With the Saudi film (Diyar Hisma, 2021) «ديار حسمى» , directed by the talented Fahd Fayz and nominated at several international and Arab film festivals, including the 32nd Carthage Film Festival, the central question shifts from “What does the director want the cinematic image to reflect?” to “What does this image want to show us?” Although this is a legitimate question — even a necessary one for certain cinematic approaches inclined toward the documentation of exceptional places — it is clearly insufficient on its own, because it elevates one cinematic element above others. The result is a palpable dominance of image and geographical setting over narrative. The story in the film appears secondary to the brilliance and beauty of the image — and yet crafting a compelling story, while not easy, is entirely possible.
If asked why I express this sense of dissatisfaction with the film’s elements as a unified whole, I would say that what troubles any serious observer of the local artistic movement — and cinema is one of its most important expressions — is the escalating pattern of missed real and available opportunities. The director of Diyar Hisma touched on a crucial artistic subject: the splendor of the local geography in the northwestern region of Saudi Arabia, now known as Neom. He engages with this beauty in a stunning and positively striking manner. Yet he missed the opportunity to tell a powerful local story that I believe exists within his reach and within his sight. With his evident mastery and capacity for beautiful visual expression, there is no doubt that he could have crafted a narrative capable of carrying the culture of the people who inhabit this exceptional geography.
Fahd Fayz’s first film does carry many cultural values of the people of the region — chivalry, pride, mutual assistance, survival in the desert, loyalty to companionship. However, these values are presented directly and artificially, and their shallowness is inseparable from the absence of a coherent story grounded in plot and the development of events. Evidence of this lies in our ability to identify these values scattered across disconnected scenes that lack a unifying thread. For example, the protagonist Salem asks his group for permission to travel to Al-Rabie to follow his own desires, declaring: “Honoring oneself is his passion.” The story then leads him to encounter another man, Hamid. The director offers no logical justification for the strength of the bond that develops between them. Three men then block their path, and a battle erupts between Salem, his companion, and the attackers. The story concludes with the victory of Salem and his companion — representing bravery and chivalry — over those who represent looting and cowardice. A second attack follows, ending in their victory once again. After their farewell, a figure appears and treacherously shoots Salem — after his companion has already departed with a gift, a sword that Salem had intended for Hamid — without any logical justification in the story or its dialogue.
What the film urgently needed, in order to complete a convincing artistic whole, was a strong story capable of carrying its extraordinary visual content — without the need to assert its values through direct and heavy-handed dialogue.
The significance of the title, Diyar Hisma, itself speaks to the director’s prioritization of geographical value over narrative coherence and strength. The title makes no promise of a story — yet cinema does make that promise. The very existence of a film implies the existence of a story, even when the title grants precedence to place over narrative. There is nothing inherently wrong with a degree of displacement toward one element of a film, provided that balance and artistic harmony are maintained. It is precisely this balance that the film sacrifices in its pursuit of wonder at the landscape and its beauty.
As for the performances — Salem Alatwy in the role of Salem, Mogidha’s brother, and Awad Alatwy in the role of Hamid, Khadra’s brother — they are exceptionally beautiful. This can be attributed to the director’s skill in working with local people, which gives the film a quality rarely found in Saudi cinema today: artistic sincerity. Regardless of an actor’s skill or training, it is impossible to appear as naturally and genuinely rooted in a place as Salem and Hamid do — native to this land since the beginning of time — whether in dialect, movement through space, or, most importantly, in moral character and the manner of wearing traditional dress. All of this elevates the artistic value of the film and creates a harmony between the cinematic image and the movement of its human element within the frame.
What I wish to note in closing is this: despite the observations above regarding the absence of a strong and coherent story, the film — in terms of its cinematic image, shooting angles, and interrogation of geography — is a singular achievement, in no way inferior to what is produced by the largest international production companies spending millions. That a cinematic image of this quality was realized by Fahd Fayz in his very first film, with limited resources and a simple production, speaks to a certain artistic value that has not yet found its full expression. Any viewer who knows that this is only Fahd Fayz’s first encounter with this world will inevitably expect a great deal from him in the years ahead.