![]() In one scene, Baghdadi follows Bechara on a walk through her neighborhood, trudging along in her combat boots, tattooed arms at her sides. Lebanon’s Christian right has long villainized local metal acts, calling them “satanic.” For Slaves to Siren, this is a matter of arcane hysteria, but also an everyday dilemma. “I would go online and check our videos, and people would call us sluts or whores… Anytime a woman wants to be anything other than what society wants, it’s always an issue.” “I don’t think there’s actual freedom of expression in Lebanon,” Mayassi says at one point. In the next scene, members of the band are notified of a show cancellation-the venue cannot host metal groups, a common roadblock in a country that once banned albums by Metallica and Nirvana. The elder Mayassi dreads the loss of her daughter Lilas fears the obliteration of her very being. In a few frames, Baghdadi captures the independent fears of a mother and daughter, both emanating from political censorship but manifesting in distinct nightmares. Across the room, a look of icy concern spreads across her mother’s face. Mayassi, downtrodden following Slave to Sirens’ lackluster reception at Glastonbury, stares wordlessly at the television set, perhaps imagining a bleak future for her band, and for herself as a queer woman in Lebanon. It says that any sexual relation contradictory to the laws of nature is punishable up to one year in prison.” Later on, Mayassi and her mom tune into a report about local band Mashrou’ Leila, who were targeted by religious authorities and sent death threats for publicly supporting gay and transgender rights. During one, Mayassi sits in her family living room as the voice of an anchor seeps from the TV: “Article 534 of the law is vague. Traces of news broadcasts act as foreboding narrators during these domestic vignettes. People would marry based on a photograph.” Her mother, a quick-witted stoic, retorts: “Now people are getting married over the internet. “You’re talking like it’s the 1960s, when your mother had so many kids, they didn’t even know each other. Mayassi, who conceals her queer identity from her family, challenges the custom. Mayassi wants to move out, but her mother will not have it, citing the tradition that a daughter only leaves her mother once she is married and bearing children. The film includes a number of interactions between Mayassi and her mom, who share a warm, humorous relationship underpinned with tension. It is infectious, and as a viewer, you can only hope they cling to it for the rest of their lives.īaghdadi spends a great deal of time on Mayassi, who teaches music at a primary school by day and lives on the outskirts of Beirut with her mother and younger brother. All in their mid-20s, the members of Slave to Sirens possess a sincerity and giddiness about their work that many rock bands quickly abandon for too-cool posturing. Leading with such moments, Baghdadi conveys the bond between these five women, but also illuminates the universality of youthful dreams. Even Mayassi, the group’s resident cynic, is swept up in the image of her band playing the festival stage, her eyes alight. In a matter of months, Slave to Sirens are invited to Glastonbury, another sweet, hopeful moment that Baghdadi captures in her strictly observational style. She savors words by stretching them out, reading the band’s name like a hyped-up MC. #Youtube dreams and nightmares seriesAn early scene suggests the band’s imminent ascent from Beirut’s tight-knit metal community: As the women sit in a circle flipping through their 2019 profile in Revolver Magazine, Bechara recites passages in a series of animated voices. Baghdadi kindled an online friendship with Mayassi and her bandmates in 2018, and the documentary flits between pre- and post-pandemic realities, splicing scenes of Lebanese political unrest with footage of the group practicing, performing, and maneuvering through their daily lives. ![]()
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