Like mixing a movie on the Titanic
Daniel Nelson
It could have been bad taste to make a film about making a film at the time of the cataclysmic 2020 chemical explosion in Beirut that killed 218, injured 7,000, caused $15 billion in property damage, and made about 300,000 people homeless.
It could have looked like a vanity project by a bunch of privileged actors, technicians and financial backers. But they have turned Dancing On The Edge Of A Volcano into a testament both to the madness of Lebanon and to its equally deep-rooted determination to live life whatever the circumstances.
The blast that shook the entire country occurred just as the crew were ready to start work on the film, triggering anxious ‘Shall we, Shan’t we?’ discussions.
If they’d known the problems ahead they might have decided to scrap the film.
Instead they chose to go ahead.
The city was reduced to rubble and tottering buildings by the blast. Angry demonstrations against government neglect, incompetence and corruption were met by police force. Petrol became scarce. ATMs closed. The currency crashed, at a stroke cutting the available funding. Covid struck.
“How much bad news can you get in one day?’ muses a crew member.
“This is the sound of the last two weeks,” comments cinematographer Joe Saade as broken glass crunches under his feet. He lost an eye in the explosion.
A third confides: “Every time I leave the house I worry about not returning.”
Obstacles continue to pile up. The lead actor has to get to Beirut from Palestine, and because of Israeli blockages and Middle East politics seven air routes have to be booked for him in the hope that one will work. When finally he arrives in Beirut he is detained for two hours while officials decide if he will be flown back to Turkey.
The film runs out of money. Two key child actors have to isolate after testing positive for Covid, and anyone who has been in contact needs to follow suit.
“How can I get money to confine 80 people for 35 days?”, complains the financial controller. “I don’t have money to pay for gaffer tape so I don’t have the money to confine more people.”
Filming stops for a week.
On production day 1 (of 37), everyone stands two metres apart.
Between the scenes of planning, preparation, rehearsals and filming come glimpses of the grim reality in which they are living and operating. The anger on the streets is palpable, as no-one is held to account for the terrifying blast. The people who allowed it to happen feel they are the people to deal with it.
But determination and optimism keep the team going. Birthdays are celebrated. Tears and laughter mingle. Bonds are forged.
An exasperated cry of “How can artists continue to create in this country?” provokes the response: “I believe that the accumulation of tragedies can give birth to something extraordinary.”
However, even eight months later, when the film must be completed, the deadline is jeopardised by severe electricity cuts. The music and sound editors are repeatedly plunged into darkness: “It’s like mixing a movie on the Titanic!”
Amazingly, finally the film is launched at the Venice Film Festival.
Generally, I dislike films about films. They tend to be self-congratulatory. This one is delightful. The people in it have humanity, commitment and a sense of the absurd. The shots of Beirut, and of frustrated protests, are shocking but not exploitative.
The country is crazy, says director Mounia Akl, because it refuses to die and still knows how to laugh.
Dancing On The Edge Of A Volcano is at the Curzon Bloomsbury until 9 May