The six most influential films from the Golden Age of Arab cinema

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“Doa al-Karawan” is an adaptation of acclaimed writer Taha Hussein’s 1934 novel.
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A still from "Al-Ard."
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A still from the movie "Al-Mummia."
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A scene from the comedy "Imm El-Arousa."
Updated 08 April 2018

The six most influential films from the Golden Age of Arab cinema

  • Celebrate the heyday of Arab cinema with these timeless classics
  • From tragedies to comedies, these films are iconic and loved across the Arab world
DUBAI: Our pick of the most influential films from the Golden Age of Arab cinema will help you decide what classic movie you are going to watch this week. So grab your popcorn, turn off your phone and take your pick.
“Doa Al-Karawan”
(The Nightingale’s Prayer)
The prolific Henry Barakat directs this adaptation of acclaimed writer Taha Hussein’s 1934 novel. The compelling, claustrophobic tale follows illiterate housekeeper Amna (Faten Hamama) as she tries to get revenge on ‘The Engineer’ (Ahmad Mazhar) who has seduced her sister and ruined her reputation.
(The Land)
This 1969 adaptation of Abdel Rahman Al-Sharqawi’s novel, directed by Youseff Chahin, follows the struggle of a rural village in the 1930s against local authorities who are set to reduce its already meager water supply. A hard-hitting early examination of people-power that still resonates today.
“Nahr El-Hub”
(The River of Love)
Ezzel Dine Zulficar’s 1961 adaptation of “Anna Karenina” features the ‘First Couple’ of Egyptian cinema — Omar Sharif and Faten Hamama — in their last film together before their divorce. Hamama plays country girl Nawal, who is married off to a wealthy aristocrat but falls for army officer Khaled (Sharif). The couple’s real-life chemistry gives the movie an extra charge.
“Imm El-Arousa”
(Mother of the Bride)
Atef Salem’s 1964 comedy classic stars legendary Egyptian actors Tahiya Karioka and Emad Hamdi as Zeinab and Hussein — hardworking parents struggling to raise seven kids while arranging their eldest daughter’s upcoming wedding. And finding inventive ways to raise the necessary funds.
(The Mummy)
Ranked among Egyptian cinema’s greatest films, Shadi Abdel Salam’s 1969 movie is loosely based on the true story of the Abd El-Rasuls, a clan of grave robbers and black-market traders. It’s a thoughtful reflection on Egyptian identity which — like many on this list — hints at the tensions between rural and urban life.
“Khally Ballak Min ZouZou”
(Watch Out For ZouZou)
Starring Egyptian cinema icons Soad Hosny, Hussein Fahmy and Taheya Cariocca, Hassan Al Imam’s 1972 film — a perennial favorite in Egyptian households — tells the story of a college professor who falls in lust with a student. His fiancée decides to expose said student’s “shameful secret” — she was a dancer! — in an attempt to ruin her. Al Imam explored the friction between Egypt’s modernist urges and its conservative traditions.

Musical truth: Palestinian singer Maysa Daw blends the personal with the political

Updated 18 September 2018

Musical truth: Palestinian singer Maysa Daw blends the personal with the political

  • Maysa Daw is a young Palestinian singer
  • A guitar-driven singer-songwriter, Daw is a bundle of indie energy

DUBAI: Maysa Daw is a hard person to pin down. The young Palestinian singer has been busy dashing from gig to gig, completing an album and preparing to participate in a musical collaboration called the Basel-Ramallah Project, which is due to take place in Switzerland on Oct. 6. When we meet, she is in Chicago, about to go on stage at Palipalooza.

“We’ve been working on our solo show and I’m trying to write a few new songs but time isn’t exactly on my side at the moment,” she said with a laugh. “But writing always comes in-between things, you know. I’m always having these new ideas and I write them down, or new melodies and I write them down. At some point I’ll just gather them together and a lot of things will come from there.”

A guitar-driven singer-songwriter, Daw is a bundle of indie energy. Her live performances are raw and honest, her music a primarily personal reaction to the world around her. As a Palestinian living inside the Green Line, this can sometimes mean a world of conflict and complication.

“I always write about what I’m experiencing, what I’m feeling, or the anger that I’m feeling,” said Daw, whose debut album “Between City Walls” was written while she was living in Jaffa.

“It was a very different world for me. I grew up in Haifa, which is a lot more chill, a lot more relaxed, and suddenly I move to Jaffa and study in Tel Aviv, and everything was so intense. Everything was so new. It produced a lot of stuff. Love songs, break-up songs — political songs, too.

“There’s also one of my favorite songs, “Crazy.” I was so frustrated when I started writing this song. I was thinking of so many things at the time and I just wrote everything down. It’s exactly the way I was feeling, the things that I was asking myself. It talks about religion, it talks about death, it talks about politics — it talks about a lot of things.”

“Between City Walls,” which was released in June last year, may be indie in its sensibilities but its eight songs embrace a variety of sounds, not all of which are musical. Alongside samples of classical Arabic songs and Spanish guitar there are bursts of radio static and live voice recordings of people in the West Bank. As such, reproducing the album on stage, with drummer Issa Khoury and bassist Shadi Awidat, has not been easy.

“We’ve been trying to put material for a five-piece band into a three-piece band,” said Daw. “As such, we’ve been using more electronics and it’s been a very interesting challenge for us. But it’s got us to a place that I’m definitely very happy with.”

Daw is very much a product of Haifa. Born into an artistic family — her father is the actor Salim Dau — she immersed herself in the city’s independent Arabic-music scene, performing at venues such as Kabareet and collaborating with Ministry of Dub-Key, a Galilean group that fuses the sounds of hip-hop and dancehall with traditional Palestinian dabke.

She also recently finished recording an album with Palestinian hip-hop group DAM, who she joined about five years ago. Due to be released early next year, the as-yet-untitled album is her first full-length collaboration with the group. Prior to this, Daw and DAM recorded two tracks together, including the feminism-infused “Who You Are.”

Although Daw’s work gravitates toward the personal, much of it also can be viewed as intrinsically political. The song “Come with Me,” for example, is about two lovers kept apart by the separation wall, while “Radio” features the voices of refugees living in the West Bank. In snippets of their conversations you can hear them talking about the wall, the effects it has on their lives and their desire to tear it down.

“I do talk about politics but only because it’s a big part of my life, whether I want it to be or not. And believe me, I don’t,” she said. “But it is a part of my life.

“I started loving music way before I even understood what politics is. I only wanted to make music but with time I understood more about the responsibility that I could accept to have.”

She paused and corrected herself: “Not exactly a responsibility but a sort of a privilege. I have this voice that I can use and it has the potential to reach a lot of people. It made me realize that I can use this to talk about things that many other people can’t talk about.”

Daw once said that despite the perceived mundanity of everyday events, “everything we do here as Arabs is connected to politics.” As such, there is a vein of resistance running through much of her work. She sings of love under occupation, equality, society and religion, with freedom the ultimate objective.

“A lot of the time I write for the purpose of trying to tell somebody something, or trying to express my opinion about something,” she said. “And sometimes I just feel this thing that’s blocking me, that I need to release in any way, and my way of releasing it is through music.

“Sometimes I release something just for myself. I write it, I turn it into a song and I don’t release it to the world, because sometimes some things are too private. I still do it, I still work on a song and I still do it in a way that I absolutely love the song, yet it will never be heard by anybody else.”

One song on her debut album is sung in English, titled “Live Free.”

“You know, when I started making music and writing my own songs I started writing in English,” she said. “I didn’t feel comfortable doing it in Arabic. And at some point I realized that it was a little bit strange for me, because the whole personality of a person changes when you change language.

“I wanted to start writing in Arabic to see what it would bring, and it brought a very new side of me that I didn’t know. Everything was different: the melodies, the type of words I used, how I built sentences — something just clicked. Arabic feels a lot more like home when writing music.”