For whom the bell tolls
A legend in Lebanese theater, Rafic Ali Ahmad buys me a narghile at the notorious Rawda Cafe and talks about his life.
The bearded mother
You're something of an icon in theater...
Well let me tell you, I act alone and people who act alone typically run three or four shows. It's often an intellectual show. I've held four plays, one man shows, and with each one I've met with great success. I was able to carry them around the world with me. This makes me happy. I was able to create a popular theater out of this style. I like that my audience will have anyone in it from the highly educated to the everyday theater goer.
What do you feel gives you this edge?
They believe me. When I had the spot with UNIFIL [United Nations Interim Force in Lebanon], a lady came up to me and said: ‘UNIFIL chose well. It's not that you're an actor. It's that people believe you.' These are the type of words you hear with your heart, not your ears. When I have a play all the Lebanese come, irrespective of their religions. The topics I choose are heartfelt - the emotions of a father, the problems of the youth, the discrepancy between parents and children. My grandfather spoke to my father and my father spoke to me. But I can't speak with my son. There's a different education in place.
You've succeeded where other actors failed...
In one of my plays I say I don't have a tribe. We're a bunch of tribes, aren't we? No matter how educated we get, or how far we travel, we're all just a bunch of tribes. I have no tribe. I'm from a village and in my village we plant an olive tree for every child that is born. I have a lot to talk about - why should I play Shakespeare when there's so much here to talk about? People still believe me and I still have a good name. This makes me fulfilled.
I've noticed that people always associate your name with one particular play, The Bell. Why is that?
It was shown at the right time. I staged it in '91, as soon as the east and west border fell. I didn't talk about the war as such - I talked as a Lebanese citizen who lived in the south, a father who lost his son during the civil war. I lived in west Beirut and staged it in the east. When I took on the role of a woman and cried over my deceased son, the women in the theater cried along with me for their own sons. They loved this woman, with her white beard - even makeup is a lie sometimes. I get up and say :‘I'm Rafic Ali Ahmad and this is my white beard. But this woman I'm playing, she's hurting.'
What is your favorite place in Lebanon?
Wherever I'm sitting down and happy. Anywhere that gives me a moment of clarity. And Beirut is life and civilization, a meeting place of humanities.
All Rights sold to Time Out BeirutLords of the dance
Son of Abdel Halim Caracalla, founder and maestro of the Caracalla Dance Theatre, Ivan searches for inspiration all around, and always filters his stories through Caracalla's oriental voice.
When did all the dancing start?
Abdel Halim Caracalla was inspired by the great artists that visited the ancient Baalbek festivals. He traveled around, mainly to France and London, to get the knowledge and discipline. He had a dream to build a dance company in Lebanon, a stretch at the time. People thought he was crazy: a man of that time, from Baalbek no less, who wanted to learn how to dance. He had five or six dancers and our living room was the studio, back in 1968. He'd move the tables at night, I remember. In '78 the troupe went to Osaka to perform, and that's when it all took off, that was the launch of Caracalla.
I know of the Osaka debut, but why launch in Japan?
There was something of a cultural exchange between Lebanon and Japan at the time and the dance was part of an important event. It developed quickly from there, the troupe advanced, its message and style developed. In 1978 the King Hussein of Jordan sponsored the company in Canada, America and Europe and championed our breakthrough into the international spotlight.
How did you manage the King's attention?
We performed ‘Black Tents' in Jordan, and he was in the audience. He saw it was about his ancestors and his people, the Bedouin, and as you know he's a Hashemite. He loved the story and decided this troupe needs backup and international exposure. He gave us just that.
The heart of the stage
Nidal al Achkar is playing a leading role in the Beiruti theatrical movement. Manager and founder of the Al Madina theater, she offers a center for culture and art in Beirut, even if she herself has lost hope.
Might as well get this one out of the way; what's your favorite place in Lebanon?
I like so many places, it's difficult to decide. When I need to relax I go up to my home town, Dik el Mehdi. My brother has a house there amongst pine trees and I love pine trees. I'll go up for a couple of days every now and then, it isn't very far but it's a little oasis in the forest.
Surely you've more to say about the city...
Beirut is a love story. It's a passionate story of my youth and the story isn't over. I'm still writing it. This Beirut is in its people, its places. The heart of Beirut might have been destroyed in the war but Ras Beirut is still the same. I still identify with it and I still know the shopkeepers, their fathers and sons. Ras Beirut is special. It's the one non-sectarian area in the country. I have my theater on Hamra and this city is my home, my mother even.
I haven't heard that one often enough.
I know, Beirut is not the mother she used to be. Men will leave because Beirut doesn't ask them to stay, she doesn't hold them. Beirut should forbid her sons from leaving. She should say: ‘come here, we have industries. Come and work, don't leave, we're here'. But Beirut now kicks her sons out.
That's a bit harsh...
I'm not optimistic at all. I'll continue to work and produce because it's too late to change. But I'm not optimistic.
Screw the stage
Rabih Mroue believes that Lebanese theater is a thankless, sadistic mistress; and success takes time and plenty of passion. Not to mention an aversion to money.
My aunt always said the stage won't buy your bread...
Maybe. I mean I worked full time in the animation department in Future TV, and I worked hard at the stage and felt that it was my real job; but I demanded nothing from it. Twenty years later, in 2006, I gave all my time to it and began to live off it, to live decently.
20 years seems like an awfully long time...
All professions have difficulties. Once upon a time, the theater was booming just as, say, graphic design is today. The booms will change but the professions will always come down to the individual, to the level of personal effort. The cinema is like this, all arts are like this.
So it's the lack of talent? No one around you shows promise?
That's a problematic question, and something of a trap. I can't judge anyone else; you can never tell. At some point I worked very hard and proliferated. Some years ago I wrote a play and by chance it became popular and left the country. Since then all my work leaves the country. There's a lot of talent about but there's also a lot of luck involved.
But can the country support this talent?
Peter Brook was once asked: ‘how do I become a stage producer or director?' His answer was simple: producers are not appointed, they are self appointed; your job then is to convince people that you are a director. When you're not working, you're not unemployed. Unlike an actor, a director decides when to work and when not to.
12 Angry Lebanese
Drama therapist Zena Daccache talks about her theatrical remake of the film 12 Angry Men. The catch? She has cast the inmates of Roumieh.
Translated from its original Arabic.
You didn't pick the friendliest of crowds to work in, did you?
Working in a prison has its rewards. I love working with people who have something to say. The people who have the most to say are people who’ve been through more than what you have, people who have a problematic background. It doesn’t get any more problematic than prison, does it?
Nope; and it doesn’t hurt that some are hardened criminals either.
Forget what they’ve done, living in prison – a place you can’t leave, a place your freedoms are arrested – practically guarantees that your head is buzzing with a million things to say. And criminals don’t wiggle around, they’re rather straightforward, aren’t they?
Straight as a bullet...
If the man doesn’t like you then he’ll tell you, or attack you. There’s no need for veils or pretension. These people may be criminals, but on the flip-side that makes them rather genuine, and interesting. It makes you want to help them.
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