Al-Ahram Weekly 7 - 13 October 1999 Issue No. 450
Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875

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Fardous Abdel-Hamid: The art of resistance Profile by Fatemah Farag The voice is deep, the features sharp, but above all the message is clearly stated

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On the bookshelves, Gamal Hamdan figures prominently; over the piano hangs a portrait of Abdel-Nasser. They are items you would expect to find in the house of actress Fardous Abdel-Hamid. Over the years, her serious demeanour, choice of works, even her voice, the coal-black hair cut à la garçonne and the sharp contours of her cheekbones have created that unmistakable aura that has become synonymous of her name.

Yet the woman we meet is soft-spoken, almost shy. Her eyes water as she surreptitiously moves her fingers across her forehead, adjusting her hair with a hesitant smile.

She is not only contrary, but also contradictory. "I was born in February -- the year cannot be of importance to you," she begins. The vanity is unexpected, but is soon made up for as she settles into her element, talking not only about herself, but all that makes life meaningful -- the struggle for principles.

Born to a furniture manufacturer and antique dealer in the quarter of Muharram Bey in Alexandria, Fardous was the youngest of three girls. When she was seven, the family moved to Shubra, where she was educated in "an Arabic school."

There were no boys in the Abdel-Hamid family, a fact which Fardous recounts to explain the shyness in her character. "You see, a boy in the family makes it more outgoing. Because we were all girls there were limits. I would not go out on my own and, when I started to go to university, it was a major trauma because I had to ride the bus on my own. I remember my first bus rides as very scary experiences."

She chuckles when she sees the look of disbelief in our eyes. "Yes, if you had known me then you would not have imagined that this [acting] is the sort of field I would enter. Until after my high school exams I was a very silent girl. Sometimes you can still see the old me peeking through. Like when I walk into a room full of people I don't know -- I get embarrassed."

Her career, her whole persona in fact, came about by chance. "Other actors will tell you they were in school plays or something, but not me. After I had been accepted at the Faculty of Commerce and everything was settled, something very strange happened. One day I was looking through the daily paper and I saw this very small ad that said that the Faculty of Dramatic Arts was looking for women applicants. Up until that moment I had never even heard of such a faculty, but for some reason I found myself drawn to the idea."

A woman of action, Fardous immediately took the ad to her father. "When I showed it to him, I think he was quite alarmed but he did not show it at the time. I think he figured that if he said 'no', I would cling to the idea but that if he said 'yes' I would go and fail and that would be that," she remembers, with obvious admiration of her father's cunning.

From top: a scene from Kawkab Al-Sharq; a personal favourite, Tal'a Al-Nakhl; in the popular TV series Zizinia; with Adel Imam in Al-Harrif; above left, with Ezzat El-Alayli in Al-Tawq wal-Iswira

"My mother took me, and I was very confused by everything. We met a professor, Fawzi Fahmi, currently the head of the academy, who asked me if I had anything ready to perform. Of course I didn't, but he was to tell me later that he found my very thin and angular features striking. He had also noted that, although I did not talk much, when I did my enunciation was clear. That is why he referred me to an acting coach, Nagat Ali, who gave me six classes. After that I not only passed the exam, but came out first over 600 girls."

The fact that she had succeeded created quite a stir. Other family members were brought in to convince her father and finally the young woman was ready to become an actress -- well, not quite.

The first months were to be sheer torture. From bus rides to entering a community Abdel-Hamid describes as "vicious", the young girl found herself in tears. Even today, she is not really part of the "acting community". She confides: "We are different, and I prefer not to mix."

Of her first encounter with this community, she remembers: "I felt like a rabbit thrown into the middle of the forest. I found myself a solitary corner and sat there inside myself, staring out at the people around me. The first impression I got was very bad and I went home to my father crying, 'I don't want to go back there.' I told him my colleagues were too bold and that I had seen girls and boys dealing with each other informally. He told me to go back and learn to deal with things. So I went back day after day. You know how scared I was? I wouldn't even go to the cafeteria when I was hungry!"

It was not just adapting to a new social context that was difficult. Even though Abdel-Hamid had excelled in her entrance exams, she found her first few months of study very difficult. "Professors would choose students to work with them and I was chosen by Saad Ardash. For the first three months, he treated me very harshly. The more critical he was, the more introverted I became." The relation reached a breaking point. "One day I was assigned a very sad monologue from Electra. I would say it and he would scream at me to do it again. I would start from the beginning and he would scream again. On and on, until at one point I was filled with anger. I started crying and venting my anger as I recited the monologue and when I finished, Ardash was overjoyed. It was the day of my birth as an actress. I came out of my skin and discovered how to act, how to combine my personal feelings with those feelings I was supposed to convey while acting." It was not just an academic change that took place. "I changed personally as well, and opened up socially."

There were exciting days to come, and through all, it was Fardous's father who seems to have left the deepest imprint. She brings him up frequently, telling us of times "he would bring home singers and musicians -- not the big names, but very good artists, his friends. They would have evenings filled with art and although my father was not an artist he could tell you what was good."

She also remembers him when we talk of her political inclinations. "How could I believe in anything other than what I do? I would see my father close the door to listen to secret tapes which I was to find out were the lyrics and songs of Ahmed Fouad Negm and Sheikh Imam. I remember overhearing a conversation between my parents in which he, the factory owner, argued for decisions made by Nasser in favour of the workers. Our house, like everyone else's at the time, buzzed with talk of the High Dam and we all suffered from the air raids. I grew up loving Nasser because he symbolised those things and I was brought up on principles. My father was like that."

These issues seem to represent the essence of her character. "I grew up believing that ingratitude is unacceptable. I see so many people who were made by the revolution and the possibilities it opened up, like education, yet they sit back today and shoot down everything the revolution stood for." These things make her angry -- and, on a lighter note, she tells us they also make her a failure in managing her house-help. "I have never been able to keep any cleaning woman I ever employed. The relationship is ultimately a failure because I cannot give orders. I treat everyone as my equal."

During the days when Fardous was beginning her career, early professionalism was not encouraged. "Sometimes our professors would give us small roles in their works to give us practical experience. The idea was that the artist is like a plant, if you harvest it too soon it spoils," she explains. Although Fardous was given the opportunity to act in such small works, it was not until her final year that she was "discovered".

"The tradition at the time was that final year students put on a production at the National Theatre to which critics and a general audience were invited. It exposed us to our future audience and introduced us to them."

After graduation, she was immediately offered an appointment at the National Theatre, "something that did not happen to everybody". Her first lead role came in an Egyptianised version of Molière's Tartuffe, called Matlouf. "The lead got ill and in those days a schedule was a schedule, so the director had to open on time. He came to me one day with the text, told me to read it and the next day told me I had one day to prepare myself. I was flabbergasted. It was 11 at night and I went home and I thought, 'if I accept I could be digging my own grave, but if I succeed it is a wonderful chance.'"

She accepted, and she made it. "The critics gave me rave reviews. I remember in particular Ragaa El-Naqqash wrote at the time that a new talent was born. Karam Mutawi' saw me that evening and gave me another good role in Al-Hussein Tha'iran (Al-Hussein as a rebel).

She was also seen by movie directors, and soon after a career in the cinema was to begin. Notable early works include Al-Hobb Fawq Al-Burkan (Love Atop the Volcano) and later, with director Mohamed Khan, both Ta'ir 'Ala Al-Tariq (Bird on the Road), also starring Ahmed Zaki and Al-Harrif (The Pro), starring Adel Imam. She was brilliantly cast by director Khayri Bishara in Al-Tawq wal-Iswira (The Collar and the Bracelet); and, although all these are movies she takes pride in, her personal favourites seem to be Ya Tal'a Al-Nakhl (The Palm Tree Climber), Nasser '56, directed by her husband, Mohamed Fadel, and the most recent release, shown last week in Morocco during Egyptian Film Week, Kawkab Al-Sharq.

The mention of her last film stirs Fardous. On one hand, there is the subject matter itself. "Umm Kulthoum was the phenomenon of an age full of liberation movements, revolutions both social and cultural. It produced art that was sublime. That is why I am drawn to all that concerns it."

The issue is not just personal likes and dislikes. "Umm Kulthoum was amazing, really: a village girl who had personal genius, and of course the circumstances around her were conducive to her development. Don't think that there are no geniuses today, but will they have the chance to flourish?" The question is anguishing, which is why Fardous believes in the "dire need to expose and highlight Egyptian figures like Umm Kulthoum, characters that evoke a challenge."

Which brings us to the other side of the coin, namely the fate of the cinema industry and the state of the arts in general. After an intensive media campaign, Kawkab Al-Sharq showed for one day and was abruptly pulled off the market. Although it showed last week in Morocco, and is scheduled to run at the Damascus Film Festival, its fate in the Egyptian market is still unclear. "We released the movie and went home to find in the newspapers that another movie was going to flood the cinemas a week later. We were horrified and immediately called the cinemas to pull out the film so that it would not face the same fate as Araq Al-Balah [Date Wine, by director Radwan El-Kashef; his film showed for only a week, although it has reaped many international and national awards]. The withdrawal process takes one day and hence the movie was shown for only a day in the Egyptian market. It was a big decision because we had spent a lot of money on advertising, but we had to save the movie," she explains heatedly.

Fardous is adamant, however: come what may, there is a battle to be fought, and she will fight it to the end. "We are not going to let anyone decide for us. We consider what is happening in cinema today to be a war, a struggle, and we will not give in easily."

But who is the war against? Does the audience prefer a certain type of film? Are business interests to blame, or is the intellectual climate generally deficient? "Some say it is the audience who is to blame. But I would compare this to how parents manage the diet of their children. They will get used to what you give them. If you let your child eat junk food he will get fat and his health will be bad. If you give him home cooking he will be healthy. We are the ones who make that decision."

The challenge is great, however, as it lies not only in the cinema. "Today television is suffering from consumerism. We have nine channels in addition to the specialised channels and the satellite channels. Terrifying things. They may seem like a good omen for the artist, but if you take a careful look you will find that it is all about consumerism -- it has become a monster, a faucet that is continually running. So many things do not get prepared properly."

It is unfortunate because, for several years, Fardous found television an apt medium for works she values. "There was a time in the '80s when TV seemed very promising. That was when we did serials such as Laylat Al-Qabd 'Ala Fatma (The Night Fatma Was Arrested); Ana winta wa Baba fil-Mishmish (You and Me and Dad when the Cows Come Home); and Al-Nawwa (The Storm). That was until 1992. Now Egypt is a major exporter of TV material, I believe the demand is 300 hours per year. You can imagine the effect on quality, of course."

Consumerism and materialism hurt Fardous most. "Today people think: for me to make it, you have to die. It is not just about money, but about the way people feel about each other and the important things in life. Everyone focuses on me, and this generates a lot of evil."

The shy little girl peeps out once again. "I love Fayrouz and as a girl I would wake up and fall asleep to her music. When you listen to her there is innocent romance. My favorite song is about two lovers who left each other and when they look back it is as though it had never been." She sighs deeply. She struggles, but these are qualities that are difficult to uphold in today's world.

"I am adamant. I will not give in and there are many like me -- artists who want to create good art. Even though things may seem tragic now they will not remain so because we will continue to struggle. I have great faith in people and although many things have changed, I still have my own beliefs. Art is a wonderful arena for resistance and as long as I am living in society I am a part of its problems. If I give up my struggle, then I have given up my role. If art ignores the problems then it also has given up its role and we will all turn into mush."

Her dark eyes shine and you know she is a woman who means what she says.

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