Me and Spike Lee Part 3

I sipped a glass of red wine and chatted with the students, who were eager to get to know the new girl. There were a couple of Kazaks and Russians, some Lebanese and Syrians, one overly cocky half Italian half French guy, the adorably innocent twenty-two year old Iraqi secretary, and several Iranians who tended to follow their introductions with, “But don’t worry. I love Americans.”

Regardless of their nationalities, nearly all were children. Most were eighteen or nineteen year old acting students, and very few reached into their early twenties. Most were on their own for the first time and convinced that NYFA was a sure way to get a call any moment from a casting agent in Hollywood. I wanted to root them all on in their endeavors, but mostly I just felt a little sorry for them. At some point, nearly each child asked, “American? Why did you come all the way to Abu Dhabi? Why didn’t you go to New York?”

The words “New York” always seemed to burst from their lips and make their eyes twinkle. As if merely saying the name conjured images of a Broadway chorus line, in which they envisioned themselves as the center, leading brightly costumed characters to a standing ovation. They thought I was crazy. I explained to them as best as I could, trying to vary my answers so I didn’t get too bored. I’ve taken some Arabic classes, so I thought I would come here. Well, it’s the same price either way, so I might as well come to Abu Dhabi. It’s basically like a study abroad for me. Why not Abu Dhabi? While all those were true, the reality was that a government program designed to diversify the United States Intelligence Community by recruiting women and minorities, particularly those with foreign language and overseas experience, was funding me. But I couldn’t figure out how to word that in a way dreamy-eyed kids would understand, without isolating myself as some kind of suspected CIA spy. Overall, though, New York is cliché. Everyone goes there.

Commotion stirred as the crowd began to notice my friend, Spike Lee, enter from the far side of the pool. People began to stand. I accepted my second glass of red wine, and tried to position myself to be sure I could watch him from afar when the time came for his speech. He stood on the far side of the pool doing interviews with reporters. I stood next to Maryam, a fellow filmmaker over the age of twenty-five and also an Iranian who did not hate Americans. Having met her at her thirty-fourth floor apartment in Dubai the second night after arriving in Abu Dhabi, I was fairly comfortable around her. She was by far one of the richest and simultaneously down-to-earth people I had ever met. She radiated generosity and friendliness. I rarely saw her in anything other than a tee shirt, jeans and flip flops, and she shared a genuine passion for films and filmmaking, which I would come to learn, was lacked among many of the students. Best of all though, she was taller than I, a rarity in any foreign country.

As we moved closer poolside, I discussed documentaries with Maryam and her lover, the fifty-something year old, Italian lighting teacher, Enrico, who was bitter about his inability to no longer work regularly in the film industry, but was too eaten up from years of rock star drug use to do anything about it. Enrico typically had a childish, ADHD, temper tantrum reaction to situations. However, asking his professional opinion on something seemed to have a smooth, calming effect. Kind of like singing a baby to sleep.

About half way through my second glass of red wine, I recognized a familiar giggling noise. Then I remembered my infernal curse. I’m a total lightweight. Was I getting drunk? I wanted a glass of wine to ensure that I would have the courage to ask for a photo with Spike Lee. (Not that asking is a necessity between friends.) However, I didn’t want to slur the question or present myself by stumbling on my own heel or even worse, just saying something abrasively blunt for no reason, a tendency I have after the amount of alcohol that would make a normal person feel a little relaxed.

Before I could analyze my state any further, a woman in a cocktail dress came to the podium and gave a heartfelt blah, blah, blah speech about the first ever Middle East Film Festival and its importance. Everyone clapped politely. Then she introduced Spike Lee.

As it turned out, Spike Lee didn’t say much either. He thought this film festival was the beginning of some great things. There was a large pool of untapped talent in the region. Then he gave out the awards to the individual filmmakers, who were celebrated even more enthusiastically than Spike Lee. It was nice. That was the Spike Lee I remembered, the one who steps back so that others can have the spotlight. Definitely not the untouchable celebrity so many people were too cool to be excited about. And that was it. He adjourned the crowd to go enjoy dinner.

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