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The Guide Book to Film Locations Morocco |
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La Mamounia, Marrakech |
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The most famous film shot in Marrakech must be Alfred Hitchcock's 1956 remake of his own The Man Who Knew Too Much. Part of the movie was shot in London, and particularly in Camden Town, where I worked for nearly twenty years, so it seemed fitting to be checking out the other end of the film shoot. James Stewart and Doris Day stay at La Mamounia, avenue Bab Jdid. Being Hitchcock, with his attention to accurate geography, he used a real hotel. The Mamounia is still the most grand, and expensive, hotel in Marrakech and, in fact, one of the world's great luxury hotels. It has had a major renovation since the fifties and the frontage looks little like the hotel as it appears in the film. I return later in the evening, with my well-polished boots, for a drink at the hotel's bar. The interior of the hotel, as you might expect, exudes luxury. The bar is surprisingly muted. It's dark and glistening, black and silver, disconcertingly Ike a seventies West End disco. I think I insult the barman, who is ready and waiting with all kinds of exotic ingredients to whip up a rare and mysterious cocktail, by ordering a beer. To be honest, this isn't my kind of environment but that may be because I'm travelling alone, but I had to experience it. So it's back to the Koutoubia for my last night in Marrakech.
One place I've not yet visited is Marrakech's great square, the Jemaâ el Fna, which I've been saving up. And it's worth the wait. It's close to the Koutoubia but, so far, out of habit and unfamiliarity, I've always turned right from the hotel entrance, toward the busy road. Turning left takes you down a narrow alleyway of shops, where the two means of transport are stationary horse-drawn carts and speeding motor scooters. The road eventually leads to the wide open square. In the morning, it's scruffily empty. Shopkeepers are sweeping up or sluicing down the road, but returning in the afternoon, it's sprung to life. Around the edge of the square, near the road from the Koutoubia, shops are selling the same plastic goods you can buy worldwide. Alarm clocks, which seem to be constantly alarmed, endless racks of CDs. This is the square at which James Stewart and Doris Day arrive in The Man Who Knew Too Much, and where they witness the killing that sets the plot in motion. Hitchcock chooses his settings carefully: the couple enter Jemaâ el Fna, and leave it changed in some way. And that is the feel you get from the place, where cultures meet and adapt –CDs being marketed alongside traditional storytellers. I've done something I rarely do, which is to leave my camera back at the hotel. I admit it's partly a security measure – I'm attached to my old Olympus, and I don't know quite what to expect from this crowded melee – but I also want the freedom to experience the city without the constant need to record. This is a great place to get lost, which is easy once you wander out into the rows of stalls which now fill the square. Occasionally there's a disconcerting white-out from billows of thick smoke, exploding from spicy barbecues. Your sense of direction falters, which is exactly what you want here, wandering from stall to stall, the familiar mundane tourist tat alongside the inexplicably strange. Somebody tries to dump a chattering monkey on my shoulder. I know I'll be stung for a handful of dirham, so I try to brush it off. It's not that I grudge giving the guy money, but if fear that I'm spotted as the kind of dorky tourist who goes 'Oh, look at the pretty monkey' and hands over a wad of notes, I'll disappear in a scrum of monkeys, snakes, parakeets and God knows what. That's paranoia, I suppose. Marrakech, as I found out, is now far too well policed for that. The guy is persistent, "For the monkey, for the monkey." he cries, and the monkey has been trained to cling. I give in, check who's watching, hand over a few notes and make a break for it. I'm pretty cynical and assume that these shows are all put on for gullible tourists like me, yet there are crowds gathered around Arabic storytellers, and the food stalls seem to be patronised totally by locals. I'm surprised to see snake-charmers, which seems something from another age. The snakes do rear up and do seem to behave obediently. But they not kept in the wicker baskets of B-movies. It's there, apparently a cobra, on the ground, within striking distance, until the charmer chooses to pop a box over it until the next show. Are they doped? Had their fangs pulled? Animatronic? A final glass of strong, sweet mint tea and I'm off to collect my luggage and head for the airport. I've been here far to short a time. There's much to see, and it's a bit insulting that I was here only to check out movie locations. But then, if it weren't for the films, I'd never have travelled here in the first place. I promise to return. In the meantime, I'll go home, watch The Man Who Knew Too Much and await the release of Alexander. I still need to unload the last few dirhams, though, so this seems a good time to get souvenirs: a terra cotta model of the kasbah, and an impressively sized fossil, which turns out to have been hand carved. Oh well. What did I expect. I'm the kind of dorky tourist who says 'Look at the pretty monkey.' • |
