“Carmelo!” exclaimed the waitress of a paella restaurant in Valencia, when she heard that I was a filmmaker from Lebanon. “Have you seen it?” she asked. “So touching. Do you know the director?” Not personally. “Isn’t Lebanon small? Doesn’t everyone know everyone?” She wasn’t wrong. “Is Beirut really like the film? Is it that pretty?”

I hadn’t seen Caramel in seven years. But I vividly remembered its images, the characters, their loudness, their soft moments. I found the film on a regional streamer and, taken by nostalgia, I had an unplanned morning screening. Funny how accurate my memory was: the opening shot of a spread of caramel; the Venetian blinds as Layale plays with the phone cords, while Youssef imagines a conversation with her; Nisrine wanting a French-sounding name; Lili mistaking fines for letters from her fiancé.

Directed by Nadine Labaki, co-written by her, Rodney El Haddad and Jihad Hojeily, Caramel premiered in the Directors’ Fortnight section at the 2007 Cannes Film Festival. Critically praised, it topped the box office in Lebanon, received a 15-minute standing ovation at Cannes, and was released in over forty countries. It marked a transformative moment for Lebanese cinema, nestling itself in between commercial and art-house film. There was a palpable excitement and pride in the community as everyone went to the cinema to see it for the first time.

Caramel tells the story of a city through a salon and women yearning for change, love, intimacy, each with her struggles and desires: Layale (played by Labaki herself) entangled in a relationship with a married man, Nisrine hiding that she is not a virgin from her family and future husband, Jamale struggling to accept that she is aging, Rima’s unspoken desires, the aging Rose who keeps putting her life on hold. The salon is their sanctuary where they let their guards down, confide in each other, rebel. When policeman Youssef enters the salon, he is stripped of his “outside” powers. Out of uniform for the first time, with his mustache for the last time, he walks in unable to utter a word. Anxious, he trips, completely dominated, outnumbered, out of place. In their domain, he gives in, both figuratively and literally, submitting his face to their care. He leaves the salon, transformed, happy, vulnerable, and “disarmed” from his mustache.

The audience is invited to experience the world by way of women, through the characters, the lens of its director, and the soaring singing voice of Rasha Rizk on the soundtrack. The men exist only through them: hopeless romantic Youssef vying for Layale’s affection; the charming old French man waiting for Rose to measure his suit; Layale’s unnamed lover, who remains absent from the frame—we hear his car horn, but never see his face. The women are not portrayed as completely liberated from social, patriarchal, and sexist societal constraints, however: longing for a stereotypical ideal of beauty, Jamale is desperately trying to look younger, while Rima is forced to wax her legs for a wedding. Nevertheless, in her 2019 paper on the film, Dr. Luma Balaa states that “Caramel shows the possibilities of rebellion” within these restrictions. Nisrine undergoes a procedure to “restore” her virginity; in that sense, she did what she wanted in the past, “then fixes the problem and saves herself from shame”. The power isn’t in fully escaping the constraints, but rather in finding agency and solidarity within them, like when Rose prioritizes the care of her elder sister Lili over the affections of a potential suitor.

Through a gentle, protective frame, the film depicts Rima’s silent attraction to a long-haired customer. She washes the woman’s hair, occasionally glancing shyly at her, and engaging in short conversations interrupted by power cuts. To my knowledge, it was the first hint at homosexuality in a mainstream Lebanese film, and not everyone noticed it. Balaa recollects that “a girl […] at the movie theater exclaimed: Why does she keep getting her hair washed?” Labaki gives Rima’s desires room to exist, free of judgment, at least within the space of the salon. The long-haired customer, too, quietly embraces her own desire, and in Caramel’s final sequence, she leaves the salon with a new haircut and newfound freedom.

There is something about a director’s debut film that hits differently. Greta Gerwig’s Lady Bird (2017), Charlotte Wells’ Aftersun (2022), Celine Song’s Past Lives (2023), the list goes on. It comes from the need to tell a particular story, one that’s been brewing in the filmmaker’s mind, while the audience has little to no expectations. Caramel was no different. Labaki was around 34 when she made the film—the exact age I am now. Today, I fantasize about that debut feature, feeling the same urgency I know many aspiring filmmakers feel: the unspoken pressure of time passing too quickly, and that one day it will be “too late”. Yet, Labaki’s career trajectory and journey stands as an argument to these anxieties: when the time is right, a story will find its way.

Beyond my reflections on its creation, Caramel also serves as a powerful testament to its setting. The film ends with a message to Beirut, as a love letter to Labaki’s city. Beirut is where the lover drives by, where the family pressure waits, and where Lili quarrels with the police officer. Vibrant, but often challenging Beirut, with a personality of its own, is a source of defiance and resistance. Labaki doesn’t see her film as political, but I don’t fully agree. One week after filming wrapped, the 2006 Israeli war on Lebanon erupted. Captured in the film is a moment of fleeting peace. In the years since, Lebanon is yet again attacked by Israel, and the South, in particular, is subject to daily bombardments. So even when a Lebanese movie is not about the civil war or societal unrest, it remains political. Caramel becomes more than just the celebration of everyday life, it’s also a testament to the strength of what it’s like to live here—so, to answer that kind and curious Valencian waitress: Beirut and its women are a radiant blend of charm, resilience, and hope, as they are captured through Labaki’s lens.