On screen, two teenage girls share a passionate lesbian kiss. An audience of 500 jeers, laughs, whistles and claps. And possibly more than because of the palm trees, snake charmers and red desert sands outside, you are remember you are not in the Leicester Square Odeon. You are in Marrakech, Morocco, for the city’s sixth international film festival. And for once every year, the local audience can see films that haven’t felt the snip of the censor.
A nine-day extravaganza laid on with the blessings of His Majesty King Mohammed VI of Morocco, and lavishly gilded thanks to his wonderfully deep pockets, this year’s bash ended on a rainy Saturday 9th. A jury led by a reclusive Roman Polanski picked out from a lively set of competition films a German number, The Red Cockatoo, for the Golden Star, as well as buffing up its young lead Max Riemelt with the award for best male performance.
And you can see why - in caravan behind Goodbye Lenin, Cockatoo is a vibrant, hugely entertaining trip back to 1960s Communist East Germany, well played, and immaculately paced. Expect it to make it to British screens, where you’d be advised to view it, Comrade.
Less likely to wash up on these shores, but impressive nonetheless were several of the other films in competition. Intense, droll and very Rumanian, The Paper Will Be Blue received the Jury Prize no doubt for its tight-knit storytelling and caustic irony. Spanning a single night of chaos and farce during the revolution of 1989, the film is a tragedy with a touch of Scorsese’s After Hours.
The best female badge was given to Senegalese actress Fatou N’Diaye for her naturalistic portrayal of a local waitress in love with a foreign journalist during the genocide of 1994. Obviously harrowing, and powerful in parts, its not as well-pitched as certain other films depicting those abhorrent events, notably Raoul Peck’s Sometimes In April (2005).
Also excellent was the Danish drama with a dash of dark humour, Prague. Propelled by a impassive yet magnetic performance by latest Bond bad-guy Mads Mikkelsen, the movie is a polaroid of a relationship in a nose-dive. Neglected by the Jury, quite possibly because - as Danish director Ole Christian Madsen alleges - Polanski was chit-chattering all the way through.
The only American film in the shake up was Emilio Estevez’s Bobby, of which much is being made. Dripping with stars, this Altmanesque tableau missed out on all the prizes. Although one should have been given for Laurence Fishburne’s self-mocking bullet-time Matrix dance he performed with some Moroccan chap in the festival night club following the screening.
Incidentally, the Matrix Trilogy played back-to-back in the bustling old city square to a standing audience of thousands, Morpheus’ philosophising competing with the din of piping snake charmers and local percussionists. East your heart out Cannes.
All in all, with five cinemas running films all day, the allure of the Medina and its labyrinthine souks round the corner, everyone from John Boorman to Alejandro Gonzales Inarritu in attendance, and daily temperatures of 20C even in December, if anyone can think of a better way to spend the first week of Christmas, please let us know.