The Hindu Business Line : Movies, masti and magic

In the life of an itinerant film critic, there’s one unalterable fact: like a paratrooper broadcast reporter, you need to take a snapshot appreciation of the place, people, and the films, not necessarily in that order, as quickly as possible. Bu t Damascus has cast its spell on me. On Day one, I’m bowling along in a mini-van towards Palmyra, one of the ancient outposts in the world. This city of Palms, an important juncture on the Silk Road, was mentioned on tablets dating back to the 19th century BC.

Along with me, and as overjoyed at the prospect, are a bunch of fellow Indians: Akbar Khan, the director of Taj Mahal; his leading lady Pooja Batra; his sister Dilshad; brother Shah Rukh; and our charming Syrian guide-cum-interpreter-cum-friend Salaam. The road is unswervingly straight with gentle mounds of sand on either side and we make it under three hours, just as the sun is about to go down.

It’s just ruins, broken pillars, large slabs of stone, a locked-up amphitheatre, but as we do a slow walk-through, pausing now and then to catch the images on our cameras, the ancient-ness of the place overcomes us. It’s magic. Close your eyes, and you can imagine the bejewelled camels and their riders who pit-stopped at this lush oasis in the middle of the Syrian desert, criss-crossing the coastal Mediterranean cities to those of Central and West Asia.

On the way back, we stop for tea at the lovely Chams hotel, the sister of the one we are staying at in Damascus. A large tent beckons, bedecked with traditional stoles, shawls and khanjars (daggers with ornamental handles) for sale. We dive right in to sip hot tea Arab style — minus milk — and puff at the long-stemmed hookahs filled to the brim with apple-flavoured tobacco. Pooja is a pro. She’s had much practice with the hubble-bubble in Taj Mahal (she plays the shrewd queen Noorjehan) and shows me how to take a deep breath and let go instantly. I get the hang of it very quickly!

Akbar Khan talks about how Taj Mahal, which was out of theatres within a week in India when it released a couple of years ago, has received a fresh lease of life at film festivals. The appreciation he craved for in his country is coming his way in foreign lands. He is in Syria on invitation, and his film, with its opulent set-pieces and one of the most immortal love stories of the Mughal era, has been received warmly at its premiere the previous evening.

He now plans to dub the film in several languages and release it piecemeal around the globe, convinced that an edited ‘Director’s Cut’, without the elaborate songs of the original, will find the film a new audience. And Palmyra has sent him into raptures: this is where he wants to come back to shoot his new film, which he plans to make on the life of Changez Khan.

We make it back, in the nick of time, for the formal dinner at Naranj, one of the city’s best eateries, which has the most marvellous local food. A film producer from Beirut waves expansively at the poor Europeans at our table, and declares: these people (from the West) have forgotten how to be in touch with their emotions, and that only we (which I presume means the rest, a motley bunch from Lebanon, Syria and India) continue to make films that touch the heart. After which he bursts into mellifluous song accompanied by a gorgeous actress who has the voice of a nightingale. And I drop off to sleep at some unearthly hour, feeling only slightly guilty at having slacked off so magnificently.

Day two threatens to be more of the same. I’m hijacked on my way to a theatre, and whisked off to Ma’alula, to visit the most ancient church in the world. It’s unreal, the place is about an hour and some from the city; the white walls lie dreaming in the bright sun, and the dark interiors are forbidden to camera flashes. Time is meaningless here, stretching into eternity: the people in the village still speak Aramaic, the language of Jesus Christ. I’m getting tired of using unbelievable and mind-blowing, but those are the only words appropriate to the setting.

Finally, in the evening, I get into a FILM! It’s the premiere of Syrian film Smile Of Sorrow, and the whole town, dressed to the nines, seems to be there.

It’s my maiden Syrian film and to a first-timer, it gives a sense of how life used to be for the Damascene from early part of the century to the mid-1950s. It’s all the more instructive, because I discover that Syria doesn’t make more than two or three films a year. Its film industry is at a nascent stage, which will flower with more funding and theatres.

Now my film-watching has to pick up speed. I’m on my third day, and have only two more to go (the festival is an 11-day affair, but I’m here only for five of those), and my aim is to see as many films from the region as I can cram in. I manage to scramble into the Egyptian comedy Fawzia’s Secret Recipe (films from Egypt are popular in Syria), which is another houseful event. The leading lady is here, as are other members of the cast and crew. And I follow that up with Morocco’s Burned Hearts, Tunisia’s Madness, and two more Syrian films Hassiba and Days Of Boredom.

The real jewel that I find amongst the 200 plus films at the festival, though, is Palestine’s Laila’s Birthday, a touching account of a taxi-driver father’s attempts at getting to his daughter’s party on time on a day when everything happens: a man is killed in a bomb blast in the car right behind him, a cake is left behind in his cab, and a little urchin thrusts at him a beaded necklace, which becomes his gift to the girl, as much as his staying alive one more day. His wife, who asks the usual spousal question, “how was your day”, is answered with “the usual”. Ironic, full of resonance, Laila’s Birthday is the kind of film which makes a festival shine bright.

There’s not much of note from India: the handful of films, apart from Taj Mahal, include Aamir Khan’s directorial debut Taare Zameen Par and Jodhaa Akbar, and some older movies.

In my conversations with people I find that Bollywood is, surprise, not as well-known here as it is in the rest of the Middle East. Some older residents remember Shammi Kapoor with fondness. Akbar Khan is the most recent entrant. But another Khan also seems to have made inroads this time around: a shopkeeper outside Bosra’s Roman amphitheatre (the other out-of-town trip I take in my newly found role as an accidental tourist) tells me he just loves Aamir!

Before I know it, it’s my last day. After a breakfast of the most delicious falafel, and a quick sortie to the gorgeously atmospheric Damascus souk in the Old City to pick up zaatar, a kind of spice which makes the most heavenly accompaniment to breads of all sorts, and a few other knick knacks, I hunker down and watch three films, all back to back.

The last is Burn After Reading, a Coen Brothers joyride starring the dishy trio of George Clooney, Brad Pitt and John Malkovich. This is Hollywood with an edge, so why not?

As far as this film critic is concerned, the festival is a super success.

Later, in the very early hours, I’m on a plane, on my way back home. And I’m dreaming Damascus.

shubhra.gupta@gmail.com