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Al-Ahram Weekly 27 Jan. - 2 Feb. 2000 Issue No. 466 
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Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Al-Ahram Weekly 27 Jan. - 2 Feb. 2000 Issue No. 466
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| Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Egypt Region International Economy Opinion Culture Features Profile Travel Living Sports People Time Out Chronicles Cartoons Letters A weekend at the Waldorf
By Fayza Hassan
For many years now I have been a movie-hater. Going to the cinema is in itself a painful experience, hardly redeemed by the rather chewy, oft-reheated, mandatory popcorn. I find that theatres nowadays are decorated with a definite penchant for vulgarity, the seats are narrow and uncomfortable, the A/C blasts an icy draft into one's neck, the soundtrack is far too loud and the films themselves are aimed at a blood-thirsty and unkempt public whose mental age must necessarily hover somewhere below 14. I have always blamed old age for my lack of interest in new actors and my total lack of understanding of the most elementary plot. On the rare occasions when I have been talked into going to the movies, I have emerged bewildered, wondering why any one ever felt the need to dream up, then throw away millions of dollars on, such a pointless story.
Movie channels on television are not much different. On occasion, I have quickly zapped from one channel to the other and ended up with the impression that bullets, blood and gore were the only order of the day. For a long time, therefore, I had confined myself to the news.
Recently, out of sheer curiosity, I turned to the channel that plays only old movies, and which some of my friends rave on about so frequently. "You should stop living in the past," I always advised them with a smug smile. So far, I had considered black and white movies as belonging to the paraphernalia of a disgusting nostalgia in which I refused to wallow.
What a surprise! Soon I was engrossed in a plot that I could clearly make out, and which I found quite exciting. Pushing away the book that I always keep handy while watching television, I gave myself entirely to the experience. Actually, I did so for 24 hours non-stop. Here were women who really deserved to be called stars, the youngsters looking like princesses from a fairy tale, the older ones like real ladies, lovers and mothers, their speech clear, their make-up impeccable, dressed to kill in something other than a hand-me-down petticoat masquerading as an evening gown. The men, dapper, clean-shaven and wearing proper suits, engaged in witty banter or intelligent dialogue, extracting from silver cases gold-tipped, scented Turkish cigarettes which they lit with a real lighter at appropriate moments. Legs were crossed elegantly, backs were straight and, when tears shone in the heroine's eyes, I knew that it was time for me to get a tissue out. The bad guys were clearly discernible from the good ones, and the virtues extolled were those that had always been considered desirable in my family.
After watching endlessly sadistic policemen brutalising irresponsible offenders, I had thought that remorse at wrongdoing was quite alien to the younger generation. I now realised that I had been deprived of a contrite villain for over 40 years. At no time during my marathon viewing was I treated to a messy scene in which the bedraggled protagonist contemplates with glazed eyes the victim he has just needlessly knifed down. Possibly, such unpleasant crimes had not been invented in the era of black and white. Killing, if at all necessary, had a definite place, and the story always ended to a well-played nuptial march and images of a beaming heroine in a breathtaking gown descending a majestic staircase while an assembly of polished guests looked on. Even the fallen, I noticed, had style.
From start to finish, I was on familiar ground, secure in the knowledge of a happy ending, or at least one in which everyone reaped their just reward. I revelled in the elegance of the surroundings, the correct use of knickknacks and paintings, and the courtesy of maids and butlers. The restaurants, hotels and ballrooms with their live orchestras were a sight to behold.
Suddenly, I felt quite angry. Why had I been subjected to the display of base sentiment, horrible crime, unimaginable perversion and a generally sordid ambience for so long? A frightful message had been hammered into my brain repeatedly, forcing me to accept a new modern world where ugliness was aesthetic, shabbiness preferable to beauty and the common notions of right and wrong just too boring to mention. I had given up trying to make sense of what I heard or read on any given day. I kept my feelings of alienation to myself and abstained from dwelling too much on the matter. But there in front of me was the world to which I was sure I belonged, the world of my childhood, where everything made sense. All I wanted to do at this point was to walk through the looking glass.
