Egyptian Moviegoers Stage Their Own Show

This moviegoing adventure might as well have been called King Kong vs. the Odeon Midnight Show, writes Daniel Williams.

At 12 a.m., a crowd of ticketholders waiting outside the downtown New Odeon Cinema to see the new "King Kong" was let in through a single, narrow door, even though there was a panel of three that could be opened. Young men, some with dates, muscled past ushers who worked frantically to match the number of tickets thrust into their hands with the number of customers. Families with toddlers in tow and even babies trooped in carrying plastic bags full of sandwiches.

It was the beginning of what was, in effect, an interactive night at the movies. Egyptian audiences practically merge their lives with what's going on up on the screen, and the movie's familiar plot was supplemented by heavy audience participation.

Seats in Cairo movie houses are assigned, with seat numbers handwritten on the tickets. That led to a bit of pleading throughout the theater. In the seventh row, two young men wanted to sit next to their friends -- in someone else's seats. "You will see, these are better," said one youth to the person actually assigned the places.

"But yours are in Row 3!" answered the middle-aged man, incredulous, his wife standing idly behind.

"But they're in the center," the youth went on.

"My eyes are bad," answered the man.

The lights dimmed and the censor's certificate of authorization -- a big white document stamped with an official Egyptian government eagle -- flashed on the screen. Momentary applause. Then the crowd settled down, except for a hefty woman in a head scarf who changed her baby's diaper. The aisle served as a changing station.

A squalid, cluttered 1930s New York of soup lines and hovels filled the screen. Someone from the back yelled out, "Cairo!"

When Carl Denham, the manic movie director, persuaded Ann Darrow, the struggling actress, to join his sea cruise to Skull Island, where they would encounter Kong, several audience members seized the moment to make cell phone calls. Why not? The dialogue was in English with Arabic subtitles, so chatting interfered with no one's understanding of the movie.

"Ya, Ahmed," a man's voice rang out in Row 9. "I'm at the cinema. Let's meet at auntie's."

"Yes," said another, evidently taking care of unfinished day business. "I'll drop it off in the morning."

A latecomer was guided to his seat by an acquaintance shouting, "Over here." A picnicker pulled out a cream cheese and olive oil sandwich and offered it to a foreign spectator, a complete stranger, and asked where he was from. "America, good," the inquiring picnicker remarked.

By the time Denham's ship left New York Harbor, it was time for a baby in the Odeon to cry, which he did until they reached the Pacific.

Kong was about to commandeer Ann, who had been offered to him as a sacrifice by island natives, when a cell phone rang to the tune of the "Mexican Hat Dance."

Later, the rumble of brontosauri tumbling over one another on the screen was joined by the voice of Lebanese singing star Nancy Ajram on yet another cell phone. She sang a chorus of " Habibi, habibi " -- "My love, my love" -- a requisite phrase in most Middle Eastern pop songs.

A Tyrannosaurus rex tried to bite off Ann's head and a voice from the dark called out, "Ann, bite him back!" When Kong pounded his chest in macho triumph, a few boys stood up to imitate the gesture. "He looks like you, Hossam," one yelled to his friend.

An exchange of knowing looks at sunset between an infatuated Ann and a smitten Kong provided time for several audience members to check their text messages. Ann's escape in the clutches of some batlike creature was greeted with a shout: "Don't leave Kong! He'll feed you bananas forever!"

A husband and wife in Row 12 began to discuss whether to leave; the children had fallen asleep. They got up about the time the captured Kong made his Broadway theater debut.

The approaching climax finally seemed to subdue the audience. There was almost no crowd noise as Kong hunted for Ann, picking up and tossing New York blondes. But when the ape made his last stand atop the Empire State Building and grabbed an attacking biplane, the Odeon erupted in screams of "Allahu akbar!" or "God is great!"

The wounded Kong began to slip off the skyscraper's peak, and several spectators rose, apparently thinking the movie was over and figuring they could squeeze through the exit in advance of the throng. " Lissa! " advised somebody helpfully. "Not yet!" The would-be departees sat down.

But as Kong dropped onto Fifth Avenue, runaway spectators ignored the appeals and headed for the door.

At the end, after three hours in the theater, those who remained clapped. The lights came up, the "Mexican Hat Dance" sounded out in the lobby, and on the street, a beggar exchanged blessings for small change.

(Thanks to Radwa Maghawry for this)