Carole Samaha: I wanted a project as ambitious as my work with the Rahbani family
The feminine embodiment of Mansour Rahbani's final elegant fantasies, the actress — one of the few divas in the variety scene to successfully merge a popular repertoire with the image of a poised artist — now, at 53, embarks on a long dreamed-of, ardently desired journey toward lightness.
Alongside her concerts and recording sessions, Samaha, known for her often firm stances on pan-Arab societal changes, has also devotedly cared for her husband, who battled cancer for nearly a decade (and passed away just days before her widely discussed comeback), and watched over her young daughter who remains in Egypt, where Samaha spends most of the year.
Discreet about her feelings and grief, Samaha returns to the stage this scorching July as part of the prestigious Beiteddine Festival, with "Kello Masmuh" ("Anything Goes"), an ambitious adaptation of a Broadway show by Roy al-Khoury, who two years ago also helmed the Arabic version of Chicago.
Samaha answers L'Orient-Le Jour's questions.
The general public first discovered you on Mansour Rahbani's stage a quarter of a century ago. Today, you're reconnecting with your first love, more than 15 years since your last musical. Why now?
I've wanted to return to the stage like this for quite some time. After all these years away, I wanted this comeback to be both innovative and different from what I've previously done. The public has a rather serious idea of me, probably because I've often played intense roles throughout my career. Roy introduced me to "Anything Goes," a comedy with vaudeville elements, full of lightness — precisely what I needed right now.
When I met fans or people in the industry, they often told me I was missed and that I should return. But I kept saying I couldn't find a project ambitious enough since my collaborations with the Rahbani family. My return had to be demanding, worthy of the expectations. I was impressed by Roy and Nayla's [the producer's] vision, and that's how a trusting partnership began.
This project was unfortunately postponed several times due to instability in the region, particularly the war that hit Lebanon in the fall of 2024. How did you get through that period?
Like all my compatriots, I lived through those months anxiously — maybe even more so, given my rather complex personal situation. At the September 2024 press conference, I was very worried about my family's well-being. I was juggling rehearsals in Beirut for the show with trips back and forth to Egypt to be with my family.
This year, as everyone now knows, was especially tough for me, as if all burdens were loaded on my shoulders. To make matters worse, I had just released an album barely a week before the war in our country escalated. During war, artists' work is, of course, put on hold — and believe me, there's nothing fun or restful about that.
Talking about those frustrations, which unfortunately, too many of Lebanon's cultural figures endure, how did you manage to stay apolitical despite the anger caused by the situation?
Over time, you learn, with difficulty, to channel that anger you mentioned into something more constructive than simply sharing your emotions online. If all this had happened 10 years ago, I probably would have sunk into a kind of despair. Today, I believe that age and experience can help ease the pain and wounds, showing that getting angry only hurts oneself. I wrote and composed a lot in the fall, and that helped me. Because I refuse to stop creating, to stop reinventing myself and fighting.
Your husband passed away just a few days before the big opening of the show, barely more than two months ago. Did you ever consider, even for a moment, stopping everything?
Postponing a second time, after all we'd gone through as a team, just wasn't an option. That would have meant outright cancellation. I am someone who keeps her promises and commitments. Most importantly, I don't carry this project alone: Behind me are dozens of people — producers, dancers, musicians — who have poured their hearts and souls into it. Cancelling would have been a massive blow to everyone's energy, motivation and finances.
You experienced a similar loss and dilemma — whether or not to take the stage — after your father's death.
I lost my father in 1996, just three days before a show's opening. At the time, I didn't tell anyone except maybe two actors in my troupe. I was not yet famous, no one really knew me, so naturally, the news didn't make headlines like it did recently. That's how I handle things: I ask myself if stopping would help me get through hard times. My body can't bear pain forever. I allow myself to cry, to let it all out, as long as I make myself a promise to rebuild quickly afterward.
On a lighter note, regarding 'Anything Goes,' a show revived many times in the US, you said you've never watched previous adaptations. Was that to avoid being influenced by an acting style that's not your own?
That's how I've continuously operated. When I know another artist has already performed a role, I do everything I can to avoid watching or analyzing those performances, so I don't unconsciously compare myself to them. It's not about pride or vanity; it's the certainty that each actor must deliver something unique. I can't — and don't want to — copy another actress. I want to share my vision of the character. And I think that's what the public deserves.
When your fame crosses borders and you're making an anticipated comeback, does the pressure to do well spoil the joy of being back on stage?
To be completely honest, I'm more afraid of reappearing on TV than on stage. That scares me more because I'm not in a position to control everything: post-production, editing, cuts — your image and work are ultimately out of your hands. In the theater, the actor is more responsible for successes or failures. Once the lights come up, you're no longer dependent on others.
Your last TV appearance was as Sabah in the biographical series ' Al-Shahroura. ' Did that make you want the distance you mentioned?
One thing's for sure: I won't take on more biopics. I was brave enough to take on this role, especially since I missed acting a lot and wanted a challenge. I did it, but it doesn't mean I'll do it again. Today, I'm fully focused on my music and upcoming performances...
...which will be at Beiteddine. How does it feel to be there for the first time after last year's obstacles?
This festival is a powerful symbol, an internationally renowned event that embodies the bravest parts of our nation. Over time, it's proven itself: Only the best of the best perform at its legendary palace; its programming and organization have preserved the event's authenticity and splendor. I can't wait to join the orchestra and audience. Be many!
After five performances at Casino du Liban in May 2025, the musical 'Anything Goes' ('Kello Masmuh') will be staged on Wednesday, July 23 and Thursday, July 24, as part of the Beiteddine Festival. Tickets are on sale at ticketingboxoffice.com.
Hashtags
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
L'Orient-Le Jour
a day ago
- L'Orient-Le Jour
When Iraqi art defied oblivion and oppression
It is a first in the United States and a revelation for the history of global modern art. The Hessel Museum of Art, on the Bard College campus in New York, is hosting 'All manner of experiments: Legacies of the Baghdad Modern Art Group' until Oct. 19, 2025, an ambitious retrospective that resurrects a forgotten chapter in modern Arab art. Through more than 80 works and a vast body of archives, the exhibition traces the trajectory, ambition, fractures and legacy of a visionary collective that, from 1951 to the 1970s, sought to combine artistic modernity with Iraqi identity.'The artists of the Baghdad Modern Art Group saw themselves as citizens of the world, contributing to an inclusive modern history by forging unique artistic identities,' explained Nada Shabout, curator of the exhibition, professor at the University of North Texas and a...
L'Orient-Le Jour
2 days ago
- L'Orient-Le Jour
From Ghent, 3 Lebanese artists reinvent diasporic art scene
Three Lebanese diaspora members reunited in Belgium, motivated by the same desire: to create a shared memory from exile. In Ghent, Charbel Khoury, Rami Moukarzel and Gaelle Khalifeh founded the collective Tashattot — a name that, in Arabic, means "dispersion" — as both a poetic and political way to respond to the scattering their generation has faced. Their artistic journeys, cultivated in Lebanon through photography, music and performing arts, led them to a simple, fundamental goal: to unite creative voices from the diaspora and give them a space for dialogue, creation and resonance. "We try to recreate in Europe an artistic scene similar to what we had known in Lebanon," said Charbel — a lively, transgressive scene, vibrating with stories and plural identities. First crossing Their first exhibition, opening in January 2022 at the KIOSK art center on the Ghent university campus, marked the beginning of this collective journey. Funded by the university, the event brought together about 15 artists from the Arab world living in Europe over a span of two months, focusing on themes of exile, memory and belonging. The works, which include photography, experimental video and sound installations, didn't just explore distance; they examined what it really means. What does it mean today to be scattered? What do we hold on to, and what do we reinvent when we leave? Since then, Tashattot has kept building connections. Faithful to its founding principle — to create a space for others and never focus on itself — the collective has become a part of Belgium's cultural scene as a powerful force, increasing collaborations with both local and international organizations. One of its flagship projects is the musical residency "Sonic Sessions," with the second edition scheduled between 2025 and 2026. This cycle, successfully launched in 2024-2025 in partnership with Globe Aroma and Ancienne Belgique, features electro-experimental artists from the SWANA region (South West Asia and North Africa). Far from just a simple musical project, the residency aims to be a laboratory of ideas, a sound factory where notions of identity, exile and memory are redefined. Here, music becomes a shared language and a sense of kinship. It considers politics, explores narratives and reshapes the understanding of self in the context of both personal and collective history. Breaking silences In 2026, a new exhibition will take place at FOMU (Fotomuseum Antwerpen) in Antwerp. The collective will explore questions of gender and sexuality in the Arab world. These topics are still often silenced, and the invited artists will address them with strength and nuance. With Tashattot, exile isn't just something from the past; it turns into a lively present, a changing space of exchanges and interconnected stories. In dispersion, people search for and create a common language, and art remains its steady anchor.
L'Orient-Le Jour
5 days ago
- L'Orient-Le Jour
With 'The Widows,' Alfred Tarazi casts light on the repressed and launches Blue Rose space
The place is tiny, about 30 square meters with a mezzanine. It sits on the west side of Shehadeh Street, which climbs up from Tabaris, across from the Wine Bar that is struggling to regain its loyal following of yesteryear. Besides, the owner of this former depot, Walid Ataya, is delighted to see the street buzzing with life again and gives his full support to the project being developed there. Caroline Tarazi sees far beyond the three walls of this modest space. She just launched, under the rock-inspired name "Blue Rose," a cultural platform open to all artistic disciplines. Her goal was to foster the emergence of new talent in collaboration with established artists. And it was with an exhibition by multidisciplinary artist Alfred Tarazi — her ally, as one would say of cousins, and also her first "resident" — that she launched this adventure with a bang. In junkyards, the gold of dreams Alfred traces, among ruins and waste, the ruptures and romances of the Arab world. For 20 years, he has obsessively collected the materials for his works — rare archives that become the vocabulary of his artistic language. Beyond his cylinder boxes that unfurl digitized collages of old newspaper clippings and yellowed photos, the artist, born in 1980, digs through the ashes of a collective memory repressed down to the bones of oblivion. The "shadow" he said, in the Jungian sense, appears between history and myth. "A poetic act of historical preservation," he stated, standing before dense works that span video, photography, sculpture, installations, and film. Trained amid the dark backdrop of the Lebanese civil war, Alfred's visual language questions how memory is recorded, manipulated, mythified, or forgotten. His immersive works blur the boundaries between personal memories and national archives, where history and myth collide and where the unresolved past echoes into the present. Where else to find a city's spillages and little secrets if not in junkyards? Alfred haunts the one in Sabra, where, between compressed cans and used engine filters, he finds the gold of his dreams. The shapes and the words of a grieving city At the entrance of Blue Rose stands the silhouette of what looks like a fortified city. Cylindrical perfume containers, made of perforated aluminum and welded together, rise up like an abandoned city. The exhibition is titled "The Widows." "It's about the mourning of a city," said Alfred. Before crossing into the space where an aluminum sculpture of a Phoenician theater — its plans retraced by Charles Qorm — sits at the end, visitors stop before this mysterious monument, haunted by the absence of life it embodies. It is surrounded by relief panels where side partitions encircle a celestial body shaped from the base of the perfume bottles. The background is corten — a plate of rusted metal; the partitions, also rusted metal, recreate friezes of Lebanese architectural arcades. This scenography hosts small, green-bronze figurines, cast in molds previously used by the Tarazi family in their extensive craftsmanship. Amid this lineup of small temples, in two sizes and various versions, one's eyes are drawn by silver stems leaning in perfect expression of silent pain. "Galvanized copper," said Alfred, explaining that he asked a craftsman to leave these stems in their silver bath between two electrodes for two years, "to see what would happen." The result is surprising: globular, anthropomorphic accumulations sketch bodies in prayer and alien heads — the widows of wounded cities. Each panel is engraved with a line from one of Alfred's poems, which comprises 18 verses: "Motionless moon/ While the city fades/ Widows embrace/ In a landscape in ruins/ Motionless moon/ Where cities once stood/ They mourn/ The absence of man/ Motionless moon/ To remember/ The distant sound of life/ Whispers and screams/ Leaning widows/ Bearing the memory of life/ The madness of construction/ The drunken haze of the living/ The fall of man/ Motionless moon." Tonal violence and innocent cynicism The chromed Phoenician theater, the latest of these magic boxes dear to Alfred, is called "Beirut Zoo," and its theme strikes harshly. Amid the stream of images appears the charismatic leader and president, Bashir Gemayel. He is surrounded by a stampede of zebras and various wild animals. The meaning is one of those nightmares best kept locked away: in 1982, shortly before being elected president, Gemayel promised Ariel Sharon, then Israeli Prime Minister, who was criticizing him for lukewarm cooperation, that he would turn the Palestinian camps of Sabra and Shatila — one into a zoo, the other into a parking lot. There you have it. Some contexts awaken a stranger inside you. At the bottom of the piece, you can unwind a perforated strip depicting fighters. It plays on a music box, in childlike notes, the melody of " Li Beirut" (For Beirut). There is in Alfred's approach a tonal violence, an innocent cynicism that simply calls for catharsis. His drop of water, like a hummingbird, for collective mental health. This rust that sticks to your heart On the mezzanine, a hypnotic video projects a layered animation of the exhibited works. Through collages and lighting, the same tinplate moon rises over the same enlarged arcades, revealing their countless shapes. A dystopia whose light remains ambiguous, evoking a deep melancholy sourced from nowhere else but this hollow moon and these rusted windows, these stems shaped like weeping women, and this rust that sticks to your heart. A powerful and salutary exhibition that marks the start of a promising cultural project, meant for a new generation less anesthetized than the previous ones.
