialist, pro-Palestinian politics. Azabal was born in Belgium to a Moroccan Amazigh father and a Spanish mother and was raised speaking French, Spanish and Tamazight (but notably not Arabic).1 Azabal studied at the Royal Conservatory of Brussels and began a career in theatre before moving to film roles in the late 1990s. Since then, Azabal has taken up a steady stream of roles that have required her to perform in multiple languages, embody characters from different ethnic and cultural backgrounds and appear in films that span art house and auteur genres, big-budget Hollywood blockbusters, BBC TV series and major Netflix productions. She has gained increasing recognition internationally and has won a number of high-profile awards for her work, including the Black Pearl Award at the 2010 Abu Dhabi Film Festival, a Genie Award for Best Actress at the 2011 Genie Awards and the Magritte Award for Best Actress at the 2014, 2019, 2020 and 2022 Magritte Awards. These accolades demonstrate Azabal’s recognition for her acting talent and suggest that her stardom has appeal across international borders and in markedly different geopolitical spaces.

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FIGURE 7.1  The sexually and politically dissident stardom of Lubna Azabal. Source: Designed by Bahia Shehab and Midjourney Ai.

A transnational star par excellence, Azabal is rarely typecast. However, her roles all share a certain subversiveness that – as I argue in this ­chapter – enable her to be read as a sexually and politically dissident star. Through analyses of Azabal’s roles in films and TV series like Viva Laldjérie (Moknèche 2004), Paradise Now (Abu-Assad 2004), Incendies (Villeneuve 2010), The Honourable Woman (Blick 2014) and Tel Aviv on Fire (Zoabi 2018), I argue that the star’s dissidence emerges not solely from her characters’ political and sexual identities but from affective modes that encourage the spectator to read her performances as subversive critiques of Western imperialist politics. I engage with work by Hamid Naficy on accented cinema (2001), Sara Ahmed on the emotions (2004) and Jasbir Puar on queer terrorist assemblages (2007) to explore the affective and accented dimensions of Azabal’s stardom, and to link Azabal’s characters’ gendered and sexual nonconformity to their racial and political affiliations. In doing so, I query the extent to which Azabal’s performances can be read as registering a challenge to imperialist ideologies that reproduce heteronormative racial and sexual politics. I begin by looking at Azabal’s stardom through the lens of theories of accent and affect, before moving on to discuss some of Azabal’s key roles and how they have contributed to shaping her persona as a star.

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From Accented Stardom to Theories of Affect Azabal is very different from some of the other stars studied in this collection insofar as she has tended to appear in independent and art house films that, in her early career at least, were made by directors operating at the margins of mainstream cinema industries. Unlike some of the major household names she appears alongside in this book, Azabal is not widely known outside of art house/indie film circles and has tended to take on roles that merge the cerebral and the corporeal, are multilingual and politically engaged, and demand an understated (rather than a glamorous or performative) acting style. She can certainly be understood to be a transnational star insofar as her performances invite her audiences to engage with ‘the tensions between the global and the local, [and] between national identity and cosmopolitan culture’ (Meeuf 2016: 197). However, she could also be read through the lens of Naficy’s work on ‘accented’ cinema as an ‘accented’ star who sits at the interstices of cultures and performs in roles that are multilingual (2001: 24) and that prioritize liminal characters (2001: 32), tactile sensibilities (2001: 28) and a third cinema aesthetic that is historically situated, critically aware and politically engaged (2001: 31). While Naficy is clear that the ‘accent’ in ‘accented’ cinema does not emerge from the characters’ accents but from similarities in terms of themes, approaches and modes of production, he does concede that ‘most accented films are bilingual, even multilingual, multivocal and multiaccented’ and ‘stress the oral, the vocal and the musical – that is, accents, intonations, voices, music, and songs’ (2001: 24). As an ‘accented’ star, Azabal’s distinction is not related solely to her accent or her ability to transverse cultural and linguistic divides. However, her films do repeatedly draw attention to her Arabic accent and to the linguistic idiosyncrasies that expose her as an insider or as an outsider both within and beyond their diegetic worlds. If language and accent are central aspects of Azabal’s star persona, she is also a star who places a heavy emphasis on her physicality, her gestures and her emotions, and whose performances often involve sexual and bodily transgressions. The more embodied and affective dimensions to Azabal’s stardom recall the work of Ahmed and Puar and, in particular, their combined arguments on the role of stickiness and contagions in the circulation of meaning and affect across and between bodies. In The Cultural Politics of Emotion, Ahmed focuses not on what emotions are but on what they do and asks how they ‘circulate between bodies, examining how they “stick” as well as move’ (2004: 4). Developing this line of thought, Puar is keen to understand how a move away from representational politics can produce generative new ways of understanding not how bodies signify but who and what they affect (2007: 172). Whereas Ahmed seeks to understand

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how different signs and emotions become attached to certain bodies, Puar encourages us to think of bodies ‘as contagious and as mired in contagions’ (2007: 172). These arguments help us to see how certain meanings, contagions and affects have become attached to Azabal’s star body, and to understand the impact these might have on Azabal’s casting, performances and portability across borders. As will become clear, Azabal is a star who has become associated with her body and her sexuality, with a performance style that emphasizes gestures and the emotions and with an anti-imperialist politics that has cross-contaminated many of her roles and influenced her casting and exportability. In the discussion that follows, I chart Azabal’s stardom, moving from her early performances as a rebellious daughter figure to her maturation to more maternal and politically complex roles in her mid-/later career. I argue that Azabal came of age against the backdrop of 9/11 and the War on Terror and that this backdrop has fundamentally shaped her star persona and choice of roles. Though not commenting in detail on every film in Azabal’s extensive and ever-expanding corpus, I seek to show how her early roles established key precedents that have come to define her star persona and how the roles she has chosen to perform in since have increasingly aligned with a proPalestinian, anti-imperialist agenda. In the process, I consider how certain meanings have become attached to Azabal’s star body and attempt to assess the applicability of Anglo-American feminist theories of affect to films and stars circulating within and beyond a transnational Arab space. In providing the first academic study of Azabal’s stardom, I raise questions about the casting of European stars in films set in the Arab world and about the relationship of Arabness, politics and sexuality to Azabal’s star identity.

Shaping Azabal’s Star Persona: Gender, Sexuality and Politics in Azabal’s Early Films Azabal began her career working on low-budget Franco-Maghrebi shorts and co-productions that did not necessarily have broad commercial or even international appeal. These early films included collaborations with now renowned Maghrebi directors, such as Nabil Ayouch and Nadir Moknèche, and cemented Azabal’s position as an emerging talent in the Maghrebi and European film industries. They also began to shape and establish some of the more subversive and politically dissident aspects of Azabal’s star persona, which, as I argue below, have become so central to her star image and her portability across national borders. In her early films like André Techiné’s Far [Loin] (2001), Azabal plays important but secondary roles, usually as the girlfriend or love interest of the principal (male) character. This changes

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with Moknèche’s 2004 melodrama Viva Laldjérie, in which Azabal takes up the central role of Goucem, a spirited young Algerian woman living in a working-class neighbourhood of Algiers during the Algerian Civil War (1992–2002) when patriarchal violence, religious fundamentalism and a general atmosphere of terror reigned supreme.2 The film adopts a social realist aesthetic to recount the day-to-day lives of three women – Goucem, her mother Papicha (Biyouna) and Fifi (Nadia Kaci) a local sex worker – who all live in the same apartment block. It is key to establishing Azabal’s star persona as it explicitly merges sexuality and a politicized resistance to religious and gendered fundamentalism through the characterization of Goucem and through Azabal’s acting style and bodily freedom. In his reading of the film, Hakim Abderrezak argues that ‘Moknèchian women break all kinds of restrictions. Moknèche takes characters that may seem surreal, imbalanced, exaggerated or fantasised, and shows them as constituents of Algerian society’ (2007: 348). This is certainly true of Azabal’s character, Goucem, who is portrayed as an independent, sexually liberated, young woman who shatters stereotypes about Algerian women as submissive and oppressed. From the very first scene in which she appears on screen, Goucem is characterized by her playful nature and by her uninhibited sexuality. As she finishes off her administrative work at a local photographer’s studio, Goucem mockingly asks her boss if she can leave work slightly early, insinuating in English that she wants to go out and engage in carefree sex. The next scene shows Goucem walking through a hospital corridor before cutting to a high-angle medium close-up of her engaging in passionate sex with a man we later learn is her married lover Aniss (Lounès Tazairt).3 Later on, Goucem is spied on by two men when she sleeps with another man in the toilets at a local bar. Rather than letting the men control or intimidate her with their desiring gazes, Goucem looks back provocatively, making sexual innuendos and calling them out for their voyeurism. The film thus casts Azabal in a playful yet politically engaged role that requires her to perform with a degree of bodily and sexual freedom that is unusual for actresses in Arab cinema. As I discuss in more detail later in this chapter, Azabal is a star whose sexual and bodily freedom has not only determined how she performs her characters but has often driven her casting in – and indeed her acceptance of – certain roles, particularly those that require a subversion of gendered or sexual norms in the Arab world. While Azabal’s early films cemented the relationship between the star and her body, they often revolved around a transnational Maghrebi context and cast Azabal in primarily French-speaking roles. In 2005, however, Azabal’s decision to accept a role in Hany Abu-Hassad’s acclaimed Palestinian drama Paradise Now extended the reach of her stardom beyond the Maghreb and expanded the scope of her repertoire to include Arabic-speaking roles. Importantly, this role also ignited her association with the Palestinian cause and was instrumental in establishing a relationship between the star and the

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anti-imperialist politics that has come to define her career outputs to date. Set in the West Bank in the occupied city of Nablus, Paradise Now focuses on two friends – Said (Kais Nashef) and Khaled (Ali Suleman) – who sign up to undertake a suicide bombing mission in Tel Aviv as revenge for the Israeli occupation of Palestine. As the central character of the film, Said is shown to be disillusioned with the mundanity of his day-to-day life in the West Bank and with the lack of opportunities available to young men like him living under occupation. He also feels a sense of profound shame about his collaborator father’s past, which functions, in part, as a driver for his desire to become a martyr for the Palestinian cause. As the daughter of a famous and celebrated Palestinian martyr and a recent returnee to Nablus from Europe, Azabal’s character Suha is constructed as the antithesis of the brooding and internally conflicted Said. From the outset, Suha is positioned as a liminal figure who straddles the status of insider and outsider and who functions as a point of reference for the (nonPalestinian) spectator. She is an insider by virtue of her paternal and familial heritage but an outsider in the sense that she has lived most of her life in Europe. Indeed, throughout the film, much is made of Suha’s difference to the other characters, and Abu-Assad purposely uses Azabal’s ‘accented stardom’ (i.e. her European status, bi-cultural roots, transnational heritage and accented Arabic) to highlight her character’s outsider perspective on the situation in her ‘homeland’. For instance, in the first scene in which Suha meets Said at the car garage at which he works, she self-consciously draws attention to her accent, stating mockingly: ‘Don’t make fun of my accent. I was born in France and grew up in Morocco’. Later, a taxi driver remarks again on her Arabic intonation, and in her second meeting with Said, Suha asks quizzically why people from Nablus like so much sugar in their tea. More importantly, Suha disagrees with Said on the political and ideological motivations underpinning martyrdom, articulating what is perhaps a more cosmopolitan and Anglo-American perspective on the Palestinian condition than the angrier, hard line and, ultimately, fatally destructive approach espoused by Said. Paradise Now occupies an important place in Azabal’s corpus of roles, not least because it is the first film to establish an explicit relationship between Azabal and the Palestinian cause. Though she plays a moderate figure, this role paved the way for Azabal to embody more politically dissident characters and to take on roles that highlight the overlaps and continuities between sexual transgression and political resistance. Aside from a small part in Ridley Scott’s blockbuster Body of Lies (2008), her next major film role was in Denis Villeneuve’s widely acclaimed Incendies in 2010. To a greater degree than Paradise Now, this film catapulted Azabal to the international stage and cemented the relationship between the actress and sexual and political transgression. In the section that follows, I examine Azabal’s roles in Incendies and also the BBC series The Honourable Woman,

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arguing that they both associate Azabal with the figure of the Arab (Muslim) terrorist and that The Honourable Woman, in particular, contributes to a reading of her stardom as a critique of the framing of the intersections of gender, sexuality and race in dominant Western counterterrorist discourses.

Embodying the Terrorist: Gender and Sexuality in Azabal’s Politically Dissident Roles Based on an adaptation of Wajdi Mouawad’s award-winning play of the same name (2003), Villeneuve’s widely acclaimed film Incendies is a complex and multi-layered narrative of abuse, betrayal and sectarian violence set in an unnamed country in the Middle East that is largely understood by critics and reviewers to stand in for Lebanon (see, e.g. Murphy 2011). Azabal plays the central character of Nawal Marwan, a refugee and mother, who lives in Canada with her twin children after fleeing an unnamed war in her homeland. At the beginning of the film, Nawal dies unexpectedly and the executor of her will tells her children, Jeanne (Mélissa Désormeaux-Poulin) and Simon (Maxim Gaudette), that they have a brother and a father, both of whom are alive in the Middle East. In her will, Nawal asks her children to deliver handwritten sealed letters to their brother and their father, a request that leads them to uncover the disturbing truth about their mother’s existence and their own paternal heritage. In interviews about the film, Villeneuve has spoken about the difficulties he faced casting the character of Nawal and about his initial concern that he would need to find three different actresses for the three different stages of her life (1) the young activist student, (2) the prisoner in her mid-thirties, and (3) the older woman refugee living in Canada. However, when he screen-tested Azabal, he instantly changed his mind because of what he felt was the perfect match between the star and her character: ‘Artistically, I fell in love with her immediately. She simply was Nawal’ (Villeneuve quoted in Dawson 2015). It is not difficult to see why Villeneuve felt Azabal was appropriate for the role, given the extent to which it mobilizes and draws upon some of the meanings that have become attached to her star persona, including her sexual and political dissidence, and her growing association with films that tackle terror and contentious political issues in and across the Arab world. There is also a clear coherence between Azabal’s approach to performing and Villeneuve’s own directorial style, which places more emphasis on looks and bodily gestures than on explanatory prose, thereby allowing the star to perform the enigmatic and secretive character of Nawal in ways that mobilize affect and the emotions and that minimize the need for verbal explanations.

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From the start, Villeneuve crosscuts between different time frames, with Azabal performing primarily in the flashback scenes that recount Nawal’s early life in the Middle East and that associate that time period with loss, traumatic events and the escalating conflict in her country between the Christian nationalists and the Muslim refugees. We first see Nawal as a young politically active student whose Muslim lover is murdered by her own brothers and who is forced to birth and give up her baby for bringing shame on her middle-class Christian Arab family. As the sectarian violence escalates into full-blown war, Nawal refuses to flee, instead embarking upon a perilous journey in search of her lost son. Along the way, the horrors she witnesses (including the burning of a bus carrying Muslim refugees, the brutal murder of a young Muslim girl by Christian nationalists and the destruction of her son’s orphanage at Kfar Khout) radicalize her and she pledges to join the oppositional Muslim terrorist group led by the enigmatic Chamseddine (Mohamed Majd). Incendies is the first film to portray Azabal as a terrorist subject and to use her character to challenge dominant Western ideas around gender, fundamentalism and terror. Far from the moderate approach adopted by Suha in Paradise Now, Nawal actively partakes in terrorist acts, using her gender to gain access to the home of one of the Christian nationalist leaders and shooting him in revenge for the burning of the bus and the destruction of her son’s orphanage. This act of violence leads to her imprisonment in the infamous Kfar Ryat prison, where she is repeatedly raped by one of the prison’s notorious torturers, Abou Tarek (Abdelghafour Elaaziz). In highly distressing scenes, we see Nawal, shot in dark natural lighting and medium close-ups, pummelling and then violently beating her swollen belly in an attempt to end her pregnancy by Abou Tarek. These attempts fail and Nawal gives birth to twins, who are saved by the prison nurse (Baya Belal) and returned to her upon her release together with a visa for Canada. At the end of the film, the twins, Jeanne and Simon, discover the upsetting truth about their paternal heritage when they deliver their sealed letters to the same man – their brother and their father. In a shocking twist of fate, it transpires that Abou Tarek was taken from his mother (Nawal) at birth and radicalized by the Christian nationalists who destroyed his orphanage and trained him up to become, first, a child soldier and, later, the notorious rapist of Kfar Ryat. Azabal’s body in Incendies can be read as a site of violence, resistance, incest and death and as both a terrorist and a terrorized entity that troubles dominant gendered discourses around women in and from the Arab world. Her appearance in the film adds new dimensions to Nawal’s traumatic story and incestuous past, precisely because of the different affects and meanings that have become attached to her star body over the course of her career. In this sense, the film lays the groundwork for her casting in Hugo Blick’s 2014 BBC series The Honourable Woman, in which her role

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as an undercover Palestinian terrorist not only reinforces her association with a pro-Palestinian anti-imperialist politics but also calls attention to the problematic framing of gender, sexuality and ethnicity in dominant Western counterterrorist ideologies. While both Incendies and The Honourable Woman cast Azabal in roles that require her to combine political dissidence and sexual transgression, The Honourable Woman goes further than Incendies in its negotiation of the cross-pollination of the politics of sexual desire and imperialism across Azabal’s star body. Aired on the BBC in 2014 as tensions between Israel and Palestine intensified and as Israel launched a series of devastating air strikes on Gaza, Blick’s political spy thriller attempts to tread an impartial path through one of the longest standing and most politically complex conflicts in the Middle East region. The eight-part series is a slow-paced, highly stylized look at the Israel-Palestine conflict through the lens of the life and work of Nessa Stein (Maggie Gyllenhaal), an Anglo-Israeli philanthropist, who is attempting to contribute to the regeneration of the West Bank by building educational and medical institutions and by laying a fibre-optic network to connect them to fast-speed broadband. Nessa’s philanthropic endeavours are, in part, an attempt to compensate for the damage caused by her Israeli arms-dealing father, who is murdered by a Palestinian terrorist when Nessa and her brother Ephra (Andrew Buchan) are just children. However, despite Nessa’s concerted efforts to ensure the modern-day Stein company is run with integrity and legitimacy, corruption, lies and deceit form the backdrop to the story and Nessa is forced to question who she can trust, both within and outside of her own family. Alongside a star-studded cast of Anglo-American TV and film stars, Azabal plays the central role of Atika Halabi, an undercover Palestinian terrorist who initially worked as a translator in the West Bank but was integrated into the Stein family as Ephra’s housekeeper after surviving a kidnapping in Gaza with Nessa. A decidedly enigmatic character, Atika (which, incidentally, means generous or noble in Arabic) is played in characteristic style by Azabal using gestures and gazes to create a sense of sexual and political ambiguity. Despite Azabal’s limited recognizability to Anglo-American audiences, Atika is as important a character in the narrative as Nessa and is often positioned as the latter’s double through clever editing and montage sequences and through the narrative’s denouement. In fact, as has been pointed out by a number of reviewers and critics, Atika can be seen to share the titular moniker with Nessa (see e.g. Tate 2014), partly because of her commitment to the Palestinian cause and partly because she sacrifices herself to save Nessa and her son Kasim (Oliver Bodur) at the end of the series. Like in Incendies, Azabal’s performance of Atika is nuanced, unsettling stereotypes of the Palestinian terrorist and laying the blame for the protracted and irresolvable crisis in Israel and Palestine firmly at the feet of British-American imperialist meddling in the Middle East.

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I have argued that, in Azabal’s earlier films, her sexual and political dissidence intertwine and overlap to produce characters who challenge dominant discourses around gender, sexuality and terror in the Arab world. In this role in particular, Azabal’s association with subversive sexual desires is bound up with her character’s racial and political otherness in ways that echo Puar’s writing on sexuality and race in the construction of counterterrorist discourses. In Terrorist Assemblages: Homonationalism in Queer Times, Puar argues that US discourses of counterterrorism during the so-called War on Terror were shot through with ideas around gender, sexuality and race that constructed the Arab (Muslim) terrorist as queer and that associated the terrorist body with perversion and deviance (2007: 37). Set up in contrast to the white, consumerist, patriotic, ‘homonationalist’ subject, Puar argues that the queer Arab (Muslim) terrorist ‘has become part of the normative script of the U.S. war on terror’ and has come to dominate popular cultural production in the United States focused on the themes of war and terror (2007: 37). Despite its seemingly anti-imperialist message, The Honourable Woman initially seems to conform to dominant counterterrorist discourses through its mobilization of Azabal’s racial and accented otherness and through her character’s associations with the queer tropes of transgression, perversion, terror and death. From the outset, Blick constructs Azabal’s character as sexually ambivalent and as someone who uses other people’s desires for her to achieve her murderous political aims. Early on, there are hints that Nessa is in love with Atika and that their relationship stretches beyond the boundaries of a female friendship. When they are kidnapped and held captive together in Gaza, Nessa is raped by the son of the leader of the Palestinian liberation group Fatah and gives birth to a baby boy, Karim, who the women pretend is Atika’s. Following this distressing event, Atika and Nessa are bound by their shared secret and develop a trauma bond, often turning to each other for companionship and solace. In fact, Nessa only ever truly opens up to Atika and her lingering gazes are suggestive of a desire that is more than platonic. Ephra, on the other hand, is engaged in a secret affair with Atika that appears to have been going on for a significant amount of time, as signalled by the perfunctory nature of their first lovemaking scene and by his concern that he is Karim’s father. In the penultimate episode of the series, Atika persuades Ephra to run away with her to his family holiday home, where she sets up his murder by the same Palestinian terrorist who, in earlier episodes, is shown to have raped Nessa in captivity. If The Honourable Woman seems to align Atika’s sexuality and politics in such a way that she could be seen to embody the queer terrorist subject of normative counterterrorist discourses, it also subverts this reading through her gender and her association with a decidedly anti-imperial politics. In the final episode of the series, Atika stabs the leader of Fatah when she

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finds out he ordered Nessa’s rape. It transpires that Fatah has been working covertly with the CIA to frame Nessa’s attempted murder as an act of Israeli terrorism and thereby allow the Americans to refuse to veto a Palestinian claim for statehood at the United Nations. However, following a tense car chase, Atika rescues Nessa and Karim from an American CIA agent and sacrifices herself instead. This act of self-sacrifice enables Blick to use Azabal’s performance to criticize the role of British and American forces in the Middle East, to expose the continuing imperialism of liberal Western democracies in the region and to trouble dominant reductive understandings of terrorists as determined by what Puar describes as ‘a failed masculinity and an investment in patriarchy’ (2007: 60). Consequently, although Blick once again mobilizes the association between Azabal’s character’s sexual and political transgressions, he ultimately does so to reinforce his series’ criticisms of Western imperialist politics. To a greater degree than the other films examined thus far, The Honourable Woman activates aspects of Azabal’s star persona to add depth to its exploration of the framing of gender and sexuality in counterterrorist discourses and to criticize British and American interference in the Middle East. The Honourable Woman has been criticized for representing Palestinians in the binary roles of terrorists or recipients of Nessa’s philanthropic aid (Irving 2014). However, Azabal’s role as Atika is much more nuanced, troubling stereotypes about the Palestinian terrorist and highlighting the role of Anglo-American imperialism in the conflict. Indeed, the star’s performances in both Incendies and The Honourable Woman are complex and critique sectarian violence, Western neoliberalism and imperialism. However, both productions are made with big budgets and Anglo-American/ Canadian funding and are arguably intended to target Anglo-American audiences and their (mis)conceptions about the Arab region. In the next and final section of this chapter, I look at how Azabal’s star body and image have been mobilized in films that are intended to appeal to audiences within the Arab world. In so doing, I query the ethics of casting practices that prioritize European stars with Arab heritage and return to the question of whether Azabal’s bodily and sexual freedom have made certain roles available to her that may not be available to more local female stars.

The Ethics of Casting European Stars in Arab films In a rare English-language interview with The Telegraph, Azabal acknowledges that ‘most of her career has been in a post 9/11 world’, in which ‘she is looking like the go-to for intelligent Arab women’ (Spicer 2011). As Spicer states in her summation of the interview:

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The Arab tag irks her. ‘It’s not racism, it’s an absence of imagination,’ she says. ‘It’s the same for Audrey Tautou, for Jennifer Aniston. Everyone has to be in a kind of box.’ On more than one occasion she has told directors to ‘go and find a real Arabic [sic] girl’, but they come back to her because of what she sees as a culture that does not allow female actresses ‘the freedom to play with your body – there are taboo things. But my body is my material, and if I like the project, my body is for the movie, not for me’. (Spicer 2011) Here, Azabal seems to acknowledge patterns in her casting in films about Arab culture and Arab women in particular and suggests that, as a European star with Moroccan heritage, she is often given precedence over actresses who originate from the Arab world because she is not constrained by Arab (Muslim) cultural perspectives on the female body and therefore has more freedom to take on taboo, transgressive roles. Certainly, in the films discussed in this chapter so far, Azabal’s sexual and political dissidence have been expressed at the level of her body and she has been able to perform in ways that explore the relationship between female bodily expression, sexual promiscuity, taboo desires and political ideology. However, the casting of a major European star in films created in the Arab world and with intended appeal amongst Arab audiences could be seen to be problematic insofar as it might edge out local talent. This problem is explored in more detail in the final film I discuss in this c­ hapter – Sameh Zoabi’s Tel Aviv on Fire – which focuses on contemporary experiences of the Israel-Palestine conflict. While the film draws on many elements of Azabal’s star persona and self-consciously alludes to her roles in previous films, it also raises the thorny question of ethnic and national casting patterns and of the commercial payback of including major transnational (rather than local stars) in smaller-budget, lesser known, productions. Unlike the other films and TV series discussed so far, Tel Aviv on Fire uses the codes of the melodrama and the comedy film to treat the contentious issue of the Israel-Palestine conflict and to visualize daily life for those living under occupation in the West Bank. The film focuses on Salam (played by Kais Nashef who appeared alongside Azabal in Paradise Now), a listless young Palestinian man who convinces his producer uncle (Nadim Sawalha) to give him a role writing for a TV soap opera that is popular with both Palestinians and Israelis. Azabal plays Tala, a French film star, who links the world of the soap opera to the events taking place outside of its diegetic realm. In the titular soap opera, Tala is the glamorous main character – an undercover Palestinian woman named Manal (or Rachel when incognito as a Jew) who is caught up in a love triangle with a powerful Israeli military figure Yehuda (Yousef Sweid) and a Palestinian freedom fighter Marwan (Ashraf Farah). In many ways, the film marks a departure for Azabal from the more serious political dramas and thrillers she has starred in to a more light-hearted take on life for ordinary people trying to navigate the

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roadblocks, checkpoints and intermittent political violence that form the backdrop to their existences.4 The decision to cast Azabal in the role of Tala works on multiple levels. It self-consciously alludes to Azabal’s previous role in Paradise Now and is clearly aware of her status as a signifier for pro-Palestinian politics. However, Zoabi subverts her usual typecasting in more serious political thrillers to cast her as a comedic French diva who holds a lot of sway on set and does not respond well when she does not get her way. For instance, Tala outright refuses to follow Salam’s plans for Manal’s narrative denouement and states scathingly that she would rather return to France than have her character die of cancer in Palestine. The film is also acutely aware of Azabal’s European origins and of the art house and political bent of much of her work. Azabal constantly code switches between French, English, Palestinian Arabic and Hebrew (the latter of which is learnt phonetically) and her character is viewed as being given preferential treatment on set because of her European star status. Indeed, the original scriptwriter for the soap opera comments on Tala’s language skills and nationality, stating: ‘We have excellent Palestinian actresses here. Why bring in a French diva who barely speaks Arabic?’ A seemingly throwaway comment, this line of dialogue raises deeper questions about the complex moral and ethical debates around ethnic and national casting in Arab films. While Zoabi’s decision to cast Azabal far from whitewashes or de-ethnicizes the role of Tala, it is interesting to reflect on the reasons why a star like Azabal (who has Moroccan heritage but has grown up in Belgium and is not a native Arabic speaker) is often approached to perform in Palestinian (and other Arab) films instead of actresses from those specific localities. There certainly appears to be a degree of truth to Azabal’s own assumption that she is often chosen for such roles precisely because she is not bound by gendered cultural norms around sexual and bodily transgression.5 However, her portability across borders could also be linked to her greater pull at the box office and at film festivals and to the commercial viability that her casting brings to a film. This feeds, of course, into wider issues around the challenges directors and stars from the region face in securing funding for their films and in ensuring their circulation to a broad global audience. That Zoabi so clearly alludes to these issues in his script highlights his awareness of debates around ethnic and national casting, authenticity and diversity and how they relate to a star like Azabal whose image circulates both within and beyond the Arab world and communicates certain notions of Arabness, gender and sexuality to its audiences.

Conclusion To conclude, then, I have argued in this chapter that Azabal’s dissident star image is the result of her performances in roles that link her character’s

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gendered and sexual non-conformity to their racial and political affiliations. Through a selective analysis of Azabal’s early and more contemporary roles, I have attempted to show how certain meanings and affects have become attached to her star body and how this has enabled her catalogue of performances to be read as a critique of Western imperial politics. As an example of an accented star, Azabal has embodied characters from different ethnic, national and linguistic communities. However, her European status has imbued her with a degree of freedom that has allowed her to perform in sexually and politically transgressive roles without facing any major repercussions. While this may have led to her being cast in Arab films over local actresses, I argue that Azabal still needs to recognized as a star who has made bold and, at times, brave choices to appear in films that outwardly intervene into debates around racial and sexual politics in a post-9/11 global context. Through providing the first detailed academic analysis of her stardom to date, I suggest that studying new Arab stars like Azabal can not only teach us much about contemporary racial and sexual politics in the Arab world, but it can also help us to better understand how contemporary Arab stars negotiate ideas about gender, sexuality and race across their bodies.

Notes 1 Amazigh (plural Imazighen) is a term that refers to the pre-Arab inhabitants of North Africa. Tamazight is the language spoken by the Imazighen in Morocco. 2 The Algerian Civil War, also known as the Black Decade, ran from the early 1990s to the early 2000s and was fought between the government and various fundamentalist Islamist factions. 3 Viva Laldjérie is the first in Algerian film history to ‘show an Algerian woman completely naked, and another engaged in the carnal act with her married lover’, which elicited domestic criticisms of the film as playing up to the Western gaze (see Abderrezak 2007: 348). 4 While Azabal does tend to perform in more serious films, this is not her first foray into comedy. She has appeared in a more comedic and light-hearted role in Laïla Marrakchi’s Rock the Casbah (2013), for instance. 5 This assumption is arguably reinforced by the repercussions some Arab actresses have faced for their roles in films that have been deemed to be sexually transgressive. For example, the Moroccan actress Loubna Abidar was violently attacked and forced to take up exile in France after she performed the role of a sex worker in Nabil Ayouch’s drama Much Loved in 2015.

Filmography Body of Lies (2008), [Film] Dir. Ridley Scott, USA: Warner Bros. Pictures.

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The Honourable Woman (2014), [TV series] Dir. Hugo Blick, UK: BBC Worldwide. Incendies (2010), [Film] Dir. Denis Villeneuve, Canada: Entertainment One. Loin (2001), [Film] Dir. André Techiné, France: Athena Films. Much Loved (2015), [Film] Dir. Nabil Ayouch, Morocco, France: Pyramide Distribution. Paradise Now (2004), [Film] Dir. Hany Abu-Assad, Netherlands, Palestine, Germany, France: Constantin Film. Rock the Casbah (2013), [Film] Dir. Laïla Marrakchi, France, Morocco: Pathé Distribution. Tel Aviv on Fire (2018), [Film] Dir. Sameh Zoabi, Israel, Luxembourg, Belgium, France: Haut et Court. Viva Laldjérie (2004), [Film] Dir. Nadir Moknèche, Algeria, France, Belgium: Les Films du Losange.

References Abderrezak, H. (2007), ‘The Modern Harem in Moknèche’s Le Harem de Mme Osmane and Viva Laldjérie’, The Journal of North African Studies, 12(3): 347–68. Ahmed, S. (2004), The Cultural Politics of Emotions, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Dawson, T. (2015), ‘Blood Lines: Denis Villeneuve on Incendies’, BFI, 2 January 2015. https://www2.bfi.org.uk/news-opin​ion/sight-sound-magaz​ine/int​ervi​ews/ blood-lines-denis-vil​lene​uve-incend​ies (accessed 23 August 2022). Irving, S. (2014), ‘The Empty World of Palestine-set BBC Drama “The Honorable Woman” ’, The Electronic Intifada, 12 September 2014. https://ele​ctro​nici​ntif​ ada.net/cont​ent/empty-world-palest​ine-set-bbc-drama-honora​ble-woman/13850 (accessed 23 August 2022). Meeuf, R. (2016), ‘Transnational Stardom’, in K. Hole, D. Jelača, E. Kaplan and P. Petro (eds), The Routledge Companion to Cinema and Gender, 194–202, New York: Routledge. Mouawad, W. (2003), Incendies, Playwrights Canada Press. Murphy, M. C. (2011), ‘Lebanese Civil War Explodes on Screen in “Incendies”’, The Electronic Intifada, 24 May 2011. https://ele​ctro​nici​ntif​ada.net/cont​ent/leban​ ese-civil-war-explo​des-on-scr​een-incend​ies/10002 (accessed 23 August 2022). Naficy, H. (2001), An Accented Cinema: Exilic and Diasporic Filmmaking, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Puar, J. K. (2007), Terrorist Assemblages: Homonationalism in Queer Times, Durham: Duke University Press. Spicer, K. (2011), ‘Expanding her Horizons’, The Telegraph, 26 June 2011. https:// www.theti​mes.co.uk/arti​cle/expand​ing-her-horiz​ons-dgn​s9fz​0p2j​mes (accessed 23 August 2022). Tate, G. (2014), ‘The Honourable Woman Recap: Episode Eight – The Paring Knife’, The Guardian, 21 August 2014. https://www.theg​uard​ian.com/ tv-and-radio/tva​ndra​diob​log/2014/aug/21/hon​oura​ble-woman-recap-epis​ ode-eight-par​ing-knife (accessed 23 August 2022).

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8 ‘For Those That Haven’t Given Up, Love Is Resistance’: Hamed Sinno and the Power and Perils of Mashrou’ Leila’s Music Lowry Martin

The title of this chapter is a quote from a line in ‘Radio Romance’, a 2019 song by Mashrou’ Leila, a pro-LGBTQ Lebanese indie band. The line encompasses the main theme this chapter examines in relation to the idea of Arab stardom: the various kinds of resistance to entrenched structures of power in the Arabic-speaking world. Music and song have played a deep and abiding role in Arab cultures and bridge cultural and religious differences to create a shared history and affective catalogue. As I want to argue why this band has reached star status, it is helpful to consider the difference between celebrity and stardom. These are contested and ever-evolving terms within star studies, media studies and other fields, and I am using the term ‘celebrity’ to refer to a status that can exist without fans, without specific talent or accomplishments and for which notoriety can be earned quickly. In my understanding, this term stands in opposition to stardom, which generally results from perceived talent, accomplishment, recognition from critics and often also commercial success. A celebrity can be a person well known simply for being well known, and there exists a chasm between mere popularity and skill that separates these two categories. However, the boundaries continue to blur because the ‘gradient relationship between star

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FIGURE 8.1  Hamed Sinno and the power and perils of Mashrou’ Leila’s music. Source: Designed by Farah Montasser.

and celebrity, between flair in performance and market-indexed popularity is shifting’ (King 2010: 7–8). In this chapter, I argue that Mashrou’ Leila, and specifically their lead singer and lyricist Hamed Sinno, have attained star status because of their musical accomplishments, their performances and their transnational appeal. Sinno’s charisma and appeal have propelled this group from a ragtag band put together at a university gathering to an internationally recognized band. The fact that this group, and in particular Hamed Sinno, serve as sites of transnational contestation further supports their star status (Meuff and Raphael 2013: 2). Music is a unique form of cultural production in that it is always already queer. This is so because it escapes the confines of spoken and written language and ‘demarcates a space and time wherein gender and sexuality lose their clear definition’ (Cusick 2012). Moreover, with the commercialization of music over the past two centuries, the art form has been particularly effective as an instrument of sociopolitical change. Philosophers like Max Weber as well as scholars from political science, history and literature have discussed the importance of music in nation-building in a variety of contexts (Nooshin and Howard 2016). While music tells, in effect, facets of the story of a nation, it also offers a ‘multitude of intricate and often unexpected

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trajectories across ‘national’ boundaries’, which makes a discussion of Mashrou’ Leila all the more important in the wake of the Arab Spring and its ongoing consequences (Weisethaunet 2007: 170). As Weisethaunet points out in his article, ‘composers, musicians, critics and musicologists might also, and that is well known, be amongst the ideology makers of the “nation” ’ (2007: 171). In the Arab world, in which a majority of people are Muslims living in socially conservative countries, Mashrou’ Leila embodies the very idea of music as queer in its broadest oppositional meaning to heterosexual heteronormativity: it advocates for gender equality, LGBTQ rights and a reconfiguration of oppressive patriarchal institutions, among many other topics. This band provides a dynamic combination of powerful lyrics and music that does not just entertain but that provokes social reflection, and the catalyst for this successful alchemy between performance, moving lyrics and music is Hamed Sinnon. His singing and performance of his lyrics makes him the primary architect of perilous positioning as an outspoken critic of Lebanese and Middle Eastern sociopolitical life. A sign of the band’s growing global importance and celebrity was its appearance in April 2014 on the cover of the iconic American Music magazine, Rolling Stone. Mashrou’ Leila were the first Middle Eastern band ever featured on the magazine’s cover – a historic first, which was the result of an open call to students at American University Beirut in 2008 for a midnight jamming session during which a group of musicians unknown to each other played together for the first time: those musicians went on to form a band that has become an international phenomenon. The Guardian described Mashrou’ Leila as ‘the Beirut-based band [that] are out to stir a musical rebellion in the Middle East’ with their ‘gay front man and antiestablishment lyrics’ (Al Arabiya 2014). Thus, from the start, Sinno was at the heart of the band’s identity both because of his open non-normative sexuality as well as for his incisive lyrics. His social commentary in the form of his lyrics also came to embody the zeitgeist of the subsequent Arab Spring two years later. The series of anti-government uprisings across the Arab world criticized oppressive social and political regimes of power and up-ended governments, and Mashrou’ Leila were there for it with Sinno’s powerful artistic voice advocating for democracy and social justice. A discussion of this group and, more precisely, Sinno’s charisma within the framework of star studies is important not only for what it can tell us in relation to Lebanese national history – as a sonic engagement with sociopolitical issues – but also for what it reveals about a wider regional and transnational history of political and cultural trends. Richard Dyer combined sociology and semiotics to create an analytical framework that ‘analyzes the star image as an intertextual construct produced through a wide range of media and cultural practices … and the study of stars becomes an issue in the social production and circulation of meaning, linking industry and text, films and society’ (Dyer 2003). While

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this definition helps us to think about the band, as a music group it is hybrid at best and in many ways in their repeated performances of songs is more akin to performance studies in that it does not produce a stable embodied meaning (Glendhill 1991: xiv; Zhang 2017: 45). Consequently, in exploring Arab stardom’s transnational glamour and empowerment, it is easy to forget the importance of music as a cultural organizer, and Mashrou’ Leila is not only a band that excels in combining the musical with the visual, but it is also creating performances that are unique. Music is increasingly hybrid in the sense that there is an embodied performance – an accompanying music video – as well as the live performances. Mashrou’ Leila has successfully incorporated music videos into its star status. Music videos are central to Shahabi music (Arabic music aimed at youth) in which ‘Arab media producers have adopted Western formats, production patterns, and technical presentation standards’ (Aziz 2015: 81). Thus, a holistic discussion of Sinno’s star status, and by extension that of Mashrou’ Leila, would be impossible without considering the band’s music videos, because the visual components have become an integral component of the music and its marketing. In examining the stardom of this Lebanese band, one must acknowledge that there is not a fixed set of attributes that constitute star status, thus making it always already queer. If queer theory by definition is constantly in a state of becoming as the marginalized becomes integrated into the mainstream and new peripheries emerge, so do stars emerge and disappear with changing social times. Moreover, stars often do not live in heterosexual time: that is to say that they are not bound by the logics of conventional heterosexuality. Rather, their time is about the ‘potentiality of a life unscripted by the conventions of family, inheritance, and child-rearing’, which is not to say that stars eschew these conventions (Halberstam 2005: 2). The traditional heterosexual markers that delineate time, such as marriage, reproduction and child-rearing, do not define a (queer) star’s life in the same way. Sinno’s status is a result of the combination of his vocal talent and socially conscious lyrics as well as his performances as the front man, and as one of the most visibly queer men in the contemporary Arab world. His cultural influence, as such, is significant and the fact that he speaks with his audiences at the concerts – introducing songs, thanking the crowds and even explaining the songs – represents the ‘personality’ of the band as well as speaks for it. He becomes the face of the group, and as a queer man this means that his band is perceived as queer too. Indeed, the band has used its music as a vehicle for social commentary and political awareness. Though the members of the band may not consider themselves as activists per se, Sinno has admitted that ‘the stuff that ends up making us want to write is social criticism and politics, and gender and sexuality is a really big deal for me, so I tend to constantly write about that. Queer critique of a lot of things does open the floor for the possibility of completely renegotiating

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society as we know it on so many levels’ (CBS News interview 2017). While the instrumentalists provide the music, it is undoubtedly the poignancy and power of Sinno’s lyrics that struck a chord first with Lebanese, then Arabicspeaking, and eventually international audiences around the world. Social preoccupations and engagement are the heart of the band’s music, and as the lead vocalist, Sinno reflects the group soul. Consequently, re-negotiating and re-imagining Lebanese and Arabicspeaking societies is central to the band’s artistic project. It would be impossible to imagine the band’s success without Sinno’s political conscience and commentary instantiated in Mashrou’ Leila’s songs. The hallmark of the band’s music is songs that speak truth to power in the name of personal freedom and social justice and that advocate for inclusivity, all of which has created a global fan base that extends beyond Lebanon and the Middle East.1 Within the limited space of this chapter, one cannot analyse the full musical and lyrical complexity of this band. However, the following discussions illustrate why Mashrou’ Leila’s music has been called the soundtrack to the Arab Spring with themes like LGBTQ rights, political freedom, race, religion and Arab modernity.

Sharp Tongues, Populism and Political Targets Decades of political and economic instability in Lebanon have led to widespread discontent resulting in political assassination, governmental deadlocks, declining purchase power and a host of other social problems (Bitar, Hamadeh and Khoueiri 2020: 44). Mashrou’ Leila has tapped into this zeitgeist of dissatisfaction with the status quo and translated it into songs such as ‘The Nation’ [‘Lil Watan’] from its third album Raasuk (2013). The title recalls the Lebanese National anthem, which begins with the words ‘All of Us for the Nation’ [‘kullunā lilwaTan / ‫]’كلنا للوطن‬, and whose refrain appears twice at the end of each of the anthem’s three verses. The song ironizes a weaponized patriotism that encourages blind nationalism without criticism. Sinno’s lyrics state, ‘They taught you the anthem; they said your struggle is useful for the nation.’ He makes clear that this sloganistic nationalism, which equates sacrifice and conformism with patriotism, is also a product of a society that prefers distraction rather than engagement. A video clip from the band’s appearance at the Babel Med concert in 2013 illustrates how Sinno connects with audiences and explains the music. He tells the audience that the song ‘is about Beirut and the politics there, which – if any of you have missed the news for the last twenty years or so – have been shit’ (Sinno). In the official video, Sinno takes centre stage and interacts with a belly dancer and with the audience, who he encourages to stand up

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and move with the music. The video underscores, as do many others, the centrality of Sinno to Mashrou’ Leila’s message and success. The reference in ‘The Nation’ to society being drugged and lethargic does not prevent the Lebanese people from being held accountable for the country’s state of affairs. The song is, in fact, an indictment of a hedonistic Lebanese society that prefers entertainment and distraction rather than problem solving, and it echoes a verse from the song ‘Obwa’ from their first album: ‘How Am I Supposed to Be Political When Everyone Is so Lazy Here?’ ‘From the Queue’ [‘Min el Taboor’], also from their first album, laments the sense of political stalemate underpinned by religious sectarianism punctuated by suicide bombings that have gridlocked the country for over fifty years, and as the song warns, ‘we’re fed up with religion, tired of humiliation, and our tongues are sharp’. By 2013 when the album Raasuk was released, the Arab Spring’s promise of change had brought about widespread political stalemate and disillusionment. ‘Taxi’ spoke to people’s despair and frustration with lyrics such as ‘tell me son where do you want to go, the road is long and it tests the soul … you can drive or be driven, the choice goes back to you’. This is a musical clarion call for listeners to become active participants rather than spectators to their own political fates. Likewise, the title song of their 2013 album, ‘Raasuk’, continued the group’s assault on normative social forces that stifle various types of self-expression from the political to the sexual, and that track is immediately followed by ‘And We Repeat’ [‘Wa Nueid’] – a song that encourages resistance whatever the costs and whose refrains defiantly proclaims ‘We are still standing’. If Mashrou’ Leila castigates citizens for their lackadaisical or defeatist attitudes towards effecting real political change, the band acknowledges that the struggle is exhausting. On its second album, El Hal Romancy, the song ‘I’m Fine’ [‘Inni Mnih’] laments ‘I wanted to change the world … I’m not sure how the world changed me. I wanted to carry the sky on my shoulders, Now I have trouble carrying myself’. It is a reminder of the emotional, financial and social costs that political and social engagement can exact. These songs are illustrative of the band’s excoriating recriminations, but their warning that ‘our tongues are sharp’ has proven to be true in the years since their first album. Creating and performing music meant to critique power is a doubleedged sword. ‘The Nation’ is a scathing analysis of contemporary Lebanese politics in which the trope of patriotism is exploited to distract from political failures and personal freedoms are sacrificed in the name of national salvation, but it also underscores the very real dangers for those that dare to criticize. When Sinno sings ‘whenever you dare to ask about the worsening situation, they silence you with their slogans about all the conspiracies being woven for us’, he is providing a warning for dissenters: they will be labelled traitors or conspirators against the state if they question the status quo. Despite its own warning, Mashrou’ Leila continues to speak

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out against all forms of oppression, which lead Sinno to state ‘we believe in democracy. We believe in gender justice and sexual freedoms and social justice in general when it comes to race and class … That apparently makes us Satanists and Freemasons according to the Arab press’ (Lebanese Indie Pop Band 2019). Indeed, the band’s outspokenness has resulted in it being banned in countries such as Egypt and Jordan and cancelled in venues like the Byblos music festival in Lebanon. The band members have been roundly criticized by religious groups and politicians and have regularly received death threats. Undeterred, the band continues to denounce even the most entrenched institutional forms of oppression. In line with the group’s consistent political critique in its music and public lives, Mashrou’ Leila has not shied away from critiquing the role religious leaders and religion itself play in political and social oppression. Some songs such as ‘Djin’ have been interpreted as a critique of religion, and more particularly, Christianity. Certainly, the lyrics incorporate an ecclesiastical lexicon specific to Christianity. The lyrics tell of men and women gathering in animal hides waiting for ‘he who dies and then returns to life’ and a few verses later of ‘baptising’ one’s liver in gin. The inclusion of the line ‘in the name of the Father, Son’ adds further support for the argument that the band was targeting Christianity, but it is also noteworthy that the backlash that ‘Djin’ sparked only occurred four years after the song’s release and arose from a meme of Madonna’s face superimposed on the Virgin Mary. Moreover, it should be noted that Mashrou’ Leila has referred to sectarian violence and car bombings in its debut album Mashrou’ Leila (2009), and its reference in ‘Bomb’ [‘Obwa’] to another car bomb producing a ‘martyr’ so that no one can ‘monopolize the market’ is clearly an opaque but sardonic jab at violence in the name of Islam that is so often associated with the Middle East. Included in the band’s attacks on the use of religion to further political agendas is its overt support for queer communities.

Gender, Masculinity and Sinno’s Charisma Front man Hamed Sinno has stated that it is ‘really rewarding for him to get messages from queer people in the Middle East telling him that the band makes them feel that they can get empowered’ (CBS News Interview 2017). Sinno has become a poster child for queer Arab people and a lightning rod for backlash from conservative/religious communities. He has been on the cover of France’s premier gay magazine Têtu, British gay life-style magazine Attitude as well as My.Kali, an on-line LGBTQIA pan-Arab magazine published in English and Arabic in Amman, Jordan. Sinno’s sexual orientation has been intertwined with Mashrou’ Leila’s development and success since the band’s inception. His intersectionality as a queer Arab male (Jordanian mother and Lebanese father) raised partially in the United States,

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fluent in both English and Arabic, makes him both a cultural and linguistic bridge between the Middle East and the West. As a star, Sinno not only ‘dramatizes the status quo but also the tensions of social change’ (Meeuf and Raphael 2013: 2). Furthermore, his positionality quite literally makes him a site of ideological, political and sexual contention while also serving as a type of export commodity involved in cross-cultural and transnational exchange. In an increasingly interconnected world, Sinno’s stardom is viewed by conservative elements as threatening and even dangerous, because he has access to various social spaces that generate meaning and build communities (Holmes and Redmond 2006: 2). Queer people in the Middle East appreciate how the group’s music gives visibility to queer communities and normalizes them. One of the important ways Sinno and Mashrou’ Leila accomplish this is in troubling images and narratives around heteronormative masculinity through their music videos. Their art, including both the musical and the visual components, illustrates the (de)construction of an Arab masculinity firmly grounded in patriarchal power and heterosexual heteronormativity. An analysis of music videos must necessarily include consideration of how the artists themselves are portrayed in the video, because ‘music videos allow viewers a glimpse of the musicians, not only augmenting the potential of adoration and idolization of the performers but also increasing the meaning viewers attach to their actions’ (Sun and Lull 1986: 120). This is particularly salient because research shows that adolescent consumption of music can influence teenagers who are still refining and internalizing their schemata regarding gender and sexuality, that is, dominant music and images inform their perspectives, beliefs, and ways of being in society (Ward, Hansbrough and Walker 2005: 20). In what follows, I discuss both the music and various accompanying videos. Ideas about and around masculinity are especially noteworthy in the Lebanese context because the lack of defined queer space in Beirut, and by extension Lebanon, mean that queer males and females often translate their behaviour into the ‘recurrent reproduction of … a heteronormative social makeup’ that excludes gender non-conformity (Merabet 2014: 221). Obviously, this visible consequence is a reinforcement of the very patriarchal mores, standards and practices of being that condemn, repress and attempt to erase them. This translates into bodily performances that reinforce heteropatriarchal conceptions and codes of binary genders. Implicit within the surveillance and reinforcement of these performances is homophobia and misogyny, which Sinno’s lyrics confront. Particularly in Arab societies heavily invested in policing and enforcing rigid gender roles, his critique of masculinity is viewed as dangerously transgressive. This group embraces the idea of gender as something more contingent, multidimensional, pluralistic and even fluid. This expansive view of gender is antithetical to stereotypical notions of what it means to be masculine in the Arab world.

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‘Commandos’ [‘Maghawir’], a song recorded on the album Ibn el Leil (2015), is one such instance of the band’s critique of masculinity in which they allude to an actual shooting in a Beirut nightclub.2 The violence is framed by gender (toxic masculinity) and sexuality, and even though the lyrics are succinct, they are powerful. The song gestures to the recruitment of men into a circle of violence despite the song’s innocuous opening that talks about a mother’s concern for her son celebrating a friend’s birthday at a club. This familiar parental dynamic transitions to the internalization of physical violence as coterminous with masculinity, which often entails the recruitment of young men into locally revered militarized masculinities. The references in ‘Commandos’ to gangs, guns and violence as part of typical masculinity culminates in a shooting in a nightclub. Such violence is portrayed as the natural consequence of a society that normalizes violence as a sign and/or a product of ‘masculinity’, which is modelled even with young children on playgrounds.3 Although hyper-masculinity is often part of the construction of the Arab male identity, it is the model of the citizenwarrior that is at the centre of Mashrou’ Leila’s critique in ‘Commandos’ (Bilgic 2015: 324). While Lebanon has not experienced the random mass shootings that occur with frequency in the United States, for several decades Lebanon has dealt not only with the legacy of a long civil war but also Israeli incursions and sectarian violence. The ideal of the citizen-warrior, the tough alpha male that resorts to physical violence for resolution of social problems, is very much part of the Lebanese imaginary. Although ‘Commandos’ was inspired by a shooting in a Beirut nightclub, it eerily resonated with the Pulse nightclub massacre in June 2016 that left forty-nine dead and fifty-three wounded. Mashrou’ Leila was only one week into its US tour when the attack in Pulse happened, and lead singer, Sinno, a Muslim, brown, queer American citizen, was called upon to speak on behalf of gay and Muslim communities (Sewell 2016). Thus, Sinno’s particular intersectionality contributes a valuable and unique dimension to this band, which few, if any, other contemporary Arab-speaking bands can replicate. Moreover, the band’s positionality, both individually and together, provides an authoritative critical voice that threatens entrenched power structures invested in maintaining the status quo of patriarchal domination.4 The cultural, linguistic and transnational aspects of the group contribute further to its stardom as other fans outside Lebanon’s national boundaries can identify with the members on various levels. Critiques of masculinity are only one facet of the band’s engagement with gender, but this group also understands the foundational role of language in gender construction. On the same album, Mashrou’ Leila further highlights its engagement with queerness/gender issues in a poignant and poetic song entitled ‘S/he’ [‘Kalaam’]. It is a pensive meditation on the imbrication of language with gender order and how language constrains and polices gender. The lyric

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‘and the ignorant are bearded with fig leaves, and with eyes shut although eyebrows are raised’ anthropomorphizes the patriarchal structures that enforce the gendered discipline of language. These power structures controlled by men attempt to regulate gender and desire. Central to the song’s message are the lyrics ‘They wrote the country’s borders on my body, your body, and the skin. Your body conjugates/your language separates’. Language is foundational in creating and reinforcing gender codes. The use of male and female as linguistic markers enacts and reinforces primitive ontological concepts that divide the world into two sexes. The lyrics speak of the social shame of gender transgression and the limitations of language in creating space for self-expression outside of gender binaries while also acknowledging the nuances and spectrum of biological sex and gender performativity. Having waded into the fraught waters of gender identity and language, these musicians also tackle queer invisibility in their song, ‘Ghost’ [‘Tayf’], about a shuttered gay nightclub in Beirut. This idea of a closed gay bar may seem a rather trivial musical topic to a Western audience, but in a Lebanese context one less queer venue is significant. Sinno argues that Beirut’s night clubs are the equivalent of the Roman forum or the ancient Greek agora where citizens meet to discuss politics. ‘That’s what a club is in Lebanon. It’s just where the city goes at night’ (Muhanna 2017). Consequently, music is exerting a larger participatory role both in social change and political thought as these nightclubs become a central sphere of cultural and power exchange. Dance clubs ostensibly intended for distraction are concomitantly serving as marketplaces of ideas and as catalysts for changing social norms for younger Lebanese generations. This is evidenced by the ‘mixed’ crowds – heterosexuals and queers sharing the same space.5 The song relies heavily on the metaphor of mushrooms cropping up, imperceptibly forming and bursting forth, and this idea functions on several levels. First, the mushrooms symbolize the changing norms and sites of queer resistance in the ‘underground’ nightclubs in Lebanon. To a wider Arabic-speaking audience the metaphor of the mushrooms is a reminder that, despite oppression, the will of the people can erupt almost overnight and spark change. Despite the opening strains of a melancholic violin introduction, the song’s catchy rhythmic melody is not merely background music for joyful nights of hedonism but a musical monument to centuries of erased, persecuted and marginalized queer communities. In fact, ‘Ghost’ specifically mentions the queer poets, Sappho and Abu Nuwas, as examples of a queer heritage that has remained marginalized. Among the band’s many contributions, Mashrou’ Leila both creates and participates in queer community building and remembrance. Perhaps one of the most important songs to examine in terms of overtly pushing the boundaries of gender and sexuality is the song and accompanying animated video ‘Radio Romance’. The song and its video serve as musical and visual metaphors for love stories that cannot be heard

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or seen in societies in Islamicate countries. Using an animated video to accompany the song, this work is both visually and lyrically appealing with a catchy cadence that reinforces the refrain of ‘when I’m fully aware of my senses, and your hands touch me, suddenly the world is giving back the one that was taken from me. God blew this love into me’. Unlike previous songs about non-normative love, ‘Radio Romance’ is not a wistful retrospective on the vagaries and social opprobrium of same-sex love. Rather, it is a pulsating, poetic paean to the joy of romantic love between men. The animation is location-specific so that while the song’s video resonates with a wider Arabic-speaking audience, its context is easily recognized as Beiruti (see Van de Peer 2017: 117). The choice of an animated video for ‘Radio Romance’ also provided Sinno a reprieve from being the queer face of the band and enacting queer romantic life in a video illustrating the lyrics of the song. Animated, the video more easily allowed for the depiction of that which exists but is dangerous to represent. One must remember that Sinno, Mashrou’ Leila and even concert-goers have received death threats precisely because of Sinno’s positionality, Mashrou’ Leila’s activism and fandom. As the video opens, two gender-fluid people are performing an intricate dance on a deserted beach in Beirut, depicted predominately in pinks and blues often associated with the LGBTQI+ flag and, indeed, specifically, the trans flag. An important dimension in this animated video is the distance that the figures create between any particular band member or Mashrou’ Leila as a whole. The computer-generated protagonists create a more depersonalized reading, and without band members involved in the performance of a gender-fluid romance allows Mashrou’ Leila to embrace the universality of the song lyrics. In the video, one of the protagonists falls backward into a reality represented in the dark blues of night and the objects of modern reality: tanks, televisions, machine guns, moving crates, jars and other objects of daily life. While one man is portrayed in dark blue and at night, his partner is depicted in the opposite colours, bright daylight and is dominated by a white and yellow background. The two lose one another and can only see each other in reflexive surfaces like water puddles, mirrors and windows. The background images likewise are a split-screen portrayal of a Mosque and Christian church, which emphasizes the role religion has played in Beirut, Lebanon, and in the way non-normative love has been marginalized. As they try to kiss, the split frame with the overshadowing religious iconography prevents them from connecting, from touching. This is followed by frames of menacing-looking cars speeding towards one protagonist and crowds of Muslims rushing towards the other (identifiable by their dress), with echoes of the imagery of the Civil War. From these chaotic frames the two male protagonists are swept back onto the beach in a re-enactment of the opening scenes with an intricate and intimate dance. As they twirl and drag each

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other, they create a cloud of dust that envelops them as they are about to kiss but that protects them from the viewer’s gaze. Representation can have repercussions, and Sinno and Mashrou’ Leila have become keenly aware of this. A star’s power can exercise tremendous influence, even if it is temporary and spontaneous, with cataclysmic consequences. Perhaps one of the most tragic examples of this dynamic took place at Mashrou’ Leila’s 2017 concert in Cairo. Concert goers, emboldened by the electric energy of the music performed by an openly gay man, raised rainbow flags as signs of solidarity, visibility and freedom. Pictures of people with gay pride flags circulated on social media provoking police raids on those identified, and among those arrested was an Egyptian woman, Sarah Hegazi. Her arrest was the beginning of a spiral that led to jail time, torture, migration to Canada and her eventual suicide. A moment of unguarded optimism and honest visibility resulted in soul-crushing exile. For dozens of others, it was prison and public humiliation, but the defiant message reverberates. Mashrou’ Leila’s music emphasizes that the heart does not follow the logic of borders, whether material, social or political, nor can politics, geography or religion control the yearnings of the heart. Love is love, and this belief is central to the group’s philosophy. But such a credo comes at a cost. Mashrou’ Leila has been banned from playing in Jordan and Egypt, two of its biggest markets, because Sinno is openly gay. Sinno’s message of dignity and equality that infuses his lyrics has real-world consequences for him, Mashrou’ Leila and their fans.

Conclusion The study of this group and its front man is important not only because of what it can tell us as part of a Lebanese national history, as a sonic engagement with sociopolitical issues, but also what it can tell us about a wider regional and transnational history of political intersectionality and social unrest. What has separated Mashrou’ Leila from so many other bands in the Middle East is its willingness to navigate social and cultural taboos. This underpins their success, as they speak out about issues that many bands simply avoid. But their commitment to singing about issues has not come without a price. For example, Mashrou’ Leila has admitted that some brands have shied away from supporting them because it is too risky. And yet the band continues to stay true to its vision of being an agent for social reflection and commentary. Early in their career, the band was firmly planted in the Levant, but they have now begun to also sing and perform in English and in Anglophone countries. The growing popularity of Mashrou’ Leila in the West speaks not only to the artistry of their music but also to the power of their lyrics, even in translation. The musicians still perform their Arabic hits, and at gigs abroad

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they see fans who don’t speak Arabic attempt to sing along with eyes closed and no idea what they’re saying. ‘In the current political climate, the fact that people could relate Arabic not to Islamic fundamentalism and terror, but to learning phonetics and going to a concert, it’s a kind of political victory,’ says Sinno. ‘And it’s moving’ (Faber 2019). Sinno and Mashrou’ Leila are contributing to a queer futurity that offers alternative ways of being that challenge heteronormativity and its oppressive institutions. Conceptualizing queer futurity as a means through which to integrate or coalesce the complex intersections of mixed identities, race, aesthetic practices, oppression, survival, trauma and even diaspora, Sinno’s clarion calls for social justice in its many forms contributes to a queer futurity that imagines and creates more available communities of belonging. Mashrou’ Leila itself represents mixed ethnic or national roots (Jordanian, American, Venezuelan, Armenian), religious affiliations and sexualities. Thus, the band exemplifies a type of collapsing of traditional patriarchal boundaries as it bravely denounces social injustices and calls for reforms. Mashrou’ Leila’s concerts become places where queer people feel they can meet, be seen and represented, and can create community. Describing the Cairo concert in 2017, Sarah Hegazi stated, ‘I was declaring myself in a society that hates all that is different from the norm’ (Walsh 2020). These concerts become queer spaces that accept difference where difference can be severely punished. However, Sinno’s power and charisma resonate with a transnational audience. This musical group’s messages of inclusivity and equality paired with its calls for political engagement and change are inspiring fans around the globe. The band members’ chance encounter at a one-night jam session gave rise to an internationally popular Arabicspeaking band who has entered its second decade with music that resonates with audiences worldwide with a unifying message: love is resistance.6

Notes 1 Mashrou’ Leila now intends on producing some songs with English lyrics to enter into the Anglophone, particularly American, Market. The band has toured in the United States and Western Europe, and it has appeared in venues in Paris, Washington, DC, San Francisco, Toronto, Berlin, to name a few. 2 Maghawir is also a name given to the Lebanese army, and so there is the added layer of ironic word play. 3 The verse in Arabic states that ‘on the playground, they taught us to pretend to play gangs. ‫ علمونا على الملعب نلعب عصابات‬This apparent normalization of violence at an early age is further reinforced by the dance-like music that suggests that ‘violence is another thing that we dance to’ (Bennet 2015). 4 I use positionality here to indicate not only how individual identities are formed but also how those identities shape the way that members of the band,

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individually and collectively, see the world as a result of the ways they interact with others. 5 In an interview published in The New Yorker, Sinno elaborates, ‘The fact that gay men feel more comfortable going out in certain places in Beirut and holding hands or making out on the dance floor says a lot. All of that is political negotiation in the absence of a structure that is not doing the negotiating for you’ (Muhanna 2017). 6 On 13 September 2022, the day I completed this chapter, Mashrou’ Leila announced that the group had disbanded ‘for now’ according to Hamed Sinno. The loss of markets in Egypt and Jordan combined with the continued labelling of the band as a ‘gay band’ and incessant social media harassment and threats were factors in the band’s decision. Conservative forces in the Arab world had made it very difficult for them to perform in Arab countries and even in the Lebanese capital, Beirut. He noted the prohibition by the Jordanian authorities on the band appearing in the country. ‘It led to frustration and helplessness among the band members and the fans’ (Saab 2022). It is worth noting that Mashrou’ Leila has disbanded before and returned to even greater popularity.

References Al Arabiya (2014), ‘Rolling Stone Mideast Choose First Regional Artists for Cover’, Al Arabiya, 4 April. https://engl​ish.alarab​iya.net/en/life-style/entert​ ainm​ent/2014/04/04/Roll​ing-Stone-ME-cho​ose-first-regio​nal-arti​sts-for-cover (accessed September 2022). Aziz, M. A. (2015), ‘Arab Music Videos and Their Implications for Arab Music and Media’, in Michael Frishkopf (ed.), Music and Media in the Arab World, 77–90, Cairo: American University in Cairo Press. Bennet, K. T. (2015), ‘Mashrou’ Leila’s New Song Maghawir Critiques Gun Laws in the Wake of Two Beirut Shootings’, Vice, 22 October. https://www.vice.com/ en/arti​cle/rnw​qv7/mash​rou-leila-magha​wir-premi​ere-57a20​6e21​5cad​cded​adb6​ f7b (accessed 12 September 2022). Bilgic, A. (2015), ‘Hybrid Hegemonic Masculinity of the Arab Spring: A Gender Analysis of Euro-Mediterranean Security Relations’, Mediterranean Politics, 20(3): 322–41. Bitar, N., M. Hamadeh and R. Khoueiri (2020), ‘Impact of Political Instability on Direct Foreign Investment in Lebanon’, Asian Social Science, 16(1): 41–8. CBS (2017), ‘Hamed Sinno: Gay, Arab Musician Tackles Inequality, Marginalization and Orlando Shooting’, CBS. https://www.yout​ube.com/ watch?v=DAl4​cN7C​K8E (accessed 1 January 2023). Cusick, S. (2012), ‘On a Lesbian Relationship with Music: A Serious Effort Not to Think Straight’, in P. Brett, E. Wood and G. C. Thomas (eds.), Queering the Pitch: The New Gay and Lesbian Musicology, 19–35. New York: Routledge.. Dyer, R. (2003), Heavenly Bodies: Film Stars and Society, London: Routledge. Faber, T. (2019), ‘Mashrou’ Leila: The Lebanese Indie Band Championing Arab Gay Rights’, The Guardian, 7 March. https://www.theg​uard​ian.

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com/music/2019/mar/07/mash​rou-leila-leban​ese-indie-band-brit​ain-europ​ ean-tour-lgbt-rig​hts (accessed 18 July 2023). Glenhill, C. (1991), Stardom: Industry of Desire. London: Routledge. Halberstam, J. (2005), In A Queer Time and Place: Transgender Bodies, Subcultural Lives. New York: NYU Press. Holmes, S., and S. Redmond (2006), Framing Celebrity: New Directions in Celebrity Culture, New York: Routledge. Ibn el Leil (2015), [Album]. Composer. Mashrou’ Leila. King, B. (2010), ‘Stardom, Celebrity, and the Money Form’, The Velvet Light Trap, (65): 7–20. Meeuf, R., and R. Raphael (2013), Transnational Stardom: International Celebrity in Film and Culture, New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Merabet, S. (2014), Queer Beirut, Austin: University of Texas Press. Muhanna, E. (2017), ‘Mashrou’ Leila and the Nightclubs Political Power’, The New Yorker, 31 July. https://www.newyor​ker.com/cult​ure/cult​ure-desk/mash​ rou-leila-and-the-nig​htcl​ubs-politi​cal-power (accessed 27 February 2023). Nooshin, L., and K. Howard (2016), Music and the Play of Power in the Middle East, North Africa, and Central Asia, New York: Routledge. Raasuk (2013), [Album]. Composer. Mashrou’ Leila. Saab, S. F. (2022), ‘In Victory for Homophobes, Lebanese Band Mashrou’ Leila to Break Up’, Haeretz, 13 September. https://www.haar​etz.com/mid​ dle-east-news/2022-09-13/ty-arti​cle/.prem​ium/in-vict​ory-for-hom​opho​bes-leban​ ese-band-mash​rou-leila-to-break-up/00000​183-37c7-d070-abef-f7d7b​cf20​000 (accessed September 2022). Sun, S.-W., and J. Lull (1986), ‘The Adolescent Audience for Music Videos and Why They Watch’, Journal of Communication, (36): 115–25. Van de Peer, S. (2017), Animation in the Middle East: Practice and Aesthetics from Baghdad to Casablanca, London: I.B. Taurus. Walsh, D. (2020), ‘Arrested for Waving a Rainbow Flag, A Gay Egyptian Takes Her Life’, New York Times, 15 June. https://www.nyti​mes.com/2020/06/15/world/ mid​dlee​ast/egypt-gay-suic​ide-sarah-heg​azi.html (accessed 18 July 2023). Ward, L. M., E. Hansbrough and E. Walker (2005), ‘Contributions of Music Video Exposure to Black Adolescents’ Gender and Sexual Schemas’, Journal of Adolescent Research, (20): 143–66. Weisethaunet, H. (2007), ‘Historiography and Complexities: Why Is Music “National”’, Popular Music History, 2(2): 169–99. Zhang, Y. (2017), ‘Film Stars in the Perspective of Performance Studies: Play, Liminality and Alteration in Chinese Cinema’, in S. Qiong Yu and G. Austin (eds), Revisiting Star Studies: Culture, Themes, and Methods, 45–61, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press.

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9 ‘Egypt, Africa!’: The Sonic Stardom of Mohamed Ramadan Claire Cooley

In June 2020, Egyptian superstar Mohamed Ramadan received a racist comment on a photo he had posted on Instagram. The photo depicts Ramadan holding his son Ali on the set of Ramadan’s music video for his then upcoming song ‘Corona Virus’. The comment, whose author has remained anonymous beyond the fact that she is an Egyptian woman, criticized the fact that Ali had inherited his father’s iswid (Black) complexion and not his mother’s lighter one. Swiftly and publicly responding to the comment, Ramadan expressed pride in his skin colour. The exchange travelled across social media and major news platforms in Egypt where TV hosts for local and international outlets like BBC Arabic and CNN Arabic defended the superstar and spoke out against racism (al-‘unsurīyya). On a global scale, the incident occurred within a week of George Floyd’s murder at the hands of the police in the United States and therefore reverberated with the so-called global racial reckoning that it had sparked. In addition to security structures, media industries around the world and their specific racial logics also became the subject of critique in the wake of Floyd’s killing. The intersection of the racist attack on Ramadan with global conversations about racial justice offers an entry point into the ways in which global racial politics unfold through the embodied voices of stars within a range of geographic scales. While the comment focused on visual components of Ramadan’s identity, Ramadan’s popularity as a singer means

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FIGURE 9.1  The sonic stardom of Mohamed Ramadan. Source: Designed by Mohamed Tawfiq.

that his embodied voice is inseparable from his star ‘text’. Listening serves as a technology with which Ramadan’s audiences categorize the modalities of difference that they perceive Ramadan to embody when consuming his embodied voice. Listening, like seeing, ‘produces race, and ideologies of race have a profound (and widely divergent) impact on how people listen’ (Stoever 2016: 260). Ramadan describes himself as Egyptian (and locally, Upper Egyptian), Arabian and African, and as demonstrated by the awards he’s won in a range of local, national and regional contexts and the recent publishing deal with New York-based Reservoir Media, he has been commercially viable in tapping into these identities to resonate with wider audiences. Significantly, Ramadan’s positioning of his identity intersects with Egyptian constructions of race that, as scholars have demonstrated, largely draw on the concept of triangulation which ‘situates Egypt between Europe, the Arab (Islamic) world, and sub-Saharan Africa’ (Poole 2011: 6). Scholars have begun to address the urgent need to understand context-specific and local processes of racialization in the Middle East and have considered ways in which ‘local social categories are entangled with historic legacies of empire and contemporary global logics of racialized difference’ (Silverstein and Sprengel 2021). In this chapter, I follow these

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scholars’ leads, considering how Ramadan’s embodied voice can help us think of approaches in film and media studies to continue to address this lacuna in scholarship related to race and stardom in Egypt and the Middle East. As with other global media industries, Ramadan’s appearance and voice have factored into the TV and film roles in which he has been cast. Ramadan has performed as famously ‘brown’-complexioned (asmar) Egyptian figures such as legendary actor Ahmed Zaki in the film Scheherazade, Tell Me a Story [Ehky Ya Sharhazad] and the late president Anwar Sadat in the TV series Tahia Carioca (2014). Ramadan has also frequently acted as sa’īdi (Upper Egyptian) characters in Egyptian musalsalāt (television shows). Ramadan’s voice also factored into his early fame, as demonstrated by his performance in a radio programme Ayyām al-hubb wa al-junūn in 2010 and the attention he garnered for his vocal impersonations of Ahmad Zaki, Anwar Sadat and people from the saīd. Ramadan’s superstardom was solidified through his portrayal of baltagi (thug) characters in films in ways that served to articulate his embodied voice with the popular Egyptian genre known as mahraganat (festival) music. Considering that Ramadan has been typecast so often as stereotypical baltagi and saidi characters, understanding the racial elements of Mohamed Ramadan’s stardom requires an intersectional approach that takes these characters’ gendered and class associations into account, especially given the frequent articulation of more melaninrich skin in Egypt with lower socio-economic status (Poole 2011: 1). The racial, gendered and class meanings of Ramadan’s stardom in Egypt inevitably shift when we follow the superstar’s growing career as singerrapper beyond Egypt and across the Middle East, in Africa and beyond. As part of his goal to grow his fan base in Africa, Ramadan has positioned himself and his stardom in the continent through songs, performances and collaborations. In addition to Africa, the United Arab Emirates has increasingly factored into Ramadan’s career and transnational stardom. In this essay, I focus on Mohamed Ramadan’s career as both a successful actor and singer in these contexts and build on work by Darci Sprengel and Shayna Silverstein who note how sound and music ‘are particularly well-situated to address the question of race not only because music is often an embodied experience, but because of how embodiment is complicated by race’ (Silverman and Sprengel 2021). Furthermore, as Nina Eidsheim has demonstrated, social constructions of race extend to the ways in which listeners perceive the sound of voices, specifically its timbre. She writes, ‘Vocal timbre is not the unmediated sound of an essential body … both body and timbre are shaped by unconscious and conscious training practices that function as repositories for cultural attitudes toward gender, class, race, and sexuality’ (Eidsheim 2019: 8). In this sense, it becomes important to ‘relocate[e]‌the search for the meaning of the voice from ‘the sound itself’ to

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physical production of the sound and the processes that take place between the sound and the listener’ (Eidsheim 2019: 9). I seek to understand how Ramadan’s sonic body projects certain dynamics of race, class and masculinity in order to resonate with fans. To achieve the suppleness needed for this multi-scalar and ‘moving’ analysis, I employ a critical sonic methodology that I encapsulate within the term sonic stardom (see Cooley 2019 for a discussion of sonic stardom in the context of Hindi film stars in Egypt). In its emphasis on the material aspects of sound and sound’s ability to move bodies through vibration and affect, the sonic reminds us that the ear is not the only tool with which we listen (Stoever 2016). I draw on these qualities of sound to avoid ossifying the meanings of Ramadan’s embodied voice in time and space; it is crucial to understand the meanings of identities Brown (asmar) and Black (iswid) – and the vocal timbres with which they are socially articulated – according to the spaces in which Ramadan’s embodied voice circulates. As Stuart Hall writes, ‘The moment the signifier “black” is torn from its historical, cultural, and political embedding, and lodged in a biologically constituted racial category, we fix that signifier outside of change, outside of representation, and outside of political intervention’ (Hall 1993, quoted in Kassamali 2021). Sound as a heuristic allows me to account for the changing meanings of the racial, gendered and class identities expressed through Ramadan’s sonic stardom as his embodied voice travels across media platforms and the racial formations (Omi and Howard 2014) of different spatial-temporal contexts. As a critical method, sonic stardom emphasizes the ways in which stardom as a system of hierarchy, categorization and monetization capitalizes on and produces difference. In situating Ramadan within the racial formations of Egypt’s star constellation in her discussion of post-January 2011 Revolution masculinities, Frances Hasso explains that Ramadan is not a ‘phenotypically black-skinned Egyptian actor’ (Hasso 2020: 203). Yet examples such as the use of the term iswid in the racist attack against Ramadan in June 2020 and an Iraqi cleric’s use of the same word in his racist description of Ramadan after a performance in Iraq in December 2021 destabilize firm understandings of his identity as he moves through a range of conversations and contexts. Sonic stardom asks us to critically examine the ways in which Ramadan’s voice may simultaneously open new meanings for his own identity as well as for the groups he seeks to represent (see Mallapragada 2014 for an analysis of similar dynamics vis-à-vis Prianka Chopra’s global stardom). Though Ramadan’s proud claim of an African identity might be empowering in some contexts, it might prove problematic in others given the legacies of colourism in Egypt and the Middle East in relation to Africa due to histories of slavery, colonialism and the racializing effects of global politics of security.

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Ramadan as Local-National Sa’ıˉdıˉ and Baltagıˉ Characters in Egyptian Commercial Cinema and TV In 1988, Mohamed Ramadan was born to a working-class family in Munib, a neighbourhood in the south of Egypt’s Giza Governorate. Like many other Egyptians in Munib, Ramadan’s family members had moved to the area from different parts of Egypt. Ramadan’s mother is from the city of Tanta between Cairo and Alexandria, and his father is from Qena Governorate in the sa’īd. In this section, I discuss Ramadan’s early career and background in connection with the ways in which Ramadan became associated with the sa’īdī and baltagi figures in Egyptian commercial cinema and television. Sonic stardom provides a frame through which to examine how Ramadan’s embodied voice projects constructions of class, race and gender in portraying these sa’īdī and baltagi characters in local and national spaces and demonstrates how (im)mobility vis-à-vis borders of class, nation, region and rigid stereotypical notions of masculinity are also defining components of these characters’ identities. Although he has never lived in Upper Egypt, Ramadan has expressed that his sa’īdī heritage represents an important component of his identity. ‘My disposition, style, and characteristics are all sa’īdī, everyone who interacts with me knows this’, he said in an interview while filming the TV series The Eagle of Upper Egypt [Nasr as-sa’īd] in Qena in 2018 (‘Muhammad Ramadan min qena’ 2008). Ramadan’s ability to impersonate someone from the region through his sonically encoded body has been commercially viable for him. In discussing his early years as an actor in interviews, Ramadan has described how he stood out from other aspiring actors during an acting talent competition by speaking in a style associated with Egyptians from Upper Egypt. In one of the early TV serials in which he appeared, Hanan wa Hanin, Ramadan was cast in the small role of the son of a bawwāb (door man), a job often performed in Cairo by men from Upper Egypt who have moved to the capital city for employment opportunities. The history of Egyptian TV and cinema is fraught with demeaning representations of the sa’īd and sa’idis, who are often presented as naïve, backwards and intellectually inferior to Egyptians of Cairo. Upper Egyptians are depicted as poor country peasants whose lives are embroiled in tribal violence, vendettas and superstition. Portrayals of Sa’idi characters have distinct sonic dimensions given their specific accent/dialect, which often translates into actors who are not from Upper Egypt speaking ‘gruffly’ when trying to impersonate them (Abu-Lughod 2005: 57). The sa’īdī characters

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that Ramadan has played have, to a large extent, synched with these stereotypes, as well as ones that construct sa’īdī men as hyper-masculine and misogynist. In 2014, Ramadan’s minor and informal performances as someone from Upper Egypt culminated in his starring role in the comedy film An Upper Egyptian [Wahid Sa’īdī] (dir. Ismail Farouk). Ramadan plays Falih, a young man from the sa’īd, who decides to move to the resort area of Ain Sohkna to work in a hotel. After overhearing a plot to kill a woman at the hotel, Falih is tasked with saving the women but must first figure out which woman needs to be saved. Comedic situations ensue that play on stereotypes of sa’īdī naivety, including interactions with female patrons of the hotel. As in his previous films, Ramadan’s character performs songs in the film. In one of the songs, ‘I’m an Upper Egyptian’ [Ana Sa’īdī’], Ramadan asserts the masculinity of a man from the sa’īd through lyrics such as: ‘I swear on my wife’s marriage a sa’īdī ’s manhood is loved by all/ he keeps his position even in bed!’ as well as ‘The sa’īdī will rip through a lion’s heart with a saw as if it’s that of a mouse/I’m a sa’īdī and I don’t joke around/I’m a sa’īdī and not a wimp, and to prove it just ask ‘Abdu Mawta’.1 In the song, a saīdī’s manhood is established vis-à-vis his virility and in contrast to scenes in An Upper Egyptian in which Falih seems naïve and silly when interacting with women. Curiously, this song in An Upper Egyptian references three films in which Ramadan had also starred, Heart of the Lion [Qalb al-Asad], Abdu Mawta [‘Abdu Mawta] and The German [al-Almani], and played another character type for which he would become famous and with which he would become strongly associated. In 2012, Ramadan acted as the protagonist in the film ‘Abdu Mawta and subsequently skyrocketed to superstardom when it became a mega hit in theatres within the first weeks of its release. In ‘Abdu Mawta and subsequent films, Ramadan plays baltagi (thug) characters that closely resemble each other in terms of socio-economic status and gender identity. When asked why he had elected to play such similar characters in these films, Ramadan explained how Abdu Mawta and the other protagonists are ‘based in reality’ and connects with ‘the reality of many young people’. Furthermore, these films had been incredibly successful at the box office, and any shift away from the characters could potentially damage his career (‘Mohamed Ramadan: I made sure my character resembled ‘Abdu Mawta’ 2013). In an essay on masculinities in immediate post-2011 revolution Egypt, Frances Hasso argues that these films constructed male protagonists whose masculinities and moral narratives resonated with the post-25 January and pre-military coup of 2013 context of the film’s production. As she explains, these films offer ‘a proletarian masculine protagonist who negotiates survival by using his wit, friendships, and criminal skills in the informal economy’ (Hasso 2020: 198). Also significant for this study, she notes how

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‘Ramadan’s sinewy brown physique is central to each story and an object of erotic desire’ (Hasso 2020: 202). As Hasso implies, the combination of Ramadan’s masculinity and complexion is central to the baltagi character for which Ramadan would be famous. In these films, Ramadan’s ‘sinewy brown physique’ is put on display most prominently in scenes that feature him singing and/or dancing to incredibly popular mahraganat songs. The hit ‘Abdu Mawta features the song ‘Aiwa, aiwa’, with mahraganat superstars Okka and Ortega. Ramadan, who appears shirtless, brandishes a gun and dances seductively with both a belly dancer and the film’s female protagonist during this clip, joins Okka and Ortega in singing the song. As Ramadan has noted in interviews, the inclusion of song-length scenes of mahraganat performances like these draws in audiences and helps the films achieve an ‘unusual level of success’ (‘Mohamed Ramadan: I made sure my character resembled ‘Abdu Mawta’ 2013). In the 2013 film Heart of the Lion, Ramadan performs two songs along with members of the mahraganat group Al Madfaagya. These popular commercial films also meant the beginning of Ramadan’s career as a popular singer and dancer, and they served to associate him with the popular Egyptian genre mahraganat. Known for its rhythms, electronic sounds and auto-tuned voices, mahraganat grew out of a tradition of neighbourhood concerts and wedding celebrations in Egypt predominately performed and attended by men in sha’bi (‘popular’ or lower class) neighbourhoods. Mahraganat became especially well known among wide segments of Egyptian society around the 2011 Egyptian Revolution, and film producers like the Sobky brothers capitalized on its popularity by featuring performances by famous singers of mahraganat in their films. Like those of other musical films in the history of Egyptian cinema, these clips circulate separately from the film texts of which they are a part, providing stand-alone music videos for these mahraganat songs. Even without the visuals, the circulation of these songs beyond the full film texts further serve to associate Ramadan with the genre and the meanings associated with it. Sonic stardom helps us understand the ways in which sound – as manifest through accent, vocal timbre, music and dance – encodes Ramadan’s body as baltagi characters and therefore associates him with these characters’ ethical dispositions (Poole 2011: 166). As Mendi Obadike notes of hiphop, ‘Hip-hop music may summon the presence of blackness without an accompanying black body’ (Obadike 2005: 135–7). In a similar way, mahraganat summons the presence of bodies laden with socially constructed notions of identity, such as class, race and gender. Through his portrayals of the baltagi figure through voice, song and dance, Ramadan’s embodied voice takes on the racial dynamics that underpin mahraganat and Sobky films. In Egypt, darker complexions often stand as signifiers for lower socioeconomic status (Poole 2011: 1).

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Gender and sexuality are also a key component of mahraganat. Nicola Pratt understands the expressions of masculinity that are associated with mahraganat as a form of resistance by disenfranchized, young, working-class men who overwhelmingly face ‘socioeconomic and political exclusion’ and are targets of the state security apparatus (Pratt 2020: 534). The Egyptian state, as well as those outside of mahraganat culture, criticize the popular genre for its ‘supposed potential to perpetuate violence, sexual harassment and a problematic working-class masculinity’ (Sprengel 2019: 68). Despite Ramadan’s attempts in interviews and other public appearances to disassociate himself from the baltagi figure, Egyptian public discourse has partly blurred any boundaries between Ramadan the actor and Ramadan as the baltagi character; in one instance, Ramadan’s association with the baltagi character of Abdu Mawta (from the film of the same name) resulted in Ramadan’s arrest at the hands of the Egyptian police who falsely claimed that he was in possession of illegal weapons. With its focus on mobility and circulation, sonic stardom helps us move beyond national frameworks that tend to fix star identities (or ‘texts’) in relation to the nation. As such, we can understand how factors such as the politics of mobility (in terms of moving across geographic and socioeconomic boundaries, as well as those that police gender expression) inflect how Ramadan’s embodied voice is racialized in relation to his audiences. For economic and political reasons, these local Egyptian baltagi and saidi figures have limited mobility in domestic and international spaces. Restricted by the Egyptian government’s surveillance and forced conscription and facing the difficulties of obtaining visas to other countries, many socioeconomically underprivileged Egyptians die every year while trying to travel illegally across the Mediterranean with the hopes that they will find success in Europe. Ramadan played a character in such a situation in the 2011 film Cairo Exit (dir. Hisham Issawi and Alexandra Kinias). Here, mobility plays a key role in the racialization of Ramadan’s embodied voice in the sense that, as Sprengel notes, ‘security logics maintain racialized relations of difference’ in Egypt and globally (Silverstein and Sprengel 2021). The sonic stardom of Ramadan’s embodied voice in the mid-twenty teens was largely an amalgamation of baltagi and saīdī stereotypes and the hyper-masculinity and racial associations with socio-economic status that accompany them. Ramadan’s close connections with these characters have shifted since Ramadan has looked to expand his audience base beyond Egypt through the music videos that he has released on his YouTube channel. As he said in an interview, ‘As an actor, I can get maybe 1,500 people in a theatre to see me perform a play, but last year I played a show in Marrakech and more than 100,000 people came, so I studied the situation and wanted to move towards that direction.’ In the following section, I follow the meanings of Ramadan’s sonic stardom as he looked to expand his career beyond the local and national borders of Egypt and its commercial cinema.

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‘Number One’ on YouTube: Global-Local Dynamics of Ramadan and (anti-)Blackness Through YouTube and other digital media, Ramadan has increasingly engaged audiences in arenas beyond the spheres in which Egyptian commercial films circulate. In 2018, Ramadan released the video for his song ‘Number One’ (dir. Hossam Hossainy) on his YouTube page, marking the beginning of Ramadan’s career as a singer separate from his performances in the popular commercial films in which he had earlier starred. At the time of this writing, the official version of ‘Number One’ on YouTube has received over 190 million views. The song is an example of how Ramadan uses catchy English one-line titles and includes both English and Arabic subtitles in his videos, ostensibly to reach audiences not just in the Middle East but also in non-Arabic speaking contexts. Significantly, Ramadan’s sonic stardom is extended not just through images and sounds through ‘Number One’ and other videos, but also through the voices and sonically encoded bodies of his fans in the way that these videos include memorable dances that audiences can easily perform themselves. Ramadan’s turn towards audiences outside of Egypt through YouTube is complicated by local developments such as the Egyptian government’s ban on mahraganat music in 2020 (which has included some of Ramadan’s work), several scandals in which he has been embroiled and attacks by critics who find him arrogant and conceited. In this section, I focus on Ramadan’s ‘Number One’ and accompanying music video to investigate the shifting meanings of Ramadan’s sonic stardom as his embodied voice circulates. In exploring reactions from Ramadan’s critics to his hyper-masculine claims of ‘Number One’ and mahraganat’s connections with North American hiphop, I consider how different geographically specific histories of (anti-) blackness contour his sonic stardom. The video for ‘Number One’ is in dialogue with debates about Ramadan’s stardom and criticisms that he promotes thuggery among young Egyptian men. Through the video, Ramadan defiantly responds to heated debates and conversations about his morality since Ramadan has become a superstar. It begins with Ramadan sitting on a leather sofa in front of a dozen television sets in a stylish warehouse apartment. The TV sets, interestingly, are set against a brick wall that is emblazoned with a large, street-art style mural of Ramadan. The painting, which depicts Ramadan wearing a crown, invokes images of the late American hip-hop artist the Notorious B.I.G and serves to make a connection between the two artists. We hear heated voices of talk show hosts and other commentators from previously broadcast news and programmes on the TV. The barrage of questions and comments punctuate

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the atmosphere: ‘Things have reached the point where no actress can object to what he wants’ and ‘Stardom has become vulgar!’ The tone of the commentary emanating from the televisions soon shifts, and we begin to hear celebrations of Ramadan’s accomplishments in fan videos. The song begins, and Ramadan sings lyrics such as ‘my fans are everywhere, they got my back for real’, ‘sweet success loves to always follow me’. As he sing-raps, Ramadan strikes the number one poses that have become a trademark of his stardom. ‘Number One’ marks a departure in aesthetics and themes from the song sequences of Ramadan’s earlier commercial films. The narratives of films such as ‘Abdu Mawta and An Upper Egyptian and the characters Ramadan played engaged local and national dynamics related to class, race and gender in Egypt. The audio-visual components of ‘Number One’, in contrast, contribute to the sense that Ramadan is not in a place recognizable as Egypt or any place in particular. In one of the spaces of the video, Ramadan dances next to a motorcycle in a room with the brick wall emblazoned with the Notorious B.I.G mural lookalike. He is in the foreground while attractive women of a variety of complexions follow his moves in the background. In another scene, Ramadan sits wearing red-tinted sunglasses and holding a gun in a red Ferrari parked in a boxing ring. ‘Number One’ is like many of the other songs in Ramadan’s more recent oeuvre, most of which include lyrics in which he boasts his success, hard work ethic and rise to the top despite those who doubted him and despite constant attacks from critics. References to fighting and moves such as high kicks are also a staple of his songs and videos, aggressive features that are further emphasized by the frequent inclusion of guns and other weapons as props. Conspicuous consumption dominates his videos as he casually throws around hundred-dollar bills in the fine hotels, houses, palaces and the other similarly fancy locations where his videos take place. When not baring his chest and rippling muscles, Ramadan wears expensive clothes and jewellery. He is often portrayed as owning big cats such as tigers, and he interacts with them in a way that affirms a domineering hyper-masculinity. As they circulate on YouTube, Ramadan’s hit music videos engage racial formations and masculinities that both differ from, and intersect with, the local/national contexts in which the films and TV series that I discussed in the previous section are embedded. In ‘Number One’ and other songs, Ramadan draws on globally recognized (albeit essentialized) exports of American hip-hop culture through various symbols, tropes, sounds and themes. While these tropes might be transgressive in certain contexts, they risk losing their nuance in a global mediascape largely underpinned by logics of neoliberalism, racial capitalism and hyper-masculinity. Ramadan’s constant references to his success and hard work despite all odds adds neoliberal flavour to the essentialized hip-hop references and transnational audiovisual markers of hyper-masculinity and in some ways work to anesthetize his

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sonic stardom in severing his embodied voice from the socio-economic and political circumstances that factor into baltagi and saīdi identities in Egypt. How can we understand this process of export and appropriation beyond one-dimensional conclusions of de-contextualization? Tarek Benchouia encourages us to unpack ‘how the global phenomenon of antiblackness registers in the sonic textures of mahraganat’, a genre that is connected to other afro-diasporic ‘cultures of musicking’ through the transatlantic and trans-Saharan slave trade and other processes of forced migration (Benchouia 2020). Writing about American hip-hop artists in a global context, Mark Anthony Neal thinks about how what he terms as hiphop cosmopolitanism is ‘marked in part by a symbolic homelessness from notions of mainstream American morality, political relevancy, and cultural gravitas’ and is ‘undergirded by desires for physical, social, and economic mobility’ (Neal 2013: 36–7). While on the one hand this cosmopolitanism can be read as ‘hip-hop’s unfettered pursuit of leisure, wealth, capital, and movement’ (Neal 2013: 36), it is also a means with which to move away from restrictive and often violently policed identities in contexts such as the United States, as well essentialized tropes of the hip-hop/rap genre. Sonic stardom encompasses both of Benchouia’s and Neal’s objectives in the way it encourages us to consider how Ramadan’s sonically encoded body becomes (un-)articulated from signifiers of hyper-masculinity, as well as layered histories of (anti-)blackness in the United States and beyond in its circulations. As his masculinity and complexion are (up)rooted from different spaces as he seeks global mobility, Ramadan’s sonic stardom opens up new meanings for his identity in complex ways. For instance, while his sonically encoded body circulates in these different spaces, Ramadan’s projections of masculinity have been mocked by Egyptian artists. In response to Ramadan’s perceived arrogance and constant declarations that he is ‘Number One’, Egyptian singer Bushra released a music video entitled ‘Cobra’ on her YouTube channel in 2018. As part of Bushra’s critique of Ramadan, the video includes what has been considered by many a racist attack on the superstar. During a segment of the Cobra music video, a person who is clearly supposed to be Mohamed Ramadan appears on a stage against a glittery backdrop. He wears a tuxedo and a black mask covers his face. The video eliminates any ambiguity as to whether this man is supposed to be Ramadan when he strikes the signature ‘Number One’ pose. Ramadan and others have interpreted the black mask as an example of blackface, a racist form of theatrical costume and makeup that has a history in Egyptian cinema, Hollywood and other media industries around the world. The black mask and reactions to it have illuminated certain racist connotations of blackness in Egypt while also tapping into global associations between blackness and hip-hop and mahraganat. The mask is a tool with which the video portrays Ramadan’s complexion as Black

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(iswid). In response to the attack by Bushra, Ramadan said he was ‘Brown and proud’ (asmar al-lawn wa aftakhir) (Mustafa 2018). While Ramadan expresses pride in his appearance, his reply that his complexion is asmar serves not to celebrate but instead to distance himself from blackness in this context. In her study of Egyptian categorizations of race and skin colour as expressed in discourses about physical beauty, Maurita Poole observed that ‘to be polite, people call richly brown-skinned people … yet, these same individuals, when upset and intending to insult, could easily use the term black’ (Poole 2011: 178–9). As scholars such as Poole have observed, blackness in Egypt is often associated with Africa and is ‘equated with primitiveness, underdevelopment, and a lack of ‘civilization’’ (Poole 2011: 179). In asserting an asmar identity in this situation, therefore, Ramadan seems to avoid potential association and solidarity with audiences that, as we will see, he seeks to represent in tapping into an African identity as part of expanding his fan base. Ramadan’s sonic stardom engages both global and Egyptian notions and histories of (anti-)blackness in both emancipatory and problematic ways in its engagement with hip-hop and mahraganat. Perhaps due in part to the Egyptian government’s ban on mahraganat in 2020 and the state’s tightening grip on media production in general, Ramadan has turned to places outside of Egypt to expand his career. In this process, Dubai has served as a base of operations, and its cosmopolitan, neoliberal, flashy and seemingly apolitical environs provide a different context for understanding his sonic stardom. Ninety percent of Dubai’s population are migrant workers and expatriates from a range of socio-economic backgrounds. These include construction and domestic workers on sponsorship visas and stars like Ramadan on the 10-year renewable Golden Visa. Understanding the differences in mobility among Dubai’s population of non-citizens is important to understanding the racialized dimensions of Ramadan’s stardom beyond Egypt in other parts of the Arab World as well as in Africa.

‘Egypt, Africa!’: Ramadan’s Sonic Stardom and Racialization between Egypt, Africa and the Middle East Over the last few years, Ramadan has actively sought to expand his fan base in Africa (Mullally 2021). It is significant for this discussion of the monetization of mobility, race and masculinity as encompassed in Ramadan’s sonic stardom that the superstar is not just trying to reach audiences in Africa but that in doing so he is asserting an African identity. For example, in his 2021 song ‘Paris, Dubaï’, which draws on a rhythm and melody globally associated with Africa, Ramadan proudly states in the song’s only English

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lyric, ‘I am African’. He reverts to Arabic to explain how Africa is and sings ‘See, habibi, my colour’ while opening his unbuttoned shirt to draw our focus to his bare chest and a diamond encrusted Africa necklace. These sonic assertions stand in contrast to the self-conceptions of many Egyptians who, according to observations by journalist Shahira Amin in 2012, rarely identify as African when asked how they view themselves (Amin 2012). In an interview in reference to a collaboration with the Congolese singer/ rapper Maitre Gims in ‘Ya Habibi’ (discussed later in this section) Ramadan explained, I am focusing on Africa and I will be for a while to come. I want to reach Nigeria, Congo, Zambia and Senegal and other important places. To become an international star means first getting support from your country, then those in your region where they share the same language, and then your continent. (Saeed 2020) Ramadan’s 2019 song ‘Africa’ is an example of the way in which Ramadan has incorporated Africa into his sonic stardom. Ramadan released and performed ‘Africa’ as part of the African Cup of Nations football tournament that year. His live performance serves as the song’s official music video, a format that allows us to observe the audiences’ affective engagements with Ramadan’s sonically encoded body. Ramadan introduces his performance by recognizing Egypt’s role as the host of the tournament and welcoming the presumably pan-African audience to ‘your second country, Egypt … mother of the world, and the country of security and protection’. With his right fist, he thumps his heart twice and then opens his hand to the audience, proclaiming defiantly Africa! [Afriqiyya!] The song then begins with a steady baseline of drums and chorus of voices sings ‘Ohhh Africa! Africa!’ Ramadan is flanked by backup dancers wearing long grass skirts, and behind him a jumbo screen projects video montages of elephants and other images stereotypically associated with Africa. Ramadan, who wears a sparkling military-style tunic and his signature dark sunglasses, moves energetically across the stage and synchs his body with the mahraganat reminiscent sounds and beats that begin as soon as he starts singing. In the song’s lyrics he lists Egypt, Cameroon, Tunisia, South Africa, Mali and other countries and sings that they are the descendants of Pharaohs and the co-creators of future achievements. Through this performance and stanzas such as ‘Egypt, Africa, Egypt, Africa!’ (‘Masr, Afriqiyya! Masr, Afriqiyya!’), Ramadan asserts himself (and Egypt) as intimately associated with Africa. Ramadan’s gesture to Africa is complicated by Egypt’s historic and contemporary relationship to the continent. In terms of contemporary politics, Egypt was the head of the African Union (as well as the host of the tournament) the year that Ramadan released ‘Africa’, a role that reflects

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how Abdel Fattah al-Sisi in Egypt has been looking to extend its influence and legitimacy across the continent (Telci 2019) partly in the context of the years-long diplomatic dispute with Sudan and Ethiopia over Ethiopia’s construction of its Blue Nile dam. These dynamics are apparent through the song in Ramadan’s military-inflected lyrics and costumes. Indeed, one of the ways in which the song expresses partnership and unity among Egypt and the rest of Africa is through Ramadan’s hyper-masculinity, projections promoted by autocratic regimes like that of Sisi and others in the continent. This diplomacy, with Ramadan as its star through the song, sits in tension with local and regional interactions with those labelled ‘African’ in Egypt. Within Egypt, migrants and refugees from Africa in Egypt have experienced attacks, systemic discrimination and racist representation in the media. Historically, scholars have considered racialization in Egypt in the context of its attempts at empire building in Sudan and other parts of Africa, as well as British colonialism. Film and media scholar Ifdal Elsaket notes that even with nationalist liberation, ‘Egyptian tutelage over Sudan, and complex processes of racialization in which Egyptians positioned themselves as superior were central’ (Elsaket 2017: 10). Not just limited to Egypt, the racial language of ‘Arab’ and ‘African’ is mobilized in similar ways in other parts of the region such as in Sudan (Mamdani 2009) and connects to histories of British and Egyptian colonialism and the painful legacies of slavery in the region (see e.g., Troutt Powell 2012). These historical and contemporary factors are important for understanding the racial formations within which the embodied voices of Mohamed Ramadan and those of other stars in the region circulate. As mentioned previously regarding blackface, film and media in Egypt has been intimately imbricated in processes of racialization through the creation and circulation of representations of people from Sudan and other parts of Africa. In her analysis of Egyptian so-called Jungle Films from the 1930s and 1940s, for example, Elsaket explains how they position ‘Egyptian characters against African ones’, represent ‘Egypt as the beacon of modernity’ and ‘assert imperial and racial fantasies rooted in ambiguous and often antagonist relationship to Blackness’ (Elsaket 2017: 10). This history is not limited to on-screen representations but extends to the very foundations of the film industry in Egypt. Talaat Harb, an economic nationalist in Egypt in the 1920s and 1930s, was a strong proponent and supporter of cinema and was key to the establishment of an Egyptian national film industry, partly through founding Studios Misr. As part of its role in anti-colonial efforts, he thought the medium could prove to the world that people from Egypt ‘are not a people of Central Africa’ (Elsaket 2017: 10). In focusing on Africa to expand his audience base and in claiming an African identity, therefore, Ramadan celebrates an abstract and flexible panAfricanism that is in tension with film and media’s entanglement with antiblackness in Egypt, as well as the material/bodily effects of racism towards

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African migrants and refugees in Egypt (such as the massacre of dozens of Sudanese asylum seekers in the Mustafa Mahmoud square in Cairo in 2005). This celebration also dissonates with the colourism and anti-blackness in Egypt of which Ramadan himself has publicly been a victim. As Ramadan’s embodied voice circulates, one wonders how his perceived complexion may afford privileges and positive connotations in racial formations and hierarchies in different contexts of the continent and whether his gestures towards Africa work towards erasing and de-politicizing these complexities through his sonic stardom in problematic ways. We can understand Ramadan’s privileges partly through the mobility that his sonic stardom affords him, partly manifest in the ways in which Dubai has increasingly become a base of operations for his music and video production. Ramadan is a holder of the UAE’s Golden Visa, a 10-year renewable multi-entry visa that was initiated as part of a drive to expand the entertainment industry and attract investment to the UAE. The privileges afforded to holders of the Golden Visa stand in stark contrast to the restrictions faced by most migrants and visitors under the kafala system. The kafala system, a system that governs immigration and residency in many Gulf states, racializes and immobilizes visitors along national lines in ways that are especially restrictive for migrants and visitors of lower socioeconomic status. I read the globetrotting of Ramadan’s embodied voice visà-vis the experiences of these other migrants alongside the ways in which local and global logics of security racialize mobility. Sprengel has identified political-spatial terms that index one’s mobility such as ‘foreigner’ as a helpful approach to understand the ‘racialized process of exclusion and/or privilege’ in places like Egypt along with global security logics (Silverstein and Sprengel 2021). For stars like Ramadan in Dubai, the relationship between race and mobility intersects importantly with capital; as Samhita Sunya has noted of similarly situated Bollywood star Shah Rukh Khan in Dubai, Ramadan’s sonic stardom affords him a ‘citizenship based on purchasing power’ (Sunya 2021: 233). This ‘deterritorialised citizenship contingent on class’ (Sunya 2021: 234) allows him to move throughout spaces and benefit from UAE’s (otherwise exploitative) neoliberal structures in exceptional ways, a privilege he addresses explicitly in ‘Versace Baby’. Invoking Versace in the song’s lyrics, Ramadan draws on a globally recognized brand to indicate his status and his exceptional social and economic mobility. These aspects of the song are emphasized in scenes in the video in which Ramadan rides around Dubai atop a fancy car with the city’s impressive cityscape in the background. As he sings, Ramadan boasts about the fact that he is not searched at the airport and brags that he can go around the world without ever having to present an ID. In his collaboration song and music video for ‘Ya Habibi’ with FrenchCongolese singer/rapper Maitre Gims in 2020, Dubai factors as a backdrop in a similar way. While singing about unrequited love, the singers dance in

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various spaces in Dubai: next to Ferraris in front of the Palazzo Versace Hotel, in the desert in front of a military-style desert cruiser and on a yacht in the Dubai Harbour. The video’s final shot shows us the two singers standing on the helicopter landing pad of a tall building, looking out onto the Dubai cityscape at night in a way that positions them as rulers of the city. Sonic stardom helps us examine the ways in which Ramadan benefits from the neoliberal structures that exploit many holders of the same passports. In flaunting his mobility, Ramadan associates himself with hierarchies of global power that Sprengel notes ‘[intersect] with, though [are] not reducible to, a proximity to lightness’ (Silverstein and Sprengel 2021). Although Ramadan may not be correlating his mobility with whiteness per se, his affiliation with a mobile, global elite allows him the sorts of privileges that whiteness often affords. This mobility, consciously championed by Ramadan, sets him apart from the sa’īdī characters from traditional Upper Egypt and the baltagi young men from the so-called slums of Cairo which he played in his early career. It also sits in tension with Ramadan’s efforts at asserting an African identity, given the ways in which refugees and migrants from parts of Africa experience structural racism and various forms of immobility within Egypt and other places where Ramadan is growing his fan base.

Conclusion In 2021, Ramadan headlined the All-Africa Festival in Dubai. In a telling comment, one of the festival’s organizers noted how ‘a lot of the time, African festivals are hidden on the other side of town because it felt like we didn’t want to be noisy and offend the neighbours’ (Denman 2021). With Ramadan as its star, however, the organizers seemed to avoid racist and xenophobic-charged accusations of noise and held the festival in the centre of the city. Ramadan’s sonic stardom facilitated the relaxing of racistinfused restrictions in ways not possible for those of cultural groups with whom he identifies but of different socio-economic mobility. Sonic stardom offers a useful frame within which to understand Ramadan’s star trajectory from a young actor stereotyped as sa’īdī and baltagi figures to a singer-rapper with an enormous YouTube presence and record deal with a prominent US label. In contrast to national frameworks that have often been drawn on in studies of stars in the Middle East and other parts of the global South, sonic stardom pays crucial attention to movement and mobility in critical ways. ‘Sonic’ is a helpful heuristic for understanding these dynamics, not just because it helps understand how Ramadan’s body is encoded by sound as it circulates in a range of contexts but also because it draws our attention to the inextricable intersections

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among identity, geography and time. Furthermore, thinking of the sonic as vibration, sonic stardom highlights the relational and affective qualities of stardom and how stars like Ramadan have an impact on how audiences understand their identities. As part of capturing larger markets, Ramadan capitalizes on the various nationalities, races and ethnicities that he claims to embody through his sonic stardom. Frances Hasso, drawing on Mark Anthony Neal, notes how ‘hip-hop performers make their mark and money in the cultural marketplace of racial capitalism rather than by demanding rights as radical activists’ (Hasso 2020: 210). In addition to celebrating his identity as Egyptian, Arab and African, Ramadan engages with global logics of race-making through references to globally recognized symbols, sounds and postures of hiphop culture on the media platforms with which he reaches his audiences. Sonic stardom, as Ramadan demonstrates in these instances, is a system that monetizes and capitalizes on difference in contradictory ways – both empowering and dangerous. Continued research is needed to understand the complex dynamics of stardom and the shifting particularities of local racial formations in the Middle East and Africa, but my hope is that Ramadan, through his sonic stardom, can offer us one tool with which to begin to untangle the localnational-global dynamics of race and stardom in Egypt in relation to the rest of the Middle East and Africa. This endeavour is key for helping us expand the vocabulary of critical race theory beyond the context of the United States and for thinking of stardom beyond national frameworks.

Note 1 I thank Karim Malak for his help in translating these lyrics.

Filmography ‘Abdu Mawta [Abdu Mawta] (2012), Dir. Ismail Farouk, Egypt: Sobky Films. Cairo Exit (2010) Dir. Hisham Issawi and Alexandra Kinias, Dubai: Dubai Media. The Eagle of Upper Egypt [Nasr as-sa’īd] (2018) Dir. Yasser Sami, Egypt: Attessia. The German [al-Almani] (2012), Dir. Alaa Elsherif, Egypt: Oscar for Distribution and Theaters. Hanan and Haneen [Hanan wa Haneen] (2007) by Magdy Abu Emeira, Egypt: Egypt Fixer Productions.

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Heart of the Lion [Qalb al-Asad] (2013), Dir. Kareem Sobky, Egypt: Sobky Films. Scheherazade, Tell Me a Story [Ehky ya Scheherazade] (2009), Dir. Yousry Nasrallah, Egypt: Facets Video. An Upper Egyptian [Wahid Sa’īdī] (2014), Dir. Ismail Farouk, Egypt: Albatros Film Productions.

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‘Mohamed Ramadan min qina: uhāwil taghīr sūrat as-saīd’ (2018), Akhbarak. https://akhbarak.net/news/2018/04/15/15187669/articles/30460888/ (accessed 15 June 2021). Mullally, W. (2021), ‘Exclusive: Mohamed Ramadan Is Levelling Up’, Esquire Middle East, 2 May. https://www.esquir​eme.com/cont​ent/52245-exclus​ive-moha​ med-rama​dan-is-levell​ing-up [accessed 15 June 2021]. Mustafa, R. 2018, ‘Bil-fideo: Muhammad Ramadan yarud ‘ala ‘unsurīyyat ‘klīb Bushra’: ‘asmar wa aftakhir’, Al-Wadī, 25 December. https://alwan.elwatannews.com/news/details/3891897/ (accessed 15 June 2021). Neal, M. A. (2013), Looking for Leroy: Illegible Black Masculinities, New York: NYU Press. Obadike, M. (2005), ‘Low Fidelity: Stereotypes Blackness in the Field of Sound’, PhD diss., Duke University. Omi, M., and W. Howard (2014), Racial Formation in the United States: From the 1960s to the 1990s, 3rd ed. New York: Routledge. Poole, M. N. (2011), ‘ “Brown Skin is Half of Beauty”: Representations of Beauty and the Construction of Race in Contemporary Cairo’, PhD Diss. Emory University. Pratt, N. (2020), ‘Making Sense of the Politics of the Egyptian Revolution in and through Popular Culture’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 52: 531–35. Saeed, S. (2020), ‘Mohamed Ramadan in Dubai: Egyptian Star on His UAE Golden Visa and Why He’s Focused on Africa’, The National News, 8 September. https://www.then​atio​naln​ews.com/arts-cult​ure/music/moha​med-rama​ dan-in-dubai-egypt​ian-star-on-his-uae-gol​den-visa-and-why-he-s-focu​sed-on-afr​ ica-1.1074​194 (accessed 5 July 2021). Silverstein, S., and D. Sprengel (2021), ‘An (Un)Marked Foreigner: Race-Making in Egyptian, Syrian, and German Popular Cultures’, Lateral: Journal of the Cultural Studies Association, 10(1). Sprengel, D. (2019), ‘ “More Powerful than Politics”: Affective Magic in the DIY Musical Activism after Egypt’s 2011 Revolution’, Popular Music, 31(1): 54–72. Stoever, J. (2016), The Sonic Color Line: Race & the Cultural Politics of Listening, New York: New York University Press. Sunya, S. (2021), ‘A Change of Address with Filmfare Middle East’, IIC Quarterly, 2020–21: 221–38. Telci, I. N. (2019), ‘Egypt’s Rise in the African Political Landscape: A Regional Power?’, Politics Today, 15 February. https://politi​csto​day.org/egy​pts-rise-in-theafri​can-politi​cal-landsc​ape-a-regio​nal-power/ (accessed 6 July 2021). Troutt Powell, E. M. (2012), Tell This in My Memory: Stories of Enslavement from Egypt, Sudan, and the Ottoman Empire, Palo Alto: Stanford University Press.

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10 A ‘Little Narrative’: Elderly Actresses in Contemporary Egyptian Cinema Dina Mohamed Abd Elsalam

In a world increasingly dominated by fabricated, stereotypical images of women, and teeming with young, slim, silicone-injected figures, elderly women have been relegated to the margins. Arab culture is not much different from Western culture in this respect as globalization has stretched the same criteria for beauty and femininity across the world. As Meeuf and Raphael argue, ‘That Monroe was an international icon of femininity and sexuality, of course, says a great deal about the international projection of Western gender norms’ (2013: 4). The position of elderly women is even worse in the film industry, and contemporary Egyptian cinema is no exception. In the majority of films, with a few exceptions, elderly actresses are assigned minor roles, which either present old age superficially or make use of it in a comedic way. The rise of independent cinema in Egypt in the 1990s and early twenty-first century not only broke traditional forms and modes of filmmaking but also brought forth new topics, which were often neglected in the commercial domain. One such topic is the life of elderly women. A renewed interest in their stories surfaced in the narratives of independent films, owing to the interest of the latter in ‘little narratives’ (1984: 60), to use Jean François Lyotard’s term, the narratives of the unprivileged and underrepresented. Far from the superficial representations of the elderly

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FIGURE 10.1  Elderly actresses in contemporary Egyptian cinema. Source: Designed by Bahia Shehab.

in mainstream cinema, these new representations take a serious interest in the lives of elderly women and delve into their sufferings, agonies and resilience. The outreach of mainstream Egyptian cinema has been transnational since its early beginnings. Egypt is known to be the heart of the cinema industry in the Arab world and is commonly referred to as the ‘Hollywood of the East’. Egyptian films gained Arab popularity like no other national Arab cinema, with the ultimate result of Egyptian actors becoming popular throughout the Arab world. As for independent films, the story is different. Their outreach is international, but limited to festivals, and only a few enjoy limited worldwide distribution. Locally, they are rarely popular and get slim chances of reaching substantial audiences. The aim of this chapter is to examine the roles and different representations of Egyptian female elderly stars in Egyptian mainstream cinema vis-à-vis Egyptian independent cinema through a number of films from both domains, comparing variations in the transnational outreach of both kinds of cinema and investigating the reasons behind their respective exportability. Due to the comparative nature of this study, the paper will mainly focus on the period starting from 2000, since this is when independent cinema flourished in Egypt.

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Lyotardian Little Narratives In The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge, Lyotard argues that in order for science to validate its existence, and legitimate itself, it must produce a discourse of legitimation, in this case it is philosophy (1984: xxiii). Like science, every belief system also has a grand narrative to validate its existence. These grand narratives are made up of three main corners: A narrative tradition is also the tradition of the criteria defining a threefold competence – ‘know-how’, ‘knowing how to speak’, and ‘knowing how to hear’ [savoir-faire, savoir-dire, savoir-entendre] – through which the community’s relationship to itself and its environment is played out. What is transmitted through these narratives is the set of pragmatic rules that constitutes the social bond. (1984: 21) Those who engage in these narratives (be they the ones who fabricate them, the ones who deliver them or the ones who receive them) have unwittingly become players in the game; they inhabit its structure, function within its boundaries and define themselves according to its rules. Lyotard goes on to define postmodernism as ‘incredulity toward metanarratives’ (1984: xxiv). In fact, he counterbalances the grands récits (grand narratives) of modernity with the petits récits (little narratives) of postmodernity. Little narratives pertain to local, provisional, situational practices and events and do not make any claim to ultimate truths or stable realities. They perforate the fabric of the totalizing grand narratives, hence destabilizing them and debunking the myth of ultimate truth and authentic reality. The narratives of figures distanced from the limelight such as Black people, slaves, agitators and the poor are definitely little narratives. In a patriarchal discourse which gives primacy to the patriarch and relegates women to the margins, so that their role becomes limited to child-bearing and child-rearing, or to pleasing the patriarch with their beauty and youth, the stories of women become little narratives. The situation of elderly women is even worse since they are considered dysfunctional according to the parameters of that system.

Elderly Actresses in Mainstream Egyptian Cinema In a patriarchal world, which defines women as either commodities for pleasure or baby machines, the worth of a woman decreases as she ages. The media, which constantly produces air-brushed images of young, slim models for women to hanker after, simultaneously produces skewed images

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of wrinkles and grey hair in need of immediate intervention with botox, silicon, plastic surgery and dyes. Advertisements ‘heighten anxieties about aging’ (Byetheway 1995: 65), and here I speak of global media as much as localized media, since in the age of globalization, it is easy to see how both are not much different from one another. The media are not the only culprit; child-rearing, education, medicine and the dominant religious discourses all help create and foster ageism. Ageism is glaringly apparent in contemporary Egyptian cinema. Producers tailor roles for young glamorous actresses, while elderly actresses are assigned evil roles, comedic ones that present old age in a funny way or minor stereotypical roles (mother, grandmother, aunt, mother-in-law, etc.) to help further the plot for the young actresses. Zouzou Nabil (1920–1996), the famous Egyptian actress, played the role of the enchanting beauty Scheherazade in an Egyptian broadcast series titled One Thousand and One Nights, directed by Mohamed Mahmoud Shabaan. Starting from 1955, the series ran for twenty-six years and no other actress replaced her throughout those years so much so that her voice was coupled with Scheherazade in the minds and hearts of Egyptian broadcast listeners. Ironically, when Nabil aged, she played the role of Rima in the 1987 TV series One Thousand and One Nights, directed by Fahmy Abd Elhamid. Rima is an old, wicked stepmother who tries to rob her three stepdaughters of their legitimate inheritance, and get rid of them through evil ruses, which is another stereotypical role associated with old age. To add salt to the wound, this televized adaptation still used Zouzou Nabil’s voice as Scheherazade from the older 1955 broadcast series in all of its animated parts, while the aged Zouzou Nabil was now playing the role of the wicked Rima in the live parts of the very same series. Herein lies the irony, for as a young actress she played the role of Scheherazade but as an old actress she played the role of the wicked old Rima. In one of her interviews, Amina Rezk (1910–2003), the well-established Egyptian actress, related how, after ageing, producers completely changed the way they treated her: her name was no longer written among the stars of the film, and her wage was dramatically reduced. She cited a particular incident in support of that view. As a young actress, she was asked to play the lead role in a film titled The Mother (Gemei 1945), where the mother was the protagonist: I was a star and in my prime, and the role was not that suitable for me as it was that of a mother with many children, and I was still young. They had to draw some wrinkles on my face, and I felt it would not look natural. But they still managed to reach an agreement with me to act that part and after many requests on their part, I reluctantly agreed to take only 2000 pounds, and let them be in charge of the costumes of the character. I played the part and the film was a success. Ten years later, when I was no longer young, and was much suited to play that role, they wanted to produce a remake of the film. Though I was perfectly fit for the

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role, with no need for artificial wrinkles, and had gained more experience, they grudgingly gave me 400 pounds. (Rezk n.d.) (my translation) The ordeal of elderly actresses is not particular to Egypt. Speaking of the position of actresses in Hollywood, director Sydney Lumet finds that they are: treated as sexual commodities. They may be asked to bare their breasts and/or bottoms or both. They know they’ll have to lose ten pounds before shooting starts. They may have had collagen pumped into their lips, undergone liposuction to take fat out of their thighs, changed hair color and the shape of their eyebrows, had tucks behind the ears to tighten the skin around their necks. All this before they’ve even begun rehearsals. They’ve been accepted or rejected on a purely physical basis before anything about emotions or characterization even comes into play. It has to be humiliating. And to top it all off, they know that when they hit forty or forty-five, there will be fewer and fewer offers, and they won’t be able to move into older parts the way men do. For forty-two-yearold Richard Gere to wind up with twenty-three-year-old Julia Roberts is perfectly acceptable. But just try the reverse. (1996: 61) Rezk’s grievances echo Lumet’s argument about how women are regarded in the cinema industry. As mentioned earlier, elderly women’s roles in mainstream cinema have always been limited to the minor roles of a mother, grandmother, neighbour, aunt, mother-in-law and so on. Marie Moneib (1905–1969), Fardous Mohamed (1906–1961) and Amina Rezk (1910– 2003) are cases in point, as they repeatedly played those roles in Egyptian films. In an attempt to counter the signs of ageing, many elderly actresses, particularly the stars of yesteryear, paint their faces with excessive make-up, dye their hair, inject botox into their faces and undergo facelifts. Since this chapter tackles representations of elderly women in Egyptian mainstream cinema vis-à-vis independent cinema, examples from both domains are going to be discussed in the following section. The examples analysed are in no way comprehensive, as it is beyond the scope of this chapter, but are prominent instances that clearly demonstrate the issue at hand. As mentioned earlier, the chapter mainly covers the first two decades of the twenty-first century.

Examples of Elderly Women’s Roles in Mainstream Egyptian Cinema At the age of eighty, Samiha Ayoub (1932–present), the well-known actress with a long-standing theatrical and cinematic career, hence graciously

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labelled ‘the Lady of the Arab Theatre’ (Sayedat elmasrah elarabi), had a comeback with a comedic role in My Horrible Grandma [Taitah Rahibah] (Abd Elaziz 2012), after seventeen years of boycotting the cinema, or in her own words, ‘divorcing’ it (Interview, my translation). Throughout those years, she found no suitable roles, and no place for herself in the cinema of the younger generation. Her initial reaction was to turn down the role, but after mulling the matter over, she decided not to be ‘frigid’ and to work with the new generation of writers and actors (Ayoub, my translation). In the film, she plays the role of a bossy, domineering grandmother, who constantly interferes with the life of her grandson, causing him constant trouble. She has an exaggeratedly strict personality, owing to her German roots, and keeps two German shepherd dogs, which she unleashes on those she believes should be punished for not abiding by her rules. Her role is seminal and in the credits her name comes next to Heneidy, the star of the film, preceded by her title, ‘Lady of the Arab Theatre’, in obvious recognition of her status. This in itself is an achievement, since there are rarely any films that feature elderly female protagonists. However, as is typical of comedies of manners, the characters are stock and stereotypical, and hers is flat and exaggerated with the ultimate aim of arousing laughter in the audience. These stock characters do not allow for a multidimensional depiction of the life of older women; moreover, as per this genre, the unfair characters get off scot-free with their ill doings. As such, the exceedingly assertive grandmother does not change or develop, despite having messed with her grandson’s life. Yousra (1955–present), the iconic star of Egyptian cinema, started acting in the seventies and became a star by the late 1980s and the early 1990s. Once she hit her sixties, her roles in cinema changed dramatically. A quick glance at the number of films versus the number of TV series she has starred in over the past decade clearly reveals that the cinema stars of yesteryear have a limited place in contemporary cinema, whereas TV series are more accommodating to them, since their audience is more varied and their topics tend to be more family oriented. At the age of sixty-one, Yousra was to play the lead figure in Game Over (El Badry 2012), an Egyptian adaptation of the American film Monster-in-Law (Luketic 2005), along with the young star Mai Ezz Eldin. Her role is that of a stereotypical jealous mother-in-law, who possessively loves her son and tries to ward off the girl he fell in love with through a series of mischievous plots. At the very beginning of the film, we see her humbled by the presence of a young glamorous star she is interviewing and looking jealously at the bare taut legs of the latter. By the end of the scene, her jealousy gets the better of her and she physically attacks the interviewee. The scene explicitly exposes her jealousy of younger women and sets the tone for the entire film. As such, the film presents another stock character and a stereotypical image of old age. The comedy of the film arises repeatedly from exaggerated performances and farcical gestures and movements.

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If this film presents what is generally known as a comedy of manners, we get a farcical representation of old age with the character of Atata in Okal (Elnajar 2004). Cross-dressing is one of main features of comedy, and in this film, the lead male character (Mohamed Saad) cross-dresses to perform the role of the old woman. As is typical of his performances, the character is presented in an exaggeratedly gaudy manner. Atata’s cross-eyed look, brittle wiry hair and unkempt clothes all contribute to the farcical representation of the character. Strangely, this kitschy character seems to have struck a chord with producers who further invested in it, as Atata would become the protagonist of a TV series titled Viva Atata (Abd Elaziz 2014). Thus, apart from the fact that the number of elderly female protagonist-led films in mainstream cinema is extremely limited, the roles allotted to them are either stereotypical at best, or farcical, caricatured and denigrating of old age. Though comedy is an established genre in mainstream Egyptian cinema, elderly women stars are mainly given farcical comedic roles, thus leaving little to no room for an in-depth treatment of the issues of the elderly. On a different but related note, the feature film Photocopy (Ashry 2017) presents the love story of an elderly couple. Sherine Reda, who was in her late forties, was cast in the role of an elderly woman in her seventies. To compensate for her age, she was subjected to ageing make-up, which still did not achieve the desired effect. Photocopy was produced by Red Star, a production and distribution company founded by Safei Eldin Mahmoud in 2013, which produces films with an indie spirit but still plays close attention to the preferences of cinema-goers. The decision to cast a real elderly actress seems to have been too risky for commercial reasons. However, films of this kind are quite rare and in no way constitute the general tendency of mainstream cinema. In fact, this film lies midway between independent and mainstream cinema and is reminiscent of New Realist Egyptian cinema, as will be explained in the following section.

Elderly Women in New Realist Egyptian Cinema The second wave of realism in Egyptian cinema, which came to be known as New Realism, started in the 1980s and was led by the young directors Mohamed Khan, Atef Eltayeb, Daoud Abd El-Sayyed and Khairy Beshara. Though it was based on stars and the commercial system of production (Shafik 1998: 142), it differed in its subject matter and the way it rendered its topics. Its main aim was to bring the lives of the marginalized to the screen. It is worthwhile noting that the first wave of realism started in the early 1950s with the works of Salah Abou Seif (who is known as the father of realism in Egyptian cinema), Taufik Salih and Youssef Chahine. The main

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interest of the first phase was also the depiction of the marginalized and the lower classes. However, its course was interrupted by the reprivatisation of 1971, which meant that the ‘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’ (Shafik 1998: 142). Land of Dreams [Ardh el-Ahlam] (1993), by Abd El-Sayyed, depicts a one-day encounter between Narges, an elderly mother, played by the iconic actress Faten Hamama (1931–2015) (who was sixty-three years old then), and Raouf, the magician, played by Yehia El-Fakhrany (1945–present). Narges has lost her passport and ticket and has to find them as she is immigrating to the United States the following morning. Raouf, the drunk magician, gets involved with her search for the passport. Although their relationship is quite tense at the beginning, they become totally connected by the end of the film. Interest in the elderly is not confined to the main plot of the film but also extends to the minor plot, which features the distinguished Amina Rezk in the role of the mother of Narges. Similarly, in a number of memorable and touching scenes in Messages from the Sea [Rassayel el bahr] (2010), another film by Abd El-Sayyed, the protagonist’s encounters with his old Italian neighbour in Alexandria are warm and eye-opening. Knowing that Abd El-Sayyed is one of the founding figures of New Realism in Egyptian Cinema explains this different representational style, as one of the aims of New Realist Cinema was to bring the lives of the marginalized to the screen, hence Abd El-Sayyed’s interest in elderly women. It stands to reason that the portrayal of the elderly in films that form part of the New Realist movement is different from their portrayal in commercial cinema.

Transnational Outreach of Mainstream Cinema Despite the fact that the cinema has undergone huge developments in many Arab countries, Egypt, with its long-standing cinematic history, remains the centre of filmmaking in the Arab world. Historically, Egypt ‘was the first Arab country to create a national cinema industry’ (Shafik 1998: 2). Talaat Harb, the leading Egyptian economist who had previously established Bank Misr (The Bank of Egypt) in 1920 established Studio Misr in 1935, the first national studio of its kind in the Arab world. The new cinema ‘focused its efforts on the production of feature films, and expanded the opportunities for films to be made, shot and edited within Egypt’ (Elsaket 2015: 40), all of which pushed forward the nascent cinema industry in Egypt. Distribution of Egyptian mainstream films across the Arab world has always been an extremely lucrative business, and most of the profits come from foreign rather than local distribution. Traditionally, foreign

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distribution of Egyptian films targeted cinema theatres and TV channels. For instance, Behna Films, the biggest Egyptian distribution company, which was established in the 1930s and functioned until 1961, had agents in Syria, Lebanon, Jordan, Iraq, Iran, France and all of the North African countries. Since 1933, Egypt has marketed ‘its products in neighbouring countries, thus hampering other regional non-Egyptian efforts to start alternative large scale productions’ (Shafik 2007: 5). In the 1970s, the Gulf countries became another lucrative market for Egyptian cinema. Recently, digital platforms, which are largely owned by Gulf countries, have taken the scene by storm. Thus, ‘despite increasing competition in the Arab market and an evident diversification of products and services in the Arab media industry … Egypt still hosts the major entertainment industry in the Middle East’ (Shafik 2007: 4). The result of this cinematic hegemony is that Egyptian stars have always enjoyed Arab, rather than local, fandom and popularity to the extent that they often function as the representatives of Egyptian culture, humour and dialect. The Egyptian dialect gained widespread popularity across the Arab world and became the most accessible among Arab dialects owing to the far-reaching influence of Egyptian cinema. Arab actors aspiring to achieve Arab rather than national fandom had to move to Cairo to realize that aim. Egyptian movies were exported to Arab countries depending largely on the stars that featured in them, and these stars were always the winning card in transnational circulation and marketing. The position of elderly Egyptian women stars is not much different; they too are transnational, since their older movies transcended national boundaries. They used to be stars in the past, but with old age, their roles have become marginal, limited and stereotypical. Their former transnational stardom has been replaced by the precariousness of their current situation. There are a handful of movies that buck this trend and these tend to remain smaller narratives in independent films. After the above discussion of the way elderly women are portrayed in mainstream films, the roles they are typically cast in and the transnational outreach of those films, the next section of this chapter examines the way they are portrayed in independent films and looks at the reach and exportability of these films globally.

Brief Introduction to Independent Cinema Broadly speaking, what facilitated the rise of independent cinema in the first place was technological advances in digital cameras and editing units. Prior to that, expensive 35mm motion picture cameras and celluloid film stock were a stumbling block for any aspiring independent filmmaker, and making a film using celluloid-based cameras represented a barrier

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to independent filmmaking. When digital cameras hit the market, indie filmmakers could make films with these fairly cheap cameras and could also edit their films on computers at home or in small studios, as there was no need to develop celluloid film in a lab and then edit it in conventional costly studios. Independent cinema was labelled as such not only because it made use of different equipment from the ones traditionally used on film sets but because it also broke free from the constraints imposed by producers and distributors, who set the criteria for what was to be presented to cinema audiences. In fact, independent films came forth ‘out of a creative need to explore new themes, new forms, and new styles, as well as a politically motivated need to render unfamiliar or “hidden” experiences previously ignored’ (Levy 1999: 53). Independent cinema gathered momentum in the 1990s in Cairo when Pro Helvetia (the Swiss Cultural Centre) held workshops for Video Art from 1990 and then held an Independent Digital Cinema workshop in 1997. Simultaneously, the Cinema Palace also held training courses for amateurs (Hassouna 2005: 11), and the Academy of Cinema Arts and Technology (established by Rafaat Elmeehy in 2003) provided yet another important venue for many independent filmmakers. The first glimpses of independent cinema in Alexandria were to be spotted at the beginning of the twenty-first century when the Jesuit Cultural Centre held the first of its many filmmaking workshops in 2003. The General Organization of Cultural Palaces also organized a number of forums that were held at El-Tazouk Palace at Sidi Gaber and presented by Mona Elsabban (2003–5), who started giving regular workshops after that from 2005 to 2012 in Alexandria (Elsabban 2019). Indie filmmakers who did not partake of those activities either took courses abroad or were self-taught. The establishment of a number of private studios was another major step, which helped sustain indie filmmaking in both cities. Since its onset, Egyptian indie cinema has been distant from commercial cinema because it presented different ideas, visions and technical experimentation. Speaking of the endeavours of indie filmmakers, Alkassim finds that they try to: address if not crack the monolith of culture. They engage, in their media articulations, a wielding of theory towards the rewriting of stories of a place and its characters. … They use the city as open museum, the face as open text, and culture as narrative apparatus, towards a different poetics of image, place and paradox. (2005: 53) Independent Egyptian filmmakers are similar to indie filmmakers all over the world. Speaking of the independent cinema movement in the United States, Scott MacDonald finds that the work of indie filmmakers ‘can be understood as an ongoing protest against the catholic power of the entertainment

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industry. By the mid-1960s a new cinematic protestantism seemed (at least in the minds of some) poised to challenge the overwhelming domination of the industry’ (2006: 5). If, broadly speaking, dominant cinema industries serve the power relations of society, be they social, political or economic, indie filmmakers are understandably critical of those discourses and attempt to disrupt them by tapping into the stories of the unheard and underprivileged, hence bringing the ‘little narratives’ of the sick, old, poor and outcast to the forefront. Indie cinemas can be understood as grassroots movements whose raison d’être is to showcase the stories of those who have been silenced and pushed to the margins by dominant power structures.

Elderly Women in Independent Cinema In independent films, ageing women are not presented as objects to be pitied or laughed at, nor are they marginal characters who play stereotypical roles. They become protagonists in their own right and are depicted as multidimensional characters full of conflicting feelings and needs. Their ‘little narratives’ come under the limelight and are presented with the depth traditionally befitting of ‘grand narratives’. The way their stories are rendered is no longer superficial or farcical. The camera no longer shuns their wrinkles and grey hair, nor do they need to hide under layers of make-up. In no way is the following account comprehensive; however, it tackles some of the main independent films that cast ageing female stars in lead roles. Since this chapter is primarily concerned with elderly stars, independent films that tackle the lives of the elderly, but feature ageing actresses, not stars, have been left out. Coming Forth by Day (2013) by Hala Lotfy, Rest in Peace (2014) and Mesteka and Rehan (2017) by Dina Abd Elsalam deal with old age, but do not feature stars. In fact, indie filmmakers hardly ever cast stars in their films, one reason being that they simply cannot afford to do so, even if the star agrees to reduce their pay. Indie filmmakers also often refuse to partake in the star system, precisely because it has been fabricated by commercial cinema and the key players of film distribution. In Cactus Flower (2017) by Hala Elkoussy, two of the main characters in the film are elderly women: the protagonist’s mother and her neighbour. The film portrays the life of a single ambitious actress (the protagonist) who has to battle with economic and societal pressures. The characters of the elderly women in the film are equally important. Speaking of the elderly characters in the film, Elkoussy says: I wanted to present an alternative view of the stereotypical mother who gives up everything for her children. I wanted to posit that a woman who opts for a divorce is not an unloving mother, but sometimes the choices are not all there. The neighbour Samiha (the other elderly character) …

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is equally marginalised by society for her age, but also for the freedom she allowed herself from societal constraints. She opened up for me the possibility of a relationship with an older woman that is not a motherdaughter relationship. It is possible to be friends with older people, in an understanding that friendship is a relationship between equals. The older woman has something to offer the young woman and vice versa. (2019) The two elderly characters are played by the two elderly actresses, Arfa Abd Elrasoul and Menha El Batroui, who, according to the director, are like the characters they play since they work outside the framework of commercial cinema. Though Abd Elrasoul has recently managed to enter the commercial system, she has been outside of it for thirty years (Elkoussy 2019). Abd Elrasoul now features in many commercial films and TV series, which cast her in stereotypical roles, and has accordingly become a star, while El Batroui has always remained outside the commercial circuit, hence she is not a star in the conventional sense. At the age of eighty, Raga Hussein (1937–2022), the famous Egyptian actress, who started her career in 1958 by joining El-Rihani’s theatrical troupe (one of the most important troupes in the history of Egyptian theatre), was cast in the lead role of Affability (2017) by Ahmed Nader. In commercial films, she is wellknown for playing non-lead mother roles. The film relates the story of a lonely widow who imagines that her deceased husband is still around. Throughout the film, we see the couple talking, arguing, cracking jokes until it is gradually revealed that the husband has passed away. As such, the film presents her way of coping with the loss of her beloved husband. Safeya Elemery’s (1949–present) beauty and her elaborate eye make-up had gained widespread popularity during the last three decades of the twentieth century, so much so that a certain model of the Mitsubishi Lancer car that appeared in the 1990s was commonly referred to as ‘Safeya’s eyes’. At the age of seventy-one, she starred in the short film What Remained (Bassaly 2020). The film starts with the hands of an old lady fumbling with old cassette tapes, who is confusedly unable to put a tape in the cassette player. What follows is a journey down memory lane, albeit a confused one. The old lady rummages through her memories, which bring forth pain and suffering. The film keeps moving back and forth, allowing us glimpses into the heroine’s past and present, her fragility and her insecurity due to the signs of ageing. Her old love affair came to an end because of her mother’s Jewish origins, and the return of her beloved and his wish to resume the relationship after so many years intensifies her ordeal and is met with refusal on her part for several reasons, including her lack of self-confidence. In the end, she dies all by herself in her apartment and it is the smell of her rotten corpse that draws attention to her death. But even this story is not certain, for the film’s narrative is confusing, non-linear and uses mixed identities. Elemery has been sidelined in mainstream cinema for years, but with the rise

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of indie films, she has been able to make a comeback in a film that bears her name as the star, and that delves into the grievances and hardships of old age. Thus, it is only through indie films that the former star was able to find a place for herself once more.

Transnational Outreach of Independent Films Independent films cross national boundaries as they are screened in numerous international festivals; in fact, this is the common route that these films take once they are released. So though the outreach of commercial cinema is mainly within Arab boundaries, indie films travel worldwide. The aforementioned indie films have all been screened at international festivals and have all received international awards. Cactus flower, for example, premiered in Rotterdam International Film Festival (2017), and Menha El Batroui received a Best Actress Award for her performance at Dubai Film Festival (2017). Affability received the Bronze Tanit at Carthage (2017) and the Best Short Film award at the Arab Film Festival organized by the Arab World Institute in Paris (2018). As such, they have transcended national boundaries, but their circulation abroad remains limited to festivals and niche cinema markets. Locally, these indie films are not made available to the masses in Egypt. Distributors, who still maintain a strong degree of control over the industry, are not interested in these narratives. Typically, these films are either screened in festivals or at cultural centres. By contrast, commercial films are shown in cinema theatres, aired on TV channels, are available on most platforms and hence are available to mass audiences. This means that the circulation of these ‘little narratives’ is limited and that there remains a clear power imbalance in terms of funding and distribution. Within the power relations of the Egyptian film market network, indie films are often marginalized as much as elderly women stars. Casting major stars in these films may have had some positive impact on the ability of some of them to secure funding and be screened at wellestablished transnational festivals, but their commercial viability remains the same as they are still not part of the mainstream domain. In order for me to write this chapter, I had to personally contact the filmmakers, who sent me password-protected links to their films. The reason why indie filmmakers do not make their films available on the internet is that festivals, the only venue for these films, do not accept films that are in the public domain. When these films are no longer eligible to screen at festivals, filmmakers try hard to distribute their films, but it remains a tough journey with unpredictable results.

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A Light at the End of the Tunnel? A number of festivals are now dedicated solely to old age. As per their website, The Legacy Film Festival on Aging, which started in 2011 in the United States, ‘celebrates the ageing process as profound and meaningful, often challenging, and always courageous’. This international film festival accepts films from all over the world as long as they portray people who are fifty-five years of age and older. A more recently founded festival is the Women Over 50 Film Festival (WOFFF), which started in 2015 in Britain, and which celebrates the work of women over fifty, either in the lead role (in the cast) or as a writer, producer or director (in the crew). Speaking about the motive that drove her to establish the Women Over Fifty Film Festival, Nuala O’Sullivan, the director of the festival, beautifully sums up the predicament of elderly women in the film industry: As a woman in my 50s I wrote and produced the short film Microscope, in 2014. The film was about a middle-aged woman examining her life and marriage. With my producer’s hat on I started going to short film festivals but I found I wasn’t seeing many older women on the screen and around socially after screenings. Not many people talked to me. I felt lonely and isolated, which was the exact opposite of how I expected to feel in a room full of people who had the same interest and passion in storytelling and film as me. It got me thinking about questions like: Who’s not running film festivals? Who’s not on the screen? Who’s not behind the camera? Who’s not in the room? Then, over a pint in the Marlborough Pub in Brighton one night, I was talking to my pal, Maggi, about how I was feeling about my film and film festivals, and Maggi said, ‘Well, bugger that! Let’s start our own film festival.’ And that’s how Women Over 50 Film Festival began. (2019) With four years between the establishment of these two festivals (2011 and 2015), one can easily infer that there is growing interest in this age group. Niche festivals of this kind, as is always the case, grow out of an urgent need to give space to the voices of the underrepresented. Not only do these festivals help represent the ‘little narratives’ of the elderly on screen, but they draw attention to their contribution to the industry itself as directors, writers, editors and producers. While these festivals remain niche and their outreach is still limited in many ways, they provide a welcome space for films about ageing from all over the globe, including the Arab world.

Conclusion Aside from some exceptions in mainstream cinema, most representations of elderly women tend to be either superficial or comedic. Unlike mainstream cinema, independent cinema has genuine interest in the ‘little narratives’

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of the elderly. In many independent films, elderly women are placed in the foreground and their stories become the crux of the work. Wrinkles, shaking hands, quivering voices, sagging skin and failing health are regarded as the beautiful marks of memory and history. The ‘little narratives’ of independent cinema function as antitheses to the metanarratives circulated by commercial cinema, as they challenge stereotypes and thereby attract the attention of elderly stars. So far, these ‘little narratives’ remain stories of the marginalized, created by marginalized artists, and are denied wide circulation and distribution within their countries. However, they have often managed to cross borders and be screened in international festivals where they have garnered prestigious awards. With the emergence of numerous film and streaming platforms, the rising demand for more varied content gives more marketable opportunities to independent filmmakers. The future remains unknown, but at least a pebble has been thrown in water.

Filmography Affability (2017), [Film] Dir. A. Nader, Egypt. Cactus Flower (2017), [Film] Dir. H. Elkoussy, Egypt: Nu’ta Films, Transit Films & Duo Films. Coming Forth by Day (2013), [Film] Dir. H. Lotfy, Egypt: Hassala Productions. Game Over (2012), [Film] Dir. A. El Badry, Egypt: El Sobki Film. Land of Dreams (1993), [Film] Dir. D. Abd El-Sayyed, Egypt: International Company for TV & Cinema. Messages from the Sea (2010), [Film] Dir. D. Abd El-Sayyed, Egypt: Arabia Cinema Production & Distribution. Mesteka and Rehan (2017), [Film] Dir. Dina Abd Elsalam, Egypt. Monster in Law (2005), [Film] Dir. R. Luketic, USA: BenderSpink & Spring Greek Pictures. The Mother (1945), [Film] Dir. O. Gemei, Egypt. My Horrible Grandma (2012), [Film] Dir. S. Abd Elaziz, Egypt: Waleed Sabry. Okal (2004), [Film] Dir. M. Elnajar, Egypt: El Sobki. One Thousand and One Nights (1955–81), [Radio Series] Dir. M. M. Shabaan, Egypt. One Thousand and One Nights (1987), [TV Series] Dir. F. Abd Elhamid, Egypt. Photocopy (2017), [Film] Dir. T. Ashry, Egypt: Red Star. Rest in Peace (2014), [Film] Dir. Dina Abd Elsalam, Egypt. Viva Atata (2014), [TV Series] Dir. S. Abd Elaziz, Egypt: El Adl Group. What Remained (2020), [Film] Dir. R. Bassaly, Egypt: Egyptian Film Centre.

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References Alkassim, S. (2005), ‘Cracking the Monolith: Video and Film Art in Cairo’, in A. Hassouna and M. El-Assyouti (eds), Independent Cinema in Egypt, 53–7, Cairo: Audiovisual Development Foundation (AVDF). Ayoub, S. (n.d.), Interview, YouTube. https://www.yout​ube.com/watch?v=LYRN​ Nd2m​QPs (accessed 18 July 2023). Byetheway, B. (1995), Ageism, Buckingham: Open University Press. Elkoussy, H. (2019), Personal Interview. Elsabban, M. (2019), Personal Interview. Elsaket, I. (2015) ‘The Star of the East: Umm Kulthum and Egyptian Cinema’, in A. Bandhauer and M. Royer (eds), Stars in World Cinema: Film Icons and Star Systems across Cultures, 35–50, London: I.B. Tauris. Hassouna, A. (2005), Independent Cinema in Egypt: Its Beginnings and Development, in A. Hassouna and M. El-Assyouti (eds.), translated by researcher, Independent Cinema In Egypt, 10–13, Cairo: Audiovisual Development Foundation (AVDF). Levy, E. (1999), Cinema of Outsiders: The Rise of American Independent Film, New York: New York University Press. Lumet, S. (1996), Making Movies, New York: Vintage Books. Lyotard, J. (1984), The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge, trans. Geoff Bennington and Brian Massumi, Manchester: Manchester University Press. MacDonald, S. (2006), A Critical Cinema 5: Interviews with Independent Filmmakers, Berkeley: University of California Press. Meeuf, R., and R. Raphael (2013), ‘Introduction’, in R. Meeuf and R. Raphael (eds), Transnational Stardom: International Celebrity in Film and Popular Culture, 1–16, New York: Palgrave Macmillan. O’Sullivan, N. (2019), ‘In Conversation with Nuala O’Sullivan’, Home, 2 August. https://home​mcr.org/arti​cle/in-conve​rsat​ion-with-nuala-osulli​van/ (accessed 18 July 2023). Rezk, A. (n.d.), ‘Interview by Moufeed Fawzy’, YouTube, 2019. https://youtu.be/ ka31​kKx4​Tyc (accessed 18 July 2023). Shafik, V. (1998), Arab Cinema: History & Cultural Identity, Cairo: American University Cairo Press. Shafik, V. (2007), Popular Egyptian Cinema: Gender, Class and Nation, Cairo: American University Cairo Press.

PART THREE

Power and Politics: The Ideologies and Reception of Arab Stars

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11 Habiba M’sika and Haydée Chikly: Tragic Transnational Fandom and the Feminist Legacy of the Earliest Stars of Arab Cinema Stefanie Van de Peer

Habiba M’sika (1903–1930) and Haydée Chikly (1906–1998) were the very first Tunisian, African and Arab stars of stage and screen respectively. M’sika was a singer, dancer and theatre actress whose enormous success in Tunis, still a colonial city at the time of her career, brought her to Europe, and back to Tunis again as a nationalist activist. The fandom she garnered as a diva of the stage hastened her tragic demise as a jealous fan and ex-lover killed her at the mystical age of 27.1 Her financial and cultural independence and her commitment to the nationalist cause in Tunisia solidified her reputation as an extraordinary superstar invested in her country’s artistic production. M’sika hosted salons where artists exchanged ideas, and her reputation as a fiercely independent woman provided her with a huge fan base during her lifetime. Chikly wrote stories and film scripts and performed the role of the female protagonist in the films Zohra (Chikly 1922) and Girl from Carthage [Aïn al Ghezal] (Chikly 1924), films that are usually entirely credited to her father, Albert Samama Chikly. These Tunisian films and Albert’s name are often associated with being the

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FIGURE 11.1  Habiba M’sika and Haydée Chikly and the feminist legacy of the earliest stars of Arab cinema. Source: Designed by Mira Hani Makram and Salma Elbarbary.

first ever African or Arab films. While Chikly’s reputation as an inventor, enthusiast and promoter remains, his daughter’s role in developing his film career is all too often ignored and indeed his strict control over her career directly resulted in the conventional narrative of a man stopping a woman in her progress. After she gained a role in The Arab, a 1924 film by Rex Ingram, she was offered the opportunity to work in Hollywood, but her father prevented this. As such, both M’sika and Chikly were foundational to the very colourful and female-led history of Tunisian and Arab theatre and film cultures but are very rarely, if ever, given the attention they deserve in scholarship. As Jewish-Tunisian women they occupy a very specific space in the country’s cultural history, and though they gained enormous popular and critical successes during their lifetimes and careers, both were cut short. In this chapter, I use Jewish-Tunisian Albert Memmi’s post-colonial theories of the role of the Jewish community in North African culture and outline the significance of biography and fandom in the lives of (female) stars. In what follows, I first discuss these two stars’ rise to celebrity and stardom, I then look at their reception and fandom, and finally I engage with their legacy as icons of Tunisia’s female cultural history. Due to their tragic fates,

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not a lot of information on their lives is available in English, so my source material is predominantly francophone. I watched the restored Zohra on Youtube,2 and the surviving eighteen-minute fragment of the film Girl from Carthage by Chikly online,3 also restored by CNC Archives Françaises du Film, while my knowledge on Habiba M’sika stems from research rooted in a fictionalized account of the singer’s final three years of her life in the film Habiba M’sika: La Danse du Feu, by Selma Baccar (1994). The biopic is fictionalized, partial and biased, but provides an original Tunisian and feminist perspective on the star. Bringing them together and engaging in depth with their sociocultural identities in the context of early Tunisian nationalism highlights their shared roles in shaping Tunisia’s female legacy in a transnational understanding of Arab cinema.

Rise to Celebrity and Stardom: Tunisian Nationalism and Jewish Internationalism These two Jewish women’s roles in early Tunisian theatre and cinema are intimately linked to the colonial history of the country. Their stellar rise to fame in North Africa of the 1920s was only possible because of their Jewishness in a country that was at the time still entirely defined as a colony by its French occupiers. As I will explain, while both publicly embodied and represented aspects of the growing Tunisian nationalist sentiments, a so-called Tunisianité, they also – simultaneously – embodied a foreignness, which contained the privilege inherent to their Jewishness. This in-betweenness of the Jewish identity in North Africa is at the centre of Memmi’s definition of Maghrebi Jewish identity. Jewish communities and the Jewish faith have been a constant presence in North Africa. In Tunisia specifically, Jews have been part of the make-up of the population since at least the tenth century bc. The indigenous community of Amazighs converted to Judaism very early on, and indeed, in Tunisia, the Jewish population is one of the oldest in the Jewish diaspora (Attal and Sitbon 1986: n.p.). According to Tessler and Hawkins, Jews in Tunisia are a non-assimilating minority that rejects secularism (1980: 61), currently still living under a constitution that makes Islam the religion of the state. For this chapter, though, I want to focus on the period at the start of the twentieth century, during which M’sika and Chikly were most active in public life and the Maghreb was going through profound cultural shifts, reshaping society and culture completely (Silver, Abrevaya Stein and Boum 2019). During this colonial period, there was no Tunisian state or state religion yet, and in the 1920s specifically, anti-colonial sentiments were growing, especially in Tunis and the rest of urban Tunisia, where the actresses lived and worked. Though the peaceful integration of denominations in the pre-independence period

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is a myth, the hybridity of Maghrebi and Tunisian culture and society at the start of the twentieth century is commonly acknowledged. There was, among Jews, both a commitment to the particularities of a Tunisian identity as well as an acceptance of France as their spiritual home. As such, Jewish communities benefited from and were part of a political force that Arab Tunisians considered oppressive. Their acculturation into the European cultural milieux resulted in what I would call a super-hybridity, maybe even a transnationalism, before the establishment of the state, in which Jews were able to embrace multiple and sometimes seemingly contradictory movements and identities at once: identifying with both the French civilising mission and with growing anti-colonial nationalism. As Tessler and Hawkins explain, those Jews that most fervently supported nationalism in Tunisia were ironically from the most Westernized sectors of society (1980: 61). This is also how Memmi perceives North African Jews: as a hybrid people that identify both with the colonizer and with the colonized: as a Jew, he says, ‘I know the colonizer from the inside almost as well as I know the colonized’ (Memmi 2003: 9). Identifying with Europeans and seeing themselves as (only slightly) better than Muslims, this affliction of being both insider and outsider seems universal for Jewish identity, thus making it an inherently transnational identity. In spite of being treated, like all Tunisians, as secondclass citizens by the French occupiers, for Jewish Tunisians ‘the West was the paragon of all civilization, all culture’ (Memmi 2003: 10). Memmi describes Jewish Tunisians as a ‘half-breed of colonization, understanding everyone because [they] belonged completely to no one’ (Memmi 2003: 12). For him, the colonizer and the colonized were entwined in a deep and meaningful, though not a loving relationship. The North African Jew, in Memmi’s conceptualization, embodied that complex link, that difficult relationship, in his in-between position. As so many important twentieth-century philosophers and theorists have done, Memmi neglects women in his study, and the word ‘his’ is perhaps the most-used word in his book. This has been the case in a lot of writing on Tunisian history as well, including in film and cultural studies, and this is precisely why dedicating a study to M’sika and Chikly benefits all of those disciplines. The super-hybridity of the Jewish people in Tunisia mentioned above becomes even more complex as white women occupied yet another interstitial space in North Africa of the early twentieth century. The internationalist feminist emancipation of the Suffragette movement and the fight for equal and voting rights was epoch-defining, and the age of the flapper indeed pushed women into the public sphere of performance and other cultural experiences. As Jewish women in Tunisia like Chikly and M’sika identified so strongly with their French counterparts, their aesthetic, their fashion and their behaviour can be read in the context of the francophone Jazz age, also called les années folles. This was a period between the two world wars in which the entertainment world, including

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stage-based arts such as cabaret, music, theatre, operetta, performances and cinema flourished, and in which a sense of optimism accompanied the discovery of large audiences for popular and commercial arts. It was also, in France especially, the time of négrophilia, in which Black arts and artists were used as inspiration and indeed exploited in the development of European and American art forms. This developed into négritude in the 1930s, an era in which anti-colonial sentiments collided with a newfound self-confidence in Black intellectuals’ writings. It is in this context that Tunisianité can be read too: in the era in which there was a growing nationalist sentiment, an identity that is typically Tunisian is constructed and aspired to through religion, language practices, artistic expressions and fashion. The blending of cultures such as Amazigh, Jewish and Arab is a primary factor in the typical Tunisian identity. While this unifying principle became, later during President Habib Bourguiba’s era, a homogenous and oppressive power, in the 1920s and 1930s a real energy came from the sense that there was such a thing as a potential Tunisian identity, and for the Jewish women under discussion here, this was a part of the public persona they were able to construct for themselves and for their fans to consume. As Silver writes, M’sika was a Jewish ‘superstar’, a woman with extraordinary power even after her death, when her records gained increasingly large audiences beyond Tunisia, and indeed inspired anticolonialist sentiments with her pan-Arabist songs. Her funeral was such a spectacular event that the colonial powers expressed worry about increasing insurgencies (2018). Indeed, it is perhaps possible that her spectacular funeral directly led to her transnational posthumous success in the wider pan-Arab context. For Chikly, the tragedy is that her long life failed to live up to the promise of her early career because her father explicitly held her back. In both cases, although the opposite occurred for the women’s journey through transnational stardom and celebrity, it can be claimed that it is due to their being Jewish and women, and therefore doubly oppressed, that they achieved the success that they did, but also that this success and their popularity were cut short by the men in their lives.

Production, Reception and Fandom: Transnationalism Chikly wrote the scripts for and played the protagonist in her father’s silent short films and Girl from Carthage. With their local stories these films are entirely original though perhaps not completely free of the orientalist flavour so popular in the early twentieth century. Before independence, any film cultures in North Africa in general, and in Tunisia specifically, were defined by colonial society’s paternalistic attitudes towards Arab people, characters

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and stories. As elsewhere, colonial cinema consisted of works that ‘used the Maghreb as an exotic backdrop full of palm trees, camels and belly dancers. They conveyed a heavily distorted image of North Africa’ (Shafik 2016: 16). Both the French industry and Hollywood thrived on films that exoticized the inhabitants of these areas and that spoke to the (sordid) imagination of the belle époque. Indeed, in reaction to the dominance of Hollywood, on the one hand, and the rise of Egyptian cinema, on the other, France in the 1920s and 1930s wanted to ‘strengthen its position in Morocco and Tunisia’, and ‘started to represent fierce fights and battles with “evil Arabs” ’ (Shafik 2016: 16). In contrast to the ‘foreign’ depictions of these exotic lands, the Tunisian efforts by Chikly emphasized the idyll of rural Tunisia. By focusing on the peaceful landscapes and simple indigenous folk inhabiting it, the films stay closer to the ‘views’ filmed by the Lumières’ cameramen than to the adventure films in which the ‘native’ is a stranger or an enemy, yet they were still also exoticized depictions of the indigenous populations. In Chikly’s first two films, the stories are firmly rooted in local landscapes but are internationalist in their broadest sense: a tragic love story between young people thwarted by class differences is presented in a mix of ethnographic observation and romantic exoticization. The fact that the Chiklys portray Amazigh people in their stories is linked to this (not-yet nationalist but) transnational ethic and aesthetic: as Jews they identify easily with the Amazigh in that the Amazigh converted to Judaism long before the French had arrived in the country, and Amazigh culture also provided a visually interesting, perhaps even nostalgic, context for a rural idyll in which a universal love story blossoms and then tragically ends. Nevertheless, the adaptation of Amazigh culture in these early short films simultaneously also results in an exoticization of the indigenous communities, through the mythologization of native innocence, depicted especially through the figure of a young woman in love. In Zohra, Chikly portrays a young (she was fifteen years old when the film came out) French girl shipwrecked on the coast of North Africa and rescued and taken in by an indigenous family. She is adorned with stunning robes and jewellery. In Girl from Carthage, she is an Amazigh girl called Aïn al Ghezal, equally young, beautiful and naïve in her innocence, as represented by her pet fawn and the way in which they skip through the landscape of the film together. In the story, her father agrees to marry her off to a rich but mean sheikh without consulting her. Meanwhile, Aïn al Ghezal is in love with the handsome local teacher, dedicated to his pupils in school and to singing the song to prayer from the nearby mosque. They gaze at one another longingly, she from her balcony and he from the top of the minaret. The tragic ending of the film symbolically parallels life for Chikly, as she commits suicide when her beloved is killed by her fiancé, the way the actress’ career and stardom were killed by the arrangement her father makes, preventing her from pursuing her dream in the international

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film industry. The film is clearly written from a female perspective, and an emancipated perspective at that, as one of the intertitles explicitly states ‘et sans se soucier de ce que pouvait en penser Aïn-el-Ghezal, le marriage fut décidé’, or ‘and without considering what Aïn-el-Ghezal might think of it, the marriage was decided’. The sentence implies outrage at this patriarchal attitude of the older men and reflects a modern sensitivity on the part of the female writer of the film, combining the innocence of the young girl on the screen with an emancipatory attitude by the woman scriptwriter. From a naïve young girl playing in the fields with her pet fawn, she becomes an oppressed young woman sold off by her father to the highest bidder, eventually choosing suicide as the only option out of her predicament. It is an indictment of the fate of women in a traditional culture, even as it celebrates the aesthetic qualities of this culture. As an Amazigh girl, Chikly is adorned with stunning clothes, jewellery and facial tattoos. Combined with the idyllic portrayal of the landscape, this establishes a real sense of internalized exoticism in the imagery and representation of North Africa. As such, the film not only offers an original ‘local’ story but roots it in a European orientalism borrowed from the films Chikly (the father) brought to and exhibited in Tunis at the turn of the century, and which inspired him to make his own films. It imitates and projects the European gaze onto a local story, as the Jewish actress portrays a French girl in Zohra and an Amazigh girl in Girl from Carthage. Mejri (2016) describes how this was intentional and therefore carried a nuanced though strong political message. In her memoirs, the actress testifies: ‘I wrote this story to show how badly women were treated when they were just sold off with an arranged marriage into a man’s world’ (Tamzali 1992: 112). The screenplay therefore offers a proto-feminist message embodied by a brave young heroine who takes her destiny into her own hands and decides to escape from her family-imposed fate. Mejri points out that forced marriage would later become one of the main focuses of the Tunisian feminist movement and Bourguiba’s (as the first president upon Tunisian independence) election campaign. Life further imitates art in Chikly’s case. Even in the age of the diva, the 1920s, when the global studio system thrived on the public persona of the diva, she remained, in the eyes of contemporary film critics and audiences, ‘fresh and young and [spontaneous]’ (Mejri 2016: 25). While she remembers that she does ‘not want a quiet and easy life, [she wants] to fight, strive and struggle’ (Tamzali 1992: 11), historical writing on her film roles often emphasizes her physical beauty and the way in which she was perceived by the public. In combination with the orientalist aesthetic of the films, this legendary beauty no doubt contributes to her reception and fandom and the surviving images of the star. Images usually show her in her Amazigh clothing, with long flowing black hair and beautifully designed robes, sitting down in intricately decorated sets and gazing into the camera directly at the viewer, both in a seductive and a self-assured, confident manner. Indeed,

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in her old age (at ninety years old) she performed a cameo in a film by Férid Boughedir, one of Tunisian cinema’s Golden Age filmmakers, in his film A Summer at La Goulette [Un Été à la Goulette] (1996). With reference to Boughedir’s work, Gabous has called Tunisian cinema a ‘cinema au feminin’ (1998), in which the role of women is crucial. Elsewhere I have problematized this statement, pointing out that Boughedir is perhaps rather patronizing to women and simplistic in the way he portrays them as sensuous and mythological creatures of seduction. Indeed, in an article he wrote on the topic of the Jew in Tunisian cinema, he barely mentions Chikly, saying instead that ‘Il [Albert Samama Chikly] en avait confié le rôle principal à sa fille Haydée’ (he had given the main role to his daughter Haydée) (Boughedir 2020), thereby emphasizing that her father ‘entrusted’ the role to Chikly and thus brushing over the fact that she in fact wrote the film and edited all her father’s work. Nevertheless, in his 1996 film, Boughedir does give Chikly the role of the storyteller, even if she is just visible for a few seconds and referenced in the credits as Haydée Tamzali, not Chikly, again missing an opportunity to clearly and explicitly associate her with the birth of cinema in Tunisia. What authors do often mention is that Chikly also played a role in a Hollywood film, The Arab, by Rex Ingram (1924). This was a direct consequence of her family being so well-connected in the local film industry. She and her father were part of the entourage when Ingram and his Hollywood crew descended on Tunisia to shoot The Arab. As Barton (2014) argues, The Arab is a direct riposte to Valentino’s 1921 triumph with The Sheikh (Melford). It features Ramón Navarro and revels in ‘the visual opportunities presented by Arab costuming, interiors and dance. Publicity materials spared no cliché: “it has all the magic wizardry of the world’s greatest screen director revealed in scenes and action that reflect the glory and glamor of the East”’ (Barton 2014: 125). Casting local actors was important to Ingram, and so Chikly had a minor role in The Arab, and Ingram ‘was so taken with her that he invited her to Hollywood’ (130). Mejri expands that: the director offered her a five-year contract, including travel fees and accommodation in Hollywood. The contract also covered her mother’s tutorage since Haydée was only sixteen years old. Unfortunately, her father prevented her from going. She later said that ‘it was her first great sorrow.’ (Tamzali 115, in Mejri 2016) There are additional complexities to the story. It was not a simple ‘no’ from her father that held Chikly back from an international career. In the book on Ingram, nothing more is added about Chikly to the sentence ‘he invited her to Hollywood’, but it is clear that Ingram himself did not have the intention of returning to Hollywood at this stage. He was based in

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France and returned to France from Tunisia after making The Arab. Perhaps her father’s command that she stay in Tunisia was linked to his insight into this situation, which could also be informed by his Jewishness and his sense of growing anti-Jewish sentiments throughout Europe. This growing threat of Nazism also makes an appearance in Selma Baccar’s film on M’sika. These two instances speak of the power of cinema and the (early) film industry to protect its Jewish stars. In fact, as I will show in what follows, the two Jewish actresses under scrutiny here embody ‘multiple and fluid narratives linked to a specific social group’ and are ‘symbols of national and cultural authenticity at a time of rapid sociopolitical change and anxiety about the future’ (Elsaket 2015: 49). The attempt at authenticity can, I think, be questioned in this context (Elsaket is writing about the Egyptian film industry in the 1920s) and instead I would emphasize the internal hybrid obsession with Tunisianité and exoticism that fits in with the perceived energies so evident from the ‘roaring twenties’ globally, embodied by these two Tunisian actresses. This goes together with the sense of foreboding and anxiety that come from a cinematic and quintessentially Jewish point of view. M’sika was born Marguerite Messika in the Jewish quarter of Tunis into a poor family in 1903, and she died in 1930. She became a superstar as a singer and performer. As a sex symbol, she had a flock of loyal male admirers who called themselves ‘Askers Ellil’ or ‘soldiers of the night’ and her fame spread to Europe. Rumour has it that Bourguiba, the future president of Tunisia, was one of her Askers Ellil when he was young. The film focuses on the last three years of her life, during which she visited Berlin and Paris and met famous French artists. During her visit to Europe she experienced antisemitic crimes and these are rendered in the film. For example, while M’sika is getting acquainted with a piano artist in a music shop in Berlin and admiring the musical instruments as well as Iraqi singer Muhammad al-Qubbanchi practising, there is an attack on the shop by a Nazi youth wearing a swastika cross on his uniform. The screen carries visual echoes of the horrors of Kristallnacht. While this may not be a direct reference to that event, it certainly points in that direction with the iconographic imagery associated with that night. The smashed shop window and the complete lack of response by passers-by or local authorities throws Habiba’s otherwise cultured visit out of kilter and illustrates the way in which Baccar, the filmmaker, manages to contextualize and frame her identity at the transnational travel. Her trip to Europe also deepened her commitment to the nationalist cause. She met the aforementioned Iraqi singer al-Qubbanchi, who in the film is shown to charm her and promises that he will teach her how to sing the Maqam – a traditional ancient form of Arabic and Jewish liturgical song that is rooted in improvisation, patterns and a variety of pitches that speak of a very highly trained and talented artist. After the meeting with al-Qubbanchi,

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M’sika became exclusively interested in singing Tunisian nationalist songs and using her star power to support Tunisian independence. In La Danse du Feu, she says: ‘I had to go to Berlin to realise I want to sing in Arabic. I have had enough of light-hearted songs. I’ve lost time.’ She hangs on every word Chedly, a poet among her Askers Ellil, recites to her in classical Arabic, and takes pride in her understanding of the sensuality of the words and their meaning. As she translates the verses for Pierre, her French friend, it is clear that the incantatory power of the Arabic words has a deep and meaningful effect on her, and it roots her commitment to the Tunisian cause in a deeply pan-Arab sensitivity. On her return to Tunis from France, M’sika also took on several theatrical roles, and some of them proved very controversial. Among others, she played Romeo in the famous Shakespearean play and caused controversy when at the end of the play she kissed Juliet, also played by a woman. This caused outrage at the time, and in the film, it is directly linked to her visit to Europe where, in Berlin and Paris, she observes women dancing together and kissing in night clubs. In 1928, she again caused a public uproar as she wore the Tunisian flag as a garment and sang independence slogans. The performance was interrupted by the colonial authorities, but she was not arrested, whereas some of her Askers Ellil were, illustrating the power of the star in surviving such a controversy unscathed, while her fans were not so lucky. She not only had a controversial public persona but also led an unusual private life, as she took several lovers and lived freely without adhering to common behaviours or social norms: she did not marry and remained independent from men until she fell pregnant by one of her lovers. A previous lover, Eliahou Mimouni, became so jealous when she decided to marry the father of her child that he burnt her alive in her flat in February 1930. She is buried in Tunis. There are clear parallels between Baccar’s representation of M’sika and her real life, as her life was dramatic and, in some ways, reads like a fairy tale. As Gabous states: ‘Adulée, mythifiée, son extraordinaire destin ressemble à celui des héroïnes orientales qui jalonnent Les milles et une nuits, superbe et tragique’ / ‘Adored, mythologised, her extraordinary destiny resembles that of the oriental heroines who punctuate The Thousand and One Nights, superb and tragic’ (Gabous 1998: 75). Here we have yet another male author mythologizing her. And indeed, M’sika’s tragic story lends itself seamlessly to mythologization through a biopic. Nevertheless, portraying a performer in a biopic requires embellishments, adaptations and additions in order to narrate a life story and make it interesting enough for a wide audience. As the film deals with a neglected female Arab star, in order to appeal internationally, Baccar condensed the story and decided to focus on the final three years of the singer and actress’s life. As a trained psychologist, the filmmaker sought interesting angles and chronologies that lent new meaning to certain actions and utterances by the star. Being a female star surrounded

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by ‘soldiers of the night’ and performing controversial statements and acts demanded a probing of her inner motivation. The biopic provided Baccar with the opportunity to dig deeper into the psychological lives of her characters, while her own feminist bias and the benefit of hindsight arguably led to a nostalgic and slightly anachronistic portrait of the superstar. The power and celebrity of M’sika in La Danse du Feu comes from her financial independence and her position as an influential, beautiful performer, singer and dancer admired by many. During her short but extremely productive career she released almost 100 records and acted in several plays. As an accomplished stage actress she was compared to another Jewish star of the time, Sarah Bernhardt, and after her death her records and her stage reputation kept her memory alive in Tunisia. Indeed, it is claimed that her funeral was the largest interwar event in Tunisia, and as such it worried the authorities, as she brought together Jews, Muslims and nationalists (Silver 2018) – thus confirming her hybrid and unifying character in a country still under occupation, in which the power of the colonizer depended on the lack of a strong unified national identity. The country was undergoing momentous changes in the 1920s. In the film it is the sensual and suggestive performances in which her singing, her sense of fashion, her dancing and movement as well as her facial expressions contribute to the understanding that she is in control of a captive audience both on and off screen. Like Chikly in the photographs that survive of her dressed up as an Amazigh girl staring into the camera, M’sika in Baccar’s film gazes back at the history of female performers in Tunisia, making a statement about the role of the audience in the definition of the star. Both in life and in death, M’sika captured the attention of large crowds. While the film works well as the biopic of a celebrity, it is up for debate whether or not M’sika in La Danse du Feu serves as a representative of the role of women in the wider society of 1920s Tunisia. Tunis was a cosmopolitan modernist city but still functioned in a French colonial context. It was inhabited by hybrid communities, and M’sika clearly represents several aspects of this cultural moment. We have to recognize that Baccar’s film benefits from hindsight and a commitment to feminist politics and is underpinned by nostalgia. This is expressed, in particular, as Baccar told me in an interview, through a love of decors, clothes and jewellery. Jewish, talented and beautiful, liberal and with several lovers that indulged her expensive taste M’sika looked the part of the superstar and acted it even better. While women in Tunis in the interwar period were observing European feminist emancipation, the flourishing of the arts, nationalist sentiments as well as the growing threat of Nazism, M’sika benefited from the privileges of being Jewish. Muslim women and their rights and options were much opaquer until, in 1929, the philosopher Tahar Haddad published his pamphlet, Our Women and the Shariah and Society, ‘which advocated revolutionary reforms in the role of women in Tunisian society

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and which was harshly criticised by certain reactionary newspapers of the period’ (Chikhaoui 1994: 12–13).4 For Baccar the film was an opportunity to use M’sika’s extraordinary story ‘as an excuse for the representation of the condition of women from various aspects, Tunisian and Jewish, woman and artist’ (Chikhaoui 1994: 13). The film became ‘une fresque de la vie culturelle et artistique de l’entre-deux-guerres’ / ‘a fresco of the cultural and artistic life of the interwar period’ (Gabous 1998: 74). The eye for detail and the importance the filmmaker attaches to the contextualization through costuming and decors is exceptional. M’sika is portrayed as a proud and fashionable woman, changing her outfit several times during performances and for each function she attends. It indicates the importance attached to her as a talented singer as well as a beautiful woman with the responsibility of pleasing her loyal audiences. She is presented as someone to be admired visually. At the outset of the film, she wears sparkling dresses, deep cut necklines and fashionable colours with hat styles and make-up typical of the interwar period. The countless times she changes outfits increases the audience’s admiration of her beauty (her audience in the twenties as well as the audience of the film). It also showcases her wealth and her freedom and independence, two words she repeats throughout the film and that come to define her struggle for survival in an increasingly oppressive city and country. Indeed, to emphasize the importance attached by the star to her looks and the way in which they represent her, when she travels to Europe, she visits a fashion centre in Paris and causes a stir by mocking the beau monde there. Also in Paris, she meets one of her many lovers, Pierre, a dandy and flâneur, and she takes not only him but also his attitude back with her to Tunis. As a pair they revel in the importance attached to clothes and manners, a reputation for loose living and making a spectacle of themselves, ensuring they are noticed wherever they go. As Baudelaire explained, the flâneur portrays city life in their urban attitude: they observe and reflect. Their eyes wander and wonder – observation and gazing at city dwellers is what shapes their intellectual conversations. M’sika starts to dress in a very modern fashion, in silk pantsuits and monochrome colours, androgynously. In Paris, she offers herself up to the gaze of the city people and observes with interest women dressing up like men and courting ‘femmes’ in café culture, where women dance and flirt together. Style clearly is of vital importance to M’sika throughout the film as a means of self-expression, and indeed, towards the end of her life and the end of the film she is only seen in black clothes. The pathetic fallacy created by her clothes reveals to the spectator an important change in mood and general sanity. At first, she loves the attention bestowed upon her by her ‘Askers Ellil’. However, over the course of the film, Baccar shows how this lifestyle can take a toll on someone’s mental health. M’sika in La Danse du Feu starts to feel oppressed by the men who are always surrounding her and gazing

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upon her, expecting her to be happy and entertain them. She tires of the attention and learns the value of being alone and being taken seriously. As a Jewish nationalist feminist, M’sika’s position acknowledges her role as an extraordinary person: not just as a star but also as a Jewish woman, liberal, rich and therefore much more independent than others. However, when Mimmouni (her lover) tells her she needs to act according to her status as a Jew and as a woman, she defiantly says she is an artist and a Tunisian first and foremost. Her emancipation then is also a morality lesson, as she slowly develops a more astute awareness of the power and responsibilities that come with her influence. She tires of her sexual relationships: first she ends things with Mimmouni, an older lover who showers her with expensive gifts of jewellery. When she finds validation in a love affair with the intellectual Chedly and a reverse-colonial relationship with French dandy Pierre, the continued lack of freedom these men are able to provide her causes frustration and even violence. As this discussion has shown, the depiction of the star in the biopic is subject to Baccar’s nostalgia for an ‘authentic’ Tunisian superstar alive at the time that Tunisia was going through enormous internal and external changes on the road to independence through Tunisianité. The depiction of Tunisia’s first superstar singer and actress is in line with Baccar’s professed interest in and love for costume, jewellery and intricately decorated sets. In depicting the final three years of M’sika’s life, Baccar has indulged in the dramatization of a short and extraordinary life. As so little is known about M’sika apart from her songs, their contribution to the growing nationalist sentiments in Tunisia and the dramatic ending to her life, the film uses this lack of real knowledge in a dramatic mythologization that contributes to her legacy. Just as the same few images of Chikly’s image live on in African and Arab film history’s archive as a beautiful, well-adorned but modest young woman who was stopped in her rise to international stardom by the men in her life, so is Habiba M’sika’s legacy one of legendary beauty and a fiery defiance of social norms, which proved to be fatal as one of her lovers killed her. On an international scale, then, these two stars’ images live on in the myth of Tunisian cinema as ‘le cinéma au féminin’ (Gabous 1998: 174).

The Feminist Legacies of Icons of Tunisia’s Cultural History Scholars of North African cinema have theorized that of all film cultures there, Tunisian cinema is the one that highlights the role of women in society the most. However, there is often also a misunderstanding of the way in which the women in film history have been credited. As I have shown here, mentions, traces and the names of the women in Tunisia’s very first

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films survive, but very little is known about M’sika’s and Chikly’s lives and experiences beyond their superstardom. Where male filmmakers and scholars have claimed that Tunisian cinema is ‘female’, it is certainly not a feminist cinema. It is a male-made cinema with a film history in which women take the front page or centre stage, as objects of admiration and affection rather than as agents of change or significance behind the scenes. This is, of course, a general trend in worldwide (film) history. As Callahan has so clearly shown, cinema is a machine of pleasure, as much as it is a machine of oppression (2010: 3), and in the Tunisian case, women have been neglected as creators, to the benefit of male filmmakers obsessed with the form of women on the screen. Arguably, it is due to the nature of history writing, of historiography, that women remain neglected and have in some cases been all but forgotten. As such, as Gledhill and Knight (2015) and Callahan (2010) request that all feminist historians continue to expand (film) history by challenging our source materials, placing the historiographies of our female stars in the context within which they were written, and continuing to use the traces, however tenuous, to rewrite it. We must also demand that others rewrite our own historiographies, because women who do actually make film history, such as Chikly, are often only mentioned rather than discussed in relation to and in the service of the men in their lives. Likewise, M’sika’s legacy is dependent on her early death at the hands of a man and the mythologization of her life, subject to the oppressive male gaze. Luckily, Chikly’s image lives on in the fragments of surviving film, and M’sika’s voice persists in the recordings of her songs. Being stopped in their meteoric rise to fame by men, these women have been relegated to ‘mentions’ in historical writings, and these mentions are eagerly used in this chapter in the service of ‘doing women’s history’. Indeed, ‘women’s history challenges historiography’, the patriarchal or patronising narrativization of historical events (Gledhill and Knight 2015: 8) through archival work and the construction of narrative herstories, rooted in and dependent on unorthodox sources of evidence, as is the case in this chapter. In the service of integrating individual legacies (often based in anecdotal evidence) into a cultural heritage, by expanding film history and historiography, feminist historiography (or herstoriography) is a discovery process with openended results and multiple points of entry (Callahan 2010: 4). Rewriting historiography (not history) is necessary to strengthen our understanding of women’s contributions to cinema and theatre histories, and we have to do so by following traces and apparitions where they can be found. Incomplete herstories are scarred with gaps that need to be addressed through narrativization. And the good thing about the scars is that they are visible traces of something past, which we need to pick at and question in the service of a more complete historiography, respecting women’s hidden legacies. Indeed, film is a collaborative practice, complicated still further by women’s propensity for multitasking, especially pertinent to the earlier days

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of film production, when roles were less defined and more fluidly practised. Still, Chikly and M’sika were ‘[m]‌odern women who became central to the development of new cultures of consumption’ (Gledhill and Knight 2015: 7). That they were stars is mostly uncontested in the traces that exist of their lives and careers, but the way in which they became stars in spite of or perhaps precisely because of their tragically short public lives was explored in this chapter in more detail. The narrativization of their careers through the traces and scars that exist in the surviving film fragments of Zohra and Girl from Carthage, and in Baccar’s biopic dedicated to M’sika, may contribute to a mythologization, but it leaves more than just a trace of their legacies, giving shape to an attempt to include them in Tunisian history with a public feminist heritage as role models in Tunisia’s cultural identity. As I have argued, their rise to stardom at the start of the twentieth century was intricately entwined with their Jewish hybrid identities. The images that live on of these stars are polar opposites of one another, and yet both types of images emphasize the hybrid identities they embody. Chikly is portrayed as a young Amazigh woman adorned with stunning jewellery, clothing and facial tattoos, living an idyllic life in rural Tunisia, while M’sika is a modern, sensuous performer, a travelling flâneuse who sustains intellectual conversations with her Askers Ellil. The fandom of the past is perpetuated in the present through the iconography of both exotic indigeneity and modern libertarianism, visually placed within the international appeal of tragic (and doomed) love stories. In the traces that survive of Zohra and Girl from Carthage, Chikly interacts with the camera and her international and historical audiences, announcing the storyteller she portrays in Boughedir’s A Summer at La Goulette, and indeed emphasizing her role in the development of the film industry in Tunisia, as a scriptwriter, a producer and as an editor of her father’s films. In La Danse du Feu, M’sika’s tragedy is more spectacular than the songs she was famous for, but at the end, Baccar returns her agency to her in the final dance. This dance deeply and strongly roots M’sika in film history as the image refers directly to the Serpentine Dance (1895), performed by Annabelle Moore in the earliest Edison company silent short films. The way these early films were consumed on Kinetoscopes, where the individual audience member acted as a ‘peeping Tom’ observing an attractive, exoticized dance, is reclaimed here as a female return of that orientalist gaze. Where M’sika is at the peril of her male audiences throughout the film, in this scene Baccar focuses on the gaze of an elderly aunt in the audience, admiring and transfixed by the young woman’s self-expression. Male audience members leave, outraged by the disruption of their expectations of a typical M’sika performance. They do not get what they want. The performer closes her eyes and focuses on herself, and her self-expression, thus externalizing her anger and finding a way to rebel against the oppression she feels. As such, Baccar links M’sika and her film about the star inextricably to a global,

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transnational and feminist film heritage, explicitly tying the performer to cinema history and women’s roles in it. Simultaneously, M’sika and her selfexpression give shape to a super-hybrid feminist Jewish-Tunisian sensibility loyal to her art and heritage, functioning beyond an individual’s legacy. The strength of her inner passion foreshadows the tragedy but remains very strongly present throughout the final stages of the film. Her choice to express her anger – however controversial – was one that M’sika needed, in the eyes of Baccar, in order to restore her personal and shared agency as a superstar beyond the myth of a tragic woman performer. Where the surviving images of Chikly depict her as a naïve and traditional Amazigh girl, she also gazes back at the viewer in her reclining pose. These images, taken by her father, reveal a male gaze onto a young girl. Nevertheless, her on-screen suicide and the way she was limited in her career by her father off-screen suggest a young woman torn between telling feminist stories on screen and remaining dependent on the men in her life. Similarly, M’sika is portrayed by Baccar, a feminist filmmaker, as a strong individual with a liberal and very modern lifestyle but whose life is cut short by the men in her life. Through these surviving images being read in a feminist manner, emphasizing the way they return the gaze and the way their legacies persist in traces in the archives of the performing arts, we can ensure these women’s entries into the transnational heritage of female performance history. Both women, as I described them here in my story of their work, have turned their individual legacies as some of the first superstars of stage and screen into at least a trace in Tunisia’s cultural heritage: Chikly by appearing as the storyteller in a film from Tunisia’s Golden Age and M’sika by being the subject of a biopic by Baccar, Tunisia’s foremost feminist filmmaker.

Notes 1 The 27 Club: an informal list of influential musicians who passed away at the age of 27. For more info on the history of this ‘club’, please read https:// www.rolli​ngst​one.com/cult​ure/cult​ure-lists/the-27-club-a-brief-hist​ory-17853/ (accessed 1 February 2023). 2 The film is available here: https://www.yout​ube.com/watch?v=4Ito​pSb7​nvo (accessed 1 July 2023). 3 This film is available here: https://en.wikipe​dia.org/wiki/File:A%C3%AFn_el_ Gha​zal_​ou_L​a_Fi​lle_​de_C​arth​age._Dr​ame_​de_l​a_vi​e_ar​abe.webm (accessed 1 February 2023). 4 Interestingly, Selma Baccar’s most famous film, Fatma 75 (1976), focuses on this proto-feminist document and women’s rights in Tunisia.

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Filmography The Arab (1924), [Film] Dir. Rex Ingram, USA: MGM. Fatma 75 (1976), [Film] Dir. by Selma Baccar, Inter Medias Productions: Tunisia. Girl from Carthage [Aïn al Ghezal] (1924), [Film] Dir. Albert Samama Chikly, Tunisia. Habiba M’sika: La Danse du Feu (1994), [Film] Dir. Selma Baccar. Serpentine Dance (1895), [Film] Dir. by William Heisse and Kennedy Dickson, USA: Edison Manufacturing Company. The Sheik (1921), [Film] Dir. George Melford, USA: Paramount. A Summer at La Goulette [Un Été à la Goulette] (1996), [Film] Dir. Ferid Boughedir, Tunisia: Marsa Films. Zohra (1922), [Film] Dir. Albert Samama Chikly, Tunisia.

References Attal, R., and C. Sitbon (1986), ‘The Jewish Community in Tunis’, in From Carthage to Jerusalem – The Jewish Community of Tunis (exhibition catalogue), Beit Hatfutsot: The Museum of the Jewish People. https://dbs.anumus​eum.org. il/skn/en/c6/e136​252/Place/Tuni​sia (accessed 1 January 2023). Barton, R. (2014), Rex Ingram: Visionary Director of the Silent Screen, United States: University Press of Kentucky. Boughedir, F. (2020), ‘La Communauté Juive Tunisienne et Lle Cinéma Tunisien’, in Cinema Tunisien, http://cin​emat​unis​ien.com/blog/2020/09/14/la-com​muna​ ute-juive-dans-le-cin​ema-tunis​ien/ (accessed 1 January 2023). Callahan, V. (2010), Reclaiming the Archive: Feminism and Film History, Detroit, MI: Wayne State University Press. Chikhaoui, T. (1994), ‘Speaking to Baccar: The Life and Times of Habiba Msika’, Écrans Afriques, 8: 12–13. Elsaket, I. (2015), ‘The Star of the East: Umm Kulthum and Egyptian Cinema’, in A. Bandhauer and M. Royer (eds), Stars in World Cinema: Screen Icons and Star Systems across Cultures, 36–50, London: IB Tauris. Gabous, A. (1998), Silence, Elles Tournent! Les femmes et le cinema en Tunisie, Tunis: Cérès Editions. Gledhill, C., and J. Knight (2015), Doing Women’s Film History: Reframing Cinemas Past and Future, Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Mejri, O. (2014), ‘The Birth of North African Cinema’, in L. Bisschoff and D. Murphy (eds), Africa’s Lost Classics: New Histories of African Cinema, 24–34, Oxford: Legenda. Mejri, O. (2016), ‘Haydée Chikly’, in J. Gaines, R. Vatsal and M. Dall’Asta (eds), Women Film Pioneers Project, New York: Columbia University Libraries. https://doi.org/10.7916/d8-bws6-q352 (accessed 1 January 2023). Memmi, A. (2003), The Colonizer and the Colonized, London: Routledge. Shafik, V. (2016), Arab Cinema: History and Cultural Identity (rev. and updated ed.), Cairo: American University in Cairo Press.

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Silver, C. (2018), ‘The Life and Death of North Africa’s First Superstar’, in History Today. https://www.histo​ryto​day.com/misce​llan​ies/life-and-death-north-afri​ cas-first-supers​tar (accessed 1 January 2023). Silver, C., S. Abrevaya Stein and A. Boum (2019), ‘Jews of the Maghreb on the Eve of World War II’, in United States Holocaust Memorial Museum Encyclopedia. https://encyc​lope​dia.ushmm.org/cont​ent/en/arti​cle/jews-of-the-magh​reb-on-th e-eve-of-world-war-ii (accessed 1 January 2023). Tamzali, H. (1992), Images Retrouvées, Tunis: Maison Tunisienne de l’Edition. Tessler, M. A., and L. L. Hawkins (1980), ‘The Political Culture of Jews in Tunisia and Morocco’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 11(1): 59–86.

12 Stars in Arms: Egypt’s Movie Stars and the Free Officers Ifdal Elsaket

In 2014, in a much-publicized event, the then presidential candidate of Egypt, ‘Abd al-Fattah al-Sisi, met with a group of celebrities to discuss politics, the economy, cinema and the role of celebrities in the new political order.1 The event attracted a great deal of attention, with several famous actors endorsing the certain-to-win candidate. The meeting was reproduced on multiple platforms, and various news sites featured an album of photographs from the function: famous television and film stars were shown with microphones speaking to Sisi while he promised to safeguard the country. One of the actors who made an appearance during the event and created a flurry of media excitement was Faten Hamama, the darling of the Egyptian cinema’s Golden Age. Dubbed ‘The Lady of the Screen’, Faten Hamama rose to fame in the 1950s and quickly became one of the Arab world’s most beloved actresses. Her career spanned almost four decades, and she remains one of the most recognizable icons of the classic period. In one part of the function during which al-Sisi bemoaned the state of Egypt’s cinematic production, he left the podium to greet her amidst a standing ovation. It was the perfect PR shot. One YouTube clip titled ‘Sisi Interrupts Himself to Greet Faten Hamama During His Meeting with Artists’, amassed over 4 million views.2 There is much to analyse about this shot, especially of the broader attempts by the new leadership to hark back to a nostalgic past by associating itself with an icon from the era. But this Faten-Sisi dalliance was not new to the political landscape. Instead, it spoke of a long tradition in

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FIGURE 12.1  Egypt’s movie stars and the Free Officers. Source: Designed by Samia El Khodary.

which politics and cinema celebrity came together for a reciprocal building of consensus. The Sisi-celebrity meeting is only one example in a long history marked by a close relationship between film stardom and political power in Egypt. As I will show, it was the era of Hamama’s prime that saw the genesis of celebrity endorsement of political figures and the Egyptian star pantheon’s support of the ruling class. The relationship between mainstream celebrities and those in power was, in fact, rooted in the Free Officer’s quest for legitimacy, within months – if not days – of the coup of 1952 which overthrew the Egyptian monarchy and paved the road to independence from Britain. It was also rooted in a regional anti-colonial sentiment and broader resistance to Israel. While much popular interest focuses on Nasser’s relationship with celebrity culture, especially his relationship with the proxy-first lady Umm Kulthum, it was actually Muhammad Naguib, Egypt’s first President after the 1952 coup d’état, who deployed the spectacle of celebrity endorsement. While there was some endorsement of the army and political leaders before then, political elites usually kept celebrities at arm’s length. The extent of the officers’ mobilization of Egyptian film celebrities to bolster their popularity and political legitimacy was therefore unprecedented in Egypt’s history,

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reflecting a new relationship between post-colonial politics and popular culture. Other than the recent work of Hanan Hammad in the context of her work on actress Layla Murad, and Dalia Said Mostafa’s work on the military in popular culture, the role of movie stars in the home front and regional mobilization is often side-lined or ignored altogether (Hammad 2022; Mostafa 2017).3 Almost immediately after the Free Officer’s takeover of power in 1952, Egypt’s famous actors, actresses and filmmakers – the glamorous stars of the cinema industry – publicly supported the overthrow of the old regime and contributed to setting new boundaries of national identity. By bringing to the fore examples from the early period of the Free Officer’s rule, especially the role that celebrities played after the Free Officer’s takeover of power in 1952, the interpersonal relationships between officers and stars and the role that stars played during the Suez Crisis of 1956, this chapter demonstrates how celebrities shaped political experience in the Arab world and were central to mass mobilization and nationalist campaigns in the 1950s. Rather than foregrounding biographical details of the lives of stars, I am far more concerned with sketching out the broader picture of the relationship between movie stars and politics.

Setting the Scene The relationship between the Free Officers and Egypt’s stars did not emerge in a vacuum. Generally speaking, images linking celebrities and military culture or political causes were not entirely new. Since the beginnings of celebrity culture in the early twentieth century, celebrities lent their support to broader political causes and were especially prominent in the anticolonial nationalist movement. It was during the 1930s and 1940s, however, that the pantheon of Egyptian movie stars ascended to regional heights of fame, and in the context of the Second World War, increased agitation against colonialism and the Palestine war entered the political foray in more obvious ways. During the Second World War Egyptian audiences were especially plugged into a global film culture with streams of military or war films exhibited at cinemas across major urban centres. Magazines were also aflush with images of war and international and local celebrities in khaki, bespeaking a vast transnational visual culture linking celebrities and militarism. Hollywood’s alliance with the US military is well documented, but what is less known is the extent to which this spilled into its global empire of film distribution. The US Embassy in Cairo, as a strong promoter and defender of the American motion picture industry in Egypt, was invested in determining the reception of films such as Confessions of a Nazi Spy (Anatole Litvak 1939).4

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The Egyptian army had, from at least the late 1940s, and in line with broader global trends, shown an interest in using the cinema to promote itself. Significantly, the Egyptian military directly assisted in the making of films that praised the army and encouraged conscription. The 1947 musical pro-army film My Heart and My Sword [Qalbi wa Sayfi], directed by Jamal Madkur, included scenes in army barracks which were authorized and supervised by officers in the Egyptian army including the head of the Royal Egyptian Calvary Corp. We know little about the nature of the support, but it seems to have been logistical. The film follows a wayward bourgeois young man, who, after flunking his exams, is sent to the army to be ‘straightened out’. The film deals with negative perceptions of the army amongst the upper classes and includes lines such as ‘whoever does not appreciate the army, is devoid of nationalism’. After some teething problems in the army training programme, the protagonist finally realizes the value of the military and sings ‘to those who have avoided becoming soldiers, strength and masculinity; if you only knew what it [the army] is, you would not have paid to avoid it’. Here the payment refers to the ‘badaliyya’, which many wealthy Egyptians paid to the army to avoid enlistment. The film starred the musician Muhammad al-Bakkar and included songs with lines such as ‘O men of the army, O the spirit of the nation/ Your victory is a crown on the head of time’. The film also featured scenes of long military horse processions. The struggle for and the loss of Palestine in 1948 was a central cause around which much of the Egyptian media and film world articulated a trans-regional solidarity. Movie stars were quick to lend their support to the Arab struggle against the Zionists, and magazines often ran intricately designed and eye-catching features of stars and their position on Palestine. In one semi-comical centrefold feature in al-Ithnayn wal-Dunya magazine, Egyptian movie stars declared their weapons of choice if they had to fight the war in Palestine (Al-Silah alathi Akhtaru 1948: 24–5). Faten Hamama, for example, said she would use a hand-held grenade. As movie stars lent their faces to the Palestinian cause, a series of Egyptian films were released about Palestine and the Egyptian army’s involvement in the struggle. Director and actor Mahmud Zulfikar produced a series of films about Palestine. In 1948, his film A Girl from Palestine [Fata Min Falistin], which he also directed, celebrated the Egyptian army’s role in Palestine. Lines throughout praise the army in their fight for Palestine on the ‘front of honour and sacrifice’. It also features long anthems alongside shots of soldiers marching or at war and scenes of nurses singing for the gallantry of injured soldiers. The credits of the film noted that it had assistance from Egypt’s Ministry of National Defence. The exact kind of assistance remains vague. The early 1950s saw increased tension against the ruling government and the continued British occupation (especially its position around the Suez

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Canal zone). The political elite saw the writing on the wall. On 15 October 1951, under mounting pressure to appease the rising tide of nationalist anger, the Egyptian parliament, headed by Mustafa al-Nahhas, abrogated the highly contentious Anglo-Egyptian Treaty of 1936. The treaty, which granted Egypt limited concessions towards independence, was a far cry from the full independence that nationalists demanded (Vatikiotis 1969: 286–7). The revoking of this treaty, and the ensuing violent protests in the Suez region, gave rise to a wave of nationalist and anti-British sentiment that swept over all segments of society, including those within the film industry. A month later, Egyptian guerrillas launched a series of attacks against British positions around the Suez Canal. Activists in Cairo lent their support to the guerrillas, mainly by boycotting foreign-owned establishments. While cinemas were one of the many establishments targeted for boycott, for the most part they were sites of support for the upswing in nationalism (Kerboeuf 2005: 197–8). During this period, renewed interest in using films to foster nationalism swept the pages of the Egyptian cinema press. The cinematic world constituted an important sphere within which political dissent and support for al-Nahhas reverberated loudly. The film world, its stars, its magazines, directors and writers got caught up in the new nationalist sentiment and began talking of a ‘new era’ of cinema that would be in line with the new era of political independence and freedom. In particular, there was heightened discussion about how films could be used to lift national morale and resist colonialism. Within a month of the treaty’s abrogation, a stream of articles flowed onto the pages of Egypt’s most popular film magazine, al-Kawakib. In November 1951, Anwar Ahmad, a regular columnist and filmmaker, announced a shift away from the period of colonial film censorship (Farid 2002: 60–5)5 and ‘frivolous films’ (aflam tafiha) and a move towards a ‘new era’ of filmmaking (Ahmad 1951: 10). For Ahmad, the new political and cultural order provided opportunities to make nationalistic films without colonial restrictions. He declared: We want to see films that depict the decisive events in our nation’s history, like the events of the ‘Urabi Revolution, the British occupation, the Dinshaway Massacre, the Egyptian victory over Britain at Rosetta and the 1919 Revolution. We also want to watch on the screen stories of the heroes of the people’s struggle such as (nationalist leaders) ‘Abd Allah al-Nadim, Mustafa Kamil, Muhammad Farid, and Sa‘d Zaghlul. (‘Aflam Wataniyya’ 1952: 4) According to Ahmad, Egyptians, whom he described as ‘the warrior revolutionary people’, would respond to these films enthusiastically. Egyptian director Ahmad Badra Khan also expressed interest in making nationalist films during this new era, and even took a guided tour in January

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1952, with al-Kawakib magazine photographers on hand, through the military museum, to ‘take notes on the uniforms of the army during the era of Mustafa Kamil, and previous eras, and to learn the historical facts about the Dinshaway incident and the revolution of 1919’ (‘Aflam Wataniyya’ 1952: 4). The film director Salah Abu Seif joined the chorus and stressed the importance of re-conceptualizing the purpose of cinema as a tool for nationalist awakening and social uplift in a period he described as the ‘era of freedom and independence’ (‘ahd al-hurriyya wal-istiqlal) (Abu Seif 1952: 19). The time had come, Abu Seif declared, For the Egyptian cinema to rid itself of the old politics of seeing cinema as art and trade, and to embrace a new culture whose sole objective is to service the idea of nationalism, and to raise a new generation from the youth who strive above all else to realise the independence of their nations, in practical terms. (1952: 19) Abu Seif called on filmmakers to cease making ‘films of enjoyment and amusement’ and to devote their energies to the production of ‘nationalist films, or films whose objectives match those of the new era’. The objective of films, he argued, was the upbringing and guidance of the people and the exaltation of Egypt’s great historical figures, including an emphasis on ‘the courage of the great Egyptians who held the flag of revolution against imperialism’. Abu Seif condemned socially indifferent cinema and urged the production of films that would foment patriotism and be used in ‘the battle for freedom and independence’. As can be gleaned from his comments, he took on a rather militarist tone: We need to get rid of the frivolous films that have no objective except amusement, and to rid ourselves of the frivolous thoughts that imperialism imposed on us. [We need] to turn to new thoughts with which to speak to the youth about the soldiers of the nation who strived for the sake of her purification from the enemy, and her rescue from the claws of imperialism … we must direct films to teach the youth how to go to the battlefield to strive for the nation. (Abu Seif 1952: 19) It did not take the political firestorm of 1951, however, to entice Abu Seif to speak out against the constraints of politicized film censorship. Abu Seif was well known for his political views and in the late 1940s even published an article in al-Kawakib in which he called for changes to censorship regulations, which to him ‘were implemented in the era of imperialism to protect the imperialists’ (Abu Seif 1952: 19). Similarly, in February 1952, Dawlat Abyad, a famous stage and cinema actress, wrote of her confidence in cinema’s role in nurturing patriotic

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values and nationalist ideas. In an article for al-Kawakib, ‘Cinema in the Service of Independence’, she combined her belief in the power of the cinema with an awareness of the role of international public relations for the Egyptian struggle against the British. For Abyad, the Egyptian struggle for independence should be represented on the international stage through the use of film: Today we are in need of films … to represent Egypt’s cause truthfully, and to show the world [the nature of] British aggression, [this so-called] protector of democracy and freedom as they proclaim. [We need films to] represent [the British] as they truly are, so that the whole world knows how they contradict themselves by attacking the independence of a people who love peace … Will the day come when we see films going into the world holding with them Egypt’s grievances: its hopes and its pain? … Will we start to see Egyptian cinema do away with mere entertainment and recreation, and contribute to the greatest cause of Egypt? I believe that this step will be fulfilled shortly by artists whose veins are inflamed with the blood of enthusiasm and faith in the Egyptian cause. (Abyad 1952: 66) By the time the group of dissident officers marched into power in July of 1952, overthrowing the monarchy, and declaring the end of colonialism, the scene had been set. Egypt’s celebrities were already marshalled for action and leapt in cheers for the Free Officers.

Cheers for the Free Officers Almost immediately after the Free Officers overthrew the King, the cinema press and movie stars lent their support to the new leadership. Like it had in late 1951 when al-Nahhas abrogated the 1936 treaty, al-Kawakib magazine contributed to and rode the popular wave of nationalism. It embraced the Free Officers and devoted an entire issue in November 1952 to the exaltation of the military takeover (Al-Kawakib). It also regularly published photographs of the head of the Free Officers, General Muhammad Naguib (who later assumed the role of first president of the republic of Egypt), at the cinema or mingling with stars and discussed his interest in film. The magazine even published an article written by Naguib about the role of art in the new political era. It enthusiastically promoted the previously banned nationalist film Mustafa Kamil (Gordon 1999) and Husayn Sidqi’s film Down with Imperialism [Yasqut al-Isti’mar] (1952). It also provided a space for celebrities and filmmakers to declare their support for the leaders of the country. Film celebrities enthusiastically embraced the new leadership. Within less than two weeks of the coup d’état the pantheon of Egypt’s stars threw their

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support behind the Free Officers. Male film stars emerged as the pin-up boys for the army and ‘the spirit of militarism’ (ruh al-‘askariyya) with Al-Kawakib publishing photographs of Egyptian male film stars in military uniform, describing their military aspirations (‘Nujumuna fi Malabis al-‘Askariyya’ 1952). Likewise, stars supported military initiatives and were photographed shaking the hands of soldiers or appearing at events with soldiers. Movie stars and filmmakers normalized the new leadership’s quest to expunge Egypt of ‘traitors’. A number of actresses announced their support for the army’s ‘purification’ or purging (tat-hir) campaign: ‘May God make the brave Egyptian army, and its great commander Muhammad Naguib, successful in the liberation and purification of the country,’ proclaimed the actress Mariam Fakhr al-Din (‘Min al-Nujum ila al-Misri al-Awwal’ 1952). The actress and dancer Tahia Cairoca echoed: ‘A loyal greeting to the hero who led the movement of purification’ (ibid.). The film director Salah Abu Seif, who had previously advocated for increased government control of the cinema, even went as far as to call film a ‘tool of purification’ (‘al-Sinima al-Misriyya fi al-‘Ahd al-Jadid’ 1952).

Free Officers and the Film Industry The cosy relationship between the Free Officers and celebrities also needs to be placed in a broader context of post-July 1952 propaganda campaigns. The Free Officers quickly deployed the military’s own propaganda apparatus, the Department of Morale Affairs and the Department of Public Affairs to make films, create posters and work with the press. It is not surprising that the new leaders, aware of the popularity of the cinema, were keen to use it for propaganda purposes. Many of the Free Officers were openly big fans of the Egyptian cinema and its stars. Both Nasser and Sadat, for example, regularly attended the cinema, and many officers were keen to rub shoulders with the glamorous world of celebrity once they ascended to power (see Hammad 2022: 169–70).6 The new leaders promptly labelled the cinema, along with the theatre and the press, the ‘light artillery’ of the revolution (‘Houses Searched in Egypt’ 1952) and less than three weeks after the coup sent a representative from the General Command of the Egyptian Armed Forces to meet with and discuss its role with well-known Egyptian filmmakers (‘Marhala Jadida lil-Sinima al-Misriyya’ 1952). The Free Officers were also keen to assure the industry that cinema would continue to be supported. Indeed, the new leadership embraced and worked with foreign film studio executives. Naguib himself met with top executives of MGM when they visited Egypt to prepare for the making of Valley of the Kings (Robert Pirosh 1954) scheduled to be

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shot there (‘Akhbar al-Sinima fi Suwwar’ 1953). In 1954, the Egyptian army even supplied thousands of soldiers to appear as extras in Warner Bros’ In the Land of the Pharaohs (Hawks 1955), which was partly shot in Egypt. Warner Bros later invited members of the military, including Nasser, who was then prime minister, to a private screening of the film in Cairo (Vitalis 2000: 269–91). The links between the Free Officers and the cinema did not end with mere photo ops and friendly networking between officers and film executives. Certain members of the Free Officers and the military also acquired financial stakes in the film industry and cultivated personal relationships with stars, directors and other film practitioners (Hammad 2022: 159–92). Wagih Abaza, a Free Officer who worked at the Department of Morale Affairs, founded and managed the new film company Nile Cinema Production Company and even secretly married one of Egypt’s top superstars Layla Murad (Hammad 2022). Described by Nasser as ‘one of us’, Abaza was often photographed and socialized with Egypt’s biggest stars (al-Laythi 2019). Another member of the Free Officers, Jamal al-Laythi, worked with Abaza at the Department of Morale Affairs and supervised the making of films. He later became one of the most prolific film producers and distributors in the country. Other former military officers who ended up working in the film industry included the screenwriter Yusuf al-Saba‘i (who was a close friend of Anwar Sadat and later served as his cultural minister), the actor Ahmad Mazhar (who was in the same army cohort as Nasser and was a personal friend) and director ‘Iz al-Din Dhul Fukhar (who was married to Faten Hamama). Although many of their films had little to do with the military, they did work together on the wildly popular big-budget film Back Alive [Rudda Qalbi] (‘Iz al-Din Dhul-Fukhar 1957), an historic romance shot in cinemascope, in which the army and the lead up to the 1952 revolution, feature prominently. When Yusuf Saba‘i first conceived of the idea, he relayed the story to Sadat, who encouraged him to write it (al-Siba‘i n.d.). The anniversary of the 23 July Revolution was often used as an occasion for stars to show their support for the leadership. The Department of Public Affairs was also involved in mobilizing celebrities and business under the umbrella of celebrating the new republic. In one army-backed public relations event, an Egyptian tea brand and celebrities were brought together under the guise of celebrating the first anniversary of the 1952 coup. Al-Musawwar magazine featured a two-page spread that included photographs of movie stars drinking their ‘favourite tea’ at the event, which was also attended by Wagih Abaza and Jamal al-Laythi. In 1955, al-Ahram newspaper prominently featured celebrities and film industry people praising the army and celebrating the anniversary of the revolution under the title ‘Artists Wish the Brave Revolutionary Leaders and the Great Egyptian

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People a Happy Egypt National Day’. The section, including cartoons of eight film personalities (including heads of film studios), featured starlets Faten Hamama and Hind Rostom (al-Ahram 1955). Within a few years of the revolution of 1952, therefore, the Free Officers had effectively deployed celebrities to bolster their national credentials and satisfy their own personal interests in the film world.

Films Other than the films that were made by the propaganda wing of the military, film studios were also keen to declare their support to the new leadership. Studio Misr, for example, promised to fulfil and propagate the message of the ‘blessed revolution’ (Anon-c 1952: 29). Within months, and with Naguib’s blessing, it made a film glorifying the military’s overthrow of the colonial and monarchical order called God Is with Us [Allah Ma’ana] (Badra Khan 1955) starring Egypt’s most well-loved stars, such as Faten Hamama and ‘Imad Hamdi (Anon-a, Anon-c). Other filmmakers even infused less blatantly ‘political’ films with support for the new ruling class. In the 1953 Egyptian comedy film al-Liss al-Sharif [The Noble Thief] (‘Abd al-Wahhab 1953) the famous actor Isma‘il Yasin praises the military takeover and Naguib in the song ‘Twenty Million and Some More’ [Ishrin Milyun w-Zyada]. In the scene, Yasin joyfully sings of an end to ‘corruption’ and ‘beys and pashas’ and celebrates a new dawn where all Egyptians ‘are masters’. Wagih Abaza, the military officer with a large stake in a film distribution company, the Nile Company, even wrote the screenplay of the 1956 film Demons of the Sky [Shayatin al-Gaw] (Niyazi Mustafa 1956) about fighter pilots during the Palestine war. The film had direct assistance from the military (Hammad 2002). Other producers not directly affiliated with the military also made army-based films. Farid al-Atrash produced and starred in the 1957 army melodrama musical Farewell to Your Love [Wada‘tu Hubbak], one of the director Youssef Chahine’s lesser known films. Farewell to Your Love was set in a military hospital and explores a terminally ill sergeant’s friendship with a group of soldiers and his love for his nurse. Films did not have to be serious melodramas to gain attention for their pro-army stance (Mostafa 2017: 42–5). Nasser himself was said to be a big fan of the comedian Ismail Yassin and devoted every Thursday or Friday evening to watching his films (al-Qa‘id n.d.). Indeed, in 1955, the comedian scored a major PR boost when Jamal Abd al-Nasser himself attended a screening of his army spoof, Ismail Yassin in the Army [Ismail Yassin fil Jaysh] (‘Abd al-Wahhab 1955) – a slapstick comedy in the style of Jerry Lewis’s Sailor Beware (1952) or At War with the Army (Walker 1950). The film also had direct assistance from the army. It should be noted that Ismail Yassin had close ties with Wagih Abaza.

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The Suez Crisis and Stars in Arms Within only a few months of coming to power, therefore, the Free Officers had deftly conscripted the film industry and the star pantheon – through personal relationships and consensus – into their political arsenal. Throughout later years, al-Kawakib magazine continued to be an important outlet in which celebrities found space to endorse prevailing nationalist projects. In times of war or crisis, the magazine threw itself into a nationalist fervour. This became very clear during the 1956 Suez Crisis when the star industry assisted with the boosting of morale and the glorification of the common soldier. During and after the crisis al-Kawakib devoted page after page to celebrity endorsements and support for the army as well as the army’s admiration for celebrities. Indeed, this period was a heightened period of glorification of the military, and the soldier, and also the concept of a nation in arms. In the months after the Suez Crisis, or the Tripartite Aggression, al-Kawakib changed the editorial tone and style to suit a wider militarized nationalistic rhetoric. The aesthetic of the cover pages, often a glamour shot of a Hollywood or Egyptian actress, was replaced by images of Egyptian actresses or models in poses of home front effort or at war. One cover featured a woman in camouflage gear holding a rifle, captioned ‘Our Weapons in Every Hand’, another showed actress Hind Rostom as a nurse, captioned with the words ‘An Artist in Battle’; another, the actress Zahrat al-‘Ulla, holding the gun and uniform of a soldier (al-Kawakib). Alongside its usual serving of celebrity news and images, the magazine also fused celebrity news with ultra-nationalist language. In one issue, it asked stars to ‘send a message’ to their friends and acquaintances in France or Britain. Madiha Yusri, for example, responded that she would tell a journalist she had met at Cannes that your country attacked my country and tried to strip it of its freedom. Yet we taught you a hard lesson that evil powers can never defeat free people. We pledged a holy pledge that we would sacrifice all our blood for freedom and dignity. I hope your defeat has taught you a lesson that the age of imperialism has ended. (‘Rasa‘il illa ‘Asimat al-Ghadr’ 1956: 6) Al-Kawakib also deployed a set of celebrities to pen odes to the military effort in Port Said and the Canal cities. In one edition in December 1956, the magazine published a set of features showcasing celebrity support of soldiers and their efforts at the front. The articles were dominated by nationalist buzzwords and expressions describing ‘Egypt’s valiant battle against the deceitful tripartite aggression’, and citizens ‘who bestowed on their nation glories and worked miracles in the difficult and bitter battle’ (‘Butula Wadadatu an A‘ishu fiha’ 1956: 6).

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In one article, al-Kawakib magazine asked four actors which film role they would like to play in a film about ‘Egypt’s battle against the Tripartite Aggression’ (Ibid.). The answers of stars like Tahia Cairoca, Marie Munib, Iman and Rushdi Abaza duplicated and mirrored the editorial style. Tahia Cairoca, the superstar belly dancer who was arrested briefly in 1954, opened her answer by proclaiming that ‘When Egypt calls its children to defend her … anyone who lives on her land is a conscript in her service’. Her answer was ultimately to play a nurse in a film, which she links to the work she did for the humanitarian organization The Red Crescent. The comedian Marie Munib, known for her roles as the diabolical mother-in-law in films like My Mother-in-Law Is an Atomic Bomb [Hamati Qunbula Dhariyya] (Rifla 1951) similarly duplicated a solemn nationalist tone. As such, she invoked an image that would become a mainstay in wartime nationalist rhetoric. Appealing to gendered stereotypes, she wrote that she would like to play the ‘mother of the martyr’ (Umm al-Shahid). Her answer captures the tone of many of the responses by celebrities: I wish to play the valiant mother who stood by the sides of her husbands and her three sons, encouraging and supporting them, strengthening their resolve and pushing them to struggle on the path of the nation’s honour and that of its city Port Said, and joining them in the battle. She will do what every woman in Port Said did, from hitting the army of aggressors with anything her hands could reach – a stone, a pestle, the lid of a pot, a chair. Her husband and older son died as martyrs before her eyes, she does not weep tears for them; she does not fear, nor does she become weak. Instead, she continues her struggle, and encourages her other sons. I really wished I could be in Port Said by the side of these … heroes, although I was there in spirit. Egypt was victorious thanks to the sons of Port Said and this valiant mother figure. (‘Butula Wadadtu an A‘isha fiha’ 1956: 6) As ‘mother of the martyr’ figure suggests, actresses in particular were deployed through a gendered prism. Not one to be out-sentimentalized, for example, the actress Iman claimed she would want to play the role of a real-life hero, one she read about in a magazine, who sacrificed her life for the soldiers by donating so much blood that she ultimately died. ‘In the face of her symptoms, they began to draw her blood and wait for a miracle from above, but she departed the world with a smile on her face, saying “Thank God, I did my duty, and may Egypt live long free”.’ Examples like this pepper the magazine and continued throughout 1956.

Conclusion The Free Officers cultivated a relationship with the film world that was unprecedented in the history of Egypt and the Arab world. From the

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first days of their rule, the Free Officers attended film screenings, rubbed shoulders with movie stars and directly assisted with the creation of military scenes. Movie stars reciprocated, penning odes to the army and the officers in magazines and major newspapers. A militarist nationalism swept the country and the entire region, and films reflected this, as did the increasingly more interpersonal relationships between officers and the film world. Famous across the Arab world, celebrities played a key role in bolstering the image of the Free Officers across the region. But celebrities were not new to forms of political statement. As I showed, in the late 1940s, celebrities also helped cultivate a trans-regional Arab solidarity against colonialism and around issues of Palestine. Popular histories of celebrity-state relationships in Egypt often centre on Nasser’s relationship with Umm Kulthum and other more classic relationships. Yet what is clear is that the roots of the Egyptian state’s relationship with celebrities actually lay in the initial years of after the 1952 coup d’état, a few years before Nasser took the limelight in 1954. Celebrities were quick to switch allegiances once Naguib was out of the picture, and Nasser’s ascent to power was festooned with the faces of movie stars and the voices of its celebrity musicians. The continued star support for the Free Officers came in handy during the Suez crisis, as movie stars played a significant role in promoting and cheering on the militarist nationalism and anti-colonial rhetoric of the period. As this chapter has shown, movie stars were central in bolstering a widespread nationalism, defining the parameters of good citizenry and spreading the slogans of the post-colonial era – of revolution, a new era, anti-imperialism and the army’s infallibility.

Notes 1 The event was uploaded onto Sisi’s YouTube page and can be found here: https://www.yout​ube.com/watch?v=UnlL​lidA​QSU (accessed 17 July 2023). 2 The clipped version of the event, with Sisi shaking Hamama’s hand can be found here: https://www.yout​ube.com/watch?v=64mX​05C_​5pY (accessed 17 July 2023). 3 A roundtable on entertainment and the army was also organized at the MESA 2022 conference. 4 Alexandria showing of Warner Brothers Film Confessions of a Nazi Spy, State Department files, 16 October 1939. See also Arabic ad for the film in al-Ahram, screening in Alexandria, 19 January 1940, al-Ahram, 2. 5 Anwar was himself a victim of censorship when the film he worked on with the director Ahmad Badra Khan, Mustafa Kamil, was banned earlier that year for fear that its references to the Dinshaway Massacre, the 1906 show-trial and hanging of seven Egyptian peasants in the Egyptian village of Dinshaway might offend foreign sensibilities (Farid 2002: 60-5).

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6 Hanan Hammad recounts the often-fraught romantic relationships between officers and female celebrities.

Filmography A Girl from Palestine [Fata Min Falistin] (1948), [Film] Dir. Mahmud Zulfikar, Egypt. At War with the Army (1950), [Film] Dir. Hal Walker, USA: Paramount Pictures. Back Alive [Rudda Qalbi] (1957), [Film] Dir. ‘Iz al-Din Dhul-Fukhar, Egypt. Confessions of a Nazi Spy (1939), [Film] Dir. Anatole Litvak, USA: Warner Bros. Demons of the Sky [Shayatin al-Gaw] ( 1956), [Film] Dir. Niyazi Mustafa, Egypt. Down with Imperialism [Yasqut al-Isti’mar] (1952), [Film] Dir. Hussayn Sidki, Egypt. Farewell to your Love [Wada‘tu Hubbak] (1957), [Film] Dir. Youssef Chahine, Egypt. God Is with Us [Allah Ma‘ana] (1955), [Film] Dir. Ahmad Badra Khan, Egypt. In the Land of the Pharaohs (1955), [Film] Dir. Howard Hawks, USA: Warner Bros. Ismail Yassin in the Army [Ismail Yassin fil-Jaysh] (1955), [Film] Dir. Fatin ‘Abd al-Wahhab, Egypt. Mustafa Kamil (1952), [Film] Dir. Ahmad Badra Khan, Egypt. My Heart and My Sword [Qalbi wa Sayfi] (1947), [Film] Dir. Jamal Madkur, Egypt. My Mother-in-Law Is an Atomic Bomb [Hamati Qunbula Dhariyya] (1951), [Film] Dir. Hilmi Rifla, Egypt. The Noble Thief [Al-Liss al-Sharif] (1953), [Film] Dir. Hamada ‘Abd al-Wahhab, Egypt. Sailor Beware (1952), [Film] Dir. Hal Walker, USA. Valley of the Kings (1954), [Film] Dir. Robert Pirosh, USA.

References Abu Seif, Salah (1952), ‘Ahdaf al-Sinima al-Misriyya fil-‘Ahd al-Jadid’. al-Kawakib, January, 19. Abyad, Dawlat (1952), ‘al-Sinima fi Khidmat al-Istiqlal’. al-Kawakib, February, 66. ‘Aflam Wataniyya’ (1952) al-Kawakib, January, 4. Ahmad, Anwar (1951), ‘Risalat al-Fann fil- ‘Ahd al-Jadid’, al-Kawakib, November, 10. al-Ahram newspaper, special edition, 24 July 1955. ‘Akhbar al-Sinima fi Suwwar’ (1953), Akhbar al-Sinima, November 1953.

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Anon (1952a), ‘al-Fann fi Khidmat al-Thawra’. al-Kawakib, 25 November, 14. Anon (1952b), ‘Nash’at al-Akhbar’. al-Kawakib, 25 November, 14. Anon (1952c) ‘Risalat Studyu Misr Tuhaqqiq Mabadi’ al- ‘Ahd al-Jadid’. al-Kawakib, 16 September, 29. Al-Silah alathi Akhtaru (1948), al-Ithnayn wal-Dunya, 21 June, 24–5. ‘Butula Wadadatu an A‘ishu fiha’ (1956), al-Kawakib, 25 December, 6. Farid, S. (2002), Tarikh al-Raqaba ‘ala al-Sinima fi Misr, Cairo: al-Maktab al-Misri li-Tawzi‘ al-Matbu‘at. Gordon, J. (1999), ‘Film, Fame, and Public Memory: Egyptian Biopics from Mustafa Kamil to Nasser 56’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 31(1): 61–79. Hammad, H. (2022), Unknown Past: Layla Murad, the Jewish-Muslim Star of Egypt, Redwood City: Stanford University Press. ‘Houses Searched in Egypt’ (1952), The Times, 11 September, 5. Kerboeuf, A. (2005), ‘The Cairo Fire of 26 January 1952 and the Interpretations of History’, in A. Goldschmidt, A. J. Johnson and B. A. Salmoni (eds), Envisioning Egypt: 1919–1952, 197–8, Cairo: American University in Cairo Press. al-Laythi, ‘Amr (2019), ‘al-Thawra wa aflam Ismail Yassin’, al-Masry al-Youm, 2 August. https://www.almasr​yaly​oum.com/news/deta​ils/1417​112 (accessed 19 July 2023). ‘Marhala Jadida lil-Sinima al-Misriyya’ (1952), al-Kawakib, 19 August, 8. ‘Min al-Nujum ila al-Misri al-Awwal’ (1952), al-Kawakib, 12 August, 12. Mostafa, D. S. (2017), The Egyptian Military in Popular Culture Context and Critique, London: Palgrave Macmillan. ‘Nujumuna fi Malabis al-‘Askariyya’ (1952), al-Kawakib, 19 August, 16–7. ‘Rasa‘il illa ‘Asimat al-Ghadr’ (1956), al-Kawakib, 11 December 1956, 6. al-Siba‘i interview (n.d.), ‘Sahra ma’ fannan’. https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=6IPRy-AztpA (accessed 19 July 2023). ‘al-Sinima al-Misriyya fi al-‘Ahd al-Jadid’ (1952), al-Kawakib, 12 August, 12. Vatikiotis, P. J. (1969), The Modern History of Egypt, London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson. Vitalis, R. (2000), ‘American Ambassador in Technicolor and Cinemascope: Hollywood and Revolution on the Nile’, in W. Armbrust (ed.), Mass Mediations: New Approaches to Popular Culture in the Middle East and Beyond, 269–91, Berkeley: University of California Press. ‘Yasqut al-Isti‘mar’ (1952), al-Kawakib, 25 November, 33. Yusuf al-Qa’id (n.d.), Isma‘il Yassin fi Bayt ‘Abd al-Nasser, al-Ahram. https://gate.ahram.org.eg/daily/News/202%20385/4/612%20 830/ (accessed 19 July 2023).

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13 Reflections by a Filmmaker: On Omar Sharif – Stardom, Personas and Identity Redefined Mark Lotfy

Omar Sharif was born Michel Chalhoub in 1932 to a rich family with Lebanese origins who migrated to Alexandria at the turn of the twentieth century. Sharif’s family were privileged Catholics and were able to indulge in middle-class cosmopolitan Egyptian society. During the Second World War, Sharif’s parents left Alexandria for Cairo in order to preserve their economic interests. The Chalhoub family did not suffer from devastation of the Second World War. Sharif’s family established their wealth in business and they flourished economically, moving among the wealthy Pashas and politicians. In interviews, Sharif has declared that the Chalhoub family was close to the King and the royal palace. King Farouk personally gambled with Sharif’s mother at the family home and travelled to Kafr Al-Dawar on duck-hunting trips with his father. This elite bourgeois childhood cannot be separated from the way in which Sharif lived his life. Wealth and power affected his perspective on the world. A few years before his death, Sharif supported the January 2011 Revolution from his balcony. He was at the centre of Tahrir, participating with all his heart, but from a top-down perspective. In this chapter I reflect on the research I have done over the past years, for a documentary I have made about Sharif. I contribute here with an overview of what I discovered about the star in the process of doing the research for the film, providing an overall picture of what we know of the star’s life,

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FIGURE 13.1  On Omar Sharif. Source: Designed by Engy Sabry.

personas and relationships, and of how these relationships contributed to his public personas. I use interviews, archival newspapers, biographies and his films in order to paint a fuller picture of the star.

Said and Sharif: Rivals in the School Yard Edward Said and Sharif were both the sons of Levantine migrants. Sharif’s family migrated to Egypt twenty years before Said’s. They met at the famous Victoria College, where they studied English during the age of British occupation and Egyptian royalty. In his memoir Out of Place, Said describes Sharif – or Michel as he was called then – as a spoiled, obnoxious child: Over time Chalhoub in particular became an unpleasantly familiar presence, notorious for his stylish brilliance and his equally stylish and inventive coercive dealings with the smaller boys. (1999: 3) Said’s words suggest that Sharif bullied him and other classmates. Said mentions how one time he and his friend verbally teased and provoked

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Sharif at school. Sharif’s response was to twist Said’s friend’s arm behind his back. When he was later questioned about why he engaged in such a violent act, his answer was that he simply enjoyed it. To see Said and Sharif as rivals might help us to comprehend both characters. In Out of Place, Said testifies that during his life he felt he did not fit in anywhere. He met Sharif at school, and Sharif lived his whole life, it seemed to Said, constructing an identity that enabled him to fit in everywhere. Unintentionally, and as I explain in more detail later, Sharif’s identity challenged Said’s main theory of orientalism, which meant Sharif was not just a bully in the schoolyard but also a theoretical opponent to Said. Given this history, it is no wonder that Said portrayed Sharif in exotic and negative terms and as a product of the identity crisis that the orientalist colonial discourse manufactured. Sharif, to Said, was a person who adulated and tried to please British society at school, as opposed to Said himself, a rebel who refused to speak English. Said’s descriptions made it more difficult for me to approach Sharif, precisely because Said is considered to be the initiator of critiques of orientalist discourse, its theoretician and the first person to be able to point to how problematic Western orientalist discourse was during and after the British occupation. Sharif lived a life that was defined by his position between the West and the East, and he manoeuvred skilfully through different ideologies. He manipulated and dodged propaganda, both in its media and intelligence branches. He was a man who wanted to live life to its fullest potential. He embodied a kind of hedonistic spirit that combined both adventurous positivity and frustrating nihilism at the same time. While Said advocated for a confrontation with dominant discourse and the transcendence of identity politics, Sharif represented uprooting, integration and the juggling of multiple possible identities, as an individual who nihilistically abandoned the self and sought approval, existence, self-making and stardom. As I will show, he was multiple things simultaneously: part of a Christian elite, a friend of the royal family, a Muslim actor, supporter of the national revolution, a forcibly exiled Jew, an Amercanized exotic Arab, a Francophone bridge player and gambler, and a true Egyptian supporting the Arab Spring. All these identity constructions were formed dynamically in his transition from Michel to Omar and enabled him to opportunistically shapeshift when needed. However, this uncertainty also impacted him in different and, at times, detrimental ways.

Stardom: Disguises and Personas Actors usually change their name for a more attractive one or one that is easier to pronounce and be memorized by audiences. However, this was not the case with Michel Chalhoub, who changed his name to Omar Sharif as a

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form of denial and as a way to disguise his identity and produce a new self that oscillated between adaptation, self-realization and approval seeking. After the July Revolution in the 1950s and the economic transformations it entailed, Sharif’s father lost his business and Michel Chalhoub transformed into Omar Sharif.1 It was difficult for a Muslim-majority nation that was shedding its cosmopolitan skin for a new nationalist one to accept a Catholic actor by the name of Michel. An actor’s persona comes before the fictional characters he portrays within the frames of the films he takes on. A persona is a marketing tool. When a film star becomes larger than himself, larger than life, he constantly needs to perform another self beyond the screen in his daily social life. Sharif’s star persona foregrounds the identity of a minority figure that needs to keep shifting in order to fit, first, with the nationalist identity politics of Egypt and its film industry and, second, with a Western orientalist discourse. Sharif’s stardom stemmed from a desire to stay ahead and become an icon, which was seen as inappropriate for someone of his Catholic cultural identity. This is why in the seventies, when in one of his interviews he was asked by a French journalist if he had ever had to lie, he answered: ‘I lie every day of my daily life because my name itself is my biggest lie. My real name is Michel but that is not an exotic name at all’ (Garten 1977). Sharif’s star persona flowed into the characters he portrayed. Sometimes, an actor’s fictional characters are not confined to the cinematic frame but bleed into their off-screen daily life. When the star is the persona, the star becomes a fictional illusionary character created by the agency of the actor and the power of the star system through production and consumption. The contribution of the actor to their stardom depends on their understanding of the ideological and economic powers surrounding their persona. And so, even on screen, the star appears with two personas: that of the star and that of the film character. This means that the veil of filmic illusion is partially removed, because there is a dual identification. The spectator becomes attached to both the film characters performed and the star’s offscreen persona. Indeed, it could be argued that Sharif did not pay as much attention to his characters as he did to his off-screen film star persona. The star’s off-screen identity not only enabled his existence within the film business and his contact with his audience but also permitted his human, social and political existences. Following his name change, Sharif also changed his religion from Catholic to Muslim in order to marry Faten Hamama who was one of the most famous film stars of their generation (see Chapter 6 in this book). However, his religious conversion was not only because of his marriage, nor merely for economic reasons and success, but also to aid the formation of his star persona as the handsome Muslim Omar Sharif, spouse of Faten Hamama whose heart he stole.

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Faten Hamama’s Kiss Chalhoub had contacted the London School of Arts and was about to join its ranks in order to be able to build the acting career he wanted. However, Youssef Chahine, a close friend, was directing The Blazing Sun (1954) at this time and suggested that Chalhoub join him for a casting at Faten Hamama’s house for a role opposite her. Together, they found an Arab name for him, and now all they needed was Hamama’s approval. As Sharif, Chalhoub seized the opportunity to use his English-language skills to impress Hamama. At the casting he performed a scene from Hamlet with a perfect English accent, even though Hamama did not speak any English. She accepted Sharif as her co-star in the film. It is no wonder that Sharif emphasized the importance of the element of luck in his life. The kissing scene between Sharif and Hamama in The Blazing Sun represents a major landmark in the history of Arab cinema. Hamama, often referred to as ‘The Lady of the Screen’, embodied innocence and purity and avoided the clichés of traditional seduction. Her persona as the unattainable woman had served her well in her stardom, until Sharif came along. Their kiss became the talk of the Arab region mainly because it was lengthy and erotic: it did not only happen between the characters of the film but also between the stars, transforming their love into a romantic and mythological symbol in Arab culture which lingers even today, despite their later divorce and the changes that occurred in both of their lives. This romantic love, which appeared explosively and freely in Egyptian cinema and in the press, is unusual in the context of Egyptian society. It started to take on legendary proportions as it developed in parallel with the romantic political legend of Nasserism. Sharif and Hamama’s kiss became iconic and resembled the musical culture of Egypt in the Nasser era, in which singers chanted for revolution, romance and love. But the two stars did not merely act, they lived together in an idealized representation of romantic love. Their love and marriage became a mechanism serving their social and political existence, and nourishing the economy of the star system. There was, however, another secret in the metaphysics of that kiss: Sharif was still a Christian and Hamama was a Muslim. Not only that, but she was also at that time still a married woman whose star persona revolved around the idea of innocence. As such, Hamama’s kiss constituted a challenge to the social norms that emerged with the July Revolution, and that presented Egypt, to a certain extent, as a free society but with a conservative traditionalism, or at least as a non-decadent society with national and patriotic values. In this society, a Christian man who belonged to the minority was forbidden to kiss, love or marry a Muslim woman. Crossing this line would be scandalous. That

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is why Sharif needed to shift his identity after the kiss; or maybe the kiss opened the door for him to enact this shift. After Sharif converted to Islam and Hamama divorced her husband, they married and their marriage became the first step towards establishing Sharif as a major star. In a matter of months, Sharif created a new star persona, framed by his new romantic relationship in which he appeared like a shadow, the partner and lover of an oriental, Arab, Muslim woman. Hamama illuminated him with her own star light. Sharif was aware that the oriental Christian had no more visible space in the new world. Sharif and Hamama’s honeymoon in Paris was covered by press photographers as if it was a continuation of their performative cinematic images, thereby eliminating the border between film and reality. The pace of the lovers’ romance accelerated after having their first baby, Tarek. In parallel, they began to move from one movie set to the next, and together they navigated the labyrinths of the Egyptian film industry. Despite being sometimes overshadowed by Hamama’s fame, Sharif managed to carve out a niche for himself next to his wife. With his larger-than-life persona, he was the handsome Arab whose black eyes pierced the (female) audience’s fragile hearts. A tall, charming, charismatic man, he was an emerging hero whose star image took shape in the 1950s and early 1960s, at the height of rising Egyptian nationalism. On screen in Egyptian Nasserite cinema2 Sharif gave shape to the downto-earth agronomist who loved the land, rubbed shoulders with peasants and recited poetry to his crops. He also often embodied modest yet rebellious workers who struggled for the rights of their comrades and fought against the establishment (e.g. in the film Struggle on the Pier [Chahine 1957]). Sharif played the brave Egyptian devotee standing in his tent in front of his nation’s map planning to fight the Israeli aggressors (see There Is a Man in Our House [Barakat 1961]), while Hamama played the Pasha’s tortured wife, representing an Egypt that adores the heroic fighter in a secret love relationship (see The River of Love [Zulfikar 1960]). Sharif thus gave shape on screen to the average Egyptian, the everyman, who – like thousands of his compatriots – was the brave soldier who struggled to save Egypt from the clutches of brutal British colonialism and its traitorous insider agents: the politicians, the Pashas and the wealthy. In turn, the young, conservative, nationalist-socialist state supported this star who represented Egypt. It could therefore be argued that Sharif’s star persona formed in conjunction with the Nasserite political machine, which used cinema as a state tool and formulated new narratives and aesthetics. The regime was rooted in a single-voice nationalism that negated the earlier more diverse patriotic nationalism, by trying to unite all Egyptians under the same banner of servitude and belief in the nation. One of the forgotten films that highlights the harmony between the Nasser regime and the Sharif persona was the film The Land of Peace [Ard El Salam] (El Sheikh, 1957) (see Wattis 1985). The

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film was a decisive milestone in Sharif’s career and not solely because of its commercial success. Sharif played an Egyptian militant fighting against Zionism. His love interest, the Palestinian heroine, was played by Hamama. The film was an announcement of a new identity: Sharif declared himself a fighter for the freedom of Palestine, resisting Zionism and risking his life to save Arabism. It is worth noting that The Land of Peace is the first film in history to feature the Palestinian Arabic dialect in some of its scenes. The film clearly indicates that Sharif was fully immersed in the beginnings of the July Revolution and the first years of the Nasser era.3 After his father lost his business, Sharif survived by tipping the scales through his professional success: he effectively cancelled out his family’s loss through the social and economic success of his new Muslim, Nasserite persona, representing Nasser’s project in the film industry. But his ideological implication in the July Revolution was not a mere pragmatic act. Rather, Sharif idealistically adhered to what was, at the time, perceived as the rightful Egyptian national identity. In doing so, he completed his metamorphosis into the star of the Egyptian people and represented the general values of the July Revolution. President Nasser understood very well the role of cinema as an ideological state apparatus capable of reforming public consciousness. This is the main reason why he nationalized the film industry and why even private companies were ordered to produce films imbued with certain ideologies (Shady 2000). Sharif and Hamama were both seen as essential cinematic symbols within the Nasserite frame. However, over the years, Sharif’s disillusionment with the July Revolution grew. He realized that, despite its acceleration of industrial and economic growth, the Revolution was not able to live up to its promises. The idealistic image of Egypt was presented on screens, but the average Egyptian never had the opportunity to experience it. The Egyptian people loved an imagined Nasser and feared the real one. It was almost as if Sharif was able to predict the future, a future filled with dangers and shackles within a state that contained a single voice. With Nasser’s pan-Arab socialist ideologies, Jews and foreigners were being expelled from Egypt during different phases and an anti-foreigner sentiment grew rapidly. In a sloganistic manner, nationalism reduced the foreigner to either an exploiter or a colonizer. However, this did not apply to foreigners fighting against imperialist forces: the Soviet Union and Cuba were seen as freedom-fighting allies and other countries in Africa were seen as partners in need of support. Disillusioned, Sharif started looking abroad for opportunities and decided to work on international films. Working with foreigners stemmed from his desire to become an international actor but also contained a longing for what he considered to be the cosmopolitan class from his pre-Revolution life. Sharif’s travels were always complicated by the exit visa required to leave Egypt. Everyone needed a certificate of good conduct to prove that

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they were morally adjusted and worthy of leaving and representing Egypt abroad. This was one of the Nasser regime’s forms of security control and indicated its paranoia of travellers who might jeopardize national security by collaborating with foreigners. Sharif was aware of such requirements and commented on Nasser’s policies, in particular his confrontations with the United States when it withdrew its financial aid to help construction of the Aswan Dam, thereby forcing Nasser to turn toward the Soviet Union for aid. The American decision not to fund the construction of the high dam led to a transformation in East-West relations and to a political landscape that was entirely different from the early independence era. The Egyptian intelligence agency, founded by Salah and Gamal Abdel Nasser, was a powerful institution. It not only capitalized on its experience dealing with British Intelligence, but it also benefited from the experiences of some ex-Nazis who escaped Europe and took part in Egyptian intelligence and different governmental departments using hidden identities, as well as the experience of Soviet intelligence. It was therefore the most powerful government agency in Egypt, and Salah Nasser was the country’s most powerful man, even though he was hierarchically the third man after Nasser and Abdel Hakim Amer, the Minister of Defence. His visit to someone’s house implicated a pivotal shift in the host’s life and when he visited Sharif and Hamama it was with the intention to convince them to collaborate with the state. He did not want the stars to just support the ideological transformation of people through cinema but to also support intelligence operations whose purpose was to preserve security and stability, and to accomplish the strategic plans during the 1950s and 1960s. Despite her apparent kindness to Salah Nasser during the meeting, Hamama refused to collaborate with the Egyptian intelligence. Sharif supported his wife who travelled to Beirut in order to distance herself from the state. Likewise, Sharif himself refused to serve as an intelligence collaborator, which engendered a tense relationship between him and the Nasser regime, and which would lead to yet another identity transformation.

The Strongest Screen Entrance in the History of Hollywood The three-minute-long scene of Sharif’s screen entrance in Lawrence of Arabia (Lean 1962) is considered one of the most exciting entrances in the history of Hollywood, especially since the actor was Arab. When the director was asked about it, he answered: ‘It was the longest entrance scene in the history of Hollywood, and if I could do it again, I would have made Omar Sharif’s entrance even longer’ (Wattis 1985). Sharif was the exotic Arab with a carefully manufactured Muslim identity, which made him

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sensual and attractive to (Western) women. He was accepted in Hollywood as an Arab man who was open and accepting of Western values. It is hard to deny that Lawrence of Arabia is a film that indulges in an oversimplification and mythological restructuring of British colonial history. For Lawrence to be able to serve Great Britain he becomes the friend of Arabs and gains their trust and the sympathy of Sheikh Ali, the role played by Sharif. Lawrence mediates with the Arab tribes who helped Britain in its war against the Ottoman Empire. When Sharif starred in Lawrence of Arabia¸ he had not left Egypt yet. He periodically went back to Egypt where he dealt with government pressure. Just two years after Lawrence of Arabia, he starred in the 1964 film There Is a Man in Our House, produced in Egypt. He plays the role of Ibrahim, a radical militant who fights with a secret armed group against the brutal British occupation. And so, while Said reduced Sharif to a symbol of oriental colonialism, Sharif actually disrupts the traditional framing of Said’s orientalism theory. His star identity opens up questions that are more likely to fit into Homi K. Bhabha’s paradigm of mimicry (1994), where mimicry in colonial and post-colonial literature is most commonly seen when members of a colonized society imitate the language, dress, politics or cultural attitude of their colonizers, thus creating a space that Bhabha called a ‘Third Space’, the space where ambivalence occurs, where cultures open up to each other and form a hybrid culture that combines their features and merges their differences. Sharif thrived in this space of ambivalence and overcame binary relations between a dominated colonized and dominating colonizing culture. Instead, he occupied a multi-ambivalent or a post-ambivalent space that he actively adapted throughout his life, complicating his hybridity without end. In the second half of the 1960s, Sharif was interpreted in the West as a Westernized or Americanized Muslim. In Bhabha’s terms, I would say he was a Muslim who used the mechanisms of ‘mimicry’ in order to appear to fit in with American culture. Sharif always appeared in Hollywood and the Western media as a liberal Arab who drank and danced, and who was always willing to play the roles of non-American identities. The studio system in Hollywood clearly constructed Sharif as an exotic, mysterious Arab playboy. The different metamorphoses Sharif underwent certainly placed him within a space of ambivalence and hybridity. From a Christian called Michel, he transformed into a Muslim called Omar Sharif, using the mechanisms of mimicry and disguise and pushing them to their limit. For a while, he identified with political nationalism, before converting from a Muslim nationalist into a Westernized oriental Muslim who resisted the Nasser ideology. During this last transformation, he embodied a very complex identity that bridged Egypt and the United States, until he eventually migrated and settled in the United States in 1967. Later, he left the United States to live in France where he performed the role of an

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Arab Muslim trying to integrate into Francophone society. Nevertheless, Sharif remained an Egyptian with one single passport his whole life, which eventually helped him to return and take up his Egyptian identity again, this time with in-depth Westernized knowledge and expertise, partaking in and supporting and observing the 2011 Revolution. I propose that Sharif’s choice to constantly reform his identity illustrates the power of star personas off screen and their interaction with characters played on screen. The individual is a conscious participant in the formation of their identity. The more the individual is aware of the dynamics of political power and the tools of cultural formation, the more they participate in the formation of their own identity. Sharif played a key role in the dynamics of conflict that surrounded him in Egypt, and he masterfully identified with society’s central and marginal cultures, and with political forces. As such, he proved that identities are in a constant process of becoming, a process that shifts through non-linear transformations.

Barbra Streisand’s Kiss: Sharif ’s Identity at Risk Sharif played Barbra Streisand’s love interest in the 1968 film Funny Girl (Wyler 1968). The kiss between Sharif and Streisand was no less sensual and impactful than his earlier on-screen kiss with Hamama. The filmmaker’s decision to show an Egyptian man passionately kissing a Jewish woman (who was supportive of Israel) as the Six Day War was going on was radical and risky and needs to be read in the wider context of the Peace Process. Nasser was aware that the United States wanted to build peace between Egypt and Israel in order to block the expansion of the Soviet Union in the East (Caplan 1997). In one of his public speeches, Nasser claimed that the United States was actively working to replace his regime with one that accepted peace with Israel. Sharif was aware of the dangers associated with working with Streisand in the role of her lover, and of the risks associated with appearing with her off screen too. His ensuing romance with Streisand caused widespread controversy and acted as a direct confrontation with Nasser. In fact, the Arab press accused Sharif of being a traitor for kissing a Jewish woman, to which Sharif gave one of his most famous answers: ‘I don’t ask a girl her nationality or religion before I kiss her.’ He later added, ‘I don’t know why Nasser became so angry, maybe because he himself was in love with Barbra’ (Garten 2006). In his relationship with Streisand, Sharif consciously hid behind the image of a playboy, intentionally reducing himself to a womanizer and to one of the most famous sex symbols in contemporary history. In doing so,

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Sharif put aside pressing political issues and replaced them with issues of love and relationships. The kiss and relationship with Barbra were different from any other relationship he had had in public, for example, the one with Catherine Deneuve who had appeared semi-naked in Playboy. His reputation as a womanizer was simplistic, because after his marriage with Hamama, who he had described as the love of his life, he experienced serious existential questions about love and sexuality. In this sense, the kiss with Barbra was different as it implied a political statement. Nasser’s reaction was to actively raise suspicions about Sharif’s true religion and ethnic origins. Through intricate strategic games, Nasser and his agencies were able to convince the Egyptian public that Sharif had Jewish origins, a misinformation campaign that continues to hold weight. Belief in this rumour spread like wildfire across the Middle East but never took hold in the West. There, Sharif always remained the exotic Muslim man who rarely mentioned his Catholic background. We can only understand the severity of Nasser’s attack on Sharif if we understand the transformations that took place in Egyptian society at that time. As Nasser removed foreigners from Egypt, Egyptian Jews were slandered as Zionist agents and traitors of the homeland. This happened in two waves, in 1956 and 1964, until the Egyptian Jews were nearly eradicated by the Nasser regime. The ideological power of the Nasser regime is clear when we consider that most Egyptians still think that Sharif was a Jewish man. This view co-existed – in particular for religious Muslims – with a belief that Sharif was an intruder and a traitor. Ironically, then, Sharif is the most famous Arab Muslim in the West and the most famous Jewish Egyptian among Arabs. Sharif’s role as Che Guevara in Che! (Fleischer 1969) represented the end of his Hollywood adventure. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Sharif’s role delivers an implicit criticism of Guevara. The film celebrates Guevara’s death in the same year as the death of Nasser. Interestingly, some considered Nasser the Arab Guevara. The film implied the superiority of American capitalism over communism. Picking Sharif, the Egyptian sex symbol and decadent enigma, to play the role of Guevara was an obvious political choice. With its obvious bias, the film was badly received by critics and spectators alike. However, Che! was supported by the CIA. Though Sharif always denied any knowledge of their involvement, he would have been aware of the film’s ideological agenda as an American tool in the propaganda against the Soviet Union during the Cold War. The movie can also be read as an extension of Doctor Zhivago (Lean 1965), also supported by the CIA (Finn and Couvee 2014; Vennard 2014), which was released a few years earlier and in which Sharif played the lead in the role of Yuri Zhivago. Even though that film was an artistic and critical success, it shared the same ideological framework as Che!, but perhaps at a time in which this was more generally acceptable.

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Moving Away from Hollywood: Europe and Egypt During his upbringing, Sharif was exposed to French culture due to his membership of the elite social class and the Lebanese origins of his family. Both of these things made it easier for him to leave the United States and settle in France in the 1970s. After several years, Sharif felt he had finally found the country in which he would live until the end of his life. During the early 1970s France was still recovering from the events of May 1968 with their rejection of American consumer culture. During this time in France, Sharif became a symbol for both the Francophonie4 and for French migrant citizens. In a matter of a few years, he also became close friends with Jacques Chirac and the cultural and political elite in France. The transformation started when he decided to settle in France for good, and he brought a house and started to prepare to live the rest of his days in Paris. He deliberately left behind his Americanized persona, changed his relation to the star system and presented his new French self to the media. During his Hollywood years, Sharif had felt that he could not adapt to the brutally competitive Hollywood star system, nor to the heaviness of an ideologically charged American consumer society. He found solace in the casino, where he would play bridge after shooting finished for the day. This side to his identity developed quickly and strongly, and he became a Bridge champion in France and Switzerland. He is the most famous Bridge player in the history of the game, so much so that video games, teaching tapes, songs and books about Bridge have been created with his name attached to them. Indeed, Bridge players often see his influence on Bridge as more significant than his influence on the history of cinema. Sharif himself saw his new French identity as aligned with the game, and so he began to take roles in films only when he was not playing Bridge or as a means to fund his game. Some of the films he appeared in during this time were The Lebanese Mission [La Chatelaine du Liban] (Poittier 1956), The Burglars [La Casse] (Verneuil 1971), The Possessed [Les Possèdes] (Wajda 1988) and 588 Rue Paradis (Verneuil 1992). Sharif was well-received as a contributor to French culture at large, even though it was also revealed in this period that he was a gambler, something that began as a playful part of his identity but became a burden when it turned into an addiction. At this time, Sharif developed interesting relationships with Egyptian political leaders. He had met Anwar Sadat, the Egyptian president (1970–81), for the first time at the White House. Sadat was allegedly very welcoming of Sharif during the meeting and gave him assurances that, under his reign, Sharif would be allowed to come back to Egypt, at least for a visit. Despite a lack of evidence documenting the role of Sharif in the Camp David peace process, a few years before his death he spoke in detail about

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the part he played in the negotiations. His statements were not denied by either of the parties involved. Sharif spoke about a telephone conversation with Sadat during which the President asked him to talk with the Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin and assess his readiness to accept a visit by Sadat to Jerusalem (Deghidy 2012). Sharif added that after the telephone conversation with Sadat he went to the Israeli embassy in France where he called Begin’s office and presented Sadat’s request. Begin allegedly replied: If Sadat comes to Israel, we will welcome him like we would welcome the Messiah himself (Deghidy 2012). From the mid-1970s onwards, Sharif presented an image of himself as a friend of the Jewish people. He appeared in the media several times welcoming the peace process between Egypt and Israel, especially after his meeting with Sadat in the White House. There are also some indications that Sharif was present during the peace negotiations at the Mena House in Cairo; in one of his interviews he stated that during a visit to Cairo he was filled with joy to see Jews praying inside the Mena House (The Stanley Siegel Show 1978). However, the most obvious sign of the rehabilitation of Sharif’s image inside Egypt was Sadat’s invitation for him to attend his daughter’s wedding, an event to which only powerful elites approved of by the state were invited. Sharif’s presence among them announced a new era in his life that ran parallel with a new era for Egypt. However, this rehabilitation was quickly disrupted when Sadat was assassinated three years later, thus ending the Sadat era and with it the possibility for Sharif to go back to Egypt. The next president of Egypt, Hossein Mubarak, also developed a relationship with Sharif, largely as a result of his friendship with the famous Egyptologist Zahi Hawass. From his professional beginnings, Hawass felt he would benefit from an association with a person like Sharif who could shed light on Egypt’s antiquities and market Hawass’s ideas and ideology surrounding Egyptology to the world. The two men became friends and appeared together as a duo in several historical documentary films – Hawass as a scientist and Sharif as a sensitive artist who was passionate about ancient Egypt. They collaborated on Mysteries of the Great Pyramid (Kronick 1977) and Mysteries of Egypt (Neibaur 1998). Hawass knew that having someone like Sharif beside him would give him the credibility he needed and would provide his ideas with a world stage. With Sharif’s help, Hawass managed to successfully discredit the Jewish American efforts to Judaise Pharaonic history by linking it to Biblical history. Hawass’s association with Sharif in this theoretical, political and economic battle was enough to dispel any accusations of anti-Semitism against him, and their relationship became the gateway for Mubarak’s family to establish a relationship with Sharif. Mubarak’s family had close ties with Hawass and relied on investments in tourism to multiply their wealth. The family used Sharif’s name as a pull factor for tourists during international conferences, events and advertisements and took advantage of his international persona

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to incite the interest of foreigners in Egypt as a tourist hub. Sharif thus facilitated the continuation of their commercial projects in Egypt. After 9/11, a return to Egypt became an option for Sharif once again and he was encouraged to come back by friends such as Hawass. When Sharif did return to Egypt, rumours spread about a possible reunion with Hamama. When Hamama was asked by a journalist about Sharif, she felt that thinking about Sharif in emotional terms was forbidden and reuniting was impossible, because of how differently they defined their national and religious identities. Sharif’s already very complex transnational identity was further complicated by a trip to Saudi Arabia to perform the Umrah ritual in Mecca. The Saudi authorities did not allow him to reach the perimeter of Mecca unless he signed a document confirming that he was a Muslim. Sharif is thus the first person in history to convert to Islam twice. The early 1980s witnessed the formation of the American-Egyptian-Saudi triangle that supported the war in Afghanistan. Sadat, who was presented to the world as a man of peace, was the primary player in the establishment of the Islamic-military movement, which dated back to the 1970s when Afghanistan aligned with the Soviet Union. America funded the Islamist resistance mujahidin and Sadat offered them weapons and training. Under American order, the Egyptian military supported Afghanistan as a way to fight the Soviet Union, which gave indirect power to Islamist ideology. Thus began what has become known as the discourse of the ‘clash of civilizations’, which has hampered the possibility of dialogue between the Judeo-Christian West and the Muslim East and has reframed the ‘exotic orient’ as the ‘terrorist East’, a region that needs to be subsumed and controlled. In this context, Sharif’s star image changed once again. In Hollywood, the dominant image of the Arab man as mysterious and exotic had expired and there is no doubt that Sharif’s fall from grace in Hollywood coincided with 9/11 and with the rise of the idea of the Arab as terrorist. Other reasons accompanied the fading of his stardom too: in addition to the tense political climate in which Muslim roles were scarce or wholly negative, Sharif had not really developed his acting skills since the eighties. His addiction to gambling, tax pressures by the French government and his dedication to Bridge all pushed him into acting in B-movies that he likely would not have accepted earlier on in his career. Given the above, Tarek Sharif, Sharif’s son, read the script of Mr. Ibrahim and the Flowers of the Koran [Monsieur Ibrahim et les fleurs du Coran] (Dupeyron 2003) and advised his father to participate in the film. His encouragement was strategic. Ideologically, the film is a soft critique of the ‘clash of civilizations’. By showing the Muslim character (played by Sharif) going out of his way to help a Jewish character, the film shows that not every Arab Muslim man is a terrorist. On the one hand, this was a move on Tarek Sharif’s part to reinstate his father as a positive role model and to get Western audiences interested in him again. On the other, Sharif’s son

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was enthusiastic about the script because he felt personally touched by the premise of the film. Omar Junior, Tarek’s son and Sharif’s grandson, was Jewish and had a Jewish mother. When he returned to Egypt, Sharif’s relationship with the Mubarak regime was unstable. He felt too old to confront the Egyptian regime but was supportive of the 25 January Revolution in 2011 and participated in its beginnings. The protests at Tahrir Square appeared to him to be a cosmopolitan space in which Egyptians from all backgrounds were gathered in one square. He participated in the protests and was accepted by the protesters, which fed into the Western media’s coverage of the Revolution as liberal and antiauthoritarian. While one-sided and unbalanced on the part of the Western media, it does illustrate Sharif’s continued star power and his reputation as a Westernized Muslim. It enabled the media to frame the Revolution as a movement that necessarily lent towards freedom, democracy and justice. Sharif’s passing was an important moment in Egypt and one that was as significant as the day Hamama passed away six months earlier. By then, the dreams of the 2011 Revolution had withered away and the country had sunk into a collective state of forced amnesia as different imposed political destinies took root. As Sharif dreaded Alzheimer’s disease, he defiantly said, ‘I don’t want to remember anything and it means nothing to me’ (Arab America 2015). This threat of Alzheimer’s, the forced amnesia of the country and Sharif’s homecoming are all wrapped up in the constant successive constructions and deconstructions of his diverse personas and identities. Sharif saw himself as very lucky but this luck ultimately exhausted him. He wanted to escape from his ambivalent and in-between status and he comfortably welcomed the forgetfulness of old age, talking about it as if it were a choice.

Notes 1 The July Revolution is the name for the 1950s revolution led by Nasser. It was a movement of military conspirators. The Free Officers toppled the monarchy in a coup on 23 July 1952. 2 Nasser was a cinephile and a film buff who recognized the power of the audiovisual image and used cinema as a tool in his ideologies. 3 Nasser watched the premiere of The Land of Peace and requested the deletion of a scene containing a portrait of Mohammed Naguib (president of the republic for one year, before Nasser). The producers accepted and a new version of the film was released. 4 Francophonie: A loosely united group of nations where French is a first, official or culturally significant language.

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Filmography 588 Rue Paradis (1992), [Film] Dir. Henri Verneuil, France: AMLF. The Blazing Sun (1954), [Film] Dir. Youssef Chahine, Egypt: Nile Cinema. The Burglars [La Casse] (1971), [Film] Dir. Henri Verneuil, France: Columbia Pictures. Che! (1969), [Film] Dir. Richard Fleischer, USA: 20th Century Fox. Doctor Zhivago (1965), [Film] Dir. David Lean, USA: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. Funny Girl (1968), [Film] Dir. William Wyler, USA: Columbia Pictures. Land of Peace [Ard El Salam] (1957), [Film] Dir. Kamal El Sheikh, Egypt. Lawrence of Arabia (1962), [Film] Dir. David Lean, UK: Columbia Pictures. The Lebanese Mission [La Chatelaine du Liban] (1956), [Film] Dir. Richard Poittier, France. Mr. Ibrahim and the Flowers of the Koran [Monsieur Ibrahim et les fleurs du Coran] (2003), [Film] Dir. François Dupreyon, France: ARP Sélection. Mysteries of Egypt (1998), [Film] Dir. Bruce Neibaur, USA: Destination Cinema. Mysteries of the Great Pyramids (1977), [Film] Dir. William Kronick, USA. The Possessed [Les Possèdes] (1988), [Film] Dir. Andrzej Wajda, France: Gaumont. The River of Love (1960), [Film] Ezz El-Dine Zulfikar, Egypt. The Stanley Siegel Show (1978–80), [TV Series] Dir. Stanley Milton Siegel, USA: WABC. Struggle on the Pier (1957), [Film] Dir. Youssef Chahine, Egypt: Misr Studio. There Is a Man in Our House (1961), [Film] Dir. Henri Barakat, Egypt: Arab Film Distribution.

References Arab America (2015), ‘Omar Sharif on Acting, Religion, and the Future’, Arab America, 11 July 2015. https://www.arab​amer​ica.com/video-omar-sha​rif-on-act​ ing-relig​ion-and-the-fut​ure/ (accessed 19 July 2023). Bhabha, H. K. (1994), The Location of Culture, London: Routledge. Caplan, N. (1997), Futile Diplomacy, Vol. 4 Operation Alpha and the Failure of Anglo-American Coercive Diplomacy in the Arab-Israeli Conflict, 1954–1956, London: Routledge. Deghidy, I. (2012), ‘He, She and the Bold, An Interview with Omar Sharif’. Egypt: Rotana Cinema. Finn, P., and P. Couvee (2014), ‘During Cold War CIA used Doctor Zhivago as a Tool to Undermine Soviet Union’, Washington Post, 5 April 2014. https:// www.was​hing​tonp​ost.com/world/natio​nal-secur​ity/dur​ing-cold-war-cia-useddoc​tor-zhiv​ago-as-a-tool-to-underm​ine-sov​iet-union/2014/04/05/2ef3d​ 9c6-b9ee-11e3-9a05-c73​9f29​ccb0​8_st​ory.html (accessed 19 July 2023). Garten, I. (1977), ‘An Interview with Omar Sharif’. Paris: TFI. Garten, I. (2006), ‘An Interview with Omar Sharif’. Said, E. (1999), Out of Place. A Memoir, New York: Vintage Books. Shady, Ali Abu (2000), Al Cinema W Al Seyasa, (Cinema and Politics). Cairo: Al Hayaa Masreyya Al Amma Lel Ketab. Vennard, M. (2014), ‘How the CIA Secretly Published Dr Zhivago’, BBC News Magazine, 24 June 2014. https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magaz​ine-27942​646 (accessed 19 July 2023). Wattis, N. (1985), David Lean, a Life in Film, Southbank Show Special. https:// www.yout​ube.com/watch?v=szgw​x7mb​WD8 (accessed 19 July 2023).

14 Elia Suleiman: The Reluctant Star Hania A. M. Nashef

In Heavenly Bodies, Richard Dyer writes that in order to achieve stardom, ‘images have to be made’ and that a star is created not just through the images in films but through promotional materials, public appearances and interviews, and press coverage of the star’s private life and off-screen presence (2003: 4). He talks of the way stars are often produced by big media industries (2003: 4) and for profit, and of the ways in which they are often heavily involved in ‘making themselves into commodities’ (2003: 5). Through his earlier loose trilogy of films (which includes Chronicle of a Disappearance [1996], Divine Intervention [2002] and The Time that Remains [2009]) and his more recent film It Must Be Heaven (2019), Palestinian director Elia Suleiman defies the long-established notion of what it means to be a star. As a director who often appears in his own films, albeit as the only main character, Suleiman is not a star in the strictest sense of the word. Suleiman does not court the limelight and is not backed by a big studio or production company. For the most part, his actions in the films are modest, almost timid. He stands on the sidelines, observing the action that unfolds in front of him, and not partaking in it. Even in the scenes in which he appears to be engaged in a conversation with another person, he listens and never comments. His director-star role differs remarkably from other directors who cast themselves in acting roles. The late Egyptian director Youssef Chahine, for instance, cast himself in roles as main protagonists,

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FIGURE 14.1  Elia Suleiman: The reluctant star. Source: Designed by Mira Hani Makram.

but there existed a clearly defined line between the star role he played and his position as the director of the film. For Suleiman, who is one of the most widely known faces of Palestinian cinema and someone who has used his fame and his recognisability both inside and outside of Palestine to raise awareness of the Palestinian cause, the line between actor and director remains blurred, arguably blending them as one. Through playing the character of ES in his films and directing his own presence in his work, Suleiman combines the roles of director and star, thereby broadening our understanding of stardom and of the circulation of star bodies in (exilic) cinema industries outside of Hollywood like Palestine. In this chapter, I use Suleiman as a case study to explore what happens when a director self-consciously creates their own star image and to introduce the concept of the reluctant star – that is, a star who operates on the margins and whose presence is as much about cultivating a sense of accountability in the audience as it is about expressing the essence of the Palestinian experience. In addition, in interviews with the media, Suleiman discusses his films in relation to his role as director rather than his acting part in the work.The director-actor combination is essential to the star image that is created in Suleiman’s films. The reluctant star is acting

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out the persona of the director, which is not how stardom operates in the conventional sense. In this way, Suleiman’s presence in his films remains a commentary on the events. The essence of stardom lies in the creation of a star image. In his films, Suleiman, the director, steps back to allow the image of ES, the character, to be made. However, there is a constant and consistent collapsing of the identities of the character and the director that is key to Suleiman’s star persona. The two aspects have to work in unison in order to establish the star. The character of ES is an extension of Suleiman, the director. Suleiman plays ES, whose subdued action and presence are continuous reminders of the fact that it is the same person who is directing the film. Furthermore, ES, like the director, is a silent commentator on the action. He mirrors the director. In the film I discuss in this chapter, Suleiman takes on the role of an onlooker who stands both inside and outside of the frame and watches ordinary scenes unfolding around him, often from the sidelines and with an inscribed neutrality on a face that refuses to be judgmental. Gil Z. Hochberg has described Suleiman’s presence in his films as that of an introverted spectator who watches hauntingly (2015: 58). In his trilogy, Suleiman was, for the most part, relegated to a peripheral space within the frame. By contrast, in It Must be Heaven, his position within the frame shifts to occupy the centre ground, regardless of whether he faces the camera or faces away from it. The position Suleiman adopts in his films commands the viewer to join his character ES in acts of observation, thereby insisting on the incidental nature of his role while also drawing attention to it. With his mute and haunting presence, ES’s position in the frame recalls the Palestinian cartoonist Naji Al-Ali’s Hanthala, the ten-year-old child with his back turned to us, compelling us to partake in the viewing of the atrocities and events that are unfolding in front of him (Nashef 2019: 53). The muted presences of both ES and Hanthala force the audience to engage with the unravelling events, their way of confronting the tense silence exhibited by these two characters. Suleiman the director self-consciously collapses his multiple identities into the character of ES. Even though Suleiman’s presence in his films is often construed as apolitical, lacking an overt national narrative or a traditional political stand, the character of ES symbolizes an idea of Palestinian nationhood that is continuously shifting, a country that exists stubbornly through its absence, disappearing and reappearing in fragments. Suleiman’s role in It Must Be Heaven redefines the concept of the transnational film and anchors it in the body of a character who exists in a permanent state of exile. However, it also positions ES as a national signifier and as a character who embodies the essence of what it means to be Palestinian. We are presented with a Palestinian man seeking answers about a homeland that is present in its absence. Given that Suleiman plays what appears to be a version of himself, the ‘star-as-auteur’ and the ‘star-as-text’ merge, collapsing distinctions between the star and his image (Dyer 1998: 161). Suleiman’s

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stardom is created through the connection that exists between the character ES and his creator; ES is the reflection of Suleiman. The director/character’s discreet omnipresence in the narrative points to an absence that represents the essence of Palestinian-ness – in this sense, Suleiman the star/director can be seen to epitomize the diasporic Palestinian experience through his embodiment of the role of an onlooker (ES) who performs through nonperformance and acts of waiting. The character’s silent yet evocative presence in It Must Be Heaven continues an earlier tradition, which began with Suleiman’s trilogy, and in which the director casts himself in a key role, thereby establishing a star persona for himself that is centred around silent observation and his embodiment of the exilic condition of the Palestinians. His character’s muted demeanour has resulted in a presence larger than the role of a mere observer. Suleiman/ES has become the chronicler of and commentator on events that unravel before him, and the embodiment of the Palestinian condition.

In Search of Palestine: The Star/Character as Flâneur In It Must be Heaven, director, star and character constantly collapse into each other in a way that makes them difficult to disentangle. This is evident from the pre-title scene, which shows an Orthodox bishop (Nael Kanj) leading a procession through a narrow street to a church. The bishop and his congregation are chanting an Easter liturgy. The scene loses its sanctity when an intoxicated man refuses to open the crypt of the church, denying entry to the worshippers and demanding that they come at a later time. According to the inebriated youth, the resurrection should be postponed. The bishop angrily forces the door open, and we hear a thrashing noise. Meanwhile, the Easter Paschal Troparion liturgy (‫ )المسيح قام‬about the resurrection of the dead from their graves continues as the title of the film is displayed.1 The opening scene, which follows the failed Easter procession, frames ES in enigmatic terms and positions him as the antithesis of a Christlike figure. Furthermore, his presence is felt through his absence, and this is affirmed by the opening scene when we see him with his back turned to the camera smoking in the dark in his garden. This accentuates his role as the director who witnesses and reports on the events, even though he chooses to be absent from the action; the camera lens then turns to confront us with ES’s expressionless face, which occupies the centre of the frame and is shrouded in darkness with no noise but for the faint sound of rustling leaves. Although ES was not amongst the worshippers, seeing him in the first scene suggests that he may have been a witness to the church incident. The spectral quality of the image that emerges following the opening credits is enhanced

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by the juxtaposition of black and white, the whiteness of the Arak he is drinking, the upturned sleeve and the cigarette butt against the darkness of the night. We meet our star who timidly emerges from this darkness, reminding us of his dual position in the film. Following its beginning in Nazareth, the film moves to Paris and New York through a journey ES partly undertakes to secure funding for a film he is making on Palestine.2 In doing so, it inadvertently highlights the pervasive role exile plays in Palestinian lives and in the Palestinian people’s constant search for a homeland. Even though ES has left his country behind, he carries segments of it with him on his travels, which take him to two continents. Before he heads to the airport, he stands staring at the Mediterranean Sea, his action ‘a magical encapsulation of the escape fantasy that Suleiman magnifies with the journey to come’, but as the film develops, he realizes that his homeland will always be a part of his identity (Kohn 2019). Through the voyage of his character, the director searches for his homeland and his place in the world to enable him to narrate his story. The omnipresence of the character, ES, results in the creation of the star who connects the fragments of the film together. His homeland accompanies him and to his surprise parts of it are revealed to him in Paris and New York, allowing him to realize that ‘nowhere … can replicate his intimate affections for his homeland’ (Kohn 2019). In addition, the world he encounters is just as incongruous as the one he left behind. To his surprise, the roaring tanks in front of the Banque de France on 39 rue Croix des Petits Champs and the overhead military planes celebrating Bastille Day, for example, are indicative of the similarity that prevails in the world. The tanks and the military planes are reminders that militarism is evident everywhere. His astute, albeit silent, commentary on current events adds to his stardom. Suleiman’s decision to cast himself in the role of ES highlights the plight of the Palestinians and their status as unmoored and exiled due to their search for a stable homeland. Like other Palestinians, Suleiman is an exile, resulting in a stardom that is in itself nomadic, forever in search of a homeland. This is a de-territorialized stardom that encapsulates the exiled Palestinian who is paradoxically part of the world and outside of it. Much like Walter Benjamin’s flaneur, ES walks around Nazareth in his role as a star, observing and taking in the city, ‘absorbing the malaise around him’ and, ultimately, guiding us through its streets as its stories unravel (Kohn 2019). In The Arcades, Benjamin described flânerie as a person being allowed to roam freely and take in the city sights without inhibition, which, in turn, allowed their imagination to wander unreservedly (Benjamin 1946: 416). The concept, which was initially developed by Charles Baudelaire, presents: The flâneur [as] the casual, often aimless urban roamer, who leisurely ambles through the city streets … the flâneur takes up a new stance to

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the world he passes through. He embodies a simultaneous attitude of detachment and involvement, disengaging himself from the crowds and humdrum street life, yet nonetheless engages from a distance, gazing and probing his surroundings. (Bacal 2011) If Suleiman’s status as a star-director is indelibly linked to his nomadism and de-territorialization, the position that he assumes in the role of ES is very much that of a wanderer. He partakes in events by scrutinizing and observing them. During his visit to the cemetery before leaving Nazareth, ES stands in front of a wall with photos and announcements of those who died, absorbing the registry that highlights the epochs of Palestinian existence in the city. His presence marks the fast-disappearing presence of a people. As he stares at the empty slots that are yet to be occupied, we are reminded of the city’s (dying) identity as Palestinian Arab Christian. The chiming church bells are also reminders. In the next scene, ES walks past a wall exhibiting drawings of emblems whose meanings have evolved to represent the absent nation and Palestinian identity post 1948: the map of mandated Palestine; Naji Al Ali’s character Hanthala; the key to the abandoned or occupied house; the olive tree that is a symbol of eternity; and the resilient Palestinian woman, the symbol of the homeland. Transnational stars often play an important role in cultural exchange by helping to dramatize ‘the cultural status quo’ or the ‘tensions of cultural change’ (Meeuf and Raphael 2013: 2). They ‘provide sites where cultural and ideological conflicts surrounding gender, sexuality, race, national identity, class, and individualism can be dramatized and mediated’ (Meeuf and Raphael 2013: 2). Here, ES’s embodiment by Suleiman reinforces the de-territorialization of the Palestinian people and the character’s acknowledgement of these icons of Palestine functions to highlight their importance within the Palestinian narrative. On ES’s travels, he searches for a metaphorical heaven, away from the confines of his hometown and absent homeland. Instead, he meets aspects of Palestine in both Paris and later New York, proving that ‘the notion of nationhood is more slippery and complicated’ than it might seem (Yu 2018: 17). In a discussion on Palestinian identity, Suleiman writes, ‘We might discover that so many cultures and arts are just as Palestinian as the Palestinians. We as Other and Other as a constant presence’ (2006: 204). It Must be Heaven endorses this notion. Through his own casting as the character of ES, Suleiman highlights the role that he plays – as both a director and a star – in cross-cultural exchange and in giving visualization to the exilic and displaced condition of the Palestinian people. Suleiman’s casting in the role of ES plays upon his own status as a signifier for Palestine. However, it also imbues his exilic Palestinian identity with a particularity and distinctiveness that is reminiscent of stardom. A star

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needs the recognition of an audience to attain stardom. For instance, in the New York cab scene, ES initially sits in the back of a taxi, almost invisible. We are exposed to fragments of his face, eyes, mouth and profile through the reflection of the outside streetlights during the journey. Meanwhile, the New York taxi driver (Kwasi Songui) initiates a dialogue: Driver: So, what country do you come from? ES: Nazareth. Driver: Aha … Aha … Nazareth … Nazareth … Nazareth, is that a country? ES: I’m Palestinian. These four words indicate that ES’s ‘national identity … exists only as an adjective, not a proper noun’ (Marshall 2019). These words are the only words ES utters in this film and the first the character pronounces. Despite the limited cultural exchange between the driver and the passenger, the reaction of the driver to ES’s reply bestows upon the otherwise silent character a touch of stardom. The driver quickly calls his wife to inform her of the celebrity in his cab; he refuses to take any money from ES and draws an analogy between him and Jesus of Nazareth: ‘Palestinian. Goodness gracious – let me look at you … Palestinian inside of my cab. Isn’t that something.’ The absence of Palestine is made present through the driver’s reactions to ES’s presence. By acknowledging the virtual homeland and its citizen, the driver has inadvertently bestowed upon ES star-like qualities. In the cab, he is treated like a star purely because of his de-territorialized identity. Meanwhile, his association with Christ adds a celestial and religious quality to his identity: it must be heaven to be recognized as a national subject. ES’s particular experience in this scene is one that many Palestinians can identify with, notably in their inability to answer what appears to be a simple ontological question. The answer to the question of one’s origins can never be answered in simple terms for Palestinians. This is confirmed by ES’s friend the Mexican actor and producer, Gael Garcia Bernal, in the New York scene during their wait to meet the director, in which he informs the person he is chatting with on his mobile that Suleiman is ‘Palestine … no … no … not a Palestinian from Israel – he is a Palestinian from Palestine’. Being Palestinian always necessitates an explanation, and the adjectival term points to a constant state of deferral. The country itself, meanwhile, is also absent and present. Despite the vast attempts by Israel to erase Palestine, ‘the imposed top layer has failed to erase the layer below’ (Nashef 2019: 65). The emergence and re-emergence of ES in Suleiman’s films not only accents his role as a star but also re-emphasizes the Palestinians’ presence.

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ES: A Reluctant Performer in an Absurd World Suleiman’s participation in his film centres around his observations of the world in front of him. Even though ES is perceived as a passing eyewitness to the unfolding vignettes in the cities he chooses to visit, his embodiment by Suleiman allows for cultural exchanges to take place and provides fertile ground onto which the power dynamics of film funding, production and distribution are projected. For example, in a scene in Paris, a French producer (Vincent Maraval) informs ES that his company cannot help finance his film because they do not consider it Palestinian enough and because they find that the Palestinians in it ‘are not angry or preachy or victimized’ (Bradshaw 2019). Despite claiming that they are not seeking a didactic or even an exotic rendering of Palestine, the production company feels unable to accept his project, stating: C’est un film sur le conflit Palestinien. Vous savez … un certain sympathique pour la cause Palestinien … on pourrait dire qu’on presque trouvez ça n’est pas Palestinien assez. This is a film about the Palestinian conflict. You know … a certain empathy for the Palestinian cause … one could say that you almost find that it is not Palestinian enough’. (my translation) When ES fails to respond, the producer asks him in English if he understood what was said. All the while, the expression on ES’s face progresses from one of surprise to amazement. It is the producer who fails to understand that the film is not about the Palestinian conflict, exposing his ignorance of what Palestine means and denying the Palestinians the right to tell their own story. Meanwhile, ‘the industry exec whom his friend Gael García Bernal introduces him to [in New York] hasn’t the slightest interest in hearing any Palestinian story’ (Weissberg 2019). The French producer and the industry exec both want to condense Palestine and Palestinians into a single totalizing narrative, but as Suleiman observes, ‘One truth is a stagnant truth. Real as it can get, it becomes our only reality and we become its prisoners’ (2006: 204). Merging the director-star roles allows for the story to be told from more than one perspective – the director steps back to allow the actor to tell the story and, in doing so, allows the star to emerge. Suleiman’s casting as ES purposely plays upon his own status as a signifier for Palestine and on his observer status as a director. As such, he is often imbued with an ethereal or celestial quality that marks him out from those around him. ES’s silence at once unnerves others and makes them take note of him. His neighbour who frequently trespasses into his lemon orchard feels that he must explain himself whenever he sees ES. Those he encounters on his walks not only feel the urge to perform a minor role in front of ES but

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also acknowledge his role as the chronicler of Palestine through the stories they tell him. Their inconsequential utterances become a part of the greater narrative he is performing and writing. Similarly, the grandfather’s clock in the hallway of his home, which is always out of joint, marks another time. It chimes to its own rhythm, fifteen minutes behind the church clock. ES has to adjust the handles repeatedly to synchronize it with actual time. These elements denote ES as someone who stands out from others but through no intention of his own. In other scenes, ES stands out precisely because of his apparent absence and invisibility to those around him. During one of the café scenes in Paris’ Rue Montorgueil, four men arrive to check if the pavement space used by the proprietor is in line with the regulations. Meanwhile, we see ES sitting at a table with no other clientele. Even though he occupies the middle of the frame, the four men remain oblivious to his presence.3 Their actions render him invisible; nonetheless, they take heed of his personal space by not infringing upon it. In a twist of irony, following their departure, a man with a saxophone plays ‘Besame Mucho’ to the undetectable ES.4 This scene, together with others in the films, reiterates ES’s absent presence and positions him as a symbol of the lost Palestinian nation, a country that exists through its absence. The unifying factor of the film’s vignettes lies within the director/ character’s observation of events unfolding around him. For the most part, he is seemingly unperturbed, but, at times, we note an occasional bemused expression, or we see ES ‘making comments through gesticulations and eyebrow movements in a burlesque style’ (Aftab 2019). The actor’s ‘deadpan stare says it all [as] the Chaplinesque Suleiman drifts through an ambivalent world, and his solemn expression does the bulk of the talking’ (Kohn 2019). The uniqueness of his performance adds a star-like quality to his role, almost a trademark to the character. Being a witness to events that defy logic designates ES as someone who occupies a space that sets him apart from others. Suleiman through his character ES chooses to maintain a distance between himself and others, either through his reactions or his silence. Even though ES, the character created by the director, often engages in understated actions, his distinctive presence bestows upon him a star-like quality.

ES/Suleiman: The Fashioning of a Star and Character Dyer argues that the star, who is the culmination of a ‘body, a psychology, a set of skills’, has ‘to be mined and worked up into a star image’ (Dyer 2003: 5). He believes that the inherent qualities of an individual determine how

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much ‘fashioning’ a star needs (Dyer 2003: 5). Because Suleiman is playing himself, the fashioning becomes a conscious choice and his star persona is a constructed version of himself that responds to his status as a representative of the Palestinian identity and the exilic Palestinian experience, rather than a commodity that is fashioned by a director. His stardom becomes evident through the experiences and situations he represents. He consistently places himself in roles where he hauntingly watches from the sidelines, and his films work hard to collapse distinctions between the director and the star, and between the star and the character. In an interview, Suleiman insists that ‘the man in the film is himself, or just about – a little more awkward, a touch more eccentric and melancholy[ic]’ (Knight 2020). Suleiman, the director/ actor, may not fit the model of stardom as we classically understand it, but he can be viewed as a reluctant star and also ‘a reluctant icon of Palestinian cinema’ (Halabi 2017: 115). ES is an image of Suleiman, who, in turn, ‘is the real person who is the site or occasion’ of that chosen image (Dyer 2003: 7). Suleiman’s star image centres around his outsider, observational status and its relationship with the Palestinian condition. He plays a character who prefers not to partake in the action that unfolds around him. Instead, he simply watches the eccentricities and absurdities that unfold, at times as a regretful or reluctant observer. The close relationship between Suleiman and the character of ES contradicts much star theory, where, as Edgar Morin argues, an actor ‘does not engulf his role. The role does not engulf the actor’ and, at the end of the film, ‘the actor becomes an actor again’ while the character remains the character within the confines of the film (2005: 29). With ES, Suleiman has constructed a character whose image is reliant on the overlap between actor and role, off-screen presence and on-screen presence. As he notes, ‘for this film I did something ridiculous that I have not done before. I looked in the mirror’ (Knight 2020). His reflection in the mirror becomes the conduit through which his stardom is born. Through this process, Suleiman ‘[becomes] a cinematic phenomenon’, even though there is nothing particularly ‘cinematic’ about him (Morin 2005: 4).

Conclusion A star often determines how characters are played in films by, as Morin argues, incarnating ‘himself in them and transcend[ing] them’ (2005: 27). Suleiman’s construction and embodiment of ES imbues him with the meanings that have become attached to Suleiman as a director. The director/star and his character function as an eyewitness to events and as a reminder of the exiled condition of the Palestinians. The various characters ES encounters rarely serve to shed light on his character but his presence is always acknowledged by them. As stated earlier, his neighbours always have the urge to explain themselves when they encounter him. The neighbour who helps himself to the lemons always

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feels that he must justify his actions whenever he meets the character. ES only observes silently, but it is this very silence that forces those who confront him to perform and speak. The aging father of the neighbour believes that he must stop and narrate tales of grandeur every time he meets ES by happenstance on the street. ES’s celestial presence in the film provokes them to act and demands accountability, even though he always watches and listens intently without any comment. Suleiman’s characterization as ES thus ‘revels at the margin, at the interstitial place where he can observe without being drawn into political and aesthetic conformism that binds his creative project’ (Halabi 2017: 116). Stars are often embodiments of the social structures in which they are placed (Dyer 2003: 16). In his self-casting as ES, Suleiman embarks on a quest to understand the notion of a lost homeland and embodies the state of exile that defines the Palestinian individual. His character’s journey involves an attempt at understanding Suleiman’s people and his hometown and highlights the contradictions within Nazareth, a city that is partially paralysed and suffocating under its ghetto-like existence. It Must be Heaven, which is best described as a tragicomedy, is replete with subtle satire that is highlighted through ES’s perplexed gaze and the comedic manner in which he conducts himself. According to the director, satire is ‘one of those cultural codes that can be employed’ to tell the Palestinian story (2006: 204). ES, in the role of onlooker, highlights the absurdity of life. His lack of performativity coupled with the close-ups of his bemused face allow for ‘exaggerations’ of his ‘expressions’, which centre him in the narrative (Morin 2005: 118). The character’s strolls through the three cities, along with his fixed gaze, commands us to view the world through his eyes and react in a similar manner. In New York, when he is interviewed by a professor, ES fails to reply to the latter’s long tirade. The professor asks him: To speak about the ways of being and feeling that have or have not permitted you to achieve the conditions of becoming what we call a citizen of the world umm … is your sense, your identity a place, a thing of the past. Has your nomadic existence extinguished your love of one place and extended it to a love of all places? Ah! in other words, are you a perfect stranger? (emphasis added) Through his silent presence here and elsewhere in the film, ES forces us to pay attention to the plight of the Palestinians and to their enforced displacement and constant state of exile and non-belonging. A tarot card reader responds to ES’s muted question ‘Will there be Palestine?’ with ‘There will be. But it ain’t gonna happen in your lifetime or mine’. The film ends with ES at an Arab bar in Haifa in which the young crowd is dancing to Yuri Mrakadi’s Arabyon Ana [I am an Arab], stressing that the culture will not die (2002). As the 60-yearold star/character sits at the bar, he extends to us a glimpse of hope. Even if the prediction from the tarot card reader says it will be a while before Palestine

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becomes present, Suleiman has attempted to make the nation present through his films and his self-casting in the character of ES. In the process, he has cultivated a star image for himself that draws on his own association with Palestine and with the Palestinian lived experience of absence, loss and exile.

Notes 1 The liturgy in Arabic states, ‘‫المسيح قام من بين األموات ووطئ الموت بالموت و وهب الحياة للذين‬ ‫في القبور‬.’ 2 The film is possibly It Must Be Heaven. Suleiman has often alluded to his films as films in process. In Divine Intervention, we see ‘E.S. organizing index cards or memos on a wall in his apartment [indicating that] the film itself is still in the making, as with the country’ (Nashef 2019: 73). 3 Deborah Young writes, ‘Sofian El Fani’s widescreen, rectilinear cinematography and careful compositions take in a lot of landscape, isolating Suleiman in the center of the screen, and the soundtrack uses a dozen well-selected songs that ably replace the missing dialogue’ (2019). 4 Regarding his earlier films, Suleiman has often described: his own use of framing to emphasise this sense of a being at once lacking presence and authority: ‘Look at my being in the frame. It’s completely marginalised. I am almost a present absentee or an absent presentee’ … Although Suleiman is here referring to his not wanting to claim authority over the events that unfold in his films …, one cannot help but notice that being sidelined in the frame is indicative of the situation of the Palestinian Arab within the state of Israel. (Nashef 2019: 57)

Filmography Chronicle of a Disappearance (1996), [Film] Dir. Elia Suleiman, Israel, Palestine: International Film Circuit. Divine Intervention (2002), [Film] Dir. Elia Suleiman, France: Avatar Films. It Must Be Heaven (2019), [Film] Dir. Elia Suleiman, France, Canada, Israel, Palestine, Turkey: Le Pacte. The Time that Remains (2009), [Film] Dir. Elia Suleiman, United Kingdom, Italy, Belgium, France: Le Pacte.

References Aftab, K. (2019), ‘The National: Arts and Culture’, National News, 26 May. https://www.then​atio​naln​ews.com/arts-cult​ure/film/can​nes-spec​ial-ment​ionwin​ner-elia-sulei​man-makes-a-str​ong-sil​ent-statem​ent-1.866​364 (accessed 2 December 2020).

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Arabyon Ana ‫( عرب ٌي أنا‬2002), [Song] Composer. Y. Mrakadi. Bacal, M. (2011), ‘Walter Benjamin, the Flâneur, and Redemption’. Telos. http:// www.tel​ospr​ess.com/wal​ter-benja​min-the-flan​eur-and-red​empt​ion/ (accessed 1 June 2021). Benjamin, W. (1946), The Arcades Project, trans. Howard Eiland and Kevin McLaughlin, Cambridge: MA: Harvard University Press. Bradshaw, P. (2019), ‘It Must Be Heaven Review – Palestine’s Holy Fool Lives the Dream’, The Guardian, 24 May. https://www.theg​uard​ian.com/film/2019/ may/24/it-must-be-hea​ven-rev​iew-pal​esti​nes-holy-fool-lives-the-dream (accessed 30 December 2020). Dyer, R. (1998), Stars, London: BFI Publishing. Dyer, R. (2003), Heavenly Bodies: Film Stars and Society, Oxford: Routledge. Halabi, Z. G. (2017), The Unmaking of the Arab Intellectual: Prophecy, Exile and the Nation, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Hochberg, G. Z. (2015), Visual Occupations Violence and Visibility in a Conflict Zone, Durham: Duke University Press. Knight, C. (2020), ‘Elia Suleiman, Philosopher-Filmmaker, Discusses His Newest, It Must Be Heaven’, National Post, 23 June. https://natio​nalp​ost.com/entert​ainm​ ent/mov​ies/elia-sulei​man-phil​osop​her-filmma​ker-discus​ses-his-new​est-it-must-behea​ven (accessed 7 December 2020). Kohn, E. (2019), ‘ “It Must Be Heaven” Review: Elia Suleiman’s Palestinian Satire Explains Why He Doesn’t Make More Movies’, IndieWire, 24 March. https:// www.indiew​ire.com/2019/05/it-must-be-hea​ven-rev​iew-elia-sulei​man-can​ nes-2019-120​2144​404/(acces​sed 30 December 2020). Marshall, L. (2019), ‘ “It Must Be Heaven”: Cannes Review’, Screen Daily, 24 May. https://www.scre​enda​ily.com/revi​ews/it-must-be-hea​ven-can​nes-rev​iew/5139​681. arti​cle(acces​sed 30 December 2020). Meeuf, R., and R. Raphael (2013), ‘Introduction’, in Transnational Stardom: International Celebrity in Film and Popular Culture, 1–16, New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Morin, E. (2005), The Stars, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Mrakadi, Y. (2002), ‘Arabyon Ana ‫’عرب ٌي أنا‬. Nashef, Hania, A. M. (2019), Palestinian Culture and the Nakba: Bearing Witness, Oxford: Routledge. Suleiman, E. (2006), ‘The Hidden Conscience of Estimated Palestine’, in Valentina Vitali and Paul Willemen (eds), Theorising National Cinema, 202–05, London: BFI Publishing. Weissberg, J. (2019), ‘Film Review: “It Must Be Heaven” ’. Variety, 24 May. https:// vari​ety.com/2019/film/revi​ews/it-must-be-hea​ven-rev​iew-120​3225​342/(acces​sed 30 December 2020). Young, D. (2019), ‘ “It Must Be Heaven”: Film Review | Cannes 2019’, Hollywood Reporter, 24 May. https://www.hollyw​oodr​epor​ter.com/rev​iew/it-be-hea​ven-rev​ iew-1213​473 (accessed 30 December 2020). Yu, S. Q. (2018), ‘Introduction: Performing Stardom: Star Studies in Transformation and Expansion’, in Qiong Yu Sabrina and Guy Austin (eds), Revisiting Star Studies: Cultures, Themes and Methods, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1–22.

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15 Jamel Debbouze: Intersectionality, Diaspora and Transnational Stardom Will Higbee

From his modest origins as the son of Moroccan immigrants growing up in Trappes – a working-class estate on the outskirts of Paris – in the 1980s, Jamel Debbouze has become one of contemporary French cinema’s most visible and bankable stars. His success in a diverse range of French films in the early 2000s such as Boys on the Beach [Le ciel, les oiseaux et … ta mère] (Bensalah 1999), Amélie [Le Fabuleux destin d’Amélie Poulain] (Jeunet 2001), Asterix and Obelix: Mission Cleopatra [Astérix et Obelix: mission Cléopâtre] (Chabat 2002) and Days of Glory [Indigènes] (Bouchareb 2006) confirmed his box-office appeal with audiences, alongside an increasing influence on both sides of the camera as an actor, star and (co-)producer. In common with many French screen actors, Debbouze began by learning his craft in the theatre. However, unlike most of his contemporaries, Debbouze’s stardom extends way beyond links with stage and (the big) screen to include successful roles in radio and television as both a performer and presenter, and as one of France and arguably Morocco’s most successful comedians of the 2000s, regularly selling out arenas for his one-man show and DVDs of his shows in the order of hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of units. Debbouze’s crossover success as a performer is complemented by his visibility and familiarity to French audiences as a television personality and presenter. In this respect, he shares a common trajectory with an elite

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FIGURE 15.1  Jamel Debbouze: Intersectionality, diaspora and transnational stardom. Source: Designed by Noor Tarek.

group of French comic performers such as Danny Boon, Omar Sy, Gad Elmaleh and Florence Foresti, who have translated their on-stage routines into box-office success with French cinema audiences. Like Debbouze, many of this new generation of comedians and screen actors are the descendants of immigrants from former French colonies who have used their comedy to comment on wider debates in French society on racism, integration and national identity. Debbouze has also frequently collaborated with these other comedians on shows such as Le Saturday Night Live (2017-) with Gad Elmaleh (also of Moroccan origin) and Le Cinéma de Jamal with Omar Sy (who grew up in the same neighbourhood of the Parisian banlieue1 as Debbouze), amplifying the individual star power as well as a collective visibility and influence of this new generation of post-colonial comics in French film and television. From the mid-1990s and into the 2000s, Debbouze was a familiar presence on French television, associated most consistently with the satellite channel, Canal+. Between 1996 and 2012 he made approximately 400 appearances on the channel (Desloire 2014: 204) in comedic and dramatic roles (such as his breakthrough sitcom, H [Canal+ 1998–2002], in his own

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shows such as Le Cinéma de Jamel [Canal+ 1997–98] and Le Monde de Jamel [Canal+ 1998–99], or as a participant in sketch shows or frequent guest or panellist on chat shows for the channel). More recently, he has been the driving force behind Jamel Comedy Club (2006–present), which has aired on Canal+ in France and 2M (a free-to-air television network) in Morocco. The series acts as a showcase for a type of multi-ethnic, firstperson observational stand-up comedy that, until recently, was more closely aligned with American than French traditions and complements the live comedy venues of the same name that Debbouze has invested in. The success of Jamel Comedy Club in France (as both live comedy venue and television series) is testament to Debbouze’s influence on contemporary French comedy and a dynamic new generation of multicultural French comics who challenge ‘traditional French forms of stage humour and also the nation’s Republican ideology … [by making] … racial and ethnic differences highly visible at the same time as presenting them in a way that paints a largely positive picture of a multicultural French society’ (Ervine 2019: 128). This commitment to promoting new French comic talent is mirrored in Morocco by Marrakech du Rire, an annual comedy festival in the city of Marrakesh, devised and presided over by Debbouze since 2002. An entrepreneurial star as well as a creative comic force, Debbouze’s business empire in France and Morocco thus extends to production companies for film and television as well as comedy clubs and comedy festivals – permitting him commercial as well as creative clout in developing and producing film, television and stand-up shows. In an age where more traditional modes of production and consumption of (film) stardom compete with hyper-consumerist modes of celebrity (Leonard and Negra 2018: 220), Debbouze’s star image incorporates elements from both phenomena. His prominence as both performer and presenter across various media platforms is combined with sustained interest in Debbouze’s private life, due to his high-profile marriage to Mélissa Theuriau, journalist and news anchor for M6 (a nationwide commercial French television channel). His celebrity status is reinforced by friendships with the Moroccan royal family, French presidents, and entertainment and sporting icons in France. A clip of Debbouze’s cameo with Zinedine Zidane (the football star of France’s 1996 World Cup winning team) in the film Asterix at the Olympics [Astérix aux jeux olympiques] (Forestier and Langmann 2008) has, for example, been viewed more than 3 million times to date on YouTube. It is hardly an exaggeration to say that he is one of the most visible French stars of the internet age and a cultural phenomenon – le phénomène Jamal (Huughe 2004: 75) – in wider French society. Even a cursory online search reveals thousands of clips of his work across stage and screen, interviews and media appearances with millions if not billions of cumulative views. His social media accounts have millions of followers (1.8m on Instagram and 7.3m on Twitter as of February 2023). Debbouze is thus assured a level

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of attention and reaches audiences as a modern media celebrity in France and the Moroccan diaspora that does not simply result from his fame as a screen actor. In terms of box-office share, Debbouze is first and foremost a French film star. An analysis of the audience figures and reach of his films across Europe via the Lumière European Audio-visual Observatory (which includes limited data on the distribution of his films in Morocco) reveals that audiences for his films are overwhelmingly located in France.2 Indeed, the ease of access to French-language television channels in the Maghreb, the plethora of material related to his comic performances and sketch shows uploaded to internet and social media as well as the visibility of his Marrakesh comedy festival means that Debbouze is arguably better known as a comic and (French) television personality/celebrity in Morocco than he is for his considerable body of screen acting credits amassed since the late 1990s. His visibility across the Arab world (and especially beyond the Maghreb) is more limited than in Morocco. In terms of the transnational Arab stardom that forms the focus on this edited collection, then, Debbouze is more a diasporic (MaghrebiFrench3), rather than national (Moroccan) or pan-Arab star. This diasporic dimension of Debbouze’s stardom not only concerns his relationship with audiences in Morocco and the Arab world but also his connection to the Moroccan diaspora in France and their pivotal role in launching his stage and screen career. This fact was acknowledged by Debbouze years later in an interview on social media to promote the 2022 edition of his Marrakech du Rire comedy festival: It was the Moroccan associations in France that initially filled my venues … Frankly, I was a complete unknown. I didn’t do anything at the time, I wasn’t even at Radio Nova yet, when the Moroccan associations helped me to find me gigs in Nanterre, in Genevilliers …. the first television broadcasts that I did; it was Morocco, it was 2M [the Moroccan television channel] who offered me the chance to come and do a sketch. (Debbouze, interviewed by Anon [Brut Maroc, 2022])4 A degree of scholarly attention has thus already been devoted to Debbouze as a star of French cinema. Vanderschelden (2005) and Austin (2003) focus on Debbouze as an emerging popular star in the early 2000s. Later research (Higbee [2013] and Vincendeau [2015]) analyses Debbouze’s stardom and (post-colonial) identity within the confines of French national cinema. Drawing inspiration from Ezra and Rowden’s contention (2006: 4) that the national remains as the ‘canny dialogical partner’ to the transnational, this chapter aims to expand this existing body of research by exploring how the dynamic relationship between Debbouze’s arabité (Desloire 2014) as well as his Frenchness is best understood through his status as a transnational and, more specifically, diasporic and intersectional star.

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As a Maghrebi-French star from the working-class suburbs of Paris, Debbouze’s intersectionality is frequently foregrounded in relation to ethnicity and class. To date, disability has been largely overlooked in star studies of Debbouze, though it is, in fact, always present on screen and impacts in various ways, some more explicit than others, on Debbouze’s on screen-performance and audience engagement. In numerous interviews with the star, the accident that resulted in the paralysis of his right arm after being hit by a train passing through Trappes serves as a key reference to ‘understanding’ Debbouze, alongside observations around his upbringing as the French descendant of Moroccan immigrant parents growing up in a working-class estate of the Parisian banlieue.5 Debbouze himself acknowledges this intersection between his disability and ethnicity.6 Furthermore, he explains how the impact of the accident on his worldview manifests itself in a determination to refuse a status of victimhood (which we might also extend to his attitudes towards class and his immigrant origins) and a sense that he had ‘no time to waste’.7 In certain scenes in his first feature film, the prison drama Zonzon (Bouhnik 1998), such as when he attempts to lift weights in the gym, his disability is clearly foregrounded (Vanderschelden 2005: 68). From his earliest screen appearances, Debbouze has developed performative strategies – such as wearing jackets and shirts with his right hand tucked into his trouser pocket – so that his right arm is secured and his disability partially obscured. Though clearly visible on screen, his disability is also rarely, if ever (with the exception of Zonzon,), alluded to in a film’s narrative. It certainly does not prevent physical comedy as being a hallmark of Debbouze’s on-screen performance style – for example, the parody of wuxia films in the choreographed kung-fu fight scenes in Asterix and Obelix: Mission Cleopatra. Nevertheless, the paralysis of his right arm impacts Debbouze’s performance style and, combined with his diminutive stature, contributes to the star image he has developed as the vulnerable underdog or ‘little man’, who, with (often surprising) resilience and resourcefulness, confounds expectations of those around him to succeed.8

Transnational Shapeshifting: Unfixing Identity in Hollywoo and Angel-A In her analysis of globalization and diversity in French cinema since the 2000s, Vincendeau (2015) comments on the significant contribution played by Maghrebi-French stars, including Debbouze, in permitting the contemporary French star system to reflect more accurately on France’s post-colonial, multicultural society. She argues that the appearance of these Maghrebi-French stars is enabled by two distinct approaches to casting.

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The first is by securing starring roles in a growing band of mainstream films (especially comedies and historical dramas) in the 2000s that are ‘ethnically marked’ in terms of narratives, filmmakers and lead actors (Vincendeau 2015: 553–5). Whilst these roles move Maghrebi-French actors such as Debbouze beyond the ‘ghetto of typecasting’ of the 1970s and 1980s – where Maghrebi-French actors were repeatedly relegated to a paucity of secondary roles as criminals, juvenile delinquents or passive victims of French racism (see Tarr [2005: 9] and Higbee [2013: 5–8]) – they nonetheless bring their own complications. In these films, ethnicity is identified as key to the authentication of the role at the same time as these Maghrebi-French actors and stars attempt through their performances and the greater diversity of leading roles to move beyond ethnic typecasting. The second possibility is to move to a trans-ethnic or colour-blind casting: roles in which ‘their ethnic identity becomes irrelevant, fluid or invisible’, in turn ‘raising the question of whether such a move is evidence of a desirable integration or erasure of identity’ (Vincendeau 2015: 557). Both the ethnically marked and transethnic casting strategies thus carry with them dangers or contradictions for Maghrebi-French stars such as Debbouze regarding how much, or how little, the star’s (ethnic) difference is visible in their performance and the balance between individual and collective identity that is ethnically marked. This final point is complicated in the French context due to the Republican tradition of confining difference to the private sphere and a fear of an AngloSaxon model of communitarianism resulting in the ghettoization of France’s ethnic minorities. Thus, when Debbouze claimed in a press interview for the release of Days of Glory ‘we are actors with origins, not actors of Maghrebi origin’ (Debbouze in Pliskin 2006), he articulated a particularly French (Republican) perspective on identity politics. And yet, Debbouze’s origins as a Moroccan, an Arab and a Muslim are hugely significant to him as an individual (as they are to many of his audience). They ground his articulation of self as well as being essential to understanding him as a performer and a star. As in his use of comedy across film, stand-up and television, Debbouze appears to occupy a consensual space as a star who promotes ‘an open dialogue between the diverse groups in France’ (Mielusel 2018: 86), or what, in the context of contemporary French cinema, Raphaëlle Moine describes as the tendency for comedy to function as a ‘social laboratory’, rendering visible the ‘power relations affecting issues of gender, class and ethnicity’ and ‘using laughter to mitigate both reactionary stereotypes … contestatory transgressions … social changes and resistances’ (Moine 2015: 235). Through both his on-screen performances and his own contribution to shaping the extra-diegetic discourses that determine his star image, Debbouze challenges an essentialized view that reduces him as an actor, a star and an individual to a fixed identity as either entirely ‘French’, ‘Moroccan’, ‘Muslim’, ‘Arab’ or, in this case, ‘Maghrebi’. Nor is it a

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question of understanding Debbouze in terms of either ethnically marked or trans-ethnic casting as proposed by Vincendeau. It is precisely, we might argue, Debbouze’s identification with this matrix of identity positionings that are foregrounded and intersect to different extents in differing roles that confirms his popularity with audiences and makes him the star that he is. To fully appreciate Debbouze as a contemporary star, we must acknowledge the transnational and intersectional nature of his stardom. Here I understand transnational stardom to move beyond a more general notion of the circulation of stars and star images in an increasingly interconnected world. I am less interested in this analysis in understanding how Debbouze travels across continents as a transnational star than I am in engaging with the way that his star image, although emerging from the specific context of the French film industry is, in fact, predicated on a dynamic exchange between the local and the global, the French and the Moroccan, the national and the transnational. The roles that Debbouze plays and the star persona and star image that he has developed do not deny their links to a singular sense of national identity (be it French or Moroccan). Yet as an analysis of his entire output as a screen actor shows, they are also far more fluid and dynamic than that, encompassing a position simultaneously within and beyond the post-colonial axis of France and Morocco. To explore this premise, let us now turn our attention to Debbouze’s performances in two of his films from the 2000s, Hollywoo (Berthe and Serieis 2011) and Angel-A (Besson 2005). Released in 2011 in France, co-produced by Studio Canal, TF1 and LGM Cinema, Hollywoo is a mainstream comedy (with a romantic subplot) starring Florence Foresti and Jamel Debbouze. From a commercial perspective, the film aims to capitalize on its stars’ domestic box-office draw, whilst also exposing them to international cinema audiences through a transnational, bilingual comedy set in Los Angeles (LA). Like Debbouze, Foresti made her name as a stand-up comedian in France before accepting lead roles in mainstream cinema. The film revolves around a French voiceover artist called Jeanne (played by Foresti) who makes her living dubbing a hit US show, LA Couples, for French television. When Jeanne learns that the show’s star, Jenifer Marshall, has suddenly quit, she flies to Hollywood in a desperate attempt to convince Jenifer to return to the series and thus save her job. Arriving in LA, Jeannes encounters Farres (Debbouze), a French immigrant who works as a bellboy at a Beverly Hills hotel and is involved in various (barely legal) money-making schemes. The narrative sees the pair embark on a series of outlandish escapades to secure a sex-tape Jennifer has made with her ex-boyfriend. Jeanne does this to ingratiate herself with the star, while Farres wants to acquire the tape to sell it to the highest bidder. Although initially thrown together by chance and tolerating one another for reasons of self-interest and self-preservation, the pair finally admit their true feelings for one another on the flight back to France.

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Although the film’s marketing positions Foresti and Debbouze as co-stars, Hollywoo’s narrative is initially driven by Foresti’s character’s need to save her lucrative dubbing career. Farres/Debbouze lands on screen, seemingly by accident, just under twenty minutes into the film. As Jeanne walks down Hollywood Boulevard, greeting aspiring actors dressed as movie characters posing for photos with tourists, she bumps into Farres, who is wandering in the opposite direction. Dressed in a black leather jacket and with Micky Mouse ears on his head, Farres touts for business with the tourists. His sudden arrival in the narrative is accompanied by a James Brown-inflected funk instrumental and he speaks in broken, accented English (‘You wanna picture with Mickey? Two dollars!’). Unlike Foresti, his character is initially presented as much as an Arab immigrant as French. None of the tourists take up his offer of a photo and the genial mask quickly slips when Farres spots Slimane, a fellow French-speaking Arab immigrant, who Farres threatens with violence to try and regain the money he is owed. As in other films in which he stars, Debbouze’s opening scene provokes a disruption in the diegesis. His dress, accent and demeanour suggest a character that is out of place but who nonetheless possesses a charisma and resourcefulness that allows him to gain confidence and entry into places in LA (film lots, charity galas, celebrity parties) that should in theory be off limits to him as a poor Arab migrant. The role also plays on Debbouze’s highly inventive use of language: the mixing of registers in French, use of Arabic, (deliberate) misuse and innovation of French slang and incorporating English words and phrases into French for comic effect. Initially unable to talk his way past security guards at Paramount Studios in broken English, he succeeds by switching to French and posing as a guide for a group of French tourists. This resourceful ability to persuade and charm with (French) language has been a hallmark of both his stand-up and television appearances that was transferred to early film roles. In Hollywoo, however, the geographical location and transnational cultural context in which Debbouze’s character finds himself extends language and accent as a marker of inclusion and exclusion at the same time as it refuses to locate the star in a fixed national/linguistic context. The film thus transposes Debbouze’s French star persona into the transnational contexts of Hollywood and the LA scene. When searching for Marshall with Jeanne at a glitzy charity gala, and in an attempt to evade being evicted from the event by security, he accidentally finds himself participating in a charity auction for Hollywood memorabilia. Farres becomes locked in an increasingly outrageous bidding war with his polar opposite: a rich, white, aging, American male. As the bidding reaches its climax, Farres turns to his rival’s (much younger) date and, upon discovering what they are actually bidding for, hastily backtracks, leaving the American stranded with a $325,000 bill for the bicycle luggage basket from ET. The scene plays on many of the traits of Debbouze’s star persona, established in films from the

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early 2000s, as an anti-hero, patronized and abused by powerful people but one who remains cheerful and resourceful (Vanderschelden 2005: 67–8). In addition to emphasizing Debbouze’s triumph of the ‘little’ (immigrant) man against a symbol of the WASP establishment – itself an extension of the mythmaking in France around his extraordinary rise to success from humble immigrant origins (Vanderschelden 2005: 63) – the scene plays on Debbouze’s performative gestures and natural comic timing. Equally telling is the reaction that Farres/Debbouze elicits from the auctioneer, presumably meant to reflect the response from diegetic and non-diegetic audience alike: ‘I don’t know where you’re from, but I want to go there! He’s a much more attractive man than I thought when he walked in here!’. Unlike Foresti, who consistently plays on stereotypical tropes of Frenchness to charm those around her, Debbouze is presented as a more fluid immigrant/other protagonist whose origins and identity are not as easy to pin down. Though we learn later in the film he is from France, he could equally be an immigrant to the United States from anywhere in the Francophone Arab world. Debbouze’s stated desirability, his star quality, is thus suggested to come from his otherness (a character from elsewhere) but where such otherness is not seen as a negative threat but rather an endorsement (in theory at least) of the American philosophy of rewarding the resourceful immigrant who helps themself to succeed. Debbouze is therefore qualified in Hollywoo in quite a different way to a Francophone Arab immigrant to France, with all the historical context and prejudice that this complex relationship between France and its former North African colonies implies. Moreover, in a twist on beur journey narratives of the 1990s and 2000s (such as Cheb [Bouchareb 1991] and Bled Number One [Ameur-Zaimèche 2006]), the Maghrebi-French protagonist’s return to France is not fraught with tension and jeopardy in legal or political terms.9 Rather, with Jeanne and Farres finally admitting their feelings for one another on the plane back to France, it is presented in the more conventional and less confrontational context of the rom-com denouement. Arguably, it is the transnational nature of his role in Hollywoo – Debbouze as embodying the Franco-Arab immigrant experience beyond the constraints and preconceptions of the post-colonial axis between France and Maghreb – that permits this freer representation of the Maghrebi-French migrant. The more fluid sense of immigrant/diasporic identity afforded to Debbouze in Hollywoo is similarly present in Angel-A. Released in 2005, the film confirmed Debbouze’s perceived star power to carry the lead in a bigbudget mainstream production. Until this point he had either played lead roles in more modest genre films or appeared as part of an ensemble cast in a supporting role. A monochrome romance fantasy, written and directed by Luc Besson, the film’s minimalist plot centres around the chance encounter between André Moussa (Debbouze) and Angela, a mysterious women who saves André’s life and supports him in his quest to rid himself of the debt

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he owes to Franck, a local gangster. At the start of the film, staring directly into the camera, the frame freezes and André introduces himself as ‘28 years old, single, American citizen’. He proceeds to paint a picture of a successful entrepreneur and attractive (transnational) citizen, moving between homes in Paris and New York and business ventures in Argentina, Chile and China. However, this idealized self-portrait offered by André soon comes crashing down: the frame unfreezes and, returning to reality, André is beaten to the ground by Franck’s henchmen. As André tells us, the description he has just offered is ‘What I’d like to be, what I’m dreaming to be, since I’m lying … to myself, to everyone, all the time.’ In a shapeshifting leading role in which André is variously defined as American, Moroccan and French, the intention seems to be for Debbouze to challenge our fixed perception of his character’s origins, identity and, by extension, Debbouze’s own star image as fixed in terms of national identity or ethnicity. As we shall explore in the next section, language (and multilinguality) similarly emerges across Debbouze’s filmography as a central means for mobilizing transnational stardom.

‘Lâche-me!’: Language, Accent and Intersectionality Debbouze’s star persona has always been heavily defined by language. Early analysis of his star persona places an emphasis on his verbal dexterity and manipulation of language, as his most distinctive comic asset (Vanderschelden 2005: 64). The ability in his comedy routines and screen performances, often through improvization, to shift and mix registers (formal French, banlieue slang or tchatche,10 Arab-inflected French as well as phrases or entire dialogue in Arabic) further reinforces this sense of Debbouze’s identity as simultaneously fixed and contingent, negotiating a linguistic space that is at once local and global. In his second feature (and the first film in which he took a lead role) Boys on the Beach, Debbouze plays a banlieue youth who wins a holiday in Biarritz and is thus instantly identified by his appearance, ethnicity and speech as an outsider. Debbouze’s rapid, comic delivery in tchatche aligns perfectly with the actor’s own socioeconomic origins as well as his small-screen and stand-up persona. The film thus functions as an authenticating vehicle for Debbouze’s star type as well as offering a commentary on social exclusion, racism and class division in France of which Debbouze has first-hand experience as the son of Moroccan immigrants from a working-class estate on the outskirts of Paris. The foregrounding of Debbouze’s verbal dexterity as proxy to banlieue youth (itself an intersection of markers of ethnicity and class for a contemporary French audience) in Debbouze’s first three films remains

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constant across a range of genres and historical, cultural and geographic locations – from the prison drama Zonzon to Boys on the Beach and even transported to the ancient Egyptian comic book adaptation of Asterix and Obelix: Mission Cleopatra. Nevertheless, a broader use of linguistic range and register appears in his subsequent acting roles from the mid-2000s. In the historical dramas Days of Glory and Outside the Law [Hors-laloi] (Bouchareb 2010), language is used as an ethnic rather than socioeconomic marker and as a link to national (Algerian), Maghrebi and diasporic identity. Debbouze delivers his performance almost entirely in Arabic. The transnational nature of his stardom in terms of identity is highlighted, since Debbouze plays an Algerian protagonist in both films, whereas he is of Moroccan origin. Debbouze’s capacity to shift between different linguistic registers not to mention association with sometimes opposing national identities is not merely a cosmetic mark of the actor as a transnational star. Indeed, in Days of Glory, such fluidity has political implications in challenging fixed notions of national or ethnic identity, as suggested by a (neo-)colonial worldview, where the ongoing inequalities of France’s post-colonial present are confronted through a transnational Franco-Algerian history of the Second World War. Debbouze plays Saïd, an Algerian conscript, who leaves his family in rural Algeria to fight for the French as part of the Allied forces liberating Europe from the Nazis. In his analysis of the film’s sociological and political significance, Alec Hargreaves draws attention to the slippage that occurs in both the film’s narrative and in numerous interviews given by the director and the film’s stars (including Debbouze) between the ‘nous’ (‘us’) of France’s postcolonial ethnic minorities and the ‘ils’ (‘them’) of the colonial troops who fought for France (2007: 212). This ambiguous shift is seen most obviously in Saïd’s declaration ‘when I liberate a country, it becomes my country’ that he makes to a young woman from the provincial southern French town that the colonial troops have just freed from Nazi control. The exchange between Saïd and the young woman is presented in a conventional shot/ reverse shot with the crucial lines delivered in close-up to emphasize their significance. For a French audience, who would have been familiar with Debbouze, the lines appear to be spoken as much by the Maghrebi-French star as the character he is playing. Saïd/Debbouze’s utterance thus obscures significant differences between the experiences of an older generation of colonial soldiers who fought for France and Debbouze’s generation: French descendants of North African immigrants who came to France after the Second World War, whose stake in legitimizing the Maghrebi diaspora’s rightful place in France more than half a century later is bound up in a quite separate set of historical, cultural and political circumstances. The key lines delivered by Debbouze also undercut any paternalistic view of Saïd as the dutiful colonial servant to the French colonial empire, since he affirms his agency by identifying with France, choosing it as his country

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and identifying as its saviour (‘when I liberate a country, it becomes my country’). His character also understands better than any other in Days of Glory the fluid affiliations and attachments that bely the colonial dividing lines of self and other, colonizer/colonized, Arab and European. In a scene midway through the film, having previously discovered a photo of Sgt Martinez with his Arab mother, Saïd enrages his commanding officer by suggesting that through their mothers, they share a common bond. When Saïd finally dies beside Martinez, defending an Alsatian village from the retreating German troops, he thus sacrifices himself for a comrade and his adopted nation (France) rather than laying down his life as a servant for a colonial master. One further nuance in the use of language through Debbouze’s performances delivered in Arabic comes in Homeland [Né quelque part] [Homeland]. Debbouze plays the Algerian cousin of the film’s MaghrebiFrench lead, who returns to the family village (bled) in Algeria. Whilst initially offering a warm and enthusiastic embrace, Debbouze’s character eventually betrays his metropolitan French ‘cousin’ by stealing his passport and absconding with his papers to France after a drunken night in Oran. One of the ways in which the distinction between the cousins is accentuated is through language. As the cousin from the bled, Debbouze speaks a mixture of colloquial Arabic and French words or phrases delivered in a heavy (Algerian/Maghrebi) accent. The character retains the resourcefulness that is central to Debbouze’s star type but here is combined with a duplicity and lack of education or worldliness (compared to his French cousin) that suggests an extension of the blédard from the universe of characters and types developed by Debbouze and his fellow stand-ups in the comedic universe of the Jamel Comedy Club: The Maghrebi who lives in the ‘country’, that is to say in the ‘bled’ in Arabic, generally in the countryside, is the ‘blédard’. In the Jamal Comedy Club, this character became the Arab for the Maghrebis of France, as the Arab of France was for the French at one time, object of contempt. (Desloire 2014: 209)11 This portrayal of the blédard cousin in Homeland is, therefore, not without its contradictions for Debbouze. It risks evoking a sense of (neo-colonial) superiority of the diasporic Maghrebi-French over the Maghrebi from the provinces, which in turn threatens to undermine Debbouze’s respect and love for his diasporic homeland (Morocco) – frequently articulated in interviews and media profiles, as well as his commitment to the Moroccan comedy festival Marrakech de rire – alongside a desire to promote and support a positive image of the Maghreb and its people more generally.12 On the one hand, we might interpret the character incarnated by Debbouze in Homeland as offering a nostalgic and affectionate link to an

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idealized notion of Maghrebi community or home (though, again, in this film it should be noted that Debbouze plays an Algerian rather than Moroccan character and so if the role is ethnically marked it is in the broader sense of a Maghrebi, rather than Moroccan, identity). Viewed more negatively, the casting of Debbouze in these roles where his Moroccan origins are conflated more broadly with Maghrebi or Arab characters of other nationalities is, at best, evidence of unconscious bias conflating national difference, or, at worst, historical racism within the French casting system that assumes Debbouze can play any ‘Arab’ role required. However, whilst there may be truth in this assertion, it is also to deny Debbouze’s own agency since the mid-2000s in selecting the roles offered to him as both a highly bankable star and powerful co-producer. Indeed, there is a way in which we can choose to see Debbouze embracing these multiple Arab identities in the roles that he chooses as embracing an arabité which reflects not only the transnational nature of his own stardom but also his hyphenated identity as French-Moroccan, as well as acknowledging his place within a wider Maghrebi and Arabic diaspora. As his career has progressed and he has embraced a wider range of film roles, Debbouze’s move away from exclusively focusing on linguistic performances characterized by high-speed delivery, nervous energy and verbal dexterity is not only evidenced through the Arab-language roles Debbouze has selected. 360 (Meirelles 2011) is a transnational network narrative about love, loss and desire, linking characters and relationships across Europe and North America. The film was a significant step for the transnational reach of the star to audiences beyond France and Morocco, in that it placed him in an ensemble cast of A-list Hollywood stars including Rachel Weiz, Anthony Hopkins and Jude Law. Directed by Brazilian Fernando Meirelles, who began working in Hollywood after the international success of his second feature City of God (2002), 360 clearly targets an international (albeit Western) mainstream audience. Debbouze’s performance in this film is notably restrained in contrast to earlier roles. In part this is due to the subject matter of the film – the fallout from adult relationships – and the character he plays. The socially marginalized, banlieuesard or beur protagonist of Boys on the Beach is thus replaced by a successful and fully integrated member of the beurgeoisie, a recently widowed dentist with a successful practice in central Paris. Of equal significance in the narrative strand in which Debbouze appears, the immigrant protagonist is Eastern European (his assistant Valentina), not Maghrebi. Language and verbal delivery are as much a marker of his class as his ethnicity, be it either his Frenchness or his arabité. The other significant marker of his character’s identity is faith: as a recently widowed, practicing Muslim, he wrestles with his desire for Valentina. Debbouze’s character seeks guidance from the imam in his local mosque; a scene that, though clearly located in Paris, is based on a moral quandary that could be played out in any mosque and

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any city across the world. Rather than adopting an orientalist portrayal of Islam as a threatening or foreign dogma to the civilized (Christian) West – a common trope in Hollywood cinema until at least the late 2000s (Alsultany 2012: 7–11) – in 360 the inclusion of Debbouze as a French Muslim presents Islam as the vehicle to explore the moral and spiritual dilemma in which the character finds himself. Another of these more restrained and nuanced performances that distances Debbouze from his original star type comes in Let’s Talk about the Rain [Parlez-moi de la pluie] (Jaoui 2008). Unlike in 360, where the transnational narrative hops between global cities, Let’s Talk about the Rain is firmly located in a national (French) context. This is due both to its setting – a sleepy town in the French provinces – and the fact that it is written, directed by and stars Agnès Jaoui and Jean-Pierre Bacri, a central creative partnership in French cinema of the 1990s and 2000s, who enjoyed critical and popular success with a combination of finely crafted scripts and well-observed comedies. Debbouze plays Karim, an aspiring documentary filmmaker, drifting through life in the provincial town of his youth. Karim is a complex and contradictory character: a talented, uncompromising filmmaker prone to procrastinate and self-sabotage his big break, and a caring but conflicted husband who cheats on his wife. As in 360, the character has greater depth and maturity than earlier roles played by Debbouze. The role enhanced his credibility as a screen actor through his association with Jaoui and Bacri who, at this point, were at the height of their success and influence in French cinema. It also cemented a firm friendship between Debbouze and Bacri, who became a mentor of sorts for Debbouze in his acting career and who Debbouze, in an emotional interview in 2022, only a year after Bacri’s untimely death, credits with ‘opening up my world, offering me the chance to be more nuanced and to place more distance between myself and my job (as an actor)’ (Debbouze in Roulier 2022).13 As Karim, Debbouze is recognizable as the young, working-class Maghrebi-French character but firmly removed from the social milieu and thus cultural context of the banlieue. If the film is clearly rooted in a French context, its transnational dimension nonetheless emerges through a focus on a diasporic/Maghrebi immigrant family. A neo-colonial dynamic persists in relations between Karim’s mother and the (white) French family she has served for two generations. Karim’s dissatisfaction with the perceived lack of respect shown by the Villanova family to his mother reveals, furthermore, the intersection between class and ethnicity. Karim expresses unease entering the Villanova’s house via the main entrance to conduct an interview, since, like his mother, he is accustomed to arriving via the domestic entry to the kitchen at the back of the house. Debbouze’s verbal delivery (exclusively in French, even in the scenes with the mother, who switches between French and Arabic), predicated as much by class as ethnic origins, is more restrained and introverted than in previous films. It contrasts with the verbal dynamism, energy and physicality

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in the performative space – what Mielusel refers to as Debbouze’s ‘body dance’ (Mielusel 2018: 85) – that characterizes his stand-up and television sketch performances and was subsequently transposed into his early film roles. What emerges in both 360 and Let’s Talk about the Rain, then, is a greater confidence and maturity on the part of Debbouze the screen actor and star in terms of both the performance and selection of roles he chooses to accept and the way this broadening of roles and character types engages with the intersectionality and transnational reach of Debbouze’s star type.

Debbouze and the Intersection of Producer-Actor-Star By the mid-2000s, following the commercial success of Asterix and Obelix: Mission Cleopatra, Debbouze was unquestionably one of French cinema’s most bankable stars. His status as part of the French cinema establishment was seemingly confirmed in 2013 when he presided over the thirty-eighth César awards (the French equivalent of the Oscars) as the président d’honneur. Debbouze’s star value is such that his attachment to a project (as either producer or actor) is largely sufficient to ensure it can be green-lit. Despite this considerable level of power and influence within the industry, one curious characteristic of Debbouze’s on-screen stardom is that it is based far more on a mixture of lead and supporting roles rather than conventional ‘starring’ roles. Even a cursory survey of his acting roles to date shows that he is as likely to appear in films alongside other stars with equal or superior billing to him (360, Days of Glory, Outside the Law, Hollywoo), in secondary and supporting roles (Amelie, Homeland) or as part of an ensemble cast in a film that does not function as an explicit star vehicle for Debbouze (Let’s Talk about the Rain, The March [La Marche] (Ben Yadir 2016). Angel-A is one of the few films in which Debbouze incontrovertibly occupies top billing as the bone fide star lead. And yet, even this film is a ‘Luc Besson production’, where the power of the auteur arguably has as much draw both in terms of audience appeal and constructing the ‘package’ that is used to sell the film to investors, funders and distributors in pre-production. This preference for roles as part of an ensemble cast is perhaps unsurprising, considering that Debbouze’s formative training as a young actor came as part of a theatre company and that he enjoyed initial success within a team of comics and writers working on sketch shows for Canal+ and the television sitcom H. The desire to continue working within a team of creative collaborators, and accept secondary or supporting roles even after his star status within the industry had been secured, suggests a different motivation and one that is related to Debbouze’s growing influence from the mid-2000s following the release of Days of Glory as a producer, enabler of emerging talent (especially

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from the Maghrebi diaspora) and social advocate. It also reveals a clear desire on the part of Debbouze to exploit his capital value as a star in France to market lower budget independent films that he felt personally invested in, due to their focus and social themes to wider audiences in France, such as Homeland: I had the chance to play very popular roles like in Le Marsupilami or Astérix and when there are subjects like Homeland to get behind, I do it without thinking because I think it’s the best way to change attitudes … I know what I represent today and I have to use my fame to change attitudes.14 One of the most successful creative and commercial partnerships for Debbouze across film and comedy has been with Mohammed Hamidi: a French comedy writer and director of Algerian origin who had previously written stand-up sketches for Debbouze as part of the Jamel Comedy Club and Marrakesh comedy festival, eventually directing Debbouze’s nationwide comedy tour across France in 2018. When Hamidi moved into directing feature films he worked with Debbouze as both actor and (crucially) producer on two lower/medium-budget popular comedies focusing on characters of Maghrebi origin: Homeland and One Man and His Cow [La Vache] (Hamidi 2016). These films were followed by two popular comedies in which Debbouze did not appear on screen but was involved as (co-) producer: New Biz in the Hood [Jusqu’ici tout va bien] (Hamidi 2019) and Queens of the Field [Une Belle Equippe] (Hamidi 2019). Analysis of the marketing posters for the films in which Debbouze takes a dual role as producer and actor with Hamidi reveals the extent to which his celebrity and audience appeal is exploited for marketing purposes. Despite appearing in a supporting role in One Man and His Cow with little more than twenty minutes of screen time scattered across the whole film, Debbouze is nonetheless placed centrally in the poster for the film’s French marketing release. Similarly, in the promotional poster for Homeland he is the only other character to appear with the film’s lead actor, Tewfik Jallab, even though Debbouze’s character exits the film half-way through the narrative. The poster itself suggests a buddy narrative between Farid/Jallab and the cousin/Debbouze, whereas Debbouze’s character in fact betrays his French cousin by absconding with his passport and the key relationships for Farid are more keenly focused in the narrative on his French girlfriend back in Paris and the potential romance between Jallab and a local woman from the bled. Beyond his collaboration with Hamidi, Debbouze’s capital value as the established star is similarly exploited for marketing purposes in The March, Belgian-Moroccan director Nabil Ben Yadir’s historical drama about the ‘Marche des beurs’.15 The film’s narrative is structured around an ensemble

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cast, including established French screen actors if not bona fide stars, such as Olivier Gourmet, Tewfik Jallab and Hafsia Herzi appearing alongside Debbouze, who, again, takes a supporting role on-screen while also working as one of the film’s co-producers. The posters for The March’s theatrical release in France combined a collective line-up of all the principal actors, emphasizing the historical focus of the march on unity and equality, with other posters focusing on individual characters from the cast, including Debbouze. It is perhaps unsurprising that the marketing strategy for The March, like Homeland and One Man and His Cow, leans heavily on Debbouze’s marketability as star and celebrity to position the respective films to their audiences. Whilst the ultimate decision as to which promotional images to use rests with the distributor, we should also note that as producer and an established star, Debbouze could have influenced the selections made by the distributor. As (co-)producer, Debbouze understands and is willing to employ his star image to amplify the marketing of these films. Moreover, as Debbouze has suggested in interviews linked to the promotion of these films, he was also prepared to back these films with his star power and celebrity influence to champion new directorial voices and acting talent – especially from within the Maghrebi diaspora – where he feels the films also have a significant social message.16 As in the case of Days of Glory seven years earlier, where, as star and co-producer, Debbouze used the platform of the film’s success to promote the injustice suffered by French colonial war veterans, Debbouze consciously combines star power with social and political advocacy. This sense of combining celebrity, industry influence and star status to disrupt the political status quo is mirrored in the impact Debbouze’s on-screen performances have in these films, even in a secondary or supporting role. In Homeland, he dominates the early scenes following Farid’s arrival in Algeria with a typically frenetic and engaging performance as the cousin from the bled. Later, his character derails the narrative by stealing Farid’s passport and setting in motion the chain of events that will dominate the second half of the film, diverting the focus onto Farid’s attempts to return home to France without his legal papers, which, in turn, provokes a wider consideration on questions of home, identity and belonging for French citizens of Maghrebi immigrant origin. In The March, with equally limited screen time in a supporting role, Debbouze has a similarly disruptive impact on the narrative. Debbouze plays Hassan, a drug addict struggling to stay clean who occupies a marginal position on the Minguettes estate in Lyon where the original marchers and activists hail from. Hassan/Debbouze appears for the first time in the narrative nearly halfway into the film, when the marchers are holding a press conference after arriving in Lyon from Marseilles. As they are interviewed for the radio, Hassan emerges from the background, as if from nowhere, in a poor condition and with his hat tilted

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to one side. He observes the interview, circles the microphones and then intervenes unannounced (and much to the annoyance of the other marchers) to claim that his actions (throwing stones at the police) are the true origins of the march. As both the character (Hassan) and the established, instantly recognizable star, Debbouze thus disrupts the frame and diverts the spectator’s attention from the ensemble cast. This performative strategy of disruptive intervention is repeated across the second half of the film, particularly in scenes where the group debate the sociopolitical origins and wider impact of the march, such as the discussion around the injustices and discrimination experienced by the beurs in France and their empathy and solidarity with immigrants as a result, or when mixed (race) relationships are proposed as a way to ‘save’ France from racism. In the latter scene, Hassan/Debbouze’s performance moves from the margin to the centre of the frame. As they leave their provincial white French host’s home, Hassan plants a kiss on the lips of his host, exclaiming ‘Christiane, I embrace you as I embrace France!’. In this instance, Debbouze’s exaggerated performance, which is inconsistent with the naturalism of the other actors, offers a moment of comic relief, as well as the irreverence and energy that has traditionally characterized Debbouze’s performances in film and television. Echoing the aforementioned iconic scene from Days of Glory, (‘When I liberate a country, it becomes my country’) this is another moment when the utterance from character/star are blurred (Debbouze is embracing the audience as much as his on-screen character is embracing Christiane), reminding us how Debbouze as star is able to engage directly with an audience through his performance to transcend the confines of the diegetic world and articulate wider, more urgent contemporary sociopolitical debates around the politics of identity, racism and inclusion in post-colonial France. As in Days of Glory, this is a moment in The March when the roles of Debouzze as producer, actor/star and socially engaged citizen intersect on screen.

Conclusion: Debbouze and Intersectional, Transnational Stardom As this chapter has argued, Debbouze’s significance as a contemporary screen star cannot be fully understood without due consideration of how the national and transnational intersect as part of his star image. This notion of intersectionality is, indeed, characteristic across a much wider exploration of the phenomenon of Debbouze’s stardom: national and transnational, French and Moroccan, Western and Arabic; his frequently overlapping role as both actor and producer; the presence/absence dichotomy of Debbouze’s disability on screen; as well as the way that other forms of difference intersect in his performances through representations of

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class, race, ethnicity, language and religion. In this respect, the intersection of ethnicity and language – particularly the decisions when and where to switch between French and Arabic in his on-screen performances – or class and ethnicity, offer key instances where the intercultural, multilingual and sociopolitical characteristics of Debbouze’s stardom are located simultaneously within and beyond the binary constraints of a ‘national’ star. The link to the Maghrebi diaspora (and his position as a diasporic star at once inside and removed from the Arab world) is also crucial to understanding the transnational dimension of Debbouze’s stardom and one that intersects ethnicity, (trans-)national identity and class. One potential political tension within Debbouze’s star persona is that he embraces his Frenchness and espouses the universal ideals of the French Republic at the same time as the intersectional markers of class, ethnicity and disability at play in many of his on-screen performances expose the limitations and hypocrisy of the French Republican model’s notions of liberty and equality for all citizens, regardless of origins. A similar tension can be felt running in the opposite direction on the post-colonial axis, whereby, as a diasporic star and filmmaker, Debbouze is viewed by some Moroccan audiences as simultaneously an insider and outside to Moroccan culture. A recent, albeit anecdotal, example of this dynamic was the way Debbouze was criticized by certain Moroccan commentators on social media for supporting both France and Morocco (rather than simply Morocco) in the match between the two nations at the 2022 Qatari World Cup (Jnina 2022). One way to reconcile these apparent tensions is to adapt Dyer’s notion of the paradox of stardom – stars as simultaneously ordinary and extraordinary (Dyer 2019: 89) – to the construction of Debbouze’s transnational star image – the transformative potential of Debbouze’s transnational stardom lies in its ability to occupy a dynamic and intersectional position that is simultaneously French and Moroccan. He refuses to choose or even hyphenate his identity while mobilizing his star power as a form of advocacy to promote social issues that are linked to the status of French immigrant minorities and the Maghrebi diaspora, as well as French and Moroccan society more generally.

Notes 1 The banlieue is the generic term for suburbs in French, though in contemporary usage it often has a specific connotation; referring to the run-down estates on the peripheries of larger French cities that are often home to a disproportionately high immigrant and ethnic minority populations. These estates are also frequently (mis-)represented by the mainstream media as sites of criminality, delinquency and social exclusion.

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2 Box-office data on Debbouze’s films can be found by searching under individual film titles in the EAO’s database: https://lumi​ere.obs.coe.int/ (accessed 27 January 2023). 3 The term ‘Maghrebi-French’ refers to the French descendants of North African immigrants to France and uses the hyphen to suggest a dual cultural identification with both the French culture in which they have been born or raised and the Maghrebi culture of their immigrant parents. See Tarr (2005) and Higbee (2013) for more on how this term is applied in the context of post-colonial French cinema since the mid-1990s. 4 C’est les associations marocaines en France qui ont rempli mes salles au départ … Le Maroc m’a porté de loin. Franchement j’étais absolument pas connu. Je ne faisais rein de tout à l’époque, je n’étais même pas encore à Radio Nova … les associations marocains m’aidaient sur place pour me trouver des dates à Nanterre, à Genevilliers … les premières émissions de télé que j’ai faites, c’est le Maroc, c’est 2M qui m’a proposé de venir faire un sketch. https://www.faceb​ ook.com/brutma​roc/vid​eos/3275​5471​9581​857/ (accessed 23 January 2023). 5 See, for example, the opening question of the online interview with Daphné Roulier, Les Grands Entretiens, from January 2022, which focuses on how the accident and loss of mobility in his right arm motivated Debbouze to succeed as an actor and performer. Full interview available at: https://www.yout​ube. com/watch?v=Xl34​zPqw​Qbk (accessed 26 January 2023). 6 ‘I have two handicaps’, says Jamel Debbouze. ‘I’m Arab, and I have my arm’. (Debbouze, in Nassauer 2004). 7 Interview with Daphné Roulier, Les Grands Entretiens, from January 2022. 8 While a detailed analysis of this key element of Debbouze’s star image is beyond the scope of this chapter, further research and future publications into this aspect of Debbouze’s stardom and performance style is necessary for both French star studies and broader research into screen acting, stardom and disability. 9 The term beur is verlan (inverted French slang) for arabe and was used by the French descendants of North African immigrants as a way of identifying their cultural hybridity as both French and ‘Arab’. The term was then applied to the work filmmakers, artists, authors and filmmakers (e.g. beur cinema) who came to prominence in the 1980s. For more on the sub-genre of beur journey narratives in French cinema of the 1990s and 2000s, see Higbee (2013). 10 Tchatche can more generally refer to ‘chat’ in French. In the more specific context cited in this chapter, it refers to the verbal sparring and street slang employed by youths from the banlieue – a mixture of French slang, verlan as well as words and phrases imported from immigrant languages (especially Arabic) that has found its way into the vernacular of French youth culture more generally. 11 ‘Le Maghrébin qui vit au « pays », c’est-à-dire au « bled » en arabe, généralement à la campagne, est le blédard. Dans le JCC, il est devenu l’Arabe pour le Maghrébin de France, comme l’Arabe de France l’était pour le Français à une époque, objet de mépris’.

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12 See, for example, the online interview with Brut Maroc (Anon 2022), where Debbouze comments on the support he has received from Morocco and the Moroccan diaspora early in his career, his attachment to his diasporic homeland as well as the decision to establish a comedy festival in Marrakesh to promote a new generation of talented Moroccan comics. In a different context, Debbouze has consistently used his star power and celebrity to combat negative representations of the Maghreb, such as speaking out in the French media against the 2003 suicide bombings in Casablanca as an affront to the Moroccan people and Islam (Anon 2022). 13 ‘Il m’a ouvert au monde, il m’a donné la possibilité d’être plus nuancé d’avoir un peu plus de distance sur moi et le métier’. Debbouze interviewed in ‘Les grands entretiens par Daphné Roulier’, LCP – Assemblée Nationale https:// www.yout​ube.com/watch?v=Xl34​zPqw​Qbk (accessed 24 February 2023). 14 ‘Entretien avec Jamel Debbouze’, French Electronic Press Kit for Né Quelque part, Unifrance, 11. https://med​ias.unifra​nce.org/med​ias/18/140/101​ 394/pre​sse/ne-quel​que-part-doss​ier-de-pre​sse-franc​ais.pdf (accessed 24 February 2023). 15 ‘The March for Equality and Against Racism’ was an anti-racist, civil rights march led by Maghrebi-French youths from Lyon in response to racism and police brutality that started with a few dozen marchers in Marseille in October 1983 and ended in Paris seven weeks later with a mass rally and reception for the march organizers with the then president, François Mitterrand. 16 See, for example, the interview with Debbouze that forms part of the electronic press kit for La Vache: https://med​ias.unifra​nce.org/med​ ias/135/148/169​095/pre​sse/la-vache-doss​ier-de-pre​sse-angl​ais.pdf.

Filmography 360 (2011), [Film] Dir. Fernando Meirelles, France: Wild Bunch. Amelie [Le Fabuleux destin d’Amélie Poulain] (2001), [Film] Dir. Jean-Pierre Jeunet, France: UGC Fox Distribution. Angel-A (2005), [Film] Dir. Luc Besson, France: EuropaCorp. Asterix and Obelix: Mission Cleopatra [Astérix et Obelix: mission Cléopâtre] (2002), [Film] Dir. Alain Chabat, France: Pathé Distribution. Asterix at the Olympics [Astérix aux jeux olympiques] (2008), [Film] Dir. Frédéric Forestier and Thomas Langmann, France: Pathé Distribution. Bled Number One (2006), [Film] Dir. Rabah Ameur-Zaimèche, France. Boys on the Beach [Le Ciel, les oiseaux et … ta mère] (1999), [Film] Dir. Djamel Bensalah, France: Orly Films, Canal +. Cheb (1991), [Film] Dir. Rachid Bouchareb, France: 3B Productions. City of God (2002), [Film] Dir. Fernando Mireilles and Katia Lund, Brazil: Globo Filmes. Days of Glory [Indigènes] (2006), [Film] Dir. Rachid Bouchareb, France, Morocco, Belgium, Algeria: Mars Distribution.

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Hollywoo (2011), [Film] Dir. Frédéric Berthe and Pascal Serieis, France: StudioCanal. Homeland [Né quelque part] (2013), [Film] Dir. Mohamed Hamidi, France: Cineuropa. New Biz in the Hood [Jusqu’ici tout va bien] (2019), [Film] Dir. Mohamed Hamidi, Belgium: FR2. Let’s Talk about the Rain [Parlez-moi de la pluie] (2008), [Film] Dir. Agnès Jaoui, France: StudioCanal. The March [La Marche] (2016), [Film] Dir. Nabil Ben Yadir, France, Belgium: Europacorp. One Man and His Cow [La Vache] (2016), [Film] Dir. Mohamed Hamidi, France, Algeria: Pathé. Outside The Law [Hors-la-loi] (2010), [Film] Dir. Rachid Bouchareb, France, Algeria, Tunisia, Belgium: StudioCanal. Queens of the Field [Une Belle Equipe] (2019), [Film] Dir. Mohamed Hamidi, France: TFI Productions. Zonzon (1998), [Film] Dir. Laurent Bouhnik, France: Studio Canal +.

References Alsultany, E. (2012), Arabs and Muslims in the Media, New York: New York University Press. Anon (2022), ‘Interview avec Jamal Debbouze’, Brut Maroc, https://www.faceb​ook. com/brutma​roc/vid​eos/3275​5471​9581​857 (accessed 29 December 2022). Anon (2003), ‘Jamel Debbouze “les jeunes et le terrorisme” – Archive INA’, ina.fr, https://www.dail​ymot​ion.com/video/x1qw​k17 (accessed 4 January 2023). Austin, G. (2003), Stars in Modern French film, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Desloire, C. (2014), ‘L’arabité de l’humoriste Jamel Debbouze 1993–2013: le cliché réapproprié’, Africultures, (1): 200–10. Dyer, R. (2019), Stars, London: Bloomsbury Publishing. Ervine, J. (2019), Humour in Contemporary France: Controversy, Consensus and Contradictions, Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Ezra, E., and T. Rowden eds (2006), Transnational Cinema: The Film Reader, London: Routledge. Hargreaves, A. (2007), ‘Indigènes: A Sign of the Times’, Research in African Literatures, 38(4): 204–16. Higbee, W. (2013), Post-Beur Cinema: North African Emigré and Maghrebi-French Filmmaking in France since 2000, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Huughe, L. C. (2004), ‘Jamel Debbouze, ambassadeur de la banlieue’, Contemporary French and Francophone Studies, 8(1): 75–81. Jnina, Z. (2022), ‘Maroc-France: Pourquoi Jamel Debbouz fait-il polémique?’, Hespress, 18 December 2022. https://fr.hespr​ess.com/294​304-maroc-fra​ncepourq​uoi-jamel-debb​ouz-fait-il-polemi​que.html (accessed 26 February 2023).

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Leonard, S., and D. Negra (2018). ‘Stardom and Celebrity’, in M. Kackman and M. C. Kearney (eds), The Craft of Criticism: Critical Media Studies in Practice, 219–30, London: Routledge. Mielusel, R. (2018), Franco-Maghrebi Artists of the 2000s: Transnational Narratives and Identities. Leiden: Brill. Moine, R. (2015), ‘Contemporary French Comedy as Social Laboratory’, in A. Fox, M. Marie, R. Moine and H. Radner (eds), A Companion to Contemporary French Cinema, 231–55, Chichester: John Wiley. Nassauer, Sarah’ (2004), ‘An Arab Comic Stirs Up France; Jamel DebbouzeTakes On Racial Inequalities and Is an Unlikely Hit’, Wall Street Journal, Eastern edition; New York, 27 August. Pliskin, F. (2006), ‘Le beur n’existe pas: « Pourquoi j’aime la France »’, Le Nouvel Observateur, 28 September (2186). Tarr, C. (2005), Reframing Difference: Beur and Banlieue Filmmaking in France, Manchester: Manchester University Press. Vanderschelden, I. (2005), ‘ “Jamel Debbouze”: A New Popular French Star?’, Studies in French Cinema, 5(1): 61–72. Vincendeau, G. (2015), ‘From the Margins to the Center: French Stardom and Ethnicity’, in A. Fox, M. Marie, R. Moine and H. Radner (eds), A Companion to Contemporary French Cinema, 547–69, Chichester: John Wiley.

290

INDEX

Note: Endnotes are indicated by the page number followed by ‘n’ and the endnote number e.g., 20 n.1 refers to endnote 1 on page 20. A Rumor of Love (dir. Wahab, Abdel 1960) 122 A Summer at La Goulette (dir. Boughedir, Ferid 1996) 210, 217 A Sweet Day, A Bitter Day (dir. Beshara, Khairy 1988) 119 A Word of Honour (dir. Mostafa, Hossam Eldin 1973) 121 Abaza, Rushdi 232 Abaza, Wagih 229, 230 Abbass, Hiam 1–2, 17 Abd al-Nasser, Jamal 49, 57, 230 Abd al-Wahhab, Muhammad 25, 26, 52, 68, 73 Abd Elhamid, Fahmy 188 Abd Elrasoul, Arfa 196 Abd El-Sayyed, Daoud 119, 191, 192 Abdel Wahab, Fateen 127 Abdel Wahab, Mohammad 109, 117 Abderrezak, Hakim 137 Abidar, Loubna 146 n.5 Abu al-‘Ala al-Ma‘ari 47 Abu Dhabi 30, 81 Film Festival 133 Abu Seif, Salah 71, 191 226, 228 Abu-Hassad, Hany 137 Abyad, Dawlat 226–7 Adeeb, Abdel Hayy 124 Affability (dir. Nader, A. 2017) 196, 197 Africa 167, 176–180 cinema 166 ageing stars 2, 195–8 Ahmad, Anwar 225

Ahmad, Zakariya 48, 52 Ahmed, Sara 134 Akef, Naima 11 Akl, Said 103, 110 n.1 al Hakim, Suleiman 66 Ala’ al-Din al- ‘Ala 66 Al-Ali, Naji 255, 258 al-Atrash, Amal, see Asmahan al-Atrash, Farid 25, 43, 45, 49, 50, 57, 109, 118, 120, 127, 230 al-Atrash, Hasan 45, 47, 55, 58 al-Atrash, Sultan 45, 50 al-Atrash, Zayd 54 al-Bakkar, Muhammad 224 al-Bakri, Khayria 53 al-Barmakiyya, Dananir 29 al-Barudi, Amina 53 Al-Dawar, Kafr 237 Alexandria 49, 67 Alexandria Again and Forever (dir. Chahine, Yousef 1989) 75–6 Algeria 2, 18 n.1, 81, 85 cinema 2, 18 n.1, 33, 81, 87, 146 n.3, 277, 278–9 Algerian Civil War 137 al-Hassan, Azza 57 Al-Imam, Hassan 74, 120 al-Kawakib magazine 227, 231 Al-Khazin and Ilyan 101 al-Laythi, Jamal 229 al-Masri, Aziz 47 Al-Musawwar magazine 229 Al-Nabulsi, Abdel Salam 120 al-Nahhas, Mustafa 225

292

al-Qasabji, Muhammad 48, 51–2 al-Qubbanchi, Muhammad 211 al-Rashid, Harun 29 al-Rihani, Naguib 50, 68, 69 al-Saba‘i, Yusuf 229 al-Sadat, Anwar 89, 167, 248 al-Safi, Wadi‘ 54, 106 al-Shaykh, Hanan 29 al-Sunbati, Riyadh 48, 52 al-Taba‘i, Muhammad 46, 47, 52 Al-Wali 107 al-Youssef, Rose 52 Al-Zayat, Latifa 121 Amari, Raja 2 Amazigh 146 n.1, 207–8, 209, 213, 218 Amélie (dir. Jeunet, Jean-Pierre 2001) 267 Amer, Abdel Hakim 244 Amer, Wafaa 63 Amin, Galal 66, 72, 73 Amin, Shahira 177 Amreeka (dir. Dabis, Cherien 2009) 2 An Upper Egyptian (dir. Farouk, Ismael 2014) 170 Angel-A (dir. Besson, Luc 2005) 271– 5, 281 Antic, Marija 35 anti-colonial sensibilities 68 Arab Cinema: History and Cultural Identity (Shafik, Viola) 7 ‘Arab fanaticism’ 92 Arab American artists 33 cinema 7–10, 127–9, 137, 186, 203–5 film cultures 11 films, ethics of casting European stars in 143–5 language variants 110 n.3 Muslim women 1 stardom 3, 4–6, 9–11, 13 stars 3, 7–10, 13, 17 womanhood 24 Argentina 276 arthouse films 2, 9, 15 Asmahan (dir. Bizri, Hisham 2005) 57–8

INDEX

Asmahan 3, 10, 12–14, 43, 109 career and life 44 personal, professional and public personas 54–8 public persona and personal life 45–8 Syrian/Egyptian Star 49–54 Asmahan la Diva (dir. Mazlo, Chloe 2019) 57–8 Asmahan, une diva orientale (dir. Castano, Silvana 2014) 57 Astaire, Fred 68 Astérix and Obélix: Mission Cleopatre (dir. Chabat, Alain 2002) 267, 277, 281 Asterix at the Olympics (dir. Forestier, Frédéric and Langmann, Thomas 2008) 269 At War with the Army (dir. Walker, Hal 1950) 230 Attitude (magazine) 155 Austin, Guy 5–6, 270 awalim (music group) 49 Ayed, Nejib 58 Ayoub, Samiha (1932–present) 189–90 Ayouch, Nabil 136, 146 n.5 Ayyaˉm al-hubb wa al-junuˉn (radio programme) 167 Azabal, Lubna 2, 4, 12, 14–15, 133 ‘accented stardom’ 138 gender in films 136–9 politically dissident roles 139–43 politics in films 136–9 sexuality in films 136–9 star persona 136–9 Azuelos, Lisa 83 Azzam, Bob 87 Baalbek festival 101 Baba Amin (dir. Chahine, Youssef 1950) 125 Babel (dir. Iñárritu, Alejandro González 2006) 2 Baccar, Selma 211, 218 n.4 Back Alive (dir. ‘Iz al-Din Dhul-Fukhar 1957) 229 Bacri, Jean-Pierre 280 Badrakhan, Ahmad 26, 28, 46, 55

INDEX

Bandhauer, Andrea 5, 13 Barakat, Henri 123 Barclay, Eddie 81, 86 Barnel, Jeff 88 Barsoum, Marlène 85 Barton, Ruth 33 Baudelaire, Charles 214, 257 beauty and femininity 185 Bedouin films 25 Begin, Menachem 249 Benjamin, Walter 257 Bentley, Johny 127 Berlin Festival 127 Berlin International Film Festival 128 Bernal, Gael Garcia 259, 260 Bernhardt, Sarah 127, 213 Beshara, Khairy 191 Besson, Luc 275 beur 275, 279, 284, 286 n.9 Bhabha, Homi K. 245 Bizri, Hisham 57–8 Black Decade 146 n.2 Blade Runner 2049 (dir. Villeneuve, Denis 2017) 2 Bled Number One (dir. AmeurZaimèche, Rabah 2006) 275 Body of Lies (dir. Scott, Ridley 2008) 138 Bonjour Tristesse (Sagan, F.) 125 Boughedir, Férid 210, 217 Bourguiba, Habib 207 Boys on the Beach (dir. Bensalah, Djamel 1999) 267, 276–7, 279 Breakston, George 127 Brecht, Bertold 92 Butler, Judith 115 Cactus Flower (dir. Elkoussy, H. 2017) 195, 197 Cairo (dir. Rilla, Wolf 1963) 127 Cairo 49, 55, 64, 67, 83, 86, 88, 89, 124, 169, 223, 229, 237, 249 Cairo Station (dir. Chahine, Youssef 1958) 121, 124, 127, 128 Cameroon 177 Cannes Film Festival 127 Carioca (dir. al-Shaikh, Omar 2012) 63

293

Carioca, Tahia 8, 9, 11, 25, 53, 63, 65, 228, 232 early life 66–8 political cabaret 73–6 politicization of performer 69–73 Western influence on dance 69 Carioca. Pages of a Life (dir. Lotfy, Nabiha 2009) 75 Carthage Film Festival 128 Castano, Silvana 57 celebrity 14, 43 Chahine, Youssef 71, 75, 81, 91–2, 95 n.7, 121, 124, 127, 191, 230, 241, 253 Chalhoub, Michel 118, 239–40 Che! (dir. Fleischer, Richard 1969) 247 Cheb (dir. Bouchareb, Rachid 1991) 275 Chedid, Andrée 86, 89–90 Chedid, Louis 90 Chikly, Albert Samama 203 Chikly, Haydée 15, 203 rise to celebrity and stardom 205–7 transnationalism 207–15 Tunisia’s cultural history 215–18 Tunisian nationalism and Jewish internationalism 205–7 Chile 276 China 276 Christianity 7, 8, 50 cinema 5, 46 Algerian 2, 18 n.1, 33, 81, 87, 146 n.3, 277, 278–9 in Arab region 3, 7–10, 127–9, 137, 186, 203–5 Egyptian 8–9, 10–11, 15, 18 n.1 French cinema 79–82, 91, 248–51, 267–71, 280–1, 286 n.9 Indian 26 Iranian 26, 34 Israeli 2, 33, 50, 76, 87, 89, 138, 141, 144, 222, 246, 249, 259 Lebanese 3, 9, 14, 30, 33, 50, 51, 57, 80, 81, 84, 99–110, 149–161, 237, 248 Moroccan 9, 14, 32, 33, 51, 267, 270, 273, 278, 285, 287 n.12

294

INDEX

Palestinian 3, 9, 16, 33, 109, 133, 136, 137–8, 141–5, 243, 254, 255, 258, 262, 263–4 Syrian 2, 3, 9, 13, 45, 48, 49–54, 55, 56–7, 193 Tunisian 2, 3, 9, 15, 18, 30, 32, 33, 81, 85, 177, 203–11, 213–15 City of God (dir. Mireilles, Fernando and Lund, Katia 2002) 279 colonial cinema 207–8 history 67 literature 245 mindset 101 urban centres 85 comedy film 25 Coming Forth by Day (dir. Lofty, H. 2013) 195 commercial audiences 2, 15 Confessions of a Nazi Spy (dir. Litvak, Anatole 1939) 223 contemporary Arab stars 3, 7–10, 127–9, 137, 146, 152, 186, 203–5 arthouse stars 9 Egyptian cinema 9, 15, 36, 185–8 film critics 209 film industry 11 film stars 11 French cinema 16, 267, 272 Hollywood trends 27 indie stars 9 musicians 11 politics 177 sense of honour 29 vocal stars 48 ‘critical transnationalism’ 6 Crocodile Dundee (dir. Faiman, Peter 1986) 91 Dabis, Cherien 2 Dalida (dir. Azuelos, Lisa 2017) 83 Dalida 9, 11, 14, 79 Arabness, erasing and affirming 86–9 as Arab pride 82–6 comparing to ‘Marianne’ 84–5 Egypt 80 France 80

Le Sixième jour (dir. Chahine, Youssef 1986) 89–93 Lebanon 80 North America 80 songs in Arabic 81 stardom 79–82 transnational stardom 80–1 Dalida pour toujours (dir. Dumoulin, Michel 1977) 88 Dalida, une vie (8-DVD box-set 2007) 95 Dananir (dir. Badrakhan, Ahmad 1940) 26, 29 dance 11, 33 Darwish, Mustafa 72 Darwish, Sayyid 52 David, Camp 89, 248 Days of Glory (dir. Bouchareb, Rachid 2006) 267, 272, 277, 278, 281, 283–4 Debbouze, Jamel 2, 4, 16, 287 n.12 accent and intersectionality 276–81 diaspora and 267–71 in French films 267 intersectionality 267–71 language 276–81 producer-actor-star, intersection of 281–4 transnational shapeshifting 271–6 transnational stardom 267–71 decolonial term 7 Dégradé (dir. Nasser, Arab and Nasser, Tarzan 2015) 3 Demons of the Sky (dir. Mustafa, Niyazi 1956) 230 Deneuve, Catherine 247 diasporic Arab stars 6 diasporic stardom 16 diva 10, 13, 44 Dixon, Isaac 68 Doctor Zhivago (dir. Lean, David 1965) 247 Down with Imperialism (dir. Sidki, Hussayn 1952) 227 Dunia, Kiss Me Not on the Eyes (dir. Saab, Jocelyne 2005) 11 Dyer, Richard 151, 253 Dylan, Bob 31

INDEX

early Egyptian film industry singers and 25–6 Egypt 2, 3, 8, 30, 43, 51, 81, 83, 160, 167, 176, 177 movie stars and free officers 221 star system 17–18 n.1 stars 3 womanhood 24 Egyptian cinema 171, 175, 208, 225, 228, 241 elderly female stars in mainstream cinema 185–6, 187–93 elderly women in new realist 191–2 empowering characters in 115 femininity, types of 116 Golden Age 2, 69, 115, 221 icons of 116 independent cinema, rise of 185 mainstream cinema vs independent cinema 186 New Realism 191–2 presence in world cinema and media 117 transnational outreach of 192–3 transnational work and recognition 127–8 El Batroui, Menha 196, 197 El Jaza’iriyah, Warda 109 El-Din, Fakhr 125 Eldin, Mai Ezz 190 Elefteriadis, Michel 59 n.4 Elemery, Safeya 196 El-Fakhrany, Yehia (1945–present) 192 Elkoussy, Hala 195 Elsabban, Mona (2003–5) 194 Eltayeb, Atef 191 Ethiopia 177 ethnicity 5, 7, 15, 16 Europe 8 European Stars in Arab films ethics of casting 143–5 Fadil, Muhammad 33, 34 fandom 4, 15, 17 fans 10, 34, 50 Far (dir. Techiné, André 2001) 136 Farewell to your Love (dir. Chahine, Youssef 1957) 230

295

Fatima (dir. Badrakhan, Ahmad 1947) 26, 27 Fatma 75 (dir. Baccar, Selma 1976) 218 n.4 Fawakhrij, Sulaf 58 Fawzy, Hussein 73 Fawzy, Mufeed 120 Feirouz 3, 10, 12, 14, 84, 89, 99 Arab stardoms 109 feminizing nation through art 104–5 historical grounding 101–3 ‘Jewel of Lebanon’ 104 latest songs 108 social representation 103–4 songs 106–7 thematic and linguistic deconstructions of music 106–9 three levels of feirouzian influence 105–6 Feiruz, see Feirouz Fellous, Colette 85, 86 female sexuality 1 feminism / feminist 14, 28 film genres 25 film industry 2–6 Flaubert, Gustave 66 Floyd, George 165 Flying Down to Rio (dir. Freeland, Thornton 1933) 68, 76n3 Foresti, Florence 273 France 18 n.1, 85, 86, 91, 193, 248, 270, 275, 285 LGBTQ 155 ties with Arab nations 80 working-class Arab immigrants 91 Francophonie 251 n.4 French cinema comic performers 268 Dalida in 79–82 Debbouze, Jamel in 267–71 highest grossing film 91 of 1990s and 2000s 280–1, 286 n.9 Sharif in 248–51 Funny Girl (dir. Wyler, William 1968) 246 Galal, Ahmad 51 Gamal, Samia 11, 25, 73, 76

296

INDEX

Game Over (dir. El Badry, A. 2012) 190 Gaza Mon Amour (dir. Nasser, Arab and Nasser, Tarzan 2020) 3 gender 117 equality 151 and sexuality 172 gender/feminism 12, 14, 31, 34 Gibran, Khalil 105 Giono, Jean 89 Girl from Carthage (dir. Chikly, Albert Samama 1924) 207, 208, 209 glamour 2, 4, 10, 11, 13 God Is with Us (dir. Khan, Ahmad Badra 1955) 230 Goldman, Michal 33 Gourmet, Olivier 283 Gutiérrez, Bienvenido Julian 51 Habiba M’sika: La Danse du Feu (dir. Baccar, Selma 1994) 205 Habibi al Asmar (dir. El-Saifi, Hasan 1958) 73 Haddad, Tahar 213 Hafez, Salah 70 Hafiz, Abdel Halim 66, 118, 121 Hafiz, Bahija 45 Halawa, Fayez 74 Hall, Stuart 168 Hamama, Faten 8, 9, 10, 12, 14, 115, 129 n.1, 192, 221, 224, 230, 243 careers shaping 117–21 Sleepless (dir. Abu Seif, Salah 1957), sharing 125–6 transnational work and recognition 126–8 women’s rights and iconic performances 121–5 Hamid, Berlanti Abdel 128 Hamid, Naficy 134 Hamidi, Mohammed 282 Hammad, Hanan 223, 234 n.6 Hammond, Andrew 8 Hanine 59 n.4 Hannouma 121, 124, 128 Happy Day (dir. Karim, Mohamed 1939) 45, 117 Harb, Talaat 178, 192

Hargreaves, Alec 277 Hasso, Frances 170–1, 181 Hawass, Zahi 249 Heavenly Bodies (Dyer, R.) 253 Hegazi, Sarah 160, 161 Herzi, Hafsia 2, 11, 17, 283 Hijazi, Salwa 32 Hina, Hasan 36 historical films 25 historical stars 3, 5, 11, 28, 29, 30, 34 Hitchcock, Alfred 128 Hollywoo (dir. Berthe, Frédéric and Serieis, Pascal 2011) 271, 273–5 ‘Hollywood of the East’ 186 Hollywood pluricentric approach 5 Homeland (dir. Hamidi, Mohamed 2013) 278, 282–3 Hopkins, Anthony 279 Hosni, Daoud 45 Hosni, Soad 8, 10, 18 n.2, 74 Hussein, Raga 196 Hussein, Taha 123 I am an Arab (song) 263 I Want a Solution (dir. Marzouk, Said 1975) 122 Ibn el Leil (album 2015) 157 Ibrahim, Najwa 32 Icons 14, 33, 34 of Egyptian cinema 116 of Tunisia 215–18 Immortal Song (dir. Barakat, Henri 1952) 118 In the Land of the Pharaohs (dir. Hawks, Howard 1955) 229 Iñárritu, Alejandro González 2 Incendies (dir. Villeneuve, Denis 2010) 134, 138, 141, 143 independent cinema 3, 193–5 transnational outreach of 197 Indian cinema 26 Inheritance (dir. Abbass, Hiam 2012) 2 Iran 193 Iranian cinema 26 Iraq 193 Islam 82

INDEX

Ismail Yassin in the Army (dir. ‘Abd al-Wahhab, Fatin 1955) 230 Israel 50 Israeli cinema 2, 33, 50, 76, 87, 89, 138, 141, 144, 222, 246, 249, 259 It’s You I Love (dir. Chahine, Yousef 1957) 120 Jabal Druze 53, 57 Jallab, Tewfik 282, 283 Jamel Comedy Club 282 Jaoui, Agnès 280 Jewish groups 8, 15 Johnson, Richard 127 Jordan 50, 81, 108, 160, 193 Judaism 7 July Revolution 241, 243, 251 n.1 kafala system 179 Kamil, Mustafa 226 Karim, Muhammad 26, 45, 117, 280 Kawkab al-Sharq (dir. Fadil, Muhammad 2000) 34 Kechiche, Abdellatif 11 Khan, Ahmad Badra 225, 234 n.5 Khan, Mohamed 191 Khan, Shah Rukh 179 King Farouk 237 Kramp, Fritz 26, 28 Kulthum, Umm 3, 5, 8–10, 11, 13, 23, 52, 66, 71, 89, 94 n.1, 109, 222, 233 haunting legacy 33–6 international image through film 30–3 womanhood in feature films 26–30 Kuwait 30 Kwiny, Mary 51 La Bartoli 44 La Divina (Maria Callas) 44 La Tebaldi 44 Labaki, Nadine 2, 17 Labib, Fumil 56 Lady of the House (dir. Morsi, Kamel 1949) 127 Lamarr, Heddy 127

297

Land of Dreams (dir. El-Sayyed, D. Abd 1993) 119, 192 Lane, Edward 66 Last Night (dir. El-Shiekh, Kamal 1964) 127 Latin America 8 Law, Jude 279 Lawrence of Arabia (dir. Lean, David 1962) 244 Le Hussard sur le toit (dir. Giono, Jean 1951) 89 Le Luron, Thierry 88 Leaving Paradise (dir. Zulfikar, Mahmoud 1967) 120 Lebanese cinema 3, 9, 14, 30, 33, 50, 51, 57, 80, 81, 84, 99–110, 149– 161, 237, 248 Lebanese Civil War 84 Lebanon 3, 30, 50, 59 n.3, 81, 84, 99, 158, 193 Lennon, John 108 Lewis, Jerry 230 LGBTQ rights 151, 153, 155, 159 Libya 30 Looking for Oum Kulthum (dir. Neshat, Shirin 2017) 24, 34 Lotfy, Hala 195 Lotfy, Nabiha 75 Lumet, Sydney 189 Lyotard, Jean François 185–6 ‘little narratives’ 187 M’sika, Habiba 12, 15, 203 ‘Askers Ellil’ 211 rise to celebrity and stardom 205–7 transnationalism 207–15 Tunisia’s cultural history 215–18 Tunisian nationalism and Jewish internationalism 205–7 MacDonald, Scott 194 Machin, Antonio 51 Madkur, Jamal 26, 28, 224 Maghreb studies 17–18 n.1 Maghrebi cinema 136, 272, 277, 278, 283, 286 n.3 Maghrebi-French actors 271–2, 286 n.3 Mahassen, Suad 67 Mahmoud, Abdel Aziz 65

298

INDEX

Mahmoud, Safei Eldin 191 mahraganat (festival) music 36, 167, 171 Malek, Rami 2, 17 Mansur, Mary 45 Mariam, Fakhr al-Din 125, 228 Marks, Laura U. 7 Marrakchi, Laïla 146 n.4 Masabni, Badia 25, 67 Mashreq studies 17–18 n.1 Mashrou’ Leila (band) 11, 12, 15, 149, 151, 152–160, 161 n.1 mawaˉwıˉl 107, 110 n.2 Mazhar, Ahmed 127, 229 Mazlo, Chloe 57–8 Meeuf, Russell 4, 185 Meirelles, Fernando 279 melodrama film 1, 9, 10–11, 25–6 MENA (‘Middle East and North Africa’) 7–8 Mernissi, Fatima 51 Middle East 167 Minelli, Vincente 92 Miss Fatima (dir. Wahab, Abdel 1952) 121 Mizrahi, Togo 26, 29 Mohamed, Fardous 189 Moine, Raphaëlle 272 Moknèche, Nadir 136 Moneib, Marie 189 Monroe, Marilyn 127, 128 Monster-in-Law (dir. Luketic, R. 2005) 190 Moore, Annabelle 217 Morin, Edgar 262 Moroccan cinema 9, 14, 32, 33, 51, 267, 270, 273, 278, 285, 287 n.12 Morocco 2, 3, 30, 32, 51, 81 audience 285 culture 285 Moscow Film Festival 128 Mouawad, Wajdi 139 Mr. Ibrahim and the Flowers of the Koran (dir. Dupeyron, François 2003) 250 Mrakadi, Yuri 263 Ms Hikmat’s Conscience (dir. Mohamed Ali, In’am 1991) 119 Mubarak, Hossein 249

Much Loved (dir. Ayouch, Nabil 2015) 146 n.5 Mulvey, Laura 115–16 Munib, Marie 232 Munich (dir. Spielberg, Steven 2005) 2 Murad, Layla 25, 223, 229 music 11, 15, 25, 26, 28, 36, 49 musical film 25 melodrama 11 stars 11 Muslim 3, 7, 8, 30, 31, 50, 54 Mustafa Kamil (dir. Khan, Ahmad Badra 1999) 227 Mustapha, Niazi 81 My Dark Darling (dir. El-Saifi, Hasan 1958) 73 My Father Is on the Tree (dir. Kamal, Hussein 1969) 121 My Heart and My Sword (dir. Madkur, Jamal 1947) 224 My Horrible Grandma (dir. Abd Elaziz, S. 2012) 190 My Mother-in-Law Is an Atomic Bomb (dir. Rifla, Hilmi 1951) 232 My.Kali (magazine) 155 Mysteries of Egypt (dir. Neibaur, Bruce 1998) 249 Nabil, Zouzou 188 Nader, Ahmed 196 Naguib, Mohammed 222, 227, 251 n.3 Nasri, Samir 84 Nasser, Arab 3 Nasser, Gamal Abdel 70, 244 Nasser, Salah 244 Nasser, Tarzan 3 national cinemas 5, 6, 8, 12 Navarro, Ramón 210 neocolonial lyrics 101 Neshat, Shirin 24, 34 Niagara (dir. Hathaway, Henry 1953) 128 ‘Nilwood’ 53 O’Sullivan, Nuala 198 One Man and His Cow (dir. Hamidi, Mohamed 2016) 282

INDEX

One Thousand and One Nights (series) 188 opera 44 Orlando 88 Oum Kulthum, see Kulthum, Umm Our Beautiful Days (dir. Halim, Helmi 1955) 118 Palestine 2, 3, 108 cinema 3, 9, 16, 33, 109, 133, 136, 137–8, 141–5, 243, 254, 255, 258, 262, 263–4 pan-African identity 15 pan-Arab identity 13–14, 44 music 51 nationalism 30 Parajanov, Sergei 92 Paris 248 Pasha, Ahmad Hassanayn 55 Passion and Revenge (dir. Wahbi, Youssef 1955) 46 Pay Attention to Zuzu (dir. al-Imam, Hasan 1972) 74 Pecnard, Jacques 95 n.6 performance style 1, 2, 10 Photocopy (dir. Ashry, T. 2017) 191 political ideologies 12 politics 46, 50 postcolonial 55 Arab stars career 82 comics 268 literature 245 studies 6, 66 Puar, Jasbir 134 qafla (musical cadence) 32 Qiong Yu, Sabrina 5–6, 10 Qudus, Ihasn Abdel 125 queer performances 4 Ra’s al-Barr 47 Raasuk (album 2013) 153 Racy, ‘Ali Jihad 58 n.2 Raga’ al Gaddawi 77 n.4 Rahbani brothers 100–2, 103, 108, 110 n.1 Rahbani, Reema 108

299

Ramadan, Mohamed 4, 11, 15, 167 ‘Number One’ on YouTube 173–6 sa’ıˉdıˉ and baltagi figures 169 sonic stardom and racialization 165, 176–80 Rami, Ahmad 26 Ramiz, Ahmed 118 Ramy (dir. Youssef, Ramy 2019– present) 2 raqasa sharqia (oriental dancer) 76 n.1 reception 4, 17, 24, 33 of Arab stars 12 Red Satin (dir. Amari, Raja 2002) 2 Reda, Sherine 191 religion 7, 8, 16 Renoir, Jean 92 Rest in Peace (dir. Abd Elsalam, Dina 2014) 195 Rezk, Amina 188, 189, 192 Riklis, Erin 2 Rock the Casbah (dir. Marrakchi, Laïla 2013) 146 n.4 Rogers, Ginger 68 RollingStone (magazine) 151 Rosenthal, Marie 70 Rostom, Hind 8, 9, 10, 14, 74, 115, 128, 230, 231 careers shaping 117–21 Sleepless (dir. Abu Seif, Salah 1957), sharing 125–6 transnational work and recognition 126–8 women’s rights and iconic performances 121–5 Royer, Michelle 5, 13 Rumana, Ibn Abi 29 Ruz al-Yusuf (magazine) 52 Saab, Jocelyne 11 Sabry, Samir 128 Sagan, Francois 125 Sahhab, Fiktur 52 Said, Edward 65, 66 Sailor Beware (dir. Walker, Hal 1952) 230 Salih, Taufik 191 Salim, Ahmad 47, 53, 56

300

INDEX

Sallama (dir. Mizrahi, Togo 1945) 26, 29 Sameh, Wally Eddin 68 Sanders, George Henry 127 Sands of Gold (dir. Chahine, Youssef 1971) 127 Saudi Arabia 36, 250 Scott, Ridley 138 sexuality 28, 120, 151 Shabaan, Mohamed Mahmoud 188 Shadow of Treason (dir. Breakston, George P. 1963) 127 Shafik, Viola 7, 8, 9, 11, 51, 72, 77 n.6 Shafiq, Doriyya 121–2 Shafiqa the Copt (dir. El Emam, Hassan 1963) 122 Sharif, Omar 3, 8, 9, 16, 118, 237 disguises and personas 239–40 Edward Said and 238 entrance in history of Hollywood 244–6 identity at risk 246–7 moving away from Hollywood 248–51 stardom 239–40 Sharif, Tarek 250 Shawqi, Farid 121 Shehab, Bahia 16 Sidqi, Husayn 227 Sidqi, Mustafa Kamal 70 Sigara wa Kass (dir. Mustapha, Niazi 1954) 81 Silverstein, Shayna 167 singing 11, 25, 27, 28–30, 35, 48, 49, 52–4 Sinno, Hamed 149 charisma 155–60 gender 155–60 masculinity 155–60 populism and political targets 153 sharp tongues 153–5 Sleepless (dir. Abu Seif, Salah 1957) 125 social media stars 12 Son of the Nile (dir. Chahine, Youssef 1951) 127 Song of Hope (dir. Badrakhan, Ahmed 1937) 26, 27

South Africa 177 star/stars 2 cross-cultural exchange 4–5 stardom 16 sin and beyond Arab cinema 9–12 Azabal, Lubna 135–6 Chikly, Haydée 205–7 Dalida 79–82 Debbouze, Jamel 267–71 diasporic stardom 16 Feiruz 109 Kulthum, Umm 33–6 M’sika, Habiba 205–7 Ramadan, Mohamed 165 Sharif, Omar 239–40 Suleiman, Elia 255–6 Stephan, Rania 18 n.2 Streisand, Barbra 246 Struggle in the Nile (dir. Chahine, Youssef 1959) 120 Succession (dir. Armstrong, Jesse 2018) 2 Sudan 30, 177 Suez Crisis 231 Sugar Street (dir. al-Imam, Hasan 1973) 74 Suhayl, Ibn 29 Suleiman, Elia 16, 253 fashioning of star and character 261–2 reluctant performer in absurd world 260–1 star/character as flâneur 256–9 stardom 255–6 SWANA (South West Asia and North Africa) 7–8 Switzerland 248 Syria 2, 3, 50, 51, 55, 108, 193 Syrian cinema 2, 3, 9, 13, 45, 48, 49–54, 55, 56–7, 193 taqiyya 50 Tarek, Abou 140 Tchatche 276, 286 n.10 Techiné, André 136 Tel Aviv on Fire (dir. Zoabi, Sameh 2018) 134, 144 Têtu (magazine) 155

INDEX

The 27 Club 218 n.1 The Blazing Sun (dir. Chahine, Youssef 1954) 118, 129 n.1, 241 The Coward and Love (dir. Chahine, Youssef 1975) 120 The Empire of M (dir. Kamal, Hussein 1972) 118 The Great Love (dir. Barakat, Henri 1969) 127 The Honourable Woman (dir. Blick, Hugo 2014) 134, 138–9, 140, 141, 142 The Lady’s Puppet (dir. Sameh, Wally Eddin 1946) 68 The Land of Peace (dir. El Sheikh, Kamal 1957) 242–3, 251 n.3 The Lemon Tree (dir. Riklis, Erin 2008) 2 The Nightingale’s Prayer (dir. Barakat, Henri 1959) 127, 128 The Noble Thief (dir. ‘Abd al-Wahhab, Hamada 1953) 230 The Nun (dir. El Emam, Hassan 1965) 120 The Open Door (dir. Barakat, Henri 1963) 121 The Prayer of the Nightingale (dir. Barakat, Henri 1959) 123, 124 The Secret of the Grain (dir. Kechiche, Abdellatif 2007) 11 The Sixth day (dir. Chahine, Youssef 1986) 89–90 The Stanley Siegel Show 1978 249 The Syrian Bride (dir. Riklis, Erin 2004) 2 The Taboo (dir. Barakat, Hendri 1965) 127 The Thin Line (dir. Barakat, Henri 1971) 118 The Thousand and One Nights 212 The Three Disappearances of Soad Hosni (dir. Stephan, Rania 2011) 18 n.2 The Triumph of Youth (dir. Badrakhan, Ahmad 1941) 46 The Unbearable Presence of Asmahan (dir. al-Hassan, Azza 2014) 57

301

The Unjust Angel (dir. El Emam, Hassan 1954) 125 The White Rose (dir. Karim, Muhammad 1933) 26 The Youth of a Woman (dir. Abu Seif, Salah 1956) 71 theatre and music 25 There Is a Man in Our House (dir. Barakat, Henri 1961) 242, 245 Theuriau, Mélissa 269 transnational Arab stars 1–2 stardom 4 tulle talli 54 Tunisia 2, 3, 30, 81, 177, 213 cinema 2, 3, 9, 15, 18, 30, 32, 33, 81, 85, 177, 203–11, 213–15 cultural history 215–18 Turk, Hanan 11 Turkey 81 Umm Kulthum (dir. Mohammad Ali, Inam 1999) 34, 36 Umm Kulthum: A Voice Like Egypt (dir. Goldman, Michal 1996) 33 United Arab Emirates 167 Ustadha 129 n.2 Vienna 56 Villeneuve, Denis 2, 138 Vincendeau, G. 271, 273 Viva Atata (dir. Abd Elaziz, S. 2014) 191 Viva Laldjérie (dir. Moknèche, Nadir 2004) 134, 137, 146 n.3 Wahbi, Youssef 46, 48 Waked, Amr 2, 17 Wakim, Bishara 53 Warner Bros 229 Weber, Max 150 Weiz, Rachel 279 What Remained (dir. Bassaly, R. 2020) 196 Widad (dir. Badrakhan, Kramp and Madkur 1936) 26, 28 Wife by Proxy (dir. Galal, Ahmad 1936) 51

302

INDEX

Women in My Life (dir. Wahab, Fateen Abdel 1957) 127 Women Over 50 Film Festival (WOFFF) 198 women filmic performances 117 representation in film criticism 117 Xavier, Zachary 35 Yadir, Nabil Ben 282 Yassin, Ismail 230

Yassin, Mahmoud 118 Yousra (1955–present) 190 Yusri, Madiha 53, 231 Zaki, Ahmed 167 Zaki, Soheir 76 Zoabi, Sameh 144 Zohra (dir. Chikly, Albert Samama 1922) 203, 208, 209 Zulfikar, Ezzeldine 119 Zulfikar, Mahmud 224

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