For several days, this Russian name resonated throughout my house through the performance of my young son, who had watched with me (Swan Song) «أغنية البجعة» a film by the Saudi director Hana Al-Omair. My son, who had not yet reached the age of ten, used household sheets and items from the living room - small pillows, ornaments, and mirrors - in a state of performative identification. This prompted me to contemplate the effect of this beautiful, theatricalized cinematic work, carried by the performance of the skillful actor Osama Al-Qass, on a child who, naturally, understood little of the film beyond its strange, irregular words and the repeated calls for Petrushka, which seemed to affect him deeply. He began calling out, imitating the actor, and attempting to express himself through mimicry and repetition, much like how beautiful songs linger on our tongues for long periods.
This leads me to wonder: does cinema possess this same kind of influence? Or, put differently, would a cinematic film without such theatricalization have produced a similar effect on my child? From this point of impact emerges the ingenuity of Swan Song, whose success is shared equally by the actor Osama Al-Qass and the director Hana Al-Omair. Had there been a different actor or an alternative directorial vision, the film would likely have appeared less effective in terms of influence and interaction- an effect I observed spontaneously and unintentionally in this young child. Other elements certainly contributed to the work’s success, such as lighting, sound effects, and set design, yet these remain secondary to directing and performance. The use of the long take, while maintaining a balanced rhythm, constituted a defining mark of the film, transforming the artistic material into a cinematic rather than a theatrical experience. Meanwhile, the acting performance remained inclined and loyal to theater above all else. This duality, seemingly contradictory at first glance, is what generated this particular form of influence. It is a complex and demanding duality, one in which both director and actor adhered strictly to the boundaries of their respective roles, ultimately bringing the work to a state of aesthetic fulfillment.
As for the cinematic-theatrical or theatrical-cinematic- text, the viewer will likely be unable to grasp its precise boundaries or definitive affiliation. The text transcends genre, operating through the idea of intertextuality: it elevates the theatrical text by investing it cinematically, while simultaneously enhancing the cinematic dimension by presenting it as a filmic text. Thus, the beauty of the script emerges through this generic ambiguity, which the director frames as a question rather than an answer. As an artistic whole, the film enters the realm of cinematic experimentation, which often privileges the value of artistic adventure over that of explicit meaning, until experimentation itself, or the question of experimentation, becomes a value in its own right. Consequently, the test of impact the point from which I began discussing this work becomes the true measure of its success and resonance.
Impact, in this sense, stands as the decisive answer to the value and achievement of the artwork as a balanced whole: one whose structure we may not fully define, yet readily accept because of its powerful artistic effect.
It is well known that the film’s title, (Swan Song) «أغنية البجعة», alludes to the legend of the wounded bird that remains silent throughout its life, only to release its sorrowful voice once, when sensing the approach of death. The term has also been used to describe a stage actor’s final performance, and it is the title of a theatrical text by Anton Chekhov, one of the most important figures in Russian theater. Moreover, the title has been employed both literarily and cinematically in numerous works. These references grant the film an added experimental value, driven by an intense desire for artistic risk- one that impressed me and led me to regard the film as a calculated and mature adventure.
The incorporation of colloquial language- specifically the Saudi dialect- adds a local specificity to the work without pushing it toward full “Saudization,” if the term may be used. Simply employing local vernacular lends the film a distinct identity, presenting it as a form of cultural dialogue rather than an awkward replication or a mere transplantation of a ready-made artistic idea from elsewhere.
What is striking about the film - beyond its evident impact- is the director’s ability to weave a story that is modest in structure yet expansive in discourse. Despite relying on the artistic and experimental value of monodrama, which is significant in itself, the writer-director subtly conveys the narrative’s substance through her text, closely aligned with the theme of the title. It is the story of the artist, or actor - revealed through the protagonist’s dialogue with the mirror, which explicitly represents the beloved and her family’s rejection of him due to his profession. Simultaneously, the film exposes his psychological anguish over the loss of his audience, framed through repeated justifications that consistently return to the title. In this way, the well-worn title is employed with remarkable precision. To reveal who this man is delirious on stage, lamenting his fate at one moment, arrogant and domineering the next, crowned with the illusionary sovereignty of the stage, the director introduces a final, minor character (played by Ghazi Hamad).
Through a single, concise line, this character discloses the protagonist’s true identity: he appears to be a mathematics teacher, and the stage is nothing more than an abandoned school theater. This brief utterance functions as a moment of illumination, guiding the viewer toward the film’s underlying story through a swift and exceptional structural ingenuity rarely encountered in cinema. Most remarkably, this moment grants Swan Song its cinematic dimension by shifting perception from theatrical reception to cinematic engagement.
Every element of this cinematic work - despite its modest scale and limited components - falls precisely into place, governed by a refined artistic calculation and aesthetic value. Accordingly, the film is dedicated to the spirit of the great Saudi playwright Mohammed Al-Othaim, whose presence seems to hover over the work and its narrative. I believe that from the very inception of the project, and through her introspective dialogues, Hana Al-Omair was engaging with the tragedy of art endured by the country over the past three decades—a period during which exceptional artists fell victim, passing away without reaching moments of recognition for their art or even having their voices heard. In its tragic form, the film seems to embody the swan’s final, stifled cry - one that no one was able to hear.