Cinematheque Beirut gives Lebanon’s film community a space to thrive

An archive in the capital preserves not just films but memory, offering hope and inspiration for a younger generation of filmmakers

22-year-old art degree graduate Karim Naamani
Ibrahim Totanji
22-year-old art degree graduate Karim Naamani

Cinematheque Beirut gives Lebanon’s film community a space to thrive

A 22-year-old art degree graduate is immersed in a sea of finely rolled paper cylinders. They know the addresses, classifications, and precise locations of these precious scrolls stacked on metal shelves. This is Karim Naamani, and he is working with carefully preserved cinematic film posters.

Naamani, who graduated just over a year ago, has spent 15 months as a volunteer here at Cinematheque Beirut, Lebanon’s national film archive, learning the reels and rolls. One is spread out on the ground, instantly revealing a world of colour. He says he is gaining a parallel education in cinema and society—one that rivals anything he ever learnt in the classroom.

The archive carries not only the city’s name but also its great ambitions: to strengthen Lebanon’s cultural identity by restoring a history rooted in its film industry. Housing a database of 2,000 short and feature films spanning various genres, including 400 available for viewing, Cinematheque Beirut is now celebrating four years since its revival.

It safeguards hundreds of posters collected over two decades from places like Cairo, Tunis, Baghdad, and Damascus, along with an extensive collection of books, magazines, and brochures. “Here, I find a world where I feel belonging, loyalty, and trust,” Naamani tells Al Majalla, his long flowing hair reminiscent of a silver screen hero.

It harks back to an earlier era. In the 1960s, Beirut’s cinemas were packed with eager audiences watching the likes of Garo, a Lebanese film by Armenian director Gary Garabedian starring Mounir Maasri. Inspired by real-life events, it is the story of an outlaw who defends the marginalised and the poor.

Maasri drew upon his US training and athletic agility (he was a volleyball champion) to captivate audiences with daring leaps across Beirut’s rooftops, evading gangs and police alike, bringing exhilarating action to the screen.

Garo, a Lebanese film by Armenian director Gary Garabedian starring Mounir Maasri

A few years later, director Garabedian was killed by a bomb explosion in Beirut while finalising We Are All Freedom Fighters (1969), but his leading man is still alive to share the secrets, behind-the-scene moments, and untold stories of Lebanese cinema’s golden era, one that Cinematheque Beirut works tirelessly to preserve.

One of Cinematheque’s major initiatives is Tales of Lebanese Cinema, a series of professionally produced video retrospectives featuring prominent figures in Lebanon’s film industry. These interviews, rich in cinematic language, are freely available on social media platforms, engaging young audiences and film enthusiasts alike.

Alongside this project, Cinematheque is committed to building an extensive electronic database dedicated to Lebanese cinema and curating screenings of both classic and contemporary films from Lebanon and the wider region. These efforts play a vital role in safeguarding Lebanese cultural heritage and passing on the art of cinema to future generations.

A pulsating passion

One of the main coordinators at Cinematheque Beirut, Mehdi Awada, belongs to a generation deeply invested in preserving and revitalising Lebanese cinema.

Moving energetically between the main reception lobby and the viewing room—where visitors can book appointments to watch films produced and filmed in Lebanon—Awada is part of the ambitious heart of this space.

“We want it to be a living place,” he explains. “Books, prints, and films are not everything. Here, we organise workshops, retrospectives on the achievements of Lebanese and Arab filmmakers, roundtable discussions, and endless debates. We are visited by pioneers and young people alike—those interested in our database of professionals and technicians, cinema enthusiasts, students working on theses, as well as researchers, writers, and journalists.”

Ibrahim Totanji
Mehdi Awada, one of the main coordinators at Cinematheque Beirut,

Awada speaks with a passion and considers this home, welcoming visitors' feedback. "Youssef Chahine's photo is incomplete in the database," he says. "There's a sound glitch in a film version... It's great that you linked Randa al-Shahhal's filmography and awards to a TV interview, and Hady Zaccak's biography to old newspaper articles about him—but why not do the same for everyone? I didn't know Hassan Imam shot four films in Beirut—thank you!"

A visitor asks about his dreams for cinema in Beirut. "We want to establish an experience that reflects who we are: unconventional, with a broad and dynamic spirit," he answers. "Of course, we are shaped by our resources, the scope and quality of the films we seek to archive, and the force majeure circumstances that have impacted Lebanese cinema—realities that differ from those of other countries."

Cinematic circus

In the viewing room, two visitors sit with digital devices in hand, occasionally jotting down notes as scenes from Lebanese films of different eras unfold on the screens. A certain magic flows through the space, akin to a cinematic circus, where images flicker and emotions stir.

In The Lebanese Rocket Society (2012) by Joanna Hadji Touma and Khalil Joreige, a voice echoes with both sorrow and love. "This is not a weapon. This is what dreamers once wanted: scientists and researchers in Lebanon striving to achieve a space rocket. This is a tribute to the dreamers." The words resonate with a lost ambition.

There is a striking, dramatic moment in Roy Dib's The Beach House (2016) when the protagonist confronts his girlfriend with a sharp truth. "I hated you not because you're bourgeois, but because you're naïve," he says. "I pitied you. While you lay in the arms of revolutionaries, you were actually sleeping on my story with him."

On it goes, with mesmerising performances, but unlike in cinemas, here viewers have the chance to pause and rewind, relive any scene, dialogue, or emotion, such as in An Open Rose/Warda (2019) from director Ghassan Salhab, known for his poetic cinematic language, and the suspension of mummified birds from a tree in a barren field, with a voiceover saying: "They cannot leave their past lives. Their winter lasts forever."

Cinematheque is building an electronic database dedicated to Lebanese cinema and curating screenings of classic and contemporary films

Likewise, in The Ruins (2021), Raed al-Rafei explores the erotic and voyeuristic missions of Orientalist travellers in Tripoli's ancient steam-filled hammams, where desire lingers in the mist, while in Yemen, Hadji Touma and Joreige fear surveillance in The Lost Film (2003). "We must be careful," they whisper. "This place may be crawling with intelligence agents afraid of the camera. They won't hesitate to chase us."  

New lease of life

Whether poetic, political, or provocative, these films are given a new life here, allowing audiences to reflect, rediscover, and experience Lebanese cinema in all its depth. The appreciation is mutual. Lebanese filmmakers support Cinematheque Beirut by donating copies of their films, forming a cycle that began with young men and women frequenting film libraries around the world.

This deepened their passion for cinema and inspired them to create spaces for future generations to learn and explore Lebanese film history. "I breathe cinema," says Michel Kamoun, film director and university professor, speaking to Al Majalla. He is a key contributor to Cinematheque.

"During my studies in Paris, I conducted extensive research in places like this. Now, I'm preparing to donate all copies of my films. Many young people approach me to discuss various aspects of my work for their research. Now, they'll be able to watch everything freely and at their own pace, all in one place." He says he sees this initiative as an essential step in preserving Lebanese cinema.

Eliane Raheb, a filmmaker and producer, admits she once gave up hope of establishing a national film library in Lebanon, given the country's security, economic, and bureaucratic challenges. "I doubted we could ever have a space with a clear vision, sustainable activities, and high-quality technology," she says. "But after visiting Cinematheque Beirut, I felt a surge of excitement. I'm now preparing to donate."

Reflecting on the transformative role of film archives, Raheb says she "studied the works of Iranian director Abbas Kiarostami thanks to Cinematheque in Paris," adding: "In Berlin, during my residencies, I had the chance to watch most of Rainer Werner Fassbinder's films in one place. Pure joy."  

Ibrahim Totanji
Cinematheque Beirut fosters connections between Lebanese scholars based abroad and academic institutions in Beirut into their space

Raheb's films fearlessly explore justice, often buried under layers of myth and collective memory in Lebanese society. Her award-winning documentaries navigate the country's cycles of violence with extraordinary sensitivity, as it is a dangerous balancing act. Through her lens, she has given voice to those who once participated in the Lebanese Civil War—some speaking on camera for the first time.  

Her films often uncover suppressed narratives and amplify the struggles of those affected by the Israeli occupation and aggression in Palestine and southern Lebanon, or the conflict in Syria, with deeply personal stories of resilience. Boldly confronting Lebanon's past, she has paved the way for a new generation of filmmakers.

Nostalgia and discovery

Another pioneering Lebanese filmmaker was Georges Nasser, who directed Towards the Unknown (1957), which helped establish an early Lebanese cinematic identity. While international critics and prestigious festivals like Cannes recognised its artistic depth, local audiences at the time struggled to engage with its themes.  

Nasser's life and work later inspired director Badih Massaad, who, alongside Antoine Waked, captured his legacy in the documentary Nasser (2017), which won an award at the Cairo Film Festival. Massaad, who also oversaw Tales of Lebanese Cinema, a series produced by Cinematheque Beirut, told Al Majalla that the project was a journey filled with passion, nostalgia, and discovery.

"Over the years, many of our industry's pioneers faded from public view," he says. "Some were forgotten, isolated, overlooked, or victims of a country too consumed by security crises and political struggles to preserve its cinematic heritage. People here fight for basic survival every day.

Whether poetic, political, or provocative, films are given a new life here, allowing audiences to rediscover and experience Lebanese cinema in depth

"Some of our guests couldn't believe we had come to tell their stories again, to introduce them to new generations. For me, that is one of Cinematheque Beirut's greatest achievements: resisting the forces that seek to erase cultural identity, whether by neglect or deliberate obliteration."

The process of documenting Lebanon's cinematic history also uncovered startling losses, he explains. "We didn't know, for example, that one of the directors credited with launching Lebanon's wave of erotic films in the 1970s—an influence that intensified in the mid-1980s—had passed away ten years before we even added his name to our list of filmmakers to interview.

"It was shocking—not just his absence, but the fact that it went unnoticed. Here was a director who made dozens of films and shaped a major commercial wave in Lebanese cinema, yet his death was invisible."

An idea resurfaces

Lebanon's turbulent history—its wars, political upheavals, and security crises—has always been intertwined with its cinema, shaping its films and institutions. Every day, filmmakers navigate a landscape shaped by history and conflict.

The Port of Beirut, devastated by a huge explosion in 2020, looms in the distance. Just beyond is Gemmayzeh Road, site of demonstrations, marches, and sectarianism. The facades of surrounding buildings still bear the scars of Lebanon's civil war, which erupted in 1975 and raged for 15 years. 

One of Cinematheque Beirut's great achievements is resisting the forces that seek to erase cultural identity, whether by neglect or deliberate obliteration

Film director director Badih Massaad

The war ended efforts to establish a national film library, but the project was also hindered by political and economic shifts regionally, including the nationalisation of Egypt's film industry, which had pushed many filmmakers to relocate to Beirut, among them Hassan Imam and Youssef Chahine.

Lebanese film distributors were influential in marketing films across the Gulf and in countries such as Iraq and Syria, but it was only in 1999 that the idea of a Lebanese National Cinematheque resurfaced in Lebanon's Ministry of Culture, driven by a new generation of filmmakers and cultural advocates, including Jocelyne Saab, Randa Chahal, Haris Bassil, Sami Kronfol, and Thuraya Baghdadi.

Civil society organisations such as Beirut DC, Ni Aa Beirut, Nadi Lekol Nas, and Metropolis soon joined the movement to preserve Lebanon's cinematic heritage. Documents, notes of meetings, and letters between local officials, filmmakers, and international supporters now stand as exhibits to these efforts, appropriately housed in the publications section of Cinematheque Beirut.

There, Anaïs Farin, a French researcher and university teacher on archival techniques, provides specialised insight, ensuring that the archive not only preserves Lebanon's cinematic past but also informs its future. Based in Beirut, she speaks fluent Arabic and teaches students about film and artistic trends in the region after 1967.

Farin fosters connections between Lebanese scholars based abroad and academic institutions in Beirut, integrating them into the Cinematheque Beirut space, in the hope of enriching the archive's scope and accessibility. "We seek to include graduation films by students of film, visual arts, and visual media in our database," she explains.

"It's crucial to have this kind of content. Many of these students went on to become renowned filmmakers, and it's inspiring for younger generations to see their early work. It gives them hope and fuels their ambition. We're also working on expanding our collection of cinema-related books and publications in Arabic." 

Ibrahim Totanji
Anaïs Farin, a French researcher and university teacher on archival techniques

A lasting impact

At a table near the entrance, which separates Cinematheque Beirut from Metropolis, the adjacent art film gallery with uninterrupted programming seven days a week, three Arabic-language books by Lebanese filmmakers and critics stand out. The room, surrounded by colourful posters and the viewing area where the archive's hard disk sits securely locked in a box, is a gateway to Lebanon's cinematic memory.  

In The Suspended Dream: Maroun Baghdadi's Cinema, critic Ibrahim al-Aris writes: "Soraya runs in despair and anger through the Bekaa Valley… Patrick Perrot runs blindfolded between cars… Michelle Vogor runs through the woods… A camera rushes through the lifeless streets of Beirut… Maroun's heroes race toward the inevitable hell awaiting them."

Next to it lies an old edition of Deferred Cinema: Civil War Films by director and journalist Mohamed Soueid, whose second edition was celebrated just days ago in Beirut, 39 years after the first.

In his new introduction, Soueid says: "The war's images bear traces that verify its truths, its evidence, its news, and its buried history. Images are not immune to wear and decay. Yet, they continue to captivate, stirring emotions as they are received by the eye, even as they fade, their negatives deteriorate, and their natural colours decompose. Despite all this, time endows them with lasting visual, emotional, and psychological impact."

The third book is The Book of Shipwreck by Ghassan Salhab. "What do you expect one to do with a life that has never been miraculous?" he asks in it. "It's as if we are still deceived—and as if it is still possible to be."

As the day winds down, Karim locks the door of this "store of memories and colours" and heads to a nearby hall, camera in hand, ready to document a seminar. His eyes gleam with enthusiasm and quiet hope.

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