SYDNEY FILM FESTIVAL: 'What’s the difference between documentary and fiction films," an unseen interviewer asks a musician early on in this boisterous if somewhat slight examination of a suffocating youth culture. The Egyptian filmmaker Ahmad Abdalla cuts away before an answer can be provided, but Microphone itself is the reply to the query. Jumping between formats, genres and narratives – it has the uneven rhythm of the street skaters it repeatedly alights upon – the movie asks far more questions that it answers, but it has an authenticity that exceeds the handheld aesthetic used to depict the young residents of Alexandria who are moving fast but not getting anywhere.
The story is framed via the experiences of Khaled (Khaled Abol Naga), an early thirties expatriate who has returned home after seven years at work in the United States as an electrical engineer. Falling into a career as an arts administrator at the behest of his friend, Hany (Hany Adel), he finds himself rediscovering the feel of the city’s labyrinthine streets, and hearing sounds that excite him as he gravitates to the hip-hop and metal bands, stencil artists and student filmmakers who form an underground that is tolerated just enough to be stifled.
'I’m doing this to protect you," a smiling state arts czar reassures Hany when he tells him to tone down the content of a gallery space, and that’s typical of a world where the Mubarak regime controls the arts – as a form of expression – through a trickle of funding and exposure. The energy of the kids, complete with their idealistic beliefs, hits a brick wall maintained by the state. This is oppression at a distance, and apart from a sub-plot about a cassette vendor (Atef Yousef) who is roughed up because he accidentally damages a political poster, Microphone treats the ruling structure as just another reflection of an age and status focused society that locks out Khaled’s new cohorts.
Multiple music performances serve both as interludes and sources of illumination, as artists sing about a culture where young people are highly educated but can’t find work; one lyric refers to 'a doctorate in dishwashing". The counterpoint is Khaled’s conversation with his former girlfriend, Hadeer (Menna Shalabi), who has grown embittered with life in Egypt during his absence, and plans to leave to further her studies in the United Kingdom despite his obvious longing to reunite with her. Her dry, worn anger comes from a deeper place than the other characters, and it’s both an impressive performance and a reminder that by contrast Naga plays his lead role with an affable wariness that never allows for telling emotion.
Snatched moments speak volumes – approaching a checkpoint in a car a hip-hop trio have to hide their demo CD under the seat lest it’s heard – but for all the switches in narrative and textural references, including shout-outs to Abbas Kiarostami, New Wave nods and a few too many time-lapse sequences to capture the ancient city’s arrival in the 21st century, Microphone doesn’t gain traction. 'Hey you" reads a piece of graffiti sprayed on a wall opposite the apartment Khaled shares with his taciturn uncle, and that’s indicative of the film: it gets his attention, but isn’t quite sure what to say next.
Still, it’s easy to see why the Egyptian revolution came to life so quickly earlier this year. As a portrait of life in the year or two prior, Microphone shows that while change appears a lost dream, the participants were already on the streets, just waiting for their cue to go on.
