DANIA BDEIR'S cinema of dualities
Daughter of Syrian parents, Dania Bdeir is a Lebanese-Canadian award-winning writer and director with an intense love/hate relationship with Lebanon, which she finds to be her biggest heartache and sincerest inspiration.
Dania, a member of the Brooklyn Filmmakers Collective, has a BA in Graphic Design from the American University of Beirut and an MFA in directing from NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts, where she received a full scholarship in her third year.
Her thesis film, In White, which received the Spike Lee Production Fund, had its world premiere at the renowned Clermont Ferrand film festival and went on to screen at the BFI London Film Festival, Uppsala International short film festival, and more than 30 film festivals worldwide. It has won a dozen awards including the International Grand Prize at the Rio de Janeiro International short film festival thus making it eligible for the 2019 Academy Awards in the short live-action category.
In 2019, Dania was selected as a Berlinale Talent and participated in its Short Film Station with her short Warsha, which had its world premiere at the 2022 Sundance International Film Festival where it won the Jury Prize for the Best International Short Film. Warsha, which was pre-purchased by ARTE, was also selected for the 2022 Clermont Ferrand Short Film Festival, Rotterdam International Film Festival, Tampere Film Festival where it won the jury prize for best fiction, BFI Flare, Outfest, Aspen Shortsfest, Palm Springs Shortsfest and SXSW. It continues to tour the world, currently garnering over 15 awards to date including more recently the grand prix at Tokyo’s Short Shorts film festival.
Dania is currently developing her first feature film Pigeon Wars, which was selected for the 2019 Torino Film Lab x DFI Hezaya Screenwriting lab as well as 2021 Cine Qua Non Storylines and the 2022 Groupe Ouest Screenwriting lab in France.
Interview by Tyler Nesler
When were you first drawn to filmmaking? Did you have an interest in film from an early age and was there a distinctive moment when you knew you wanted it to be your primary creative pursuit, or did the interest develop over time out of different creative focuses?
My parents both worked full-time, and my sisters are significantly older, so I didn’t really have anyone to play with when I was a kid. I basically grew up watching American TV nonstop, imitating all those Western characters, dressing up and playing different roles. I thought that I wanted to be an actress when I grew up.
My dad, may his soul rest in peace, was always filming everything and I guess he saw something in me because I was the only one out of my sisters who was gifted a video camera when I was around 15 years old. And that was that. I started filming everything around me. I was completely enthralled with the stories and characters of Lebanon.
When it came time to apply to a university, I didn’t have the courage nor the encouragement to go to film school, so I ended up studying graphic design at the American University of Beirut.
I was a terrible graphic designer, but the good thing is, the program was very much rooted in the environment, so in those four years, I actually got to go all around Lebanon, meet a lot of people and dig up a lot of stories.
I am not someone who approached film because of a love for cinema. I got into this world because I felt the need to tell complex human stories that I saw all around me but that I felt were never represented on screen. As soon as I graduated from graphic design, I packed my bags and moved to NYC, where I started an MFA in filmmaking with a focus on writing and directing at NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts. This is where my love for the art and the craft of cinema and filmmaking developed.
Your 2014 short Meshkal (Kaleidoscope) incorporates potent social and political commentary lyrically embedded within a boy named Amer's point of view. He's a whimsical dreamer who fashions his own kaleidoscope but who also seems to see the world in a colorful “kaleidoscopic” way through sheer imagination. This is in contrast to the financial constraints on his family after his father's grim realization that he will not be receiving the full-time benefits he was promised by the Lebanese Electricity Company.
Amer hides in the back of his father's truck later that night as he drives to a location to pick up tires to burn in protest. Amer's father already seems to have sympathy towards Amer's imaginativeness, but they bond in a darker, more adult way later that night as Amer helps his father with the protest.
What gave you the original ideas for this film? Do you think that both Amer and his father lost innocence in different ways that night? Also, the child actor who played Amer (Charbel Makhlouf) is so expressive with so little dialogue. How did you come to cast him?
I was living in NYC in 2012, and I would go back to Beirut to spend summers and Christmas breaks. Back then, there was an exceptionally large number of tire burning protests, which became daily at some point. At first, I saw these tire burnings as violent barbarian acts that do nothing but pollute our already polluted environment and inconvenience our constantly inconvenienced lives.
Once I learned more about the reason behind the tire burnings, I understood it as a desperate man’s scream to be heard in the face of a system that continually ignores his basic needs and demands. It turned out that these men were the “Electricite du Liban,” part-time employees who were protesting after the Minister of Energy and Water, Gebran Bassil, refused to back a parliamentary ruling giving them full-time contracts. The workers, many of whom had been with the company for over 10 years, were demanding well-deserved benefits and job security in the face of proposed privatization plans.
I wanted to tell this story from the point of view of one of these men’s sons: A dreamy and creative young boy who was captivated by his imagination. Indeed, both the father and the son lost their innocence that night. The father, who up until then, had done everything right, was patient and followed due process, got hit with reality when he heard the news on TV. This is when he realized that there is no justice in such a country, and he found himself with no choice but to express his outrage in a violent way that demanded attention. That's the moment he decided that it’d be better for Amer to learn the harsh reality and to let go of his idealism sooner rather than later so that he doesn’t get disappointed later in life.
Charbel auditioned for the role of Amer, and I knew right away that he was the one. His eyes twinkled with a childlike innocence that was perfect for the character, and when I saw the relationship he had with his father, who came with him to the audition, I decided to cast them both together.
Your 2016 MFA thesis film In White feels deeply personal in the manner that it covers a clash of cultures – the film is described as “her father’s funeral brings Lara back to Beirut from her modern life in NYC, forcing her to face the traditions she escaped and the untraditional fiancée she’s been hiding.” Lara tells her mother that she wants to celebrate her father's life by wearing white instead of the traditional black for the funeral, as well as to play some favorite music of his (Sinatra), but her mother strictly forbids this.
In what ways did you work to build the claustrophobic tension that Lara experiences in terms of visual and sound design? I was also struck by the painterly compositions of the shots and the way that many scenes were diffused with a gauzy white light as if the viewer is seeing things the way that Lara wishes to. How closely did you work with DP Christopher Aoun to achieve this look? And what were some challenges or positive surprises you encountered when writing and shooting a work that is so personal?
For In White, the story was all taking place in one location during one event that was very repetitive over three days, where everyone wore the same color and did the same ritual. The only thing that was changing on those three days was Lara’s emotional journey. I worked very closely with each head of department, discussing and diving into the psychology of Lara. I told them to tell Lara’s story and track her arc as if they only had their own field to do so. I was so happy with this process because it was so collaborative, and it allowed us feel Lara on a very visceral level. As an example, Lara would feel more and more claustrophobic and silenced throughout the days of the funeral, so this translated to having the frame get tighter and tighter (camera), the necklines of her black outfits were more and more enclosed (wardrobe), and the sounds of the city and of the chatter of the guests was more and more oppressive (sound design).
Furthermore, the very talented cinematographer Christopher Aoun had the beautiful creative idea of working with this white and foggy light that itself was overtaking Lara as she blends with her surroundings and loses her own identity before she decides to stand up for herself.
Working on something so personal was very therapeutic, to be honest. The fact that I shot this seven years after my father’s funeral meant that I was left with a very specific memory of what it was like to go through such a traumatic experience and such a rigid ritual. For me, I treated this film like an impressionistic painting using very much the lens of a young woman riddled with grief over losing her father, guilt of being away when it happened, and confusion between the person she used to be and the person she had become, which is the truest version of herself.
I actually ended up working with the sheikh who recited Quran at my dad’s funeral simply because I couldn't find anyone who had the same peace in their voice. I thought it would be very hard to recreate this scene and hear his voice, and it was hard, but it was also beautiful and gave me a very much needed closure. It felt like I was communicating with my father somehow.
Warsha, your 2022 Jury Prize international Short Film Sundance-winning film, depicts Mohammad, a Syrian immigrant working on a construction site in Beirut who volunteers to operate a notoriously dangerous crane after its former operator suffers a mysterious accident. But the worker also harbors a secret alternate gender identity, and once high up in the air in the crane's box, he envisions a breathtaking aerial dance in the colorful and expressive embodiment of this other identity.
How did you come to meet Khansa, who plays the worker, and in what ways did you work together to develop this character? The closing shot of Mohammad is a wonderful coda to the film – through the sunset-reflecting window, he seems so joyful to have had a brief refuge to express a truer identity, even if it was a fantasy. Did you envision this as a deeply transformative moment for the character? Also, could you talk a little about the immaculate FX work done using Unreal Engine in France?
It all started when, in 2017, I was sitting on my balcony in Lebanon overlooking all of Beirut and I saw a man standing on top of one of the tallest construction cranes. At first, I was afraid, thinking the man was going to jump. It all looked so dangerous and unsafe. Then, as he kneeled down and put his forehead to the floor, I realized that he was praying.
It was a beautiful sight, and this is when I became infatuated with the mysterious world of crane operators. These men who operate these gigantic beasts from these tiny cabins where they can see the world, and no one can see them.
The more I spent time in construction sites speaking to engineers and workers, the more I was convinced that I wanted to make a film where the protagonist was a crane operator. Throughout my visits, I was overwhelmed with three main palpable aspects: That [the] space was very masculine. It was very loud, and the construction workers were all underpaid and often undocumented Syrians.
I was drawn to the idea that the crane operator, out of all these workers, was the only one who gets the chance to escape these three aspects when he climbs the dangerous ladder up towards the sky. Up there, there’s no noise, no judging eyes, no one to label him.
Soon after that, I had the chance to attend a performance by an amazing gender bending multi-talented artist called Khansa. After the performance, he and I talked for hours, and I told him about Warsha. We started asking ourselves: what if the crane operator is seeking the space and the privacy to break out of gender norms and express himself truly, in a way that he can’t in his daily life?
There was no casting. I knew it was going to be Khansa. Apart from singing and belly dancing, he’s also a professional aerialist who often works with chains. This came up in our first conversation and it felt so perfect to include that in the film. Chains are a harsh material reminiscent of the world of construction but when used for aerial arts, dancers use the pain of the material on their skin and turn it into a beautiful and sensual dance. We knew early on that once our protagonist finally reaches the cabin, he’d have to break out of its constraints and transform into the vision he wants to be: performing while hanging off the tip of the crane for the entire world to see and celebrate.
Khansa and I spent a lot of time building the character of Mohammad together. He poured a lot of himself into Mohammad by drawing memories from his own childhood, insecurities, dreams, passions and especially the experience of craving the private space to experiment and unleash a desire burning deep within. We also drew a lot from the experiences of Syrian workers. We organized for Khansa to spend two days working in a construction site where nobody knew that he was an actor and where he received no special treatment. Khansa entered the male dominated world of Syrian workers and felt the physical and emotional strain, the pressures and the marginalization. He was able to bring this experience into the psyche of Mohammad’s character. This invaluable experience brought a very important additional layer into his performance, which, even though it included no dialogue, had to portray so much through eyes and body language.
We didn't want a glorious happy ending in which Mohammad is suddenly emancipated and able to live out his truth fully and unapologetically. That wouldn’t have been authentic. However, what Mohammad did gain through this experience is the chance to express himself. His little secret up in that cabin is all he needed to allow his soul to inhale and exhale and that is why in the end, he is internally transformed. He’s still in the van, but this time the camera is outside and Mohammad dares to look up with joy and thrill.
The only thing we shot in Lebanon was Mohammad climbing the crane ladder. After that, everything inside the cabin and everything related to the aerial chain performance was shot at Planete Rouge’s state of the art virtual production studio called The Next Stage at La Planete Rouge using HDR LED Wall and Unreal Engine technologies, which is, in my opinion, the future of filmmaking.
This is the same technology used in Marvel Films such as The Mandalorian and I was so incredibly happy for the opportunity to have this experience. When I first realized I wasn’t going to shoot on location, I was worried about having to shoot and direct Khansa in a green screen studio, but this technology allowed us to capture 360 drone images from Lebanon and input them into the 280 degrees curved LED walls. Instead of having to tell Khansa to imagine that he’s seeing Beirut from above, we could all see the Mediterranean shimmering and truly feel the height of Beirut right there in the studio in France. The cinematographer and I were able to frame the character while seeing the background and it freed us up to behave as if we were shooting on location but without any of the danger. It was truly amazing, and it looks so real.
Warsha also touches on the cultural tension between Syrians and the Lebanese. Your parents are Syrian, but you grew up in Beirut – were you attracted to this story because of its depiction of conflicting identities and exploration of ways to fully express (forbidden) identity?
In Lebanon, the construction workers are often underpaid and undocumented Syrian immigrants. But Lebanon has always had a complex relationship with its neighbor in the north. Nearly thirty years of Syrian military rule in Lebanon generated long-standing hatred, which started erupting against Syrian workers when the Syrian army finally left Lebanon in 2005.
When the war in Syria began in 2011, over 1.5 million Syrian refugees crossed the border to Lebanon, which placed a considerable strain on Lebanon’s already crumbling infrastructure. This resulted in restrictions on Syrians’ ability to work legally and created anger towards Syrian workers. [There was an] increase in cases of verbal or physical abuse against Syrian workers and [that] even led certain municipalities to impose night time curfews specifically on Syrian workers.
This is a subject that I hold very dear to heart because both my parents are Syrians who immigrated to Lebanon in the 60s. I still have family in Damascus and consider myself very much both Syrian and Lebanese. It breaks my heart to see my two homes experience this much hate over situations that are beyond anyone’s control.
When I was a kid, I had to get rid of my Syrian accent because of how much I’d get mocked for it. This meant that as I continued growing up, I wouldn’t come across as Syrian to any of my Lebanese friends, which gave them the freedom to speak freely and be prejudiced against Syrians in my presence.
Mohammad is Syrian because that's authentic to the character. It also allowed me to depict the feeling of leaving your home for better opportunities abroad only to be rejected in your new home. When Mohammad finally gets the chance to perform, he shines brightly for all of Lebanon to see and celebrate him.
Watching these three shorts one after the other, I see the connectivity of themes and also a progressive widening of ambitious scope. Right now Warsha is traveling the festival circuit to positive reviews. Have you considered doing further work with Khansa and this story (expanding into a feature), or do you have any other short film or feature works planned or in progress?
I don’t plan on expanding Warsha into a feature because I feel like I told the story I wanted to tell. It’s nice sometimes for a short story to be contained, economical and capture one simple but powerful emotion. I would love to work with Khansa again but not sure in which capacity yet. One thing's for sure – this isn’t the last of our collaboration. We had such an amazing experience together.
I’m currently developing my first feature film called Pigeon Wars. It’s a story set in Beirut before the economic collapse and although this time the protagonist is a 20-year-old female university student, Pigeon Wars also deals with themes of gender norms, patriarchy, family, and friendship; all within the Lebanese social and political context.
Look for upcoming screenings of Warsha:
Sundance Shorts Tour - click link and scroll down to see a list of upcoming cities and dates
Palm Springs Shortfest, Friday, June 24, 2:00 pm @ Camelot Theater | Man Up Program
Austin Asian American FF, Sunday, June 26, 8:45 PM, 9:00 PM - AFS Cinema
RioLGBTQIA+ FF, Rio, Brazil, Sunday, July 3, 7:00 pm, CENTRO CULTURAL JUSTIÇA FEDERAL (Sala 1 - Teatro)
SAFAR Film Festival, London: Shorts Programmme: The Stories We Tell: Sunday, July 10, ICA
Outfest Film Festival in LA: Saturday, July 16, 11:00 AM @ Directors Guild of America, Theater 1 | boy shorts program => Tickets go on sale on Friday, June 24
Karlovy Vary IFF, Czech Republic, Pragueshorts at KVIFF: 152 1/7 11:30 Cinema B 2K2 2/7 12:00 Drahomíra Cinema 851, Sunday, August 7 - 09:00, Cinema B
Salute Your Shorts Film Festival, United States (August 19 – 21) | Exact screening dates TBA
Check out our other film-related interviews and features:
Beth B Dives Deep With Lydia Lunch
Art Director Liz Kloczkowski talks about her work on the Oscar-winning film Promising Young Woman
Director Gille Klabin talks about his film The Wave
Read our review on Palme d’Or-winning film Titane by Julia Ducournau
