Habibi Hussein: Alex Bakri on the untold story behind Jenin's cinema

Alex Bakri's heartfelt documentary Habibi Hussein, which recently screened at the Regional Competition of the Golden Apricot International Film Festival in Yerevan, revisits the reopening of Jenin's historic cinema through the eyes of Hussein, a veteran projectionist whose devotion to the medium makes him the film's emotional centre.

Drawn from footage Bakri shot while working on the NGO-backed project documented in Markus Vetter's Cinema Jenin – Die Geschichte eines Traums (2012), the film offers an alternative perspective on a story already told.

It shifts the focus from international aid workers to the local projectionist Hussein Darbi, whose relationship with cinema spans a lifetime.

Premiering more than a decade after the original footage was shot, the documentary is at once a portrait of a remarkable character, a reflection on the limits of, and the troubles that might be caused by, NGO interventions, and a meditation on cinema's place in contemporary Palestine.

We spoke with Alex Bakri about reclaiming the story he wanted to tell, his collaboration with Hussein, and his determination to move beyond familiar representations of Palestinian life.

The New Arab: Your film offers a different perspective on the story told in Markus Vetter's documentary. How did it come about?

Alex Bakri: I actually came to the project as part of the NGO itself. I was the cinematographer on the documentary that was eventually released in 2011, and I was also supposed to be one of the co-directors.

At first, I was filming the practical side of the project — the rebuilding of the cinema, the fundraising, the owners, all these issues. But I found that material less interesting.

Then Hussein appeared. Immediately I thought: "This is the character!" He's local, he's the memory of the cinema, he's unpredictable. I knew I wanted to tell the story from his point of view.

When the first film came out, Hussein's role had been reduced considerably. He's there, but more as an assistant figure. For me, he was the core of the story. I felt that the final film didn't represent my perspective, my filmmaking, or my politics. So I asked for the material I had shot with Hussein and started working on my own version.

Was there resistance to making a film that challenged the NGO's perspective?

Not really in the sense people might imagine. I didn't leave the project halfway through. I stayed until the end and even went to Germany to edit the other film. But there was already a disagreement about what story was being told.

Some of the people from the NGO have since watched Habibi Hussein, and their reaction was actually interesting. They told me: "We were there and we didn't see any of this."

I think that's because there were hundreds of people involved. Volunteers were constantly coming and going. Everyone had their own task. Some people were dealing with lighting, some with logistics, some with construction. They were busy. Hussein simply fell between the cracks.

For me, he was so fascinating that I followed him closely and started noticing things others didn't.

Your film appears particularly important because it raises questions about international aid projects, their relevance, and sustainability.

The intention of the German people was genuinely to help. But there is a broader structural problem that often affects NGOs.

Many NGOs do important work in Palestine. There are services they provide because there is a vacuum that somebody has to fill.

The problem is that these organisations are often structured around funding mechanisms. You write proposals, you apply for grants, you promise certain outcomes. Sometimes that means people decide what is good for a community without really asking the community what it wants.

Many NGO projects work towards an opening, an event, or a visible result rather than a sustainable, long-term process. That's what happened here to some extent. There was enormous pressure just to finish the project and reopen the cinema.

By the time everybody reached that goal, they were exhausted.

The cinema was demolished only seven years after reopening. Why was it unable to survive?

There were several reasons. First, the reopening itself was treated almost as the finish line. Afterwards, there wasn't enough attention given to what would happen next.

At the same time, the building suddenly acquired significant real-estate value. It's located in the centre of Jenin. But there were also larger social and political realities.

When the cinema originally functioned, decades ago, it occupied a completely different place in society. There was no internet, no television. The cinema was a social space where people gathered.

It wasn't just about watching films. Nobody really addressed how different the situation had become. We're now talking about a place under occupation where many people are struggling simply to get by. An arthouse cinema can become a luxury.

The idea of reopening the cinema was beautiful, but the conditions that had once made it central to community life no longer existed.

Although the film addresses broader political questions, it remains centred on Hussein. What attracted you to him?

What interested me from the beginning was that this was a story about cinema in Palestine.

There is often an expectation that Palestinian films must speak directly about checkpoints, occupation, military violence. Of course, these realities are always present. You can't escape them. Even the premise of this project exists because of the occupation.

But I wanted to tell a story about a projectionist. About labour. About a craft. About everyday life. And Hussein embodied all of that.

When I met him, he was working as an electrician for the municipality. People in Jenin considered him the best electrician in town. If a company couldn't solve a technical problem, they would say: "Go ask Hussein."

But becoming a projectionist again was something else entirely. It was a childhood dream returning to life. He started working at the cinema when he was 12, alongside his uncle.

The moment he entered the projection booth, it felt as if he had never left.

The intimacy between filmmaker and subject is remarkable. How did that relationship develop?

Very naturally. When I started shooting, this was actually my first documentary. I didn't really know how to make documentaries. I was nervous. I was looking for a method. Then I spent a lot of time with Hussein. I would simply sit with him and film. Gradually, I began noticing the way he moved.

It's funny because he was a projectionist, but it felt as though he was also directing the film. I would put the camera somewhere and leave it. Suddenly, he would walk perfectly into a close-up. Then he would disappear from the frame and re-enter from another side.

It was as if he instinctively understood cinema. At some point I realised I didn't need to chase him with the camera. I just needed to watch. The language of the film developed from that relationship. We created it together. In a way, it became both my film and his film.

The film took more than a decade to complete. Why such a long journey?

The footage was shot between 2008 and 2010. I wanted to start working on my version immediately after the first documentary was released.

The problem was funding. Every fund would tell me: "But another film about this project was already made last year." So I couldn't afford an editor.

Eventually, I had to learn editing myself. And that's a long process. Especially when you're editing footage you shot yourself. You lose perspective. You're constantly arguing with yourself. Is this scene important? Is it not important?

You have to step away and come back later. And then life happens. You have to work. You have to survive.

People sometimes assume I waited until the cinema was demolished before releasing the film. That's not true. I didn't know the cinema would be demolished. I wanted to finish the film as quickly as I could. This was simply the pace at which I could make it.

The film arrives at a moment when debates around Palestine have become increasingly polarised. Has that changed the way audiences respond to it?

I think we're living through a moment when many people are questioning narratives they once took for granted.

After Gaza, people witnessed a genocide unfolding in real time and then compared that experience to the way governments and media described those events. That created a rupture.

Many people in Western countries started asking questions not only about Palestine but about their own societies: about freedom of speech, about what can and cannot be said, about how narratives are constructed.

For me, that broader conversation is connected to the film. Habibi Hussein is also about who gets to tell a story and whose perspective becomes central.

The original material could probably generate five different films.

What interested me was taking a story that seemed familiar and looking at it through the eyes of someone who had always been there, but whom very few people were actually paying attention to.

Mariana Hristova is a freelance film critic, cultural journalist, and programmer. She contributes to national and international outlets and has curated programs for Filmoteca de Catalunya, Arxiu Xènctric, and goEast Wiesbaden, among others. Her professional interests include cinema from the European peripheries and archival and amateur films