‘Only Rebels Win’ Berlinale Review: Love and Prejudice in Lebanon

A striking disclaimer opens Only Rebels Win, one that immediately sets it apart from many other films. It’s common knowledge that movies are not always shot where they claim to be set—New York often turns out to be Toronto, streets are actually studio backlots, and so on, ad infinitum—but this is almost never spelled out. Danielle Arbid’s new film is a different case altogether. It begins with an on-screen note explaining that, due to Israeli bombings, the production was unable to shoot in Beirut as originally planned, and had to recreate the city on sets or in similar locations elsewhere.

Despite what this disclaimer might suggest—working as both a tribute to a wounded city and a gesture toward the resilience of its inhabitants—Only Rebels Win is not directly about that specific conflict. Still, it inevitably folds it in. The interracial, interreligious, and intergenerational drama at the film’s core absorbs those tensions between nations, races, and beliefs within the broader framework of immigration. Suzanne (the great Hiam Abbas) is of Palestinian origin but has lived in Lebanon for decades. She had two children there, a grandson, and was widowed. She runs a clothing shop, and her life seems calm, almost uneventful.

Arbid, however, wastes no time in setting her in motion. Everything begins when Suzanne witnesses three people viciously beating a young man from Sudan. She manages to stop the assault and offers to help the injured man, Ousmane, nursing him back to health. She lets him stay, a bond begins to form between them, and soon he has moved into Suzanne’s home. But this romance—initially tender and seemingly uncomplicated—quickly becomes fraught, largely because of how others perceive it. No one can quite understand what a 64-year-old woman is doing with a 28-year-old man who is undocumented, Black, and—people insist, revealing their own prejudice—surely a thief. Or, at the very least, someone after her money.

The social climate only amplifies these tensions. In Lebanon, as in much of the world, anti-immigrant paranoia runs deep. When thefts or disturbances occur, it’s easy to turn migrants into scapegoats. That’s why when Suzanne starts confiding in her daughter and friends about what’s happening, their reactions are a mix of shock and disbelief. With the neighbors, it’s worse: every encounter—whether in the building or at the supermarket—invites racist remarks or the threat of violence. And when Ousmane finds work as a security guard at a somewhat shady establishment, things hardly improve.

Arbid, who previously directed Passion Simple, allows herself brief moments of romance between Suzanne and Ousmane, but they are few and far between. For most of the film, what we see is the uglier side of Suzanne’s community emerging in response to this relationship. Her children are no help either. Her talkative daughter Sana (played by Shaden Fakih, a comedian who has herself clashed with authorities over some of her jokes) is judgmental enough, but her son is outright cruel: “You should have died so we wouldn’t have to deal with this shame,” he tells her. Even customers stop coming to Suzanne’s shop once word spreads that she’s involved with “an illegal African.” The pressure takes its toll, and Suzanne doesn’t always introduce Ousmane as her partner.

Fortunately, in its third act the film steers away from the predictable. Rather than becoming a simple tale of “love conquers all,” it proposes something more complex and ultimately more realistic: an exploration of the ongoing psychological damage caused by marginalization and racism. Ousmane is a man of few words, but his anguish is palpable—the desperation brought on by constant exclusion and by the aggression, both overt and subtle, that he faces from nearly everyone around him. That pressure pushes him into darker territory and toward abrupt, troubling decisions. No one wants to live like that. And no one deserves to.