kagablog

I bumped into a Nigerian film maker friend of mine called Rin Mola, the other day. It was great to see him. Hadn’t seen him in a while. I had to congratulate him on the release of his movie. He had made it against the odds. The film, The Beautiful Ones Are Born had done well internationally and Rin Mola had to fend off requests for the movie because everyone always asked “when is it being released in this country”. Now it was on circuit for all to see. I had seen it. Rounded up my film gang and went to the Zone to check it out. The film has its problems and I had indicated this to Rin Mola when he first mentioned the project to me but he didn’t listen. Anyway, despite the problems, to my surprise I enjoyed the film. The issues its raised about African youth, the humour and its urban rough feel. I could knock it technically but that would be quite short-sighted. Everyone starts somewhere. Talk to Rin Mola after his tenth film-anyone seen El mariachi? He didn’t seem too excited. I questioned him about this. I was like, man you are living the dream of every wannabe film maker-your movie has been released, there’s a soundtrack-I mean how can you be depressed. He told me a tale which I feel I have to share. As a budding filmmaker I feel people should know the story so avoid it ever happening again.
Rin Mola told me about how the company that was supposed to represent him had tricked him. They had made him believe they had money but had none. Very stupid I told him. You should have consulted a lawyer. He said, he was blinded by trust. Still stupid I said. Then I asked but isn’t the guy who runs that company a Nigerian? Not only Nigerian, he’s from our tribe! I said, and he is playing you like this? Rin Mola shook his head in disgust. He was very worried that this company would not fulfil its obligations to the film. They had tried to lie to him about a grant from the government calling it a loan, they had borrowed money from him and even told him to his face that the movie wasn’t “his fucking movie”. Claiming in public they saved his film yet they hadn’t even finished paying the editor. He had never seen such a display of megalomania. I remarked to him that I had found it strange that the guy’s name had appeared twice on the poster. Rin Mola said he was engaging his lawyers to try and get his film back. He didn’t want a situation where his film was making money years down the line and the guys at the company would claim that they were still paying their costs-meanwhile he was a struggling film maker. I assure him, I didn’t think that would happen but he had to protect his interests. Rin Mola was in tears by now and I really felt sorry for him. Someone came up to him and said “Great movie” and walked away. He told me he couldn’t really enjoy the success because he was still fighting the company. I was running late and I had to leave. As much as I wanted to listen to his sob story I had to go. I asked: “in a nutshell what are you telling me?”
“Beware those that come with smiles. Beware those who come in the name of black brotherhood but are no different from the sharks they want to replace. Beware those in the fancy cars that call themselves producers. Beware those who can switch face so quickly and have lost all their morals in the pursuit of a quick buck. Keep a lawyer close. Beware those who are the enemies of promise”

I believe in God
I believe in film
I believe in Basketball
I believe in the healing power of laughter
I believe in family
I believe in women
I believe in honesty no matter how brutal
I believe in intelligent people
I believe in Africa
I believe no matter how difficult in the human race
I believe in working on my weaknesses
I believe the end of Raoul Peck’s film ‘Lumumba’ has one of the best endings of a film ever
I believe the end of Bryan Singer’s film ‘The Usual Suspects’ has the other
I believe the beginning of Djibril Diop Mambety’s film ‘Hyenas’ has one of the best beginnings of a film ever
I believe President Thomas Sankara was one of the greatest leaders this continent ever lost
I believe in Literature
I believe every time I leave the African continent I am entering hostile territory
I believe in this quote from Ntare Mwine play ‘Biro’. It goes: ‘my father gave me the name Mwerinde ebiro. It means beware of time because it has the answers.’
I believe in kissing. Lots of kissing.
I believe like Bob Marley ‘one good thing about music/when it hits you feel no pain’
I believe in the theory of ‘having access to things’ as opposed to ‘ownership of things’
I believe in hot chocolate
I believe our local film industry should do more co productions with African countries
I believe most films on the truth commission lie
I believe there should be a tax on foreign films in our cinemas like it’s done overseas in certain countries
I believe that Michael Jordan is the greatest athlete ever
I believe that Ali was the Greatest
I believe the World Cup in 2010 will be a success
I believe that South Africa won’t win the cup however
I believe that Nigeria will win-cause the cup must remain on the continent
I believe Cameroon was robbed in the 1990 World Cup quarter finals
I believe Roberto Baggio owes Nigeria something for World Cup 1994. Something! I just don’t know what.
I believe in T.O.M. Pictures
I believe the SABC and MNET should cover FESPACO like they cover the Oscars
I believe in winning the Golden Stallion of Yenenga at FESPACO before the Oscar
I believe the Oscar is pretty cool too
I believe in rum and coke
I believe in peanuts and coke
I believe in smarties and coke at the movies instead of popcorn
I believe in love at first sight
I believe in people with passion
I believe that Brenda Fassie was serious when she told me she would hire me as her garden boy
I believe Craig Freimond’s film ‘Gums and Noses’ should have been released on the big screen
I believe most people that start a sentence with ‘I don’t usually do this…’ usually do
I believe producers that benefited from the matchbox system during Apartheid should pay some money back
I believe Abderrahmane Sissako is one of the classiest directors I have met
I believe in a different kind of black
I believe Tanya Farber should say what she really thinks when she reviews South African films
I believe in the South African filmmakers around me
I believe in Nollywood
I believe certain companies should have started transformation a long time ago
I believe if a foreign star helps get your film made so be it
I believe if you don’t like Morgan Freeman playing Mandela, go make your own film
I believe in hip hop
I believe that if you embrace freedom of speech embrace the key word ‘freedom’
I believe in Fela Anikulapo Kuti when he says ‘Teacher don’t teach me nonsense’
I believe that I know nothing and I love the fact that I know nothing.
I believe in myself

Sometimes the superficiality of our industry distresses me and I wonder if like the men in GLENGARRY GLEN ROSS I am trapped in a cycle I can’t escape from because of the passion it breeds in me. The spectacle of the people on the outside that can’t get in. I am in and yet I feel like a stranger. I feel like a stranger in my own living room or should is say room. Maybe it’s just Cannes. Maybe I am growing up. Maybe it’s the turbulence on the plane as I jot down these thoughts. The meeting with Alex was at once sobering, exciting and yet not fulfilling. A feeling of wanting to chat more but the constraints of time, place making it impossible. The festival welcomes you and spits you out once it’s done with you. Who are you? Nothing. Yet within that frustration your accomplishments stand out. People are proud of your achievements. I can’t stop myself from speaking in the third person. The burden for me is always the desire to better myself. To not get too close to the sun for fear that the max might melt on my wings and I would fall hard to the ground. What if that is an illusion. The fear that this isn’t all going to last. Sembene Ousman to Clint Eastwood are making their best films now. I am going to be thirty one. They are forty years older than I am. There are no shortcuts to that forty years. I have to walk that road and discover new things.

It’s the discovery and the possibilities of the journey that excite me. Everything I learn an addition to my suitcase, everything I forget, an omission in my judgement. I have to go back and get it. The people on the way, the smiles, the laughter, the discussions. And all I am armed with are my beliefs. To be honest, to represent the truth, to be honest to myself. To make peace with myself. Also to be a better person. My greatest fear is that I become a member of the crowd. A disgruntled filmmaker. I am sure I not heading down that course but who ever is? Rudolph, the producer of DRUM asked. “How long are you going to be around?”

Long.

It was a warm day in Toronto when I sat in a packed theatre to watch Ramadan Suleman’s second film Zulu Love Letter. In the audience were various members of the South African industry and next to me a prominent actor. Ramadan introduced his film very well “I am going to take you on a journey to South Africa, when we return we will talk”. Great, I thought, short and sweet.

The film began. The actor, after about ten minutes, started whispering to me about how bad he thought it was. I asked him to please shut up so I could watch the film. It did irritate me that he had already started making his judgements based on ten minutes. And throughout the film I have to report he shifted and turned, sucked in his breath, hissed and kept whispering in my ear. On one level I found him funny because I didn’t know what film he was watching. The film he was watching must have been painful because the movie I was watching, the love letter I was receiving I was enjoying.

It was refreshing to see a film about the Truth and Reconciliation Commission because most films about the Truth Commission lie. The lens is in the wrong place, focusing on the people that didn’t experience the struggle. I have always felt that the lens of the camera should be focused on the ones living with the aftermath of apartheid. In Ramadan’s Love Letter I saw images I felt had been missing from the cinematic debate of the TRC. I saw theories that I had often wondered about realised on screen.

The film travelled to Venice, picked up amongst others an award for Best Actress at FESPACO and the Special jury Prize at the Durban Film Festival. All the while I was waiting to see and hear what people back home in South Africa would say about the film.

Back home in an interview with the Sunday Times, Colin Moss in speaking about the new Darrell Roodt film that he is in says, “It’s a nice change. For so long we’ve made these art movies about politics that no one wants to see, but the first thing we have got to do to have a successful local industry is to put bums on seats and make money”.

Now Colin is entitled to his opinion and I agree with certain aspects of his statement. I am all for bums on seats. Show me a director or a producer that isn’t. His first statement however gets bandied about so much that it starts to become truth. And since we are dealing with truth in Zulu let’s examine other so-called ‘truths’ in our industry.

“There are no black writers, directors, producers, cameramen, sound men, grips etc”. One of the saddest ‘truths’ about our new democracy is the dumbing down of the nation. The idea that ‘being deep’ is a problem. I have sat at endless dinner parties, watched debates, listened to debates on SAFM about the South African film industry to last a lifetime and the one thing that always gets my goat up is when someone says “No more political films”.

Let me go out on a limb here as a director and writer in the industry. There is nothing wrong with political films; in fact I will say what others have said before me “all films are political”. The young film school kid that tells me “I don’t watch political films” I am quick to point out that that very choice is political. I am open to have a debate about whether the films are boring or not but to have them shoved under the carpet is not the answer. Because of the nature of the industry and the funding, we haven’t had an opportunity to make vast amounts of work, so what tends to be seen are the political films, but this landscape in itself is changing as I write this.

Amongst these ‘political films’ are Gums and Noses, Dollars and White Pipes, Max and Mona, Crazy Monkey, Twist, U Carmen eKhayletsha, The Flyer, Faith’s Corner, Conversations On A Sunday Afternoon, Tsotsi, Hijack Stories and others. And I haven’t even mentioned old Leon. If the knock on the political films is that they don’t make money well my feeling is if someone is giving you money for a film you should find ways of paying back the money. But don’t stop people from funding the films they want to fund. Mapantsula is a great film, politics or no politics. Other films have touched on politics with varying degrees of success both from a filmic point of view and the audience but that does not mean that there isn’t a market for them.

I find sometimes in our country certain people always want things to be clear-cut. You are either this or that. If you act on a soap opera you can’t act on a drama because the audience will get confused. If you start a new drama you have to cast unknowns because no one wants to see the same faces. As if acting is a one-stop shop department only. You hear it every time a project starts we need new black writers but nothing in plan for the ones that worked on the last project, where is the growth?

If political films don’t work we must make commercial films. As if anyone knows what that is. Hollywood, the master of commercial films doesn’t even get it right. I meet students or people who say we are tired of politics bring something else to which I say my suggestion is make films. And try to make them well. Period. Don’t subscribe or speak an opinion as if it’s truth. A good friend of mine always says ‘people forget that there is such a thing as taste’. We have different tastes and if your taste isn’t for the political watch something else. Which people don’t want to see political films, I ask Colin. I meet people on the street who are crying for films that have political content only. I think people want to see good films and films that speak of the continent. Comedy or tragedy. I agree that maybe as a film telling nation the structure of story, character, plot needs to be developed to produce polished works but to say that we were making art films on politics no one wanted to see is a lie. Film is the TRUTH. People want to see the truth.

And this brings me back to Ramadan Suleman. The man has a lot to say. He has opinions and he is clear about the message he intends bringing. Zulu Love Letter is the truth because it doesn’t compromise the ugliness and the pain of the country. If the saying change is pain means anything it reflects in Zulu. The mother that can’t communicate with her daughter who is deaf as a result of beatings she received during her pregnancy from the apartheid police. The comrades that walk the streets without purpose as played by Hugh Masebenza. The film speaks a truth. The policeman that refuses to testify before the TRC was one of my favourite scenes. It struck a chord with me because I remember reading about guys that didn’t want to testify. Yet this image might have been prevalent in documentaries but I never saw it to my satisfaction in fiction filmmaking. The subtle intimidation the black police officer uses to warn the woman of pursuing their case to the TRC. The resounding message at the end of the film that there are many dead souls wondering the land, many unreturned heroes and heroines, many families waiting for the return of their loved ones. Waiting for some sign of life. In the midst of this chaos what kind of film would represent this. The film is raw. It’s an open wound that has flies settling in because this is the reality. The pulse might still be rainbow but the nation hasn’t found the pot of gold.

The surreal elements in the movie also lend to this mood of the country. A country where people still fight transformation, a country where people are eager to forget and panic when the conversation shifts to pre 1994, a country that has to create a logo called ‘proudly South African’, a country where everyone is afraid to hurt the other, a country where dinner tales aren’t complete with one or two hijack stories and a country where the second economy reigns supreme. It’s a country in change. And change is Pain. And the beauty in my country of Zulu Love Letter is in the red dust of forgiveness it raises another point of view. A raw language, making it impossible to ignore no matter what they say.

There’s a Rwandan saying. It goes like this:

God visits other places during the daytime but at night rests in Rwanda.

Going to Rwanda is like the old joke. “Instead of saying ‘Honey please pass the butter’, I said ‘You bitch! You ruined my life!’”. In Rwanda you want to ask “Where were you during the genocide?” instead you say “Please pass the honey”.

Landing
Landing in Rwanda was surreal. I looked out the plane window and my eyes were greeted with the green. Green green green. Then a voice reminded me that this was the land of a thousand hills and those dips I was viewing from the plane were a sight to behold. At Passport control, the guy in front of me was treated well. Laughs and smiles. I started feeling that Rwandan hospitality I knew nothing about. Then I remembered Strini Pillay’s words. Strini told me Rwandans treat white people very well but black people terribly. Laughs and smiles in front of me was white. So when I stepped up I approached with a smile. He returned my smile and within seconds I forgot about Strini and was in Kigali. John the driver from the production had picked me up and was taking me to the set. After the quick meeting I was whisked off to Hotel Des Mille Collines a.k.a Hotel Rwanda. On the way I was taking in the city landscape, the water fountains at the roundabouts, the valleys receding into the skyline. I remembered images from Raoul Peck’s Sometimes In April.

Hotel Rwanda
After the nap and a shower I went to dinner. The sight of goat meat on the menu got me excited and I ordered it. Mistake. Not the most appetizing. I decided to hit the night. The guy at reception said it was safe. Paul Kagame is on record saying Kigali is safer than Johannesburg. War torn DRC is safer than Johannesburg. I walked left and found nothing but pitch darkness. I walked right - pitch darkness. The city was asleep. I went back to the hotel. I asked a lady in the corridor what the time was. She supplied me with the correct time and then offered to come and keep me company. I said politely declined. Later on we nicknamed the girls ‘Angie’, because that’s how they introduced themselves. One of the other actors was buying some cloth at the hotel lobby and had asked if there was anything else he could buy and Angie had replied ‘Me?’ I went to sleep to the news of Hamas asking The International Community to intervene to stop the Israeli’s. Being in that hotel, knowing the history of the genocide I thought it was ironic and thought Hamas should know what kind of the guest The International Community is. A no show.

Searching For Paul Kagame
Morning found me at breakfast with two other actors in the film, John and Kenneth. John is from Kenya and had a brief appearance in The Constant Gardner. Kenneth, or Pepe as he insists on being called, acted in Yesterday, the Oscar nominated South African Film.

A quick word on Pepe. When I met Kenneth he introduced himself as Kenneth. When John kept referring to him as Pepe as we waited in the lobby I wondered what the? I discovered that Pepe is his African name and he doesn’t want to be called Kenneth. Nuff said!

We took to the streets. The mission was twofold. John had to pick up a tape and I was looking for audio recordings and videos of Paul Kagame. The internet has been useless, just giving me the background I needed and visuals but no voice. John’s mission was easy. At the video shop he picked up his tape and we asked if they had visuals of the Presido. They didn’t. The woman sent us to the radio station. One of the things that struck me on the walk was the brandishing of Ak-47’s by the security guards. Their fingers on the trigger. Ready for…what? I thought. At the radio station the producer we spoke to told me I was too short to play Paul Kagame and I needed to be skinnier. We all laughed but he couldn’t help us. We needed to write a letter. John had another friend who would be able to help us, he said. John’s friend was very helpful. One phone call and a tape was being made as he dropped the phone. We needed to write a note but this note was a mere formality and wasn’t going to disappear into the vaults of applications, demo tapes, competition etc at the radio station. We left him feeling mission accomplished. He did say I was too short to play Kagame.

Kigali International
I was cutting it fine to the airport but I got there in time. Now I accept every airport is different and each carries out the duty of taking and receiving visitors as they feel fit. Not sure if there is accepted practice in the Airport industry because I certainly haven’t felt that. What I have felt more often is that there are no conventions or airport rules. So in Burkina Faso you have to check in twice, in Milan you have to pay to use the trolleys and in Rwanda to get into the airport as you depart, you stand outside in the blazing sun and a security guard checks your ticket and passport. I guess to ensure that the only reason you are the gate is indeed to leave the country. I had an e-ticket so I hoped he understood what that meant. Inside the woman tells me their system is down so I have to have the ticket verified upstairs. Upstairs he asks me for the printout to which I reply I lost it and he says the system is down so he can’t verify my ticket! He has to phone Nairobi. It takes them twenty minutes to get through to Nairobi. They confirm my ticket and I am asking myself if the system is down how to they verify who’d flying and booked! A terrorist’s wet dream. I get my boarding pass and my seat number reads FREE. Great, even Kulula has stopped the free seating thing. On the plane after everyone had hustled for their seats, the last thing I remember before I dozed off is that the gentleman next to me let out a large burp. I thought: no attempt to hide it? How rude. He followed up with another louder one, as if answering my thoughts. I smiled and drifted off to sleep. Is it me or do they dub Bollywood films into English in Kenya?

Return To Rwanda
I am struggling not to ask people I come into contact with about the genocide. Also I keep walking down the street looking for signs to see if its coming back again. In South Africa it’s quite clear Apartheid can’t return (at least not in the format it was presented) but here in Kigali, someone could flip. Start cutting people up. I look behind the smiles. Yes they greet me at the door but could they also turn around and give the killers my room number. At least staying at Hotel Rwanda gives me comfort. This place has a reputation for saving people. Had a surreal moment. Was watching Hotel Rwanda dubbed in French at Hotel Rwanda knowing it was shot in South Africa. Forgive my paranoia but I started thinking that to come to Rwanda is to meet death, the possibility of it, it’s to meet possible collaborators that have fitted into society but more and more I feel I am meeting life. Life in all it’s full breasted glory.

News Of War
It’s ironic again that in these mountains of peace, news should reach us of the bombing of Lebanon’s airport by Israel in retaliation for Hezbollah’s bombing of Heifa. That body, The International Community is once again scrambling. As usual, the powerful protect the power. Hearing of death in this place of peace. I start crying psychologically. When are we going to stop killing each other? People I am tired. I am ashamed of the human race. We are a disgrace. Not any of us is any use. I am totally ashamed to be human. The most intelligent life forms on earth. Yeah right.

The Girl On The Bus
Lunch was over and I was exhausted. I went down in the bus and when the driver dropped the actor’s off I stayed in the bus to dose some more. His next pick up were the children in the scene. They came in loud and cheerful. Don’t know how much activity happens on the tea farms but the presence of camera’s etc must have contributed to their excitement. A small girl sat next to me and chatted away animatedly to her friends. I looked out the window on the dusty winding road thinking about Ted Hughes poem “The Horses”. The last line came to me. In din of crowded streets, going among the years, the faces/May I still meet my memory in so lonely a place/Between the streams and the red clouds, hearing the curlews/Hearing the horizons endure. It was then I realized the small girl was resting peacefully on my shoulder. Her eyes closed. Her friends still chatting loud but she was quiet resting on my shoulder. She got up to say something to her friends and then rested back on my shoulder. I made sure I kept very still. I didn’t want to give off a vibe that suggested she couldn’t find comfort in a stranger’s shoulder. The bus came to a halt, the children bundled out. I was left alone. Surrounded by all this beauty that for me was the most beautiful moment and I respected it enough not to take a picture. Her eyes closed. Resting peacefully. Her smile. In all my travels from this day forth I will come back to that image because in that moment I felt at peace.

Formula One
Driving the world around is notoriously bad I am sure. Italy is bad. In South Africa when the traffic lights are down the lanes become a four way stop. It’s something that has always impressed me somewhat about South African driving. It’s an unwritten code and when it happens, South African motorists slip into character, this isn’t the case in Milan. Because in Milan when the lights are down it becomes a free for all. I nearly lost my mind as our taxi driver went into the maze of speeding cars hooting and screaming for all to get out of his way! The master race my foot! Barbados roads aren’t bad and the driving there is fine. Traffic jams at 11pm in Los Angeles drove me mad. Johannesburg drivers are bad. Durban drivers are bad (zero tolerance or no zero tolerance). Taxi drivers are the worst but I think that’s universal. However in Rwanda, driving is something else. It’s right hand drive out there so that takes some getting used to and that’s fine. Adjusting to those roads is the least of my worries. The drivers however are competing to enter the next Formula One because I have never seen such speed on some of the narrowest and bumpiest roads in my life. In Kigali where the roads are clean and smooth, the drivers straddle the lanes and if another car approaches (as is wont to happen), it becomes an eyeball match. Who will blink first! Outside Kigali as you travel and move off the roads into the mountains and the roads become dustier it’s another story. A truck was overturned in a ditch just outside Kigali and on our way to the set two guys were staring at it. The next day, the truck was still there and the same two guys were staring at it. Arrive Alive people. Down a windy, bumpy, dusty road at 6pm, our driver decides at this moment to make a phone call, looking down as the dust rises before a corner to dial numbers! Hands free? Now his English isn’t good and neither is my Kyirwanda. My French is a combination of restaurant French and charades. He can’t see my stares in the dark so I try to make sounds to indicate to him that I am not feeling his driving. Doesn’t work for he continues to drive recklessly. The two cameramen at the back don’t seem to mind. Finally a sign saying Kigali! Civilization finally! What made me smile was when our driver started swearing at another’s driver’s hopelessly bad driving!

First Day
They had kept us on set in case they needed us, so Tom and I used the opportunity to take pictures. I have never felt the picture reflex like I have felt in Rwanda especially in the hills of Kitara. Every thing is a picture. Soon it was like breathing. I didn’t have to think about it. Hills. Camera. Click. Hills. Camera. Click. And continuous clicking like one doesn’t want to stop looking and not convinced that digital technology is capturing this sight, this feeling, this moment. So the fingers keep snapping at the same image each one trying to better the last and then you stop. Lower the camera for the bodies’ eyes to feast on the view in the full understanding that God not only rests here, but the world should too.

In the summer of 1995 a new faze hit the University Of Cape Town’s Drama school. I was a second year student and that year we all discovered the movie Glengarry Glen Ross. Based on the David Mamet play of the same name, this story of the tough life of estate agents found a home in all our young eager actor hearts! Long monologues and tough dialogue-we were right at home! The third year students led by David Isaacs (of S.O.S fame) and Peter Callanghan (where are you Peter?) started the trend.

When my year moved to third year, Mark Dymond and I followed their lead. I played the Kevin Spacey character. Mark played the Jack Lemmon character. Peter had played the Alan Arkin character. David had played the Ed Harris character and backstage on Claire Stopford’s production of Shakespeare’s TWELFTH NIGHT David Isaacs and I played all the parts for Emil.

I had never heard of Emil before that play. He didn’t strike me as anything when we first met. I kept hoping we’d get along because we played the two henchmen. The first two weeks of rehearsal produced little sparks except the usual stuff. Everybody testing everyone else, challenging the director’s concept, breaking up with the girlfriends (me) and generally not investing anytime in good quality cast bonding. That stuff comes later after everyone settles and comes out of their little cocoons of fear, realising that everyone is just as scared as they are.

Emil Serfontein is a new young actor, Claire told me when I knew I got a part in the play. Never heard of him. Didn’t strike me as anything when we first met. I kept hoping we’d get along because we were the two henchmen. As usual the first two weeks of rehearsal produced little sparks. Everybody testing everyone else, too busy challenging the director’s concept, breaking up with the girlfriends(me) and generally not investing anytime in good quality cast bonding. That stuff comes later after everyone settles and comes out of their little cocoons of fear, realising that everyone is just as scared as they are.

Emil, David and I(we were later joined by Jackson) had small parts, so we kind of stayed on the periphery and watched the great Claire Stopford work with the actors. I was introduced to the great David Dennis, the great Ivan D Lucas, the great Michele Burgers and the great June van March and all the while I chilled out with my greats-David, Emil and Jackson.

We were the boys in the back. May the boys in the back come to the fore, said Ivan’s card to us on opening night. We came to the fore alright-all 15 minutes of stage time. He also gave us a mini basketball hoop cause he knew I was a fanatic. I believe in the power of God, Basketball and the power of 35mm.

All this while Emil and I were getting close. I dropped him home a number of times and I remember once having to pick him up at the Nico Malan at one o’clock and by 2 he hadn’t showed up. Missed his train he later said.

When the production started, the four of us were sent to the back dressing rooms. Maynardville leads in the front, the others in the back. There we would wait for our cues and entertain ourselves. One night David and I reminisced on Glengarry. Emil had never seen it. He was intrigued by it and David and I performed the roles from Ed to Alan, Al to Kevin, jack to Alec, Jonathan and back to Al. But Baldwin’s monologue impressed him the most and David and I took turns doing it. He never got bored and we never got bored. We settled into a routine-everynight once we got off stage for our hour and 15min long hiatus was Glengarry time. It was basketball time. It was also Emil’s time to recite the entire 12th night play. He knew everyone else’s lines. He would sit and act out each character of the play. From Butler to Bridgett, from Leeanne to D Lucas, from Michele to Gavin. And of course there was R.Kelly(before the child molestation scam). Emil loved 12Play and the routine went something like this: sing the song, do the monologue. We bought coca cola 2 litre and it rotated in fours and by the end of the two month run we sold the empties and split the money. Emil pestered us to see Glengarry, I pestered him to cough up the rands and cents to hire the video. And one Saturday afternoon Emil, David, Roshina Ratnam and I sat down to watch Glenagrry Glen Ross. Needless to say all three of us could quote the film now. Initially David and I used to tease Emil and Jackson about various things now, Emil, David and I would tease Jackson. All Jackson had to do was watch Glengarry Glen Ross.

After the play finished its run I never saw Emil again. I spoke to him often because he had a part in a movie I was working on called THE FINDERS OF MAD MEN. So usually he would call to find out when it was happening and I would reply soon. We always greeted each other with the same sentence “you call yourself a salesman you son of a bitch”-usually followed by laughter. I couldn’t believe how we had become good friends. He got good reviews for playing the lead in Marthinus Basson’s BOKLIED, I had moved to Jo’burg to be in Gray Hofmeyers ISIDINGO-THE NEED.

In December of ’98 I told myself I need to speak to Emil, the number I had for him seemed non existent. Marthinus gave me a new number for him. You must call Emil I said. You must call Emil I said in January. Tell him the film is about to happen. Call Emil I said in Febuary. Tell him the film is not about to happen but it would happen soon. Call Emil.

After Basketball practice one night Bo Petersen called me and told me that Emil had been killed in a car accident.

I’m trying to remember the last time we spoke. I’m trying to remember if I told him I had changed the name of the film. I’m trying to remember if I told him his part was going to be bigger. I’m trying but all I can remember is a space of 2months in a dressing room where four men bonded and two bonded the most. Numerous phone calls back and forth. I’m trying but all I remember is our variation on the Baldwin line “you call yourself an actor you son of a bitch?” You were an actor Emil. You were going to be great. I’m trying to freeze that image of the 5ft boy with the cap on top of his head and his shirt tucked in looking very smart. I’m trying to remember that smile. I’m trying but all I can think about is that we never got a chance to immortalize Emil on 35mm.

Akin was in Ouagadougou, the Capital of Burkina Faso, for the 2005 Fespaco. South Africa was not only well represented, but one the Golden Stallion award.

Akin travelled to Ouaga via Paris (as is so often the case, you have to fly via Europe to get to another African country).

Part I
Around the time I was sprawled out in a toilet cubicle at Charles de Gaulle airport, having just thrown up, I swore I wouldn’t die in Paris. I staggered out of the toilet and barely made it to the restaurant. The minute I got on a chair I collapsed. My eyes fading on me, providing me with images similar to viewing a child’s kaleidoscope toy. My heart beating faster as if racing to its finish. I order from the waiter. I am barely audible. The people around me are taking notice, almost afraid to look at this shivering African. My head is pounding. I start seeing black. No, I won’t die in Paris. The theme revisits itself later when I black out for an hour in one of the toilet cubicles between terminal 2C and 2F. No one knocked on the door, and then I realized something. No one knows the lifespan of an individual in a toilet at an airport. The comings and goings are fleeting. No one is ever too long in an airport toilet or too short not like a toilet at a club or at the office. It’s all about which cubicle is open and how quickly can it be used before the passenger misses his boarding. At one point I overhear a woman and a man talking in Pidgin English. I try to reach out from the toilet bowl I just threw up in and say to them I also speak the language. Friends of the same language separated by the concrete division of a toilet in an airport in a foreign land. I am however to weak to rise.

The waiter brings the water and orange juice and it doesn’t help. I order hot water. This takes longer. He serves others. I begin to feel I am a burden to him. Some immigrant that has wandered in looking for pity. When he eventually brings the hot water he asks in a quiet voice “Are you okay?” and I reply, thankful for his acknowledgement of my situation, that I am going to be all right. It’s the cold. For it is indeed the cold that is killing me. I underestimated the weather and temperature in Paris. When we arrived it was minus 3. I had on a t-shirt, jeans, socks and sandals and a flimsy jersey. My thinking was that the airport wouldn’t be cold. How wrong I was. By the time I left the plane I was shaking, by Passport Control I was shivering and by baggage check I was dying. I think the chicken on the plane the night before also had something to do with it. I spent nine hours with a high fever, shivering and throwing up in the five toilets that are between terminals 2C and 2F. Didn’t have time to change money, didn’t have time to do nothing. I just had time to survive.

When the plane touched down in Burkina Faso it was thirty degrees in the shade. I felt like I had been to hell and back. I spent the next three days recovering. Luckily I had arrived three days before the actual festival started so by the opening ceremony I was ready.

P.S. On the way back to South Africa I walked those corridors again and went into each of those toilets. This time warmly dressed and in control. I just wanted them to know. I had survived.

Part II
Twenty four hours before the Academy Of Motion Pictures and Sciences announced the winner of the Best Oscar in the Foreign Film category and less than a week after U-Carmen e-Khayelitsha won the Golden Bear, the 19th edition of FESPACO opened in Burkina Faso. Burkina Faso means ‘Land of the Incorruptible’ and on that afternoon, the incorruptible land welcomed all its visitors from the rest of the world with open arms at the Opening ceremony at the National Stadium. Filmmakers, film lovers, critics and journalists stood in awe as Salif Keita performed, casting a spell over the 30,000 plus crowd and preparing the way for the festival ahead. FESPACO is the bi annual Pan African Film Festival and its legendary status is renowned the world over. Words fail to describe the place and many travellers that have gone can only say to the less fortunate at home “You have to go”. Whether it’s the thousands of motorcycles on the road driven predominately by Burkinabe women or the nuns singing Ave Maria before you have dinner at the restaurant Eau Vive, the home of film couldn’t be in a better place.

Like all festivals there is a common meeting spot. In the case of FESPACO it’s the Hotel Independence. That hotel is the pulse of the festival. It is like the baobab tree in traditional African folklore. The baobab is where the elders gathered to discuss issues affecting the community. Around the great hotel swimming pool great directors and up and coming ones sit and discuss. In different parts of the courtyard the various radio stations are set up and this year notably the BBC which broadcast a daily report from FESPACO. Sometimes during discussions a woman walks past to the beat of a drum and you realise you are in the middle of a fashion show FESPACO style. No ramp, no camera nothing-just the models, the costumes from the particular film walking around the pool.

The themes of the films in competition this year varied in subject matter. From Zola Maseko’s DRUM which looks at the life of Drum journalist Henry Nxumalo to Dani Kouyate’s OUAGA SAGA which tells the story of 11 characters fighting poverty to realise their dreams to Zeze Gamboa O HEROI fresh off its win at the Sundance Film fest which deals with the story of a rehabilitating soldier from Angola this year was exciting. If there was a new kid on the block it was South Africa. Apart from a record four films in competition there were fourteen other films at the festival as part of screenings and out of competition events. Each played to packed houses. One woman remarked after seeing U-CARMEN E-KHAYELITSHA that she had goose bumps. The buzz was good and South Africa was on a high. As part of its contribution and continuing contribution to the growth not only of the South African industry but also partnering with other African festivals, The National Film and Video Foundation showed its true worth by introducing the Lionel Ngakane prize. Uncle Lionel as he was fondly called was a known patron of FESPACO. He was one of the godfathers of African Cinema and having an award named after him was a fitting tribute. It echoed one of the ceremonies of the festival. A Libation ceremony was held for the fathers of African film that had passed. People like Djibril Diop Mambety and Aboulaye Sow. As the week grows, films are watched, the talk starts. Who will win the Stallion? The word on the street was either a South African film would win or a woman filmmaker would win. Filmmakers in competition behave a little differently as the big day draws near. They hold their drinks a little closer, they are distracted in conversation, they often prefer to sit in silence, they rather talk about sport while others at the bar would want to discuss the films, the world press interviews them and the tension in their voices is heard.

The closing ceremony in the stadium was a little subdued this year, speculation was because of the two deaths at the opening ceremony. Nevertheless the stage is set and there is a red carpet and as each announcement came, hearts beat faster and as each award section is broken up with a performance the tension hangs in the air. And one by one South Africa’s finest walked that red carpet. Teddy Mattera and Ramadan Suleman. The Lionel Ngakane prize goes to TASSUMA by Daniel Kollo Sanou a native of Burkina and then the moment. Everyone strains forward, the film is announced, the clapping starts. Zola Maseko stands up, Abderrahman Sissako(last festival’s winner) hugs him, Zola makes his way down to the stage, behind him the South African flag is waving, on his way he hugs his friend and fellow filmmaker Farai Sevenzo. In the stands people start whispering ‘this is the first Anglo phone film since Kwaw Amsah’s Heritage Africa in 1989 to win’ ‘this is the first South African film ever to win’ ‘I told my friends Drum is the best film I have seen’. Zola delivers a beautiful speech honouring his partner and fellow producer the late Dumisani Dhlamini as he is handed the Etalon d’Or de Yennenga(Golden Stallion of Yennenga). A week after the Academy Of Motion Pictures and Sciences gave the Best Foreign Film to Spain; Africa gave South Africa its greatest prize.

Akin’s debut feature film, God is African, was released in 2002. It was screened across South Africa and has appeared at film festivals all over the world. In this piece he contemplates: The Curse of the Second Film

“Akin, the worst has happened. Your mother passed away this morning.”

With those words from my father, my whole world came crashing down. Standing at the entrance of the SABC, I cried. My mother meant everything to my family. She inspired me and most of all she was an angel. Up till that moment my debut feature film, GOD IS AFRICAN was all that mattered to me. It was about to released. She missed the release by four weeks. The hype surrounding the film threatened to cripple me. I suddenly didn’t care what people thought of the film. I had worked myself to a lather of paranoia in the months before it was released. What if the critics slate it? Would it go down as the worst film of the year? All these fears went. I just wanted to be with my family and mourn. They came out in their droves to see my mother off. My auntie’s formed a circle round her coffin. We as the family testified to her greatness. We laid her to rest. She left us the rest of our lives to remember her.

GOD IS AFRICAN was released and people said what they had to say. I traveled to film festivals and met other filmmakers who were making their own films and moulding their own dreams. The midnight boat ride in Amsterdam with Sami Sabiti and Jason Xenopolos was beautiful. The lunch with Uncle Lionel(rest in peace), Patrick Shai and Eddie Mbalo was a treat in Paris. Talking film with Sechaba while eating plantains in Ougadougou was exhilarating. The film’s reception worldwide-priceless.

And through all the travels the questions came: what are you going to do next? In Los Angeles I cracked a joke when asked that question. I said I was making SON OF GOD IS AFRICAN. I have often thought of a sequel. Ten years down the line when the time might come to investigate Africa once again. In the meantime I watched films and read. Four years of working on GOD had hindered a lot of that. I went back to the mundane existence that is the human experience. All this, while mourning for my mother.

Lots of false starts along the road to the 2nd movie. Speaking with director Ken Kaplin(Pure Blood) and Gina from The National Film and Video Foundation, the discussion was rather to skip the 2nd film and just move onto the third! When making GOD I was certain my next film would be MY BROTHER FROM ANOTHER MOTHER. A comedy that I had started writing at the time of GOD. I had money from the NFVF to develop the script. I had done read throughs and felt I was on the way. Got a budget and a plan. It soon became obvious as I went along that this won’t be my second film.

I started my own company with two of the most respected people in the industry. Robbie Thorpe and Kgotmotso Matsunyane. T.O.M Pictures, made up of our surnames. World domination is our aim. We were blessed to have produced Craig Friedmond’s excellent script based on his play GUMS AND NOSES. I feel at home with Robbie and Kgotmotso. The vision is the same, the passion unparallel. No more would I be subjected to a man who promised me he was transforming Africa only to find out that it was a joke. I was home. And in the night my mother visited me in my dreams.
Started working on projects. Some stalled because of writers block. Bouncing the ball on the court brought physical gratification but couldn’t quench the thirst of what I was going to do next.

I travel to Barbados to celebrate my grandfather’s 80th . I take a camera with me to observe. Still haven’t a clue what I am doing. I meet producers in London to discuss future projects. All sounds very exciting. Everyone has a chart about what Akin Omotoso should be doing next.

GOD IS AFRICAN was good, they say, but you have to move beyond that now. You need to make your next film, they say, what is it?

I always wondered about filmmakers that make one film and you never hear from them again. Now I understand what they might have gone through. Your second film is as important as your first but in a way it’s even more important. The security blanket mentality is actually to have made one film. However, I am still known as the guy who made GOD, what happens if the next film is a dud? People are willingly to forgive a lot of things in GOD, would they be so kind next time out. Wonder what type of curse that carries? I guess if the film is a dud you will hurry to make the next and hopefully erase all memories of that one. So one has to pick and choose carefully the next project. Even though there are no guarantees, as I said it’s a lot cooler being known as the guy who made GOD, than the guy who made that awful film. But I know I can’t resist the lure of storytelling and the pull of the camera. It’s embedded in my bones and it forms the air I breathe. I will make that next film. I just don’t know what it will be! And all the while the questions continue “what are you doing next”. And through that process I realize that actually, the only pressure I should feel is the pressure to make a great film. I look around and check what my director friends are doing.

An exciting year for South African film. Brendan made his film HEY BOY. Norman Maake’s film finally gets to see the light of day as SOLDIERS OF THE ROCK plays to packed houses in Toronto and picks up awards in Los Angeles. Zola Maseko made MR DRUM. Ramadan shot ZULU LOVE LETTER with Pamela Nomvete. Tim made TWIST on the back of thousands of rand. Terry made MAX AND MONA. My friend Quanita Adams stars in FORGIVENESS with Arnold Vosloo and Lionel Newtown. Craig made GUMS AND NOSES. Hakeem kae Kazim is working on his MACBETH project and Sami Sabiti’s written his script. It’s going to be a good year.

I read a book that captures my imagination. It captures my imagination so much I drag my best friend Tony Kgoroge to Botswana to meet the writer. She meets us and is happy to have us turn her book into a film. Pictures with her daughter and a friend, a signed poster of GOD, a party in the evening and I know I have found my second film. The curse is lifted. I contact a producer in New York. I bring the project to him. He takes me on a tour of his friends in New York and Johannesburg. The deal is being put together. I update the writer and she seems excited, even sends me an sms saying to keep believing in the project. I have my directors treatment ready. I have a man to write the script. There is a potential cast. I harass the actresses on the sets of GENERATIONS and ISIDINGO to read the book! Its stunning. I am happy. I feel my mother is happy. I have found my second film.

Finalising the deal between my company and the producer is proving difficult. So difficult that the producer sidesteps us and offers the writer in Botswana more money and she accepts. So much for the poem she wrote in my copy of her book. Everyone around me is furious but not as furious as I am. Hard lessons have been learnt. The double crosser wrote me an email asking me to call him, so he can say when he eventually makes the film that he tried to reach out to him and I didn’t respond. The writer tells me to be professional. That at least made me laugh.

As the dust settles in my head and I go about my day to day life, I realize that my second film has always been in the making. It’s a film suggested to me at a time when I didn’t know what I wanted to do. My mother asks us to interview our grandparents about their life. Being amongst the first West Indian immigrants to London. In 1999 when I was there we spoke of it. At the premiere of GOD in Barbados in 2002, we spoke of it. Before my mother died we spoke about it. I filmed my cousins, my grandparents, uncle and aunties getting stories about them. The footage sits in my cupboard. On a hot Saturday when the world watches the MANDELA AIDS concert, I watch the footage at my friend’s house. In that moment, I see my mother. I see what she meant. I know what she wants to see. A film starts forming in my head. It comes from deep in the soul. My soul. It doesn’t involve shady producers or people who promise you that they will set the world on fire for you only to forget to buy the matches. It’s rooted in the sounds of the Calypso music, the recipes of my grandfather and the beauty of my aunt Vonne. It rests in the streets of Cave Hill, the beautiful beaches of Barbados and the smile on the beautiful girl I met who said we used to play together as kids. At my mothers memorial in Barbados, I heard her voice. As my moms friends got the chance to pay their last respects, I heard her voice. She whispered to me. I nodded. I knew what my film would be. And as I embark on that journey, I buy my smarties and coke at the cinema and sit back in the dark to watch all these new South African films about the blast out into the world.

Thank you, Mummy.

this article first appeared on coffeebeans.co.za

The first time I read about Mel Gibson’s new movie The Passion Of The Christ, I quickly dismissed it. The report said it was going to be in Latin and Armaic. I thought “that’s a lost cause” and promptly forgot about it.

The next time it came to my attention was when a Jewish guy I was having dinner with said to his friend who was also Jewish “Have you heard about Gibson’s film?” “It’s going to be anti-semitic” “I know.” I was surprised. I thought the film had been finished and had gone underground.

Then bits and pieces started surfacing.

The Pope saw it and said it was fine (or did he?) and the word of mouth continued to build until it opened in the States and smashed all box office records. Reminds me of a line from a hip hop track “Five million sold/Album still selling though”. The Passion is still selling and people are lining up to get some of that juice. Mel Gibson spent his own money to make the film and that has always been a fantasy of mine. With God is African, I did spend my own money (along with some other people’s) so I haven’t reached my ultimate fantasy which is to spend my money on a film I believe in and make a profit like Mel Gibson has done. I can picture him waiting for them to set up lights on the set of the Lethal Weapon movies making his notes about The Passion. Danny Glover wondering why all these Latin scholars are hanging around all the time. This has to be the most successful subtitled movie ever and it’s in a language that isn’t even used today! As a filmmaker I have to admire Mel Gibson’s conviction and determination. The film is dogged with controversy and maybe his intentions aren’t as honest as he might want us to believe but as a filmmaker I take my hat off to him.

I went to watch the film the night it opened in South Africa. The suspense was killing me. Apart from the idiot sitting next to me who insisted on keeping his cellphone on and chatting through the first twenty minutes of the movie, I was engrossed throughout. The idiot next to me, when he eventually settled down, soon got very vocal. Annoyed at Peter’s denial, surprised at Judas’ behaviour - I wondered whether he didn’t know The Greatest Story Ever Told.

I thought the film was brilliant. The way in which it was told. The economy of language (maybe some actors struggled) and the performances of the actors. I heard about the violence but for me there was much more violence in Tarantino’s crap movie Kill Bill Vol 1 and I don’t remember hearing anyone complain. In this day and age where images are beamed at us, the sight of blood has lost its meaning. When the violence has a consequence I find people find it hard to relate. The blood in this film has consequences. I also don’t think its anti-Semitic. Some people wanted him dead. If anything it has more to say about the corruption of power and what happens when an innocent man is sent to death. The mob mentality that exists in our society today also existed in those days. `Crucify him they cry’ could be substituted for a lot of innocent men round the world today who find themselves on the wrong side of public opinion.

We have all seen the pictures, and we all know the story. Jesus died on the cross. But when you write it or you read it you don’t get a sense of what that really means. Jesus Christ Superstar and King Of Kings don’t really go there. As a filmmaker Gibson takes you there. This is what it means to be nailed to a cross. Some people might argue that they don’t need to see it and I say to them then don’t go see the film. We all know the story. No surprises in this film and nor is there need for any. The story is pretty simple. But my head was ringing at the end of the film. I felt moved. Tears were on the tip of my eyes but didn’t fall. I was definitely touched. And what is a movie if it can’t move you and make you feel things you haven’t felt? The Man suffered and for every lashing he got I thought of Martin Luther King, Malcolm X, Mahatma Ghandi, Ken Saro Wiwa, Nelson Mandela and men and women who constantly have to sacrifice their life to make our lives better.

My drama teacher once told me that the best position to be in is when some people hate your work and some people like your work. Mel Gibson is in that position.

He only made one mistake. Wasn’t Jesus black?

this article first appeared on coffeebeans.co.za

The first SMS came in the middle of a heated argument I was having with my friends. In seems in this day and age you can set the tone for an evening by bringing up three topics. The first, Zimbabwe. The second, Israel. The third, the United States of America. We were tackling the first at a coffee shop in Rosebank at 12a.m. We had just watched THE HOUSE OF SAND AND FOG, Vadim Perelman’s brilliant film that in a strange way was linked to our heated conversation about Zimbabwe’s Robert Mugabe. One of the themes in THE HOUSE OF SAND AND FOG is a dispute of ownership of a piece of property. No conversation about Zim is not complete without referencing the land issue. In between shouting, hot chocolate and being accused of not listening, my phone beeped. ** The message simply said BRENDA FASSIE IS DEAD.

This was on the 2nd of May. The newspaper screamed ITS ALL OVER FOR BRENDA. Your picture was there Bongani. You looked lost. You looked confused. You were looking like any child would look not knowing the future of their parents. Turns out that it would be a week before Brenda took her show to the field of the Lord and that the SMS was premature. Through all the denials, the visits, the headlines, the prayers I remembered that picture of you Bongani. Each day greeted us with the new images, new faces, new revelations but that picture stuck in my mind. The one with you and the plastic coke bottle.

The second SMS came in Cape Town. Ironic-MOTHERS DAY. I was about to board the plane back to Johannesburg. No arguments about Zim, just the sound of the lady announcing which gate to board. My phone beeps. I show the lady my boarding pass. I check the message. I take a deep breath. I switch off my phone. And the ritual replays itself.

The news of someone’s passing is always cause for reflection. Some people say you reflect on your life. Others call everyone they know and express their love. I simply, if I knew the person I would always go back to the last time I saw them. I don’t pretend to have known your mother well. I can’t even say we were acquaintances. We were in the same industry yes but I knew her from a distance like most of her fans. We met three times and it’s not like we sat down and had a chat. I never had the privilege to direct her, to act opposite her or even to be in the studio as she laced the tracks. She was born ten years before me in 1964. She got her kick start in 1979 when I was five years old. When in 1983 she scored a hit with ‘Weekend Special’ I was surprised that my Dad could cook! My mother had traveled to Barbados with my sister and my Dad was left to baby sit us. I thought we would starve! Needless to say he was great. When she released ‘Memeza’, I had just broken into the industry. Your mother lived in my time and I am proud.

The night your mother died, a friend of mine, Nomsa Nene (also in the entertainment industry) was fighting for her life in a hospital in Johannesburg after having been in a terrible car accident. I visit Nomsa. The first TV show I acted in was with Nomsa. At the hospital I spend time with her husband Roberto and the producers who gave me my first break Rob and Lena Davies. They crack jokes like ‘I am impossible to get hold of now that I am on Generations’. I laugh. Good to be with family. We can’t see Nomsa. Only family is allowed to see her. The doctor’s say Nomsa is stable. I call David Newton(who I hadn’t spoken to in a while). He acted in that same show with Nomsa. I guess I am reaching out to people. David and I agree to do dinner soon. The other week I watched Nomsa performance in Les Blair’s JUMP THE GUN. I thought, I must tell Nomsa I saw that film again. Now, I stand in the Trauma Unit, the weight of your mother’s death over me and I am praying for my friend, Nomsa. It isn’t the year of the black celebrity. DJ Khabzela of YFM, Tebogo Madingoane of the group Mafikizolo and now Brenda.

The plane touches down in Johannesburg. I click my phone on. It beeps. Another SMS. A friend from London-”We have just heard the sad news. How’s the mood in SA?” I reply simply “People are down”. A friend from Namibia is shocked. Your mother touched the world.

I was in awe of your mother Bongani. Who wasn’t? You don’t know me but I write to you as someone who has also lost a mother. When my mother died all I wanted to do was sleep. A sudden heaviness overcame me and it only be addressed in sleep. I asked a friend of mine who also lost his mother what happened to him and he said he wanted to sleep. You are probably tired. But you probably can’t sleep. Too many people. So many things are expected of you. Because fortunately for you my young brother you are the son of a living legend. You were born into the spotlight. You were on TV at an age when most children were running around in the sandpit. I write to you as someone who has had to negotiate his way in the limelight. As I cried in the hospital for my mother, some security guard asked for my autograph. I write to you because I can separate the fame from the private. When I realized my father was famous, I was still able to separate him from the fame. The same way I separate Joe from Phat Joe, or Hakeem from The Fresca Guy. I would encourage you, once you have found your feet again because, my young brother, you must let time heal you. Everyone will have pearls of wisdom for you on how to deal with your mother’s death. As someone who is walking that road, the road to recovery is hard. Some days better than others. Little things trigger tears and you might find that your tank is on empty. A waiter taking his time to bring the bill might piss you off. You might think you are over your mother’s death in two years time or even ten years. However long it takes, let time heal you. And when you are healed, young blood I would encourage you to write a book about your relationship with your mother. Let the world see her through your eyes. If you read Ken Wiwa’s brilliant book IN THE SHADOW OF A SAINT (which deals with his relationship with his father) you will get an idea of the kind of book I feel the world will be ready to read.

I am sure tonight when you sleep you miss your mother. You mourn YOUR MOTHER, while the nation cries for BRENDA. The nation mourns for the ‘Madonna of the townships’, the Queen of Pop. You cry for your mother. The woman who raised you. We may remember lines from her songs but you have the whole soundtrack to her life. You know melodies we can only envy. You know tunes that made you and molded you. The rest of us have to be content with her CD’s.

And in this time of chaos my brother before she is laid to rest, I felt the need to write to you.

No one knows what it means to lose a parent until you have lost one. As you reach up for air I say that my prayers are with you. Your mother has been immortalized forever. While we will hear her music forever, you will hear her voice. A voice we weren’t privy to. You might feel she wouldn’t talk to you again but let me reassure you young brother, she will. She will sing you to sleep, she will show up unexpectedly. When they say life is unfair, I understand. She can talk to you but you can’t talk to her. Then again we are defining ‘talk’ in the physical sense. You will talk to her.

And when the noise has settled, the newspapers with their lights are gone. The mourners are gone and you lay in your bed to sleep, know that I think of you Bongani. I know you don’t me and we have never met but even in our six degrees of separation, we are bond together because tonight your mother sings for my mother.

this article first appeared on coffeebeans.co.za

South African film-maker Teboho Mahlatsi is redefining the film-making canvas. He’s become a pioneering icon of South African film-making with the massive success of the TV series Yizo Yizo and its sequel - but it’s with his short film Portrait of a Young Man Drowning that we see his inner vision.

By Akin Omotoso

Picture an empty canvas called the South African Film Industry. A young man picks up his brush, dips into his paint and paints a perfect picture. Picture actors and directors and audiences alike lining up to crown this young man the next best thing. Journalists undermine him by referring to him as the Quentin Tarantino of South Africa. Picture a TV series that keeps everyone at home every screening for the thirteen weeks it runs, a TV series that had people debating and grooving to a slamming soundtrack. Yizo Yizo even had its own merchandise. Picture me struggling to get one of those caps, and eventually when I did, I felt I could hang.

Now picture this young man going back to the studio and looking across the empty canvas again. As the audience waits in anticipation of Yizo Yizo-The Return, this young man’s mind is on other paintings. Pictures not yet viewed in the vast canvas that is the African landscape of filmmaking. He paints another picture. In this picture he would examine pain and destruction in a township. In this picture he will use imagery straight from the soul. In this picture he would talk about a killer seeking redemption.

The killer walks with his wound in search of water to bathe. The society wants him to come and kill some more. The background music has the sound of water in it. The girls who come to call the killer are sweating. The killer looks, not so much at them, but the tiny trickles of sweat that drop down their necks. The one girl licks her lips to prevent them from drying up. That soothing moisturizer is what the killer craves. Something to wet him. The woman washes her clothes, the killer is mesmerised by the water. The old man drinks clear water in full view of the killer after refusing to allow him to wash at his house because he says it won’t help him. I don’t think I have ever craved to drink water as much as I did when I watched this young man, this young man called Teboho Mahlatsi and his film: Portrait Of A Young Man Drowning.

I heard someone remark that its too Oliver Stone in its outlook. As far as I am concerned, Oliver Stone wishes he could do half of what Teboho is doing. The same person said that the weird angles and the stylisation shouldn’t have been done on 35mm. That the 35mm camera does not call for that. It never ceases to amaze me when certain South African filmmakers are afraid to experiment. Who says 35mm must be this or that? American, European, Japanese directors experiment with the medium like there’s no tomorrow. South African directors run away from it. I am glad Teboho doesn’t. We stand on the threshold of a new generation and we need to start redefining our images and the medium in our own voices. Not the voices of the West, but the voice from the heart. The imagery contained on the canvas of Portrait is one that I have not seen in a while. From the burning car, to the killer seeing himself carrying the coffin of his victim and eventually being carried off dead himself. Forget Yizo Yizo (but didn’t Yizo Yizo 2 just rock?), anyone wanting to praise young Teboho should get a copy of Portrait. There is pain in that movie. Not just some township guys getting down for a party. There is a call for change.

Portrait was part of a group of other films. That year Husk was nominated at Cannes. Husk is a good movie, but I still think they picked the wrong film. The imagery in Husk is very familiar. The imagery in Portrait is new. I wait with bated breath to see what the young man will paint for us next.

this article first appeared on coffeebeans.co.za

In the winter of 2000 I had a conversation with an Ethiopian filmmaker about Gavin Hood’s movie A Reasonable Man. The filmmaker in question felt that Hood’s movie was an insult to black people. He felt that Hood, who is white had no authority to be making a movie that dealt with certain issues that were pertinent to the black community. If I remember his words exactly he said, “The white man is so arrogant that not only does he come and dominate the African continent he also prescribes to the African people his interpretation of their culture”. I couldn’t help remember a line from the movie by the sangoma played by Nandi Nyembe. She is talking to Sean Raine (the hero of the story played by Gavin Hood):”You live in Africa. You are white. You are cursed.”

`A Reasonable Man’ draws attention to the dialogue that has been going on in African literature since independence.

Is Gavin Hood cursed? As a white director in Africa is he arrogantly prescribing to the black majority his authority on their culture? I am always weary of what I call “the white man cometh movies”. The Tarzans of this world. Is Gavin Hood’s Sean Raine a Tarzan type character?

A Reasonable Man is Gavin Hood’s first feature film. Based on an actual court case, it tells the story of a young Zulu herd boy, Sipho (Loyiso Gxwala) who is on trial for killing a baby. In his defence he claims he thought he was killing an evil spirit otherwise known as the tikoloshe in popular folklore. The prosecutor, Linde (played by Vusi Kunene) is ready to send him straight to jail and the defence wants him to plead insanity. Gavin Hood’s character, Sean Raine doesn’t believe that he is insane, he sincerely believes that he was killing an evil spirit.

Every society defines itself by its beliefs. My father used to tell me stories of how he would play in the forest and be worried about whether there was a ghost behind every tree. Many people don’t walk underneath a ladder. Can these things be put on trial? Is Gavin as writer-director attempting to preach to his black audience that its okay to have that belief in tikoloshe’s and that he (in the new guise of Tarzan) will save the young herd boy whose people have turned on him? Sipho’s first lawyer is black and she abandons the boy. Sean Raine is the only one who is ready to defend him. What comment is Gavin Hood making by casting Vusi Kunene as the black prosecutor who totally rejects the idea of the African superstitions? Linde (Kunene) is totally disgusted at Sean’s insistence that the boy thought he was killing an evil spirit. I would assume that Linde was also raised under the same circumstances as the young boy. He would have also herded cattle, would have also listened to the stories his grand fathers told him by moonlight and would have also bathed in the river. Of course, where he would have differed from young Sipho would be that he went to a University where he was educated and now his educated mind tells him that those beliefs that once his people held as gospel truth are backward. Is Gavin Hood arrogantly preaching that Linde is like most educated black people who cut ties with their hometown in favour of the sip of champagne and suit and tie? In his song Gentleman Fela Kuti says - “I no be gentleman at all. I be African man, original.” Is Linde an African man original? Not in Hood’s movie. Here he has total disregard for the culture that spawned him. According to Linde Africans can’t continue to defend their actions based on superstitions and such other fare. We live in a capitalist society and the sooner we realise it the better. Linde asks Sean “Why are you so keen to keep this country in the grip of the past?” to which Sean replies, “the past is very much a part of the present”. If the media is to be believed, most white people in the country want to forget the past and the black people keep on bringing it up.

That’s a generalisation. I do believe that there are pockets of the white society that have a mental block about the past but I think that it spreads also to the up and coming young blacks as well. I asked a certain Simunye presenter whether he had seen A Long Nights Journey Into Day and he replied that he’s more interested in the commercial stuff and proceeded to tell me about the brilliance of Stanley Kuberick’s Eyes Wide Shut. Is Gavin Hood deliberately giving his character the voice of the black people presented in a white body? Because I haven’t met any white person like Hood’s Sean Raine. Someone ready to accept the past with such openness. In this day and age the lines are being blurred so brilliantly that it doesn’t really matter what colour you are. Things that have been defined by being colour specific are being turned on their heads for better or for worse. As Charles Barkley, the former basketball star says, “the best golfer in the world is black and the best rapper is white,”. But in a society like South Africa where colour is everything, should we really nick pick this movie and scatter our brains about the representation?

Isn’t the brilliance of any art form in its ability to challenge us? I believe that when South Africa saw A Reasonable Man they missed out on a lot of things. Subtle things that I think make it definitely one of the most important movies to come out of the continent. You see, in A Reasonable Man, Gavin Hood does not play Tarzan. He plays the Devil’s advocate. He plays what the Yoruba’s call Esu-the trickster God. It is believed that Esu creates the chaos for change to occur. By turning the characters on their heads, Gavin is making us challenge our perceptions of how we view the country. His Sean Raine has been out of the country for a while, living in England. He has returned to be part of the NEW SOUTH AFRICA. Desmond Tutu’s RAINBOW NATION. He takes up a case to help a boy only to discover he doesn’t know anything about what he is doing. It’s like the new government inheriting a monster they have no idea how to run. In a documentary on Patrice Lumumba, a man says “Power is like a car. Independence (for African countries) was like handing to keys to people who couldn’t drive”. Are our new leaders ready to drive the country? Sean has to dig within himself before he can take the case further. He is forced to investigate his own selfish reasons for taking this case. He tells Judge Wendon (Nigel Hawthorne) that he left the country because he didn’t think he should spend six years in jail as a consciencious objector. He was also tired of being called up for military service. One second he is in a law room the next, 200km inside Angola.

There is an entire generation of Sean Raine’s out there walking around like De Niro’s character in Martin Scorsese’s Taxi Driver. Dealing with the nightmares of the war they were fighting in Angola. How many of our bank manager’s today sport smiles but only a few years ago were blasting the hell out of the ‘enemy’ in Angola? How many of them are dealing with that inner rage? When will they come out and scream from the roof tops “We need help?” Maybe they don’t. Maybe the culture of silence is the best bet. However Gavin Hood brings it out in the open. Sean wants to understand, like most people in this country should be. Sean has questions and seeks answers. Most importantly Sean seeks redemption for his crimes. Not redemption from apartheid but redemption for shooting a young black boy in Angola because he thought the boy was the ‘enemy’. He has to go to the sangoma to cleanse himself. Over a lovely remix of TKZee’s Palafala, Sean drives deep into the township to purge his soul of his guilt. “You live in Africa. You are white. You are cursed.” The sangoma talks about removing the snake from his body.

I am sure Gavin is not saying everyone should march to a sangoma and purge themselves, however his character is at least pro-active. As a film, A Reasonable Man makes its points without resorting to sledgehammer tactics. I have to disagree with my Ethiopian friend. I don’t find A Reasonable Man arrogant at all. I find it a very stimulating film and one that should have received more attention than it did. It highlights the plight of the new African debate. It draws attention to the dialogue that has been going on in African literature since independence. The point at which the black man went to England and returned whiter than the white man. In Soyinka’s Death And The Kings Horseman, a young Yoruba boy returns to bury his father. It is the tradition that when the King dies, his horseman dies with him. In this case however the regional British governor refuses to carry out the tradition and has the King’s horseman imprisoned so that the ceremony does not go on. The ensuing dialogue that goes on in the play is about the sacrifice of tradition at the expense of modernism. Because I am an educated reasonable man, does that mean that when I go back to my village I won’t kneel down and greet my grandmother? In Kwesi Brew’s poem Lest We Should Be the Last this dialogue is continued. The point at which the two cultures (Western and African) met and what is the way forward? The poem follows the story of a group of Africans who after dumping their traditional religion are going to meet the missionaries hoping that “Our hunger would be banished/ And our thirst assuaged” only to find that when they reach the Missionaries “Now we have come to you/And are amazed to find/Those you have love and respected/Mock you to your face.”

Question one: Is Gavin Hood a reasonable man? Vusi Kunene’s Linde tells us that “reasonable people don’t believe in ghosts and goblins. Reasonable people don’t kill”. Gavin Hood’s Sean Raine’s asks “Who in a multicultural society is a reasonable man?” Gavin Hood is a reasonable man. His question is one of concern, not one of arrogance. Who indeed in a multi cultural society like ours is a reasonable man? Me? You? Or her?

The Matrix
The image seems so familiar. It has the essence of being seen many times over and over again and yet we were all seeing it for the first time. I am reminded about The Matrix. Keanu Reeves’ character, Neo sees a black cat walk past him. Then he sees another black cat walk past him again. “De ja vu,” he says. He is stopped and questioned by a member of the pack about what he saw. It’s revealed that when there is a repetition of an image there is a glitch in the matrix. It’s the same Matrix that has a helicopter smash into a building. It is in the Matrix that Neo gets slammed against a building. Was that where the feeling of de ja vu was coming from? Was that where I saw it?

On the 11th of September I was putting final touches to my movie God Is African. It had rained that day and at the time when my friend Thuli called me, the sky was overcast. Her timing was off though. I was in the middle of explaining a cut to the editor, Francois. I told her I would call her back in a few minutes. I called her back the next week. Because what happened in those next few minutes will always be imprinted in the disk that keeps the memory of my experiences. I had my basketball in my hand and Francois left me to watch the scene with the new cut. Almost immediately he was back to tell me: a plane has just crashed into The World Trade Centre. Shit! I thought. As we walked to the dinning room to listen to the rest of the news, my mind overtook me and started constructing scenarios. Was the pilot drunk? Had he made a mistake and turned off course? Had the plane dropped from the sky and landed on the building? As we got there, we were just in time to see a second plane fly straight into the building. My phone rang. It was my mother. I thought she was phoning about the reality TV unfolding in front of me. She wasn’t. In fact she didn’t even know. Ironically, she was phoning to confirm my flight to Cape Town.

Didn’t I burst out laughing in the cinema when a car crashed into a building and came out on the other side? Didn’t we all smile when buildings exploded left right and centre and Bruce Willis/Steven Seagal/Arnold/Van Damme and who ever else came come running out without a scratch?

There is a word in Yoruba called odu. Loosely translated it means something isn’t true. As children we would watch movies and shout odu at anything that wasn’t real. Countless fights occurred in our backyards over what was true and what was an odu. Some believed that Bruce Lee could fly through the air like a bird. I believed there was trampoline somewhere. Did people die in movies? That was another odu. I remember asking my father whether the producers went out of their way to find people who were ready to die to take part in scenes that required a death scene. To this day I still can’t close my eyes at night without thinking of the scene from Death On The Nile where the killer puts a gun to the lady’s head. Up until that point the concept of being killed in your sleep wasn’t in my sub-consciousness - that film brought it there. Odu or not.

For as long as I remember I have always feared air travel. I don’t think it was linked to watching films that showed planes getting into disasters. I asked my mother why they made films that showed such disasters. She told me, it was to show that when such disasters occurred, the airlines had ways of dealing with it. The movies were supposed to be a reflection of the reality. An expose of the advancement of rescue services. I felt this could be an odu. My gripe with the air however, I think came from a different train of thought. Something about being so high and not being the one in control. When I was a teenager, a friend of mine’s grandfather tried to comfort me with these words of wisdom ‘remember the pilot knows that he is responsible for the lives of all the people aboard, there is no way he is going to let that plane go down’. I find that when I travel now, I often remember his words. I can’t say it makes me feel one hundred per cent but hey, it’s a security blanket. What I do when I am airborne now is sleep. Some people can’t sleep in the air. I can. After the meal, I doze. Wake me when we get there. Don’t wake me if we don’t reach it.

I watch that plane fly into the building and the scenarios let rip in my mind. If I were in the plane, what would I have done? How would I have behaved? It starts to play itself out like an action movie. The hijackers would announce whatever they have to announce and we are all shuffled to the back. Everyone would be scared. The camera would be on a steadicam, flying in and out of Close ups. Wasn’t that how they did it in Air Force One or was it in Executive Decision? The camera would zoom in on me looking outside trying to make sense of what’s going on. In my mind I would be thinking where are they going to land? Hijackers normally land in some stuffed up area to meet with people and then they make their demands. Isn’t that how they did it in Con Air? Didn’t the plane hit a building in Con Air? That image is now getting less blurry as I scroll the archives of celluloid I have in my memory. At what point would the camera make the passengers realise what was going on? Would the director opt for a deafening silence as a child looks out of his window and sees The World Trade Centre? Would the shot be from the reverse? A South African is making a presentation that morning in the building. Would the director show the presentation at an end and everyone with smiles on their faces? Someone looks out the window and finds it strange that a plane is headed towards the building. Close up on me and as that plane hits the building I would probably say some inane line like ‘I knew I should have gone to Nigeria’.

New York was on my list of places to go to. I haven’t been there in a while. I wanted to say hi to members of my family. Would I have gone to the World Trade Centre as a tourist that morning? I brace myself to imagine the sounds of the passengers on those planes. No sound designer could ever create that sound. No one would ever know that sound because to know it would mean that you were knocking on death’s door.

People talk about how ‘it looked like a movie’. When someone gets robbed and they describe the story they say, ‘it was like a movie’. The scene that blows my mind is the depth of knowledge the hijackers had of the visual medium. They knew that after the first plane hit, there would be cameras focused on the buildings. Cameras that would immortalise that second plane flying into the other building, forever. They didn’t want anyone trying to mess up their job with dodgy descriptions. To me those guys are no different to the two American boys who went into their high school and shot the place up, knowing fully well that they would be front-page news forever. There is even a video recording of them. In this day and age of reality TV (which I can’t stand) I wonder what the use of such reality shows are? The lines have been blurred so much that I question the reality I am living in. If I can describe to my friend an incident that happened to me and break the story down into fast motion bits and slow motion like a movie, then aren’t we, like The Truman Show actors in a great sound stage? A movie pretends to be reality, reality pretends to be a movie, contestants go on TV representing reality in a make believe reality (Big Brother can you hear me?). If someone is watching me, I pray that they got all the right coverage.

There is another angle I wish to be photographed. On the cover of the newspapers were the pictures of the victims. On the news were the various memorials being erected to the victims. I wanted someone to reverse that camera angle. I want to see the faces of the Palestinian children that have been killed. I want to see the faces of the lives lost in the US Embassy bombing in Kenya and Tanzania last year. Who has that footage? Who covered those stories? Where is that tape and if anyone can hear me, can it be viewed? I want to have the whole experience. I don’t want to see only one picture. I want to see all the pictures. I want to hear all the stories. I want to watch a film by an Arab filmmaker telling me the story I haven’t been told in the press. Can someone commission that movie and have it play across the world?

I dreamt that I was in a plane last night. The dream was vivid in that everyone seemed to be carrying knives. At a certain time, someone got up and said he was hijacking the plane. We were all bundled to one side of the plane. I was pissed off. I think there was an atmosphere of ‘which building are you going to fly us into?’ This guy was on some other stuff though. He was flying the plane into the sea! I had a look out of the window and watched as the sea came towards us-bracing myself for the moment when my memory and experiences would disappear forever in the flames of the sea. The plane didn’t explode. It broke. Next thing I knew I was walking around in one of those white robes and glowing in green like in a movie. I was a ghost but I wasn’t ready to accept it like Patrick Swayze in Ghost. Then suddenly I felt myself being lifted up like that shot from Martin Scorsese’s Last Temptation of Christ when they hoist the Lord up. I opened my eyes in the dream and I was alive and in hospital. That flight my mother confirmed for me, I take on Saturday the 29th. I have no idea how I would react in the plane now. My number one position has always been fear, so I am probably terrified now.

I watch that plane fly through that building and I want to turn the camera in a different direction. I want to record something else. I want to record the scenes where such decisions are made. Would it be a high angle shot covering the smoky images like the scene in Malcolm X, where the killers are getting their guns ready? Who would have come up with those lines? We are going to fly a plane into the World Trade Centre. Would the camera track around like the opening scene in Reservoir Dogs? What kind of music would be playing? I would want to record the scene where the pilots are selected to do the mission. Is there a moment of silence? Is it pure gung ho? How would the hijackers look at the passengers when they seated. What raced through their minds as the airhostess went through the safety procedures? At what point in the scene would they identify each other with eye contact and know that, it’s going down now!

When I went to bed on Monday the tenth, the only thing on my mind was finishing my movie. When I went to sleep the next night my world had turned upside down. The President Of The United States speaks like he is in a movie. He says “There’s a saying out West. Wanted dead or alive.” Very Magnificent Seven. In this time as the world waits for the next step, and there are theories going back and forth, I turn to JFK. Kevin Costner says “..the official legend is created (in reference to Lee Harvey Oswald) and the media takes it from there. The glitter of official lies and the epic splendour of the thought numbing funeral of JFK confuse the eye and confound the understanding.” I am trying to have my eyes wide open, trying to see beyond the glitter, for the real picture.

this article first appeared on coffeebeans.co.za

I grew up in a military state. I can’t explain to people what it was like going to bed one night with one head of state and waking up the next morning and being told that during the course of the night there had been a coup and new head of state was in power.

I almost did not get in to see Thierry Michel’s documentary Mobutu-King Of Zaire, an African Tragedy, when it was playing at the Sterkinekor cinema in Rosebank. So much for African films don’t bring in the audiences. The audience was there in full effect and according to the guy behind the till the cinema had been packed the whole week. People had come to watch one of Africa’s son’s on the screen. A man who seemed larger than life. A man who managed to make his people think he was a god. Who won’t, if every night before the news, you saw your president emerging from the clouds? I had read in a magazine that before the news there was a shot of Mobutu coming down from the clouds. At the time I thought this was ridiculous. Watching it at the cinema was eerie. The clouds are parting and Mobutu’s image starts to appear. He seems to float above the clouds. He looks like a god, the music praising him may as well be saying ‘welcome to earth o mighty one’ and this happened every night before the news! There were a lot of Congolese people in the audience that night. When Sakombi Inongo, Mobutu’s former Minister Of Information tells the filmmaker how he came up with the idea and how much Mobutu loved it, there were scattered laughs in the audience. But what I noticed was the silence. The silence of the people that remembered what that image meant. The image of their President descending from the skies. Of course all they needed was someone to take them on a crash course of the tricks of the visual medium and all would have been solved.

I grew up in a military state. I can’t explain to people what it was like going to bed one night with one head of state and waking up the next morning and being told that during the course of the night there had been a coup and new head of state was in power. That’s like going to sleep here with Thabo Mbeki as President and waking up the next morning to hear that Tony Leon is the new President! People here would take to the streets. The people in 1961 didn’t seem to have much choice. Aft