Two scruffy boys thump each other in a Casablanca side-street, then tumble to the ground before a man cries out: “Cut. Cut!” Nour-Eddine Lakhmari dashes from behind his camera and drags the boys apart as laughter erupts from a crowd of onlookers.
It may be a far cry from the glamorous “Casablanca” of Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman, but Morocco’s biggest box-office successes of recent years are all home-grown, as Moroccans flock to see their own lives played out on celluloid.
Lakhmari chose the boys from among thousands of destitute children, who kill time wandering and playing in Casablanca’s streets, to act in a film he hopes will depict Morocco with a realism few have ever dared employ.
Casa Negra is the story of two poor but ambitious young friends. One yearns to emigrate to Sweden, the other is in love, hopelessly, with a rich girl.
The main actors have no previous acting experience and were chosen after auditions in the ramshackle suburbs that encircle this sprawling Atlantic coast city.
“I think it’s about time we Moroccans are able to tell our stories, not just the stories Europeans want to see from us,” Lakhmari told Reuters a day after filming began. “We now have an opportunity to tell the world what we really think.” Foreigners may be familiar with Morocco because its dramatic southern landscape has served as the backdrop for blockbuster films like “Lawrence of Arabia,” “Gladiator,” “Alexander” and “Troy.”
But most of the country’s population of 30 million live in the teeming cities of the north, many in poor neighborhoods plagued by joblessness and insecurity, fertile ground for tales of frustrated hope, escape, betrayal and revenge.
Forbidden Love
After the first Moroccan feature film appeared in 1969, two to three followed each year. But more recently, Morocco has been producing about 15 each year. Last year’s hit, “Marock,” told of forbidden love between an Arab girl and a Jewish boy, both members of Casablanca’s nouveau riche. The girl’s brother turns to religion after killing a child from a poor suburb while drink-driving.
In “The Back Streets,” a young woman steals a relative’s savings to emigrate to Spain. Her brother steals mobile phones and handbags while their father thinks he’s selling oysters.
“Casablanca by Night” shows a Moroccan girl belly-dancing for a rich Arab in a night club to help pay for her young brother’s life-saving operation.
Relaxation of censorship since King Mohammed came to the throne in 1999 means directors can go further than before in criticizing authority, and exposing the reality behind the strong sense of respectability that pervades Moroccan society.
“The problem we suffer from today is mostly self-censorship, either through a director’s own attitudes or fear of a backlash,” said Lakhmari.
Some in the industry worry the newfound freedoms could be short-lived if an increasingly popular Islamist party, the PJD, joins the government after legislative elections this September. But in the meantime, the film community breaks new ground.
“I will do whatever I want and use my camera as a political weapon to tell the world that you are what you are and no one can tell you how to live,” said Lakhmari.
Hidden Malaise
Industry officials say they want to make Morocco Africa’s leading film center and have established a film school in Marrakesh with a budget of 5 million euros ($7 million) to produce a new generation of directors, actors and technicians.
But while Moroccan films took the top four box office spots last year, the growing appeal of home-grown productions has not stemmed a steep decline in cinema audiences in the kingdom.
Aside from a handful of multi-screen theaters where tickets cost more than a day’s wage for many people, most of Morocco’s cinemas are empty, unable to fend off competition from satellite TV and pirate DVDs which cost as little as 8 dirhams ($0.96).
Over the last 10 years, between 15 and 25 Moroccan cinemas have closed every year and only about 100 remain.
“Moroccan theaters have not respected themselves or the spectator,” said Noureddine Sail, head of the Moroccan Cinematographic Center. “Little by little, they’ve been allowed to fall into ruin.”
Only three cinemas survive in the capital Rabat since the projectors stopped whirring at Le Renaissance on Boulevard Mohammed V this year.
And on a recent Sunday evening at the Rialto, a fading art-deco cinema near Casablanca’s port dating from the French protectorate, the grainy screen lit up five spectators and row upon row of empty seats.
“Those single-screen cinemas from the old colonial era will disappear, that’s for sure,” said film producer Sarim Fassi Fihri. “In Europe they were replaced by multi-screen theaters linked to commercial centers. We’re about 25 years behind, but we’ll catch up sooner or later.”
