Los Conductos starts off like Robert Bresson’s A Man Escaped. A Dostoyevsky-esque man of the shadows (like the protagonist of Notes from Underground) peers out of the shadows watching the source of some footsteps nearby. He disappears and a gun appears. Shots are fired. The outcast steps out from the darkness and peers into the fresh bullet hole in his target. As the camera zooms closer to the wound, it cuts to a petrol pump being inserted into the petrol tank of a motorbike (a technique most recently used in Uncut Gems). Our shadow dweller, Pinky, reappears, robs the motorbike and escapes. It’s a minimalist opening that uses editing to generate the action and excitement without explicitly showing any violence.
The minimalist thriller opening doesn’t last as this film switches styles throughout. Here’s a quick list of all the different styles I caught in the film:
Music video: Pinky takes drugs and we get a close up of two Pinky heads bopping madly to very loud music. Reminiscent of the music and drug driven scenes in Trainspotting.
Documentary: The scenes in the print shop are static and slow, showing the workers guiding the printing machines without any narrative. Feels like Sergei Lonitza’s Factory, revealing the everyday workings of the factory.
Storytelling: A well-trimmed copy of Pinky tells his double a story about The Fallen Devil, adding mystery to the film like the storytelling of Andrea Bussmann’s Fausto and Mariano Llinas’ Extraordinary Stories.
Sketch Comedy: There’s even a scene in which Pinky and his double appear as clowns in a go-kart patrolling the streets of Bogota.
The stylistic mashup reminded me a bit of Pedro Manrique Figueroa’s collages, explored in Ospina’s A Paper Tiger, which bring together conflicting images to create political statements. In Los Conductos, the mix of styles construct Colombia as a nation built upon a mix of histories. Without a solid past, the country has no solid foundations to move forward from or even exist upon.
It isn’t helped by our single narrator, who we never feel like we can fully trust. He’s a murderer and junkie, plus he also splits into two characters at one point. Hardly elements that build a trustworthy narrator. He even looks like he’s been living in a cave for a few months, with wild unkempt hair and a long beard. But, whilst we can’t fully trust him, he’s a great candidate for narrator on the state of Colombia. Who best to comment on society, then someone who seems to exist outside of it? He’s experienced a lot and followed a range of cults and philosophies. He shows us Medellin from the street: inside the factories and vacant lots; and from above: through many shots of the city lit up from the hills he lives in.
From his perspective, we see the failures of consumer culture and capitalism in Colombia. The warehouses producing fake t-shirts to sell on the black market that Pinky works in, are ironically the only way Pinky can earn an ‘honest’ living. The mountains of garbage become Pinky’s search for treasure, a physical scar on the land courtesy of the endless waste produced by capitalism. Plus, there’s a distinct lack of care for the average worker. Pinky is forced onto the street by the factory and lives an existence as a forgotten man. This Colombia is cold and heartless.
Camilo Restrepo makes sure you feel it too by embodying a physicality into his film. The 16mm film gives the picture a graininess that you believe you could reach out and feel, whilst the close up of hands constructing, drawing, holding objects pulls you closer to the action, making it feel more tangible, like you’re controlling a character in a first person video game. You’re a part of the puzzle of Colombian society, and you, with the help of Pinky are given an opportunity to try and figure it out.
Death of Nintendo feels a lot like your typical nostalgic American middle school coming of age story. It has a group of friends that are desperate to become more popular than they are and a lot of pop culture references. However, there are a few unique Filipino elements in Death of Nintendo that you’re unlikely to see in American productions: a volcano, a body eating monster, and circumcision. These help the film to stand out in a pretty crowded genre.
A strong nostalgia for the early 1990’s is what hits you at the start of Death of Nintendo. It starts with two kids slotting colorful Nintendo games into their Nintendo, something that many 90’s kids will happily remember doing. Then in the following 15 minutes, you’ll hear hip hop and dancehall, and see them skateboarding and playing basketball in Nike shoes. The combination of visual and aural references quickly sets the film within the 1990’s. The way it’s presented, lit up in vibrant colors under the Filipino sun and with a few slow motion takes, makes sure it looks good enough to evoke a warm nostalgia for the era. If you’re a 90’s kid, this opening will make you want to be back in your happy childhood memories.
We’re knocked out of the nostalgic 1990’s childhood opening by a bully and love. The American bully disrupts their love for all things American, whilst their young love prompts a quick quest to grow up and become men. Being men = being popular and being popular = girls and no bullies. However, to become men, they have to embrace their Filipino identity. They have to come to terms with the volcano which threatens their neighborhood, their fear of the Manananggal (a Filipino man-eating mythical creature), and finally, they have to get circumcised (to help them grow and turn into men). Plus, they have to figure this all out on their own. Neither of the three boys have a fatherly role model to guide them through puberty, which perhaps leads to their strange idea of how to become men.
The 1990’s references and coming-of-age tropes are all taken from American culture. Without the Filipino references (volcano, Manananggal, and circumcision) and Tagalog, you’d be forgiven for thinking this was a U.S. film. Whilst every international film shouldn’t have to set out cultural identifiers to situate it within the country it was made, they should try and differentiate themselves from existing films and make something new. Whilst Death of Nintendo is an enjoyable coming of age film from the Philippines, there’s not too much to help it stand out from an already crowded genre of nostalgic coming of age films.
However, don’t let that stop you from watching more films from Raya Martin. Manila, a film he co-directed with Adolfo Alix Jr. is much darker and intriguing. Read our review here.
This Is Not a Burial, It’s a Resurrection is not your typical film. It’s pretty slow paced and full of carefully crafted shots, reminiscent of director Lemohang Jeremiah Mosese’s debut, Mother I Am Suffocating. This is My Last Film About You. However, unlike his debut documentary feature, This Is Not a Burial, Its a Resurrection is Mosese’s first fictional feature film. But don’t expect an easy to follow narrative, as like a Lav Diaz film (see From What is Before), it requires a lot of interpretation. If you put in the effort, you’ll be rewarded with a beautiful constructed film touching on a wide range of themes covering death, community, progress, and the environment.
This Is Not a Burial, Its a Resurrection starts chaotically with a slow motion shot of a group of horses being attacked by tribesmen. This opening shot doesn’t appear to serve any contextual purpose, as the horses or tribesmen never reappear later in the film, but it does create a sense of uneasiness which prevents us from settling into the film. This feeling continues into the next scene in which a camera slowly pans around a dark empty bar with the eerie sounds of a lesiba instrument playing in the background. The cameras stops on a uniquely dressed man who starts giving us clues about what we are about to see. He doesn’t reveal much, as he uses a lot of legends and proverbs which don’t mean much to us at this point, but his speech indicates that we’ll have to be an active viewer and search for deeper meaning in the rest of the film.
We finally meet our main protagonist Mantoa in the next scene. She’s an eighty-something woman living alone in remote valley in Lesotho, which is a days trip from the nearest town. Her last son has passed away, so she’s now the last one left in her family. As a result, all she craves now is her own death, so she sets about planning her own funeral. Until her time comes, she carries on with the futility of her life, attending local community meetings and covering cracks in her mud floor. However, her patience is disrupted by news that the local government are planning to flood the area with the construction of a big dam. Not only does the dam disrupt the plans for her own burial, but it will also force the relocation of her buried family. As the main figure leading the resistance against the dam, she becomes more and more distanced from her community and religion. Her death isn’t a physical one, but a death from her community and cultural roots as the country ruthlessly pushes forward in the name of progress.
The narrative is sparse, but the look and feel of the film is incredibly rich. One way Mosese adds a unique richness is through his use of a taller 1:33:1 aspect ratio which gives the picture slightly more height. The extra vertical space allows the sky to dominate every image by taking up almost half of the screen for each landscape shot. In contrast, the people in the community are largely confined to the bottom third of each landscape shot. This framing adds power to the sky and nature, and diminishes the significance of the people below. Their lives and the things they do, such as building dams, are impermanent compared to the eternal nature of the sky (and heaven?). The taller aspect ratio therefore enforces the futility of not just Mantoa, but the futility of humanity as a whole.
The futility of humanity is enforced by the feeling generated by the films’ soundtrack. Firstly, listen to the trailer for this film without watching it. It sounds like a horror film. There’s the unique muffled bursts of the lesiba combined with a horror 101 mix of piano notes, scratchy strings, and ascending voices. This soundscape plays throughout the film to viscerally convey the confusion, anger, and sadness that Mantoa feels on her quest to join her dead family. But the sounds used in horror films also signifies the presence of the spiritual realm. Just as the taller aspect ratio gives more power to the sky and nature at the expense of the significance of humanity, the soundtrack bolsters the dominance of the spiritual over the physical human bodies. It reminds us that we’re not in control of our own fate.
The unsettling opening, sparse narrative, and rich look and feel of the film make This is Not a Burial, It’s a Resurrection feel enigmatic. By the end, it feels like you’ve just watched a piece of art. You might have understood a bit of the film and felt its power and beauty, but you will finish it feeling that it’s full meaning is unattainable. It’s mystery is the mystery of life.
A Storm Was Coming starts with a still shot of the landscape of Equatorial Guinea. Slowly, the landscape becomes more and more overexposed until the shot is completely whitewashed and the landscape has disappeared. This visual example of whitewashing to start A Storm Was Coming is a style that director Jose Fernandez Vasquez uses throughout the film to represent the Spanish Empire’s eradication of the culture of Equatorial Guinea.
The Spanish Empire controlled Equatorial Guinea until 1968. As presented by the Spanish texts from the Francoist era which are read in the film, their rule was benevolent. Colonialism and the power structures it left ensured that an indigenous voice didn’t arise to challenge the Spanish hegemony. This one sided history is represented throughout the film through the scenes of a white man recording Spanish history and the lack of indigenous representation.
Scenes of a white Spanish man in a recording studio reading passages from bibliographies of Spanish colonists make up the bulk of A Storm Was Coming. The passages, which are being recorded in a studio in Madrid, present a one sided view of the history of Equatorial Guinea from the capital of the colonizers. These scenes are visually supported by images of different Spanish missions in Equatorial Guinea appearing out of a blank screen, as if they’re appearing on white photographic paper processed in the photographic darkroom. Their appearance from nothing, perpetuates the controversial colonial viewpoint that colonialism ‘civilized’ their colonies, providing infrastructure, culture, and history. It’s a viewpoint that erases all pre-colonial history, as if nothing of significance existed before the colonists’ arrival. The director combines images of Spanish missions appearing from ‘nothing’ with the reading of Spanish colonial texts to demonstrate the Spanish hegemony of written, aural, and visual Equatoguinean history.
Whilst the voices of Spanish colonists are being preserved, the voices of the colonized have been lost. We hear from a few Bubi people (one of the indigenous groups in Equatorial Guinea), but we never see them on screen. They tell us about Esaasi Eweera, a Bubi leader who tried to resist the Spanish Empire. He’s a heroic leader in their eyes, but his resistance is diminished in Spanish texts. As a result, he has almost disappeared from history, just as the place of his birth has disappeared under overgrown bush. Furthermore, whilst the film spends a lot of time documenting the Spanish voices in Madrid and showing images of Spanish missions, the only pictures of native Equatoguinean people are flashed onto the screen for less than half of a second. Their lack of representation emphasizes how the Spanish rule has lasted visually and aurally, seared onto the minds of the native and Spanish people. In contrast, the Bubi have disappeared from the past and present; they don’t even appear in the film.
Well, at least until the very last scene. To prevent enforcing the Spanish narrative the film reveals, the director, a Spanish filmmaker himself, ends A Storm Was Coming with a face on interview with Bubi scholar Justo Bolekia Boleká. It’s the first time the director shows a native Equatoguinean on screen, giving him more respect than the other characters with a face to face interview. It’s also the first time we hear the Bube language. Ending with Justo Bolekia Boleká and his daughter reciting a Bubi poem in Bube, reveals one thing the Spanish couldn’t eradicate: memory. It’s an ending statement that shows that Bubi culture still survives, despite the Spanish cultural and historical hegemony which still holds power today.
Watched on Festival Scope Pro. This film screened at the Berlinale Forum 2020.
As the film industry recovered from the surprises from the Academy Awards and started preparing trips to the European film market in Berlin, I took some time out to cover the 28th edition of the Pan African Film Festival (PAFF). Taking place in Black History Month, PAFF is the largest black film festival in the United States. It’s also one of the largest film festivals in Los Angeles, and it’s situated just under 7 miles south of Hollywood in Baldwin Hills. If you’re looking for a wide range of black films from around the world, this is the festival you need to attend.
Whilst it doesn’t have the star status of Cannes, Venice, or Toronto, the Pan African Film Festival did have an incredibly wide range of African and Afro-Latin films in its 225 film schedule. This is exactly why PAFF had been on my calendar for the last few months. Where else can you see films from so many African and Caribbean countries without hopping on a plane?
Anyway, let’s get into it. You’ve probably read some of the reviews posted on the PAFF page, but what was the festival actually like?
The Audiences
Whilst the audience at SBIFF was old and white, I didn’t notice more than a handful of old white viewers throughout the entire 12 day schedule at PAFF. The audience at PAFF was mostly Black. I guess this isn’t surprising given that this is the largest Black film festival in the United States happening in one of the oldest Black communities in Los Angeles. However, it was disappointing to see a lack of support for Black films from the rest of Los Angeles. Especially as these films are almost always overlooked in favor of big Hollywood releases and European art-house films every year.
It was also nice not being the youngest person in the audience for every screening. The majority of the audience was middle aged, but there were a few young faces in almost all of the screenings; either young kids brought by their parents or college students. That being said, the percentage of viewers under 25 was much lower than what I’ve seen at the BFI London Film Festival. To bring it up again, the BFI’s program for offering discounted tickets to anyone under 25 just before the screenings start, would be a great way to fill empty seats whilst boosting a younger audience.
The City
The Pan African Film Festival takes place in Los Angeles, but, if you’ve visited Los Angeles before, you’ll know that it’s a place made up of many small cities. Instead of spreading out from a center like London, Berlin, and Toronto (other big cities with big film festivals) Los Angeles doesn’t have a definitive center. As a result, there isn’t a focus to the city or a center that you can walk from sight to sight on a sightseeing tour. So whilst the Pan African Film Festival takes place in Los Angeles, it’s more helpful to say that it takes place in Baldwin Hills, a neighborhood in South Los Angeles.
Specifically, PAFF takes place at the Cinemark by the Baldwin Hills Crenshaw Mall. It’s a perfect location for a film festival in Los Angeles because: there’s a lot of free parking, there’s a lot of cheap food options in the mall food court, and it’s easy to drive to (yes Los Angeles is a car city). You can also get there on public transport by taking the train to the Expo/Crenshaw metro stop and walking south along Crenshaw. It’s only a 15 minute walk. Although as mentioned, this is Los Angeles, so you’ll probably be the only person walking.
One of the best things about the mall, besides the cheap food options, is the art festival that takes place as part of the film festival. It features a lot of stalls selling African art, clothes, and beauty products. Perfect if you’re looking for a souvenir.
The Experience
Unlike the mess of lines that plague other film festivals, PAFF was pretty well managed. This was probably because it took place in one of Cinemark’s most popular theaters in the country. It has the capacity to accommodate over 3,000 people in it’s 16-18 screens (where all the screenings took place). Plus, buying tickets was a breeze thanks to the ticket selling screens and many box office assistants. PAFF was convenient and stress free; buying tickets, queuing, and getting to your screening was easy.
The proportion of talent attendance was also probably higher than any other festival I’ve attended. Approximately 50% of the screenings were complemented by Q&A’s featuring key talent from the films. This was an even more impressive figure given that most of these artists had traveled from Africa with their first U.S. visas.
The Films
Last, but not least, how were the movies?
Firstly, the selection at PAFF was impressively diverse even though if focused solely on black films. It featured 225 films from 52 countries in 26 languages. To put that into perspective, the Santa Barbara International Film Festival had films from 50 countries, 2 countries behind PAFF. That being said, the quality of the films was pretty erratic. There were a handful of gems from first time filmmakers (see below) which was a welcome surprise, but also a handful of films that appeared to still be in the developmental stage or stuck in clichés.
The feature Films
As mentioned, the feature film selection at PAFF was very hit or miss, which I guess is to be expected from countries without established film industries. I was lucky enough to see 14 feature films during my time at the festival. Here’s how they stacked up. Click the links to read the full reviews.
With a great look, an easy to follow but intelligent story, and two great characters, The Mercy of the Junglewas the best film I saw at PAFF. It was a faultless all rounder that I hope gets a U.S. release in the not too distant future.
The Runner Up: 2
In second place was Tenere a feature documentary from a first time filmmaker. The incredible footage of the migrant journey across the desert on a Mad Max-esque truck is what makes this documentary so awesome.
The Art-House Gems: 3-5
Following up the top two, Right Near the Beach, Verde, and Black Mexicanswere three great art-house films that should be welcome at film festivals worldwide. I’m particularly excited to see what the debut filmmakers behind the first two do next.
Popular Films Done Well: 6-10
Kings of Mulberry Streetand Granma Nineteen and the Soviet’s Secretwere two entertaining coming of age stories that all audiences should be able to appreciate. Redemption and Desrances were two thrillers set in bad times – the former an ex-con struggling with a corrupt system and the latter set in a post-revolution post-apocalyptic Cote d’Ivoire. Lastly, Bigman Wahalawas the best mainstream comedy that I saw at PAFF, sparked by the rapport between the two main characters.
The Not So Good: 11-14
Subirawas the best of the rest, but it was let down by an un-empowering and cheesy story-line. Gonarezhou: The Movie, Ekoua, and Kijiji Changu all suffered from a lack of production quality and the lack of a well thought out script.
The Short Films
In contrast to the feature films at PAFF, the short films from the Pan African and Films in Paradise short series were consistently good. Here’s our rankings for what we saw:
If you live in Los Angeles, you need to add PAFF to your film festival calendar. It’s schedule of African and Black film is unparalleled in the United States. The programmers also obviously made an effort to seek out films from debut filmmakers. Their risks paid off, as there were a bunch of gems that I wouldn’t have had the chance to see otherwise. So put in some effort and come to PAFF in 2021.
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