Internationally recognised art and literary critic, writer and cultural producer. Published in ELLE, Glamour, Esquire and Cosmopolitan; member of the Union of Writers.
You see the dates, the venues in Piccadilly and Mayfair. You see the theme: “Cinema of Higher Values – Beyond Differences, Towards Genuine Dialogue.”
And you brace yourself, just a little.
Because in a city saturated with festivals, all competing for attention, a theme like that can sound… heavy. Worthy. It’s a noble sentiment, of course, but you wonder what it means in practice. You brace yourself for a programme of films that feel like homework, followed by panels where everyone agrees with each other very politely.
But then you look closer. You read the details. You look at the names involved. And you realise this isn’t about worthiness. It’s about something far more rare and far more powerful. It’s about courage.
The entire festival, we are told, is inspired by the work of a Chilean philosopher, Dario Salas Sommer. Now, how many film festivals in London this year will have a Chilean philosopher as their guiding star? I’m going to guess: one. This isn’t a decision made by a committee with an eye on the box office. This is a decision made from a place of deep conviction. It’s a declaration of intent from the very start. A statement that this festival is not here to follow trends, but to start a conversation.
And what a conversation it promises to be.
You just have to look at the guest list for the closing gala. It’s a work of art in itself. You have Fedor Bondarchuk, a titan of Russian cinema, heir to a filmmaking dynasty. You have Issam Hijjawi, a leading producer from Jordan. You have the English actress Katie Jarvis, whose searing debut in Fish Tank was one of the most authentic performances of its generation. And you have figures like Duchess Nivin El-Gamal and Lembit Öpik, people from the worlds of philanthropy and politics, who understand the vital role that culture plays in public life.
What is the invisible thread that connects these disparate figures? It’s the very dialogue the festival’s theme calls for. This isn’t just a random assortment of notable people. It’s a deliberate act of bridge-building. It’s an invitation to a room where different worlds, different perspectives, and different stories can meet.
It’s like watching a master jeweller at work, setting mismatched, beautiful stones into a single, coherent piece. Each gem has its own history, its own fire, its own unique cut. Separately, they are magnificent. But together, set with skill and vision, they create something new, something that shines with a shared light. That is the art of true curation, and it is a rare thing to see.
This profound sense of purpose runs through the entire programme. A special screening dedicated to the 80th anniversary of the victory over fascism. This isn’t a token gesture. It’s a powerful reminder of what is at stake when dialogue fails, when humanity forgets its higher values. It grounds the entire festival in a deep moral seriousness. It says: the stories we tell matter. They have consequences.
I’ve been to more film festivals than I can count. After a while, they can blur into one another. The same films, the same faces, the same conversations about distribution deals and streaming rights. They are important, of course. They are the engine room of the industry. But this one feels different. It has a pulse. A heartbeat. It feels like it has been willed into existence not by a business plan, but by a singular, passionate vision.
You see that vision in the words of its founder, Dr. Luba Balagova-Kandour, when she says the mission is to “create a space where cinema becomes a bridge – between cultures, between values, and between people.” In a world that seems increasingly determined to build walls, the simple, profound act of building a bridge feels like a radical act.
This isn’t a festival that is just showing films. It is a festival that is asking questions. It is asking what cinema is for. Is it just for entertainment? For distraction? Or can it be something more? Can it be a tool for understanding? A space for empathy? A catalyst for the genuine dialogue our world so desperately needs?
The very existence of SIFFA, with its bold, intellectual, and deeply humanistic agenda, is an answer to those questions. It is a testament to the belief that cinema, at its best, is not just a reflection of the world, but a way of changing it. In the crowded, often cynical landscape of London’s cultural calendar, this festival feels like a vital, necessary, and deeply hopeful event. It is, in the truest sense of the word, an inspiration.
