The screen! The sound

We arrived at the Small Hall of the Opera House on the first day of the 22nd Cairo International Film Festival not knowing what to expect. The dawn of a new phase in the evolution of a public event -- in this case, the appointment of Hussein Fahmi as head of the festival -- is usually accompanied by much talk, many promises and a great deal of enthusiasm for the taking on of Herculean tasks. More often than not the results are disappointing. But this time, given that the new head of the festival is so radically different from Saadeddin Wahba, his predecessor, a degree of credulity might be considered forgivable.

Certainly, in the case of the Cairo International Film Festival some changes are long overdue. What about an accurate schedule? Improved screening conditions? Greater accuracy in projecting reels in the right order? Or even the silencing of an often over-enthusiastic public and the disappearance of those notorious publications indicating which and why some films are an absolute must as well as where to find them, among many, many other things?

The first film scheduled at the Small Hall at the Opera House (with Odeon II one of the two venues assigned for the press) was Kieslowsky's Camera Buff. An excellent beginning. We were there at the scheduled time, 10am, but it seems we were expected to be a little more understanding, this being the first day and everything, and arrive late of our own free will instead of being asked to wait until the audio-visual equipment was installed. We waited, and the 10 estimated minutes multiplied and multiplied until we were finally allowed inside.

The sight was scary: a smallish screen, so wrinkled that it seemed to have just come out of a machine wash and tumble dry, was stretched apart by four enormous pegs. Was this a bad joke? Kieslowsky on this? Well it was no joke, but it was bad. We watched for about 15 minutes and then the frame slipped and the subtitles disappeared. Some members of the audience began to clap and yell "The screen! The screen!". A man offered his humble apologies and begged us to wait outside for just a few minutes until they could replace the screen.

After the morning's experience we knew what kind of few minutes the man had in mind, and so we decided to go for a very quick breakfast at the closest café. When we returned -- everyone commenting on how sure they were the screen was still being dealt with -- the film had been playing for about 15 minutes. Never mind, we said, it's a good sign.

In no time, however, the sound began to behave very strangely and soon disappeared altogether. Even if it is Polish that the actors speak, a talking picture should be viewed as the director intended, and besides the actors looked like fish out of a water tank, which was very insulting to all the parties involved. Spectators -- probably the same ones -- started clapping again and yelling "The sound! The sound!". I didn't even bother to see if it was the same man who was offering us his humblest apologies and requesting a second evacuation for the adjustment of the sound.

I went home, clapped a good deal and yelled "The bells! The bells!", and forgot all about attending any more screenings for the day.

The next morning, Friday, I marched into the Small Hall with no expectations at all. I was very pleasantly surprised to see that the screen had finally been ironed, or replaced, and that the fish were back in their tank. The picture was perfect and the sound immaculate. It was an American film, Fly Away Home, which does not merit a mention in the festival catalogue and so I have no idea as to cast and crew, and probably never will: it was an independent American film.

The sad thing about independent American films is that they speak American. If only they chose another language the cinematically inclined might pay them more attention. When I started watching the film, my first and automatic reaction as soon as I heard the actors speak was to dismiss the film as just another American movie. A few minutes later I began to realise it had very little in common with Hollywood productions and began to make a conscious effort not to dismiss it any longer. But that conscious effort had to be made.

Fly Away Home begins with a 14-year-old girl, Amy, finding and adopting 15 orphaned wild geese. The girl has recently come to live with her father who, having been separated from her now deceased mother and not always attentive to either of them, feels it is about time to compensate for the past. His current girl friend tries to befriend Amy by promising her that she will not allow any harm to come to her geese, a promise made in response to her father's friend, a local police officer, who tries to clip the birds' wings.

We see the geese growing in gorgeous silent sequences shot in the American countryside. As they follow Amy everywhere, en file indienne, we understand that they have recognised her as their adopted mother. Amy has no other preoccupation. She sleeps in the bathtub so they can be allowed to paddle in the water of the sink and baptises every one of them -- one is called Igor because he limps like Dr. Frankenstein's assistant in the classic cinema version.

Amy's father, a glider pilot, explains to her that when the migration season comes the orphaned geese will fly away and probably get lost if no one shows them the way. He suggests that he should teach Amy how to fly the aircraft, since they only follow her, and that they should both lead them south to Florida during the migration season. He also mentions that once the geese fly the distance between their northern and southern homes, they return to the exact same places every year.

From then on the film, which contains very little dialogue, becomes predictable though no less enjoyable and the aerial cinematography is impressive as the 15 geese follow two aircraft on their transcontinental journey.

There are, however, a few details à la Hollywood: 1) A race against time. The wetlands, the geese's destination, are being claimed by a wealthy investor who claims they have been abandoned by the birds. A deadline is therefore set for the arrival of birds, after which the wetlands become the investor's property. 2) Imminent danger. The policeman seen at the beginning of the film hovers around the birds and eventually cages them. Amy, her father and their friends work out a plan and release the birds as they embark on their migration, defeating the policeman. 3) The media. As the protagonists are forced to make stops in different towns for supplies and refuelling, they become national heroes, though in completing their journey they break any number of laws. The media follow their news, townsfolk welcome them during stops and the publicity generated by the journey saves the wetlands from development even though Amy fails to meet the deadline.

The screening conditions and silence that prevails during the press shows contributed greatly to my appreciation of the film. Totally different, however, is the situation in the cinemas open to the general public. The spirit which characterised previous festivals still prevails. And the same semi-clad, soft-focus, soft-porn images appear in the daily tabloid papers sold outside major cinemas, while Love Under Siege, the Turkish entry in the official competition, has already been labeled "the hottest film of the festival" and gathered more crowds than the cinema could hold.

Hussein Fahmi stated before the opening of the festival that, in an attempt to gradually transform the public's cinematic taste, the film selection committee would give priority to good films with as few "scenes" as possible. It sounded like a good idea. But why then does the logo of the festival show the Sphinx opposite a blonde woman bare to the shoulders with a film strip connecting their minds? Since the Sphinx symbolises Egypt, the host country, does the woman symbolise international cinema?

If I were international cinema I'd be none too pleased.