The final destination of 'The Traveler'

t has been dubbed the “Heaven’s Gate” of Egyptian cinema; the biggest commercial and critical flop in the modern history of local cinema. A bloated, self-conscious art-house wannabe muddled in vague philosophies and sluggish narrative.

Critics of the film were merciless. Headlines read: “Colossal failure,” “A scandal,” “An exercise in posturing.”

Few other Arab films have attracted such resentment. For a while, Ahmed Maher’s “El-Mosafer” (The Traveler) became the punching bag of countless disgruntled Arab and Egyptian critics baffled by a film initially heralded to be the savior of Arab cinema.

Two years after it premiered at the Venice Film Festival’s main competition, “The Traveler” has finally been released in Egypt amid little fanfare and a storm of negative reviews. The limited release of the film was attributed to its modest box-office earnings, which didn’t exactly deter the mounting critical hostility towards it.

As the traveling circus of “The Traveler” reaches the end of the line, the question that begs to be asked is: Does the film deserve such unbridled antagonism? The answer is: yes and no.

The journey of “The Traveler” commenced four years ago. Filmmaker Ahmed Maher — a film professor based in Italy at the time and director of a number of acclaimed shorts — approached the Ministry of Culture to back his first full-length debut feature. Former culture minister Farouk Hosni agreed to provide financing for the project, making it the first film produced by the government in more than 30 years.

Boasting an eclectic cast headed by legendary Egyptian film star Omar Sharif and an elaborate production managed by award-winning set designer Onsi Abou Sief and Italian DOP Marco Onorato of “Gomorrah’s” fame, the budget of “The Traveler” mushroomed from LE 7 million to nearly LE 24 million, according to reports.

The gamble was exceedingly high: An art-house venture ironically shot on one of the biggest budgets in Egyptian film history and directed by a new, relatively unknown filmmaker with no track record. The gamble initially paid off when “The Traveler” became only the third Egypt film to garner a slot at Venice’s main competition.

The reception in Venice was nothing short of a disaster. The horde of Egyptian critics sent by the ministry shred the film to pieces. Variety noted that the film “tries hard to be a Euro art-house pic but consistently lacks the sensibility to make it all float.” The Italian press was not any kinder.
When the dust settles, critics may start scrutinizing the film in a more thorough and less sensationalistic manner.

“The Traveler” is a deeply flawed film; a chaotic experiment marred by a weak narrative, an appalling central performance and dissonance in rhythm. Yet, and like all gigantic flops such as the aforementioned “Heaven’s Gate,” “Ishtar” and Richard Kelly’s recent “Southland Tales,” the film contains several intriguing elements that elevates it above the average art-house flop. And for all its failings, you can’t deny Maher’s ambition, audacity and thought-provoking ideas.

The scope of Maher’s vision led him astray, into creating an intimate story shot on an epic scale, the same strategy that sank David Lean’s notorious “Ryan’s Daughter.” A more cohesive narrative and better development of ideas could’ve made “The Traveler” a truly astounding piece of cinema.

The film focuses on three days in the unremarkable life of a postal service employee named Hassan (played by Khaled El-Nabawy in the first two segments of the film and by Sharif in the third). Each day is set in three imperative years: 1948 (the Palestinian Nakba), 1973 (the 6th of October War) and 2001 (9/11). History, as Maher gradually reveals, is insubstantial to the story.

In the first part, set on a passenger ship sailing to Port Said, Hassan attempts to intercept a message sent by a fair young Armenian lady named Nora (Lebanese singer Cyrine Abdel Nour) to her crush (Amr Waked) whom she’s never seen.

Inexplicably enamored by the idealistic, naïve Nora, Hassan tries to win her affection by exhibiting traits of valiance and adventurousness that consequently translate into rape.

In the second part, set in Alexandria, Hassan meets Nadia (also played by Abdel Nour), Nora’s daughter and possibly his. Her brother, she informs him, drowned as a result of a silly bet. As in the first part, Hassan remains detached from the people around him and possibly himself. In another act given no explanation, he agrees to marry Nadia to her brother’s mentally challenged friend (Mohamed Shouman).

In the last part, set in Cairo, the old Hassan (Sharif) is sought out by a fireman named Ali (Sherif Ramzy) who claims to be his grandson. Hassan, for the first time in his life, finds a sense of purpose, of meaning, in the unconfident, spineless Ali, a purpose that soon evaporates with the young’s man departure.

On paper, “The Traveler” might appear to be a journey of self-discovery reflecting the various changes Egyptian society underwent over the past 60 years, from the British Occupation to the age of globalization.
But it’s not.

In fact, Hassan emerges as a mere cog in Maher’s grandly-designed machine rather than a real character with multiple dimensions.

Maher provides no backstory for Hassan, no motivation for his actions. He remains an enigma for most of the film; a listless man with no goals, no personality, no soul. He seems indifferent to the meaninglessness of his existence, insisting on leading a life of no obligations, no commitments.
It’s almost impossible to form an emotional connection with Hassan, an unsympathetic, incredibly passive anti-hero. His erratic behavior adds further to the confusion and, thus, the growing distance between the audience and him.

I don’t believe filmmakers must adhere to psychology in telling their stories; Antonioni for instance never did, and neither did the Coen Brothers and Paul Thomas Anderson in the two defining American movies of the past decade, “No Country for Old Men” and “There Will Be Blood.” The problem with “The Traveler” is its lack of form; it operates within classical narrative parameters yet disregards the elements necessary for its foundation.

This results in something akin to a deformed creature, an irregular story that, though fascinating in parts, ultimately fails to engage.

Critics and audiences alike have also attacked the film for its logical lapses. Applying logic in evaluating or understanding the characters is an incorrect approach because, simply, it’s not supposed to make sense.

Time, for a man like Hassan, is insignificant. The choice of these three monumental dates, which have no impact whatsoever on him, is not arbitrary; in the grand scheme of things, the role of most people in history-making is negligible. History, when zeroed down to a basic individual level, becomes ineffectual.

Death, in this context, also becomes toothless. In a valueless life, death and birth are inseparable; two sides of the same coin. The line between grief and joy, as depicted so outlandishly in the middle section when Ali’s funeral is held in conjunction with Nadia’s wedding, becomes blurred; two poles of a cycle with no beginning and no end.

The main focus of the film is on the Eastern notion of masculinity. Unlike what most critics hypothesized, Maher is concerned more with the expectations befallen on men rather than what constitutes the Eastern concept of manhood which, when regarded separately from that framework, can veer towards orientalism.

Hassan is a raw material continuously shaped by a society in motion in spite of itself. He spends his life attempting to live up to society’s myriad expectations but always fails. The apathy he adopts thus becomes a response for his inability to carry out these responsibilities. He does succeed for the largest part of his life, until he meets Ali, possibly the first person he forms a real connection with.

For the first time, he finds himself in a relationship with another human. His short-lived quest to prove his lineage to Ali reflects an impulsive desire to seek meaning in his life. When things don’t turn out the way he wants, he experiences disappointment, and with disappointment comes pain — the pain he has ventured to avoid all his life. Perhaps that’s why the last segment is the most compelling; it’s when Maher reveals what Hassan really is: an estranged spirit who hasn’t really lived.

The Fellini comparisons all critics have drawn are quite obvious. Maher infuses his story with Fellini’s signature surrealism coupled with a Brechtian absurdity. Like Fellini, he mixes surrealism with melodrama, but contrary to his work, the two genres do not mesh well.

Maher’s surrealism feels confined. Lacking imagination, it never truly soars and, most importantly, doesn’t sit well with the measured pace of the film. Also missing is the Italian master sense of whimsy that was fundamental to his deeply humanistic worldview. The absence of this crucial element in “The Traveler” inflicts it with a cool sheen that widens the distance between the viewers and the characters.

Acting is mostly adequate if unexceptional. Sharif brings Zorba-like energy, vibrancy and life not just to his inert character but to the whole film. Abdel Nour gradually improves throughout, radiating delicacy and vulnerability. Mohamed Shouman and Sherif Ramzy are outstanding in their supporting parts.

Yet none of these performances are strong enough to erase the sour aftertaste left by Khaled El-Nabawy’s unwatchable, animated performance, easily the worst of the decade. El-Nabawy spends the majority of the film robotically mimicking Sharif’s mannerisms while attempting to tread a line between soulfulness and self-mockery. The result is something akin to an episode of The Muppet Show, without the wit or the heart.

Rarely has a performance offended me so profoundly in its lack of subtlety, compassion and skill; rarely has a performance felt so insufferably repellent.

The imminent question I must bring myself to answer now is this: should you see “The Traveler”? My answer is: yes, if only to judge it for yourself.
The film is a hot mess, but there are plenty of things going for it: Abou Sief’s dazzling art direction, Onorato’s haunting cinematography, Fathy Salama’a evocative score.

Maher’s camera may wander aimlessly at times and his direction can be somewhat inconsistent, but the man does have an eye for beautiful compositions and a heightened gift for mood-creation. I look forward to seeing his future project.