Every month, Al Majalla explores the latest films in Arab and international cinema across all genres, offering a take on the new releases, with the occasional dip into the archives, to review an older classic.
El Señor (The Khawaja Complex)
Written by: Ayman Khoja, Alanoud Al-Assaf, Badr Al-Assaf
Directed by: Ayman Khoja
Country of Production: Saudi Arabia
Set in Jeddah, El Señor explores the struggles of Salem (Yasser Al-Saqqaf), a dedicated engineer whose career is stifled by his company’s uncritical deference to its director, Carlos, a khawaja (a colloquial term for a foreigner).
Carlos wields his unearned authority with unchecked arrogance—demeaning subordinates, revelling in their humiliation, and ultimately orchestrating the dismissal of Salem, who ends up feeling like “foreigners are watching me everywhere”.
At home, Salem’s father relentlessly compares him to his more successful peers, as the financial strain of his daughter’s education and family’s debt mounts. Desperate to reclaim some control over his life, Salem reinvents himself—donning makeup and a wig to pass himself off as a foreign expert.
Egyptian manager Emad (Bayoumi Fouad) is astute and affable. He, too, recognises the bias that disproportionately favours expatriates, yet his response is markedly different: rather than exploiting it for personal gain, he strategically subverts it to achieve professional success.
A sharp and incisive black comedy, El Señor delivers a biting social critique with a deft comedic touch, balancing humour with an unflinching portrayal of the manager-employee power dynamics.
It echoes the themes in Ali Al-Kalthami’s The Night Delegate, where those in poverty undertake perilous gambits to shield their loved ones from hardship while suppressing the indignities. Yet El Señor is lighter, focusing more on the moral dilemmas of deception, asking if impersonation—even if done for noble ends—can ever be justified.
El Señor prompts a reflection on the preferential treatment of foreign hires and the broader inequities of workplace culture. It also scrutinises societal expectations, particularly of family, and how these forces can shape someone’s moral compass.
Samia
Screenplay: Yasmin Samderly and Nasreen Samderly
Directed by: Yasmin Samderly and Deka Mohamed
Country of Production: Germany, Belgium, and Italy
Adapted from the acclaimed novel Don’t Say You’re Afraid by Joseph Katotsila (inspired by a true story), this film chronicles the life of Somali running champion Samia (Mohamed Osman), whose journey tragically ends off the coast of Italy.
Viewers are immersed in her world, beginning in her modest home in Mogadishu, and given a fast-paced recount of the pivotal political events that have shaped Somalia’s turbulent history—from independence and the military coup to the rise of fundamentalist armed groups seeking power through terror.
In this oppressive landscape, Samia seems to inherit the nobility, courage, and aspirations of her father, Yusuf (Fattah Ghedi), as the narrative unfolds across three interwoven timelines. The first follows Samia’s childhood, where she discovers her passion for running and begins training under her cousin, Ali (Elmi Rashid), who struggles to reconcile his pride with her natural talent.
The second depicts her young adulthood, as she represents Somalia at the Olympic Games. The third captures her perilous journey across the Libyan desert. Driven by her determination to compete internationally, she is caught up in the interception of a bus by armed men who loot and torture its passengers, including Samia.
This is not a happy watch. Each chapter of her life ends in heartbreak, a tragic event reshaping her fate. More than anything, she endures the relentless hardships of Mogadishu and the crushing weight of a fundamentalist ideology that seeks to punish, humiliate, and obliterate the dreams of women. In a poignant moment of defiance, her father warns her never to admit fear, lest her enemies sense it and wield it against her.
Like the book, the film is emotionally intense, yet the filmmakers infuse the story with moments of exhilaration—glimpses of joy and triumph that Samia experiences through running. In these sequences, the camera mirrors her spirit, its movement bursting with vitality, euphoria, and a fleeting innocence in stark contrast to her brutal world. This is both a personal story and a stark reminder of the harrowing plight of migrants.
The Calendar Killer
Written by: Sebastian Fitzek and Susan Schneider
Directed by: Adolfo J. Colmerer
Country of Production: Germany
Produced by Prime, this crime thriller—adapted from a literary work—constantly shifts its tone and disguises its true nature, making it nearly impossible to discern reality from illusion until the very last moment.
Initially, viewers are lulled into believing that the story is about Jules (Zambien Tambira), a volunteer trying to rescue a lost and suicidal woman, Clara (Louise Herr), over the phone. Clara is on the run from an elusive serial killer terrorising Berlin who forces her into a harrowing choice: her life, or her husband’s.
At first glance, the set-up suggests a conventional crime narrative, but as the film progresses, it plunges into far darker territory, confronting domestic violence and the insidious psychological manipulation of wives by seemingly upstanding men. These perpetrators are no stereotypical villains lurking in the shadows; they are polished, well-educated businessmen and admired role models who, behind closed doors, engage in the most grotesque forms of sadistic abuse.
The film takes us into spaces deliberately designed for the enactment of such depravity, exposing the terrifying extent to which wealth and power shield men from accountability, while gradually revealing Jules’s own past: his wife’s tragic suicide following a battle with depression, and the profound guilt that drives him to connect with Clara, as he seeks to save her from her abusive husband and from the faceless serial killer.
Watching The Calendar Killer is far from easy. It is persistently unsettling and its narrative is elusive, as it constantly misleads in service of its deeper message. At its core, it asks: are we justified in intervening in the lives of others, even when trying to save them? And in the case of abused women who withdraw their testimonies against their abusers, do we have the moral right to act on their behalf?
Monsieur Aznavour
Screenplay and Direction: Midi Eder and Grand Cor Malad
Country of Production: France
Monsieur Aznavour explores the life of Charles Aznavour, the French singer-songwriter of Armenian descent, who died in October 2018 aged 94. Aiming for objectivity, it avoids mythologising, instead focusing on the deep sense of inadequacy that drove Aznavour’s relentless pursuit of success and the personal cost of this devotion, particularly on his relationships with his wives and children.
Above all, this is a biopic seemingly intended to commemorate a global icon who became a cornerstone of French culture (despite, as the Francophone media poignantly noted upon his passing in 2018, him being “the son of an immigrant”). The film relies heavily on makeup to bring to life not only Aznavour (Tahar Rahim) but other iconic figures such as Edith Piaf (Marie-Julie Pope).
Rahim meticulously replicates Aznavour’s gestures, mannerisms, and body language—elements the singer refined to craft an image that defied conventional ideals of male attractiveness in global music. Yet despite the actor’s dedication, even a performer of his calibre struggles to escape the constraints of imitation, and never seems entirely at ease in the role, despite the clear effort invested in capturing the artist’s essence.
Nevertheless, the screenplay is dense with defining moments from Aznavour’s life and skilfully distils its subject’s complex journey into a cohesive cinematic narrative. Its most powerful scene is arguably his performance of La Bohème, a poignant culmination of his arduous journey from self-education, perseverance, and defiance in the face of often brutal criticism that sometimes bordered on racism.
One of the film’s most compelling aspects is Aznavour’s intricate relationship with Piaf, who helped shape his career while paradoxically trying to keep him from singing. Pope’s nuanced portrayal of Piaf avoids the pitfall of mere mimicry, opting instead to capture her essence—a striking contrast to Rahim’s more studied emulation of Aznavour.
As the film nears its conclusion, it veers into melancholy, mirroring the profound emptiness that lingered in Aznavour’s life outside the spotlight. Its stylised approach to musical sequences—blurring the line between dream and reality—echoes techniques used in La Môme, Olivier Dahan’s acclaimed biopic of Piaf.
Ultimately, Monsieur Aznavour reminds us that as long as audiences remain captivated by biopics, they need only be compelling and well-told; they do not necessarily have to be groundbreaking or innovative.
Julie Keeps Quiet
Screenplay: Leonardo Van Dijl and Ruth Pickart
Directed by: Leonardo Van Dijkel
Country of production: Belgium and Sweden
Recently released in Belgium and France, Julie Keeps Quiet has drawn attention for its thought-provoking subject matter and its distinctive cinematic approach, setting it apart from other films tackling similar themes.
A group of high school tennis players endure sexual harassment from their coach, culminating in sexual assault, the suicide of one girl, Aline, and suspicions being raised about his conduct. Rather than depicting the assault itself, Julie Keeps Quiet explores its aftermath, particularly its devastating impact on Julie (Tessa Van Dien).
The trauma seeps into her performance, isolating her in a haze of loneliness and depression, as her former coach, Jeremy (Laurent Caron), is dismissed, and an investigation into Aline’s suicide begins.
The camera follows Julie through her struggles at school, her interactions with her new coach, and moments of solitude in her room, where Jeremy’s manipulative grip lingers through phone calls. His voice distorts reality, undermines Julie’s trust in those around her, and deepens her isolation. In contrast, her rare moments of tenderness—such as petting her dog—subtly highlight the toll of her toxic entanglement with him.
Silence dominates the film, punctuated by sparse, inconsequential dialogue, superficial friendships, a muted colour palette, and long, meditative shots of Julie playing tennis—the one space where she moves with purpose and authenticity. As the narrative unfolds, her silence gradually breaks, and she begins reclaiming her vitality and sense of self.
Julie Keeps Quiet is a striking and poignant film, offering a visually and emotionally resonant experience that lingers long after the credits roll.
Camille Claudel 1915
Screenplay & Direction: Bruno Dumont
Country of Production: France
With French actress Juliette Binoche set to preside over the jury for the next Cannes Film Festival, we revisit her remarkable role in the 2013 film Camille Claudel 1915.
Bruno Dumont wrote the screenplay based on the letters of French sculptor Camille Claudel and her brother Paul Claudel, a poet, dramatist, and diplomat, who claims to have found religion through the works of Arthur Rimbaud.
As Camille, Binoche delivers an exquisitely nuanced portrayal. Indeed, the film rests almost entirely on her ability to embody Claudel—a once-revered artist in Paris who worked with bronze and marble, and who was an associate of fellow French sculptor Auguste Rodin, who was also her lover.
At the end of her career, however, she appears to have had mental health issues and destroyed much of her work. Forsaken by time, abandoned by Rodin, she grew paranoid and was committed to a remote mental institution near Avignon by her brother, who she is desperate to see again—to show him that she is sane, despite being surrounded by the insane and by silent, otherworldly nuns.
Dumont crafts a haunting and unforgettable film with a delicate yet striking cinematic language. The setting was carefully chosen to replicate the isolation of asylums, immersing us in Camille’s suffocating loneliness, inhabiting a vast space filled with people, none of whom she can engage in rational conversation.
Her fellow patients—whom she must comfort even as she interrupts her own tears to help them with the simplest of tasks, such as walking—are not actors, but real people suffering from mental illness. This deepens the film’s raw emotional impact, leaving a lingering sense of sorrow.
Did Rodin sabotage Camille’s career out of jealousy, or was it her own trauma that conjured such fears? The film offers no definitive answer, but leaves viewers in no doubt as to the profound injustice of her confinement, at a time when psychiatry lacked both the knowledge and the humanity to properly treat schizophrenia. It left Camille stripped not only of her freedom but, more cruelly, of her art.
Dumont’s harrowing and mesmerising film unfolds through long, contemplative takes and poetic monologues. It does not concern itself with Camille Claudel’s luminous past, her art, or her romances. Rather, it is solely a meditation on her decline, on her slow and relentless erosion, exiled by her family not only from life but from sculpture—the art that defined her.
