The Sound of Silence

Sound is an important aspect of film that many people take for granted. In most Hollywood movies the soundtrack provides cues for the audience indicating how to feel about certain characters or situations. For instance, a tense or frightening scene will be set to music that creates anxiety in the audience (like this iconic score from Psycho: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o_XfUxXDldY&feature=related) and a romantic scene will have music that makes the audience feel warm and fuzzy inside (like this scene from Titanic: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8MDPeL8lpzo). The soundtrack has become an integral part of the movie-watching experience, even to the point where the music carries as much weight as any of the actors. Given this, it is surprising to encounter a film in which music plays little or no role. This is the case in Nick Hughes’ film 100 Days, a heartbreaking chronicle of the horrific events which took place amidst the Hutu extermination of the Tutsi during the Rwandan genocide of 1994. Far from being a problematic omission, the noticeable absence of a dramatic or emotional soundtrack in this film allows the filmmaker to convey his ideas through the careful use of silence.

The scene: Josette, the female protagonist, is running through the forest and behind her is an indistinguishable male character who appears to be in hot pursuit. With no music in the background to influence our interpretation, it is unclear whether she is running away in fear or in playfulness. When the man finally catches up with her, we learn that he is her boyfriend, Baptiste, and that they have simply been playing a game. However, the ambiguous tension of this scene foreshadows the later chase scenes in the film in which the intentions of the pursuer are decidedly more threatening. Shortly thereafter, the filmmaker again uses silence to create tension, only this time the threat is real.

The scene: Josette’s brother Pierre enters the vandalized home of Baptiste’s family and slowly creeps towards the back room where he finds their mutilated bodies, courtesy of a gang of Hutu men. Instead of a dramatic crescendo, the only sound is the crunching of glass under Pierre’s feet. Hughes doesn’t need background music to help the audience understand what’s going on, the action speaks for itself. In fact, the ominous silence punctuated by the crackling glass is worse because it heightens your anticipation of a loud noise to come (in this case a two person film crew that comes barreling around the house to do an interview about the deaths). In these and many other scenes throughout the movie, Hughes uses oppressive and uncomfortable silence to create intense agitation in the viewers and to force their attention to the action of the scene.

The scene: after convincing Josette’s mother that the only way to protect her daughter from the Hutus is to place her into his custody, a priest takes Josette to his room and rapes her. The only sounds are the deafening creaks of the bedsprings and her muffled whimpering. The lack of any background music in this scene means that the viewer cannot escape the disturbing sounds of the rape; we are trapped just like Josette. The silence also draws our attention to the lack of a significant struggle on her part; she doesn’t scream or cry out for help. Perhaps the silence is also a tacit acknowledgment of the futility of speaking out when there is no one to rescue you. The inadequacy of the armed forces portrayed in the film in preventing the massacres also reinforces the idea that no one hears the Tutsi’s calls for help. Hughes’ use of silence in the film may have been purposely intended to make a statement about the actions of the U.N. and the rest of the world (who clearly weren’t listening) in relation to the Rwandan genocide.

The scene: Baptiste, now a member of the RPF (Rwandan Patriotic Front), finds Josette living in the church of the priest who raped and impregnated her. Together they sit outside, their bodies turned away from each other and neither one saying a word. This scene is in stark contrast with their earlier, playful and loving encounter in the forest. The silence reflects her shame at her pregnancy and his feelings of betrayal. Although their suffering could be alleviated with speech (she doesn’t tell him about the rape), they are consumed by their personal demons. This scene is especially powerful because it shows the difficulty of speaking about genocide, or the inadequacy of language to address such horrific experiences. Not only does the film use silence as a dramatic technique (i.e. creating tension), it is effective thematically as well. 100 Days is a perfect example of a film that conveys its meaning without the ubiquitous crutch of a soundtrack. The rest is silence.

The Mother in the Subway

The following poem was inspired by the final short story in Ama Ata Aidoo's collection No Sweetness Here, which is entitled "Other Versions." In this story a college student from Ghana, Kofi, leaves his country to study in the United States. Before he departs, he tries to give his mother some money that he earned at his summer job, but she refuses him. Instead he is instructed to give the money to his father. Kofi is shaken by his mother's refusal and one night he tries to give money to a woman in the subway who reminds him of his mother. I wrote this poem to describe that scene from the point of view of the woman. Enjoy!

It was
late night
too late
perhaps
for a woman
like me
riding alone
in a subway
But
those bills
won’t pay
themselves
will they?
Listen,
I don’t mind
really
the gentle rocking
of the car
the blur
of the lights
…it’s home
As I was
saying,
a man
gets on
at 14th
Not from here
clearly
his dress
and
his walk
out of place
But listen,
he stared
that’s right
STARED
at me
I clutched
my handbag
and wrapped
my body
tighter
in my raincoat
Don’t look
at me like
that
I’m still here
aren’t I?
He fumbles
with his wallet
and…
get this…
he hands me
a wad
of cash
Yes, cash
The boy
(for I see
now
that he is
young)
is from Africa
a student
and I
remind him
of his mother
poor thing
Sitting
next to me
now
he looks
at my face
with a strange
expression:
awe, frustration, love
We sit
in silence
staring:
seconds, minutes, hours?
From the platform
he watches
as I wave
goodbye
What? Of course
I didn’t
take the money
What kind of
mother
would I be
if I had?

Bakayoko

The strike that informs the plot of Sembene Ousmane’s novel God’s Bits of Wood is more than a struggle for worker’s rights and benefits; it is a catalyst for radical change in the communities along the Dakar-Niger railroad in West Africa. Throughout the novel Ousmane masterfully navigates the complex issues that arise in a society forced to question its deeply held prejudices and traditions. Although he is clearly on the side of the strikers, Ousmane does not deify them; his characters are realistically flawed. Such is the case with Bakayoko, the ideologue at the heart of the strike, who does not appear in person until late in the novel but whose name is on everyone’s lips from the very beginning. In the following excerpt Bakayoko is criticized by another strike leader, Alioune, about his methods:

“[Alioune] was annoyed by the way Bakayoko had spoken about Beaugosse, because he knew the story of N’Deye Touti and the boy. He lay down again and said very softly, as if he were talking to himself, ‘You know, the difficult thing about you is that although you understand the problems very well, you don’t understand men—or if you do understand them, you never show it. But you expect them to understand every word you say, and if they don’t, you lose your temper. Then they become timid, because they know they are not as intelligent as you are, and they don’t like to be made fools of. So the result is that no one dares to do anything when you are not around…I ought to tell you that I wrote a letter to Lahbib about it. You were already on the way here when it was sent, but now you won’t be surprised if he mentions it to you’” (209-210).

This paragraph is surprising because it is the first outright criticism of Bakayoko, who for most of the book is resoundingly praised by the strikers. However, upon further inspection, Alioune’s statement turns out to be dead-on. In his response to Alioune, Bakayoko admits to having lost his sense of perspective, comparing himself to a train conductor who thinks only of the final destination and not the concerns of the passengers. The situation Alioune refers to regarding Beaugosse and N’Deye is representative of Bakayoko’s shortcomings. N’Deye is strongly attracted to Bakayoko and Beaugosse (who wants to marry her) is jealous and resentful. And yet Bakayoko is oblivious to this insignificant (to him) human drama and cruelly rejects N’Deye’s later suggestion of marriage. In addition, he doesn’t recognize that all of the intelligence and knowledge he has gathered from Western political books has put up a wall between him and the people, even though he is using those ideas for their benefit. While the strikers may admire Bakayoko, they feel closer to leaders like Alioune and Lahbib who are more attuned to their interests. They were the ones who were around during the times of deprivation and hardship when Bakayoko was nowhere to be found.

Of course, despite his flaws, Bakayoko plays a key role in the strike. It is suggested that he is the strike’s originator and he definitely traveled extensively in an effort to convince all of the towns along the railway to join in. He is successful in persuading the other worker’s unions of French-occupied West Africa to join the strike, which tips the scales and leads to victory. He provides the ideological underpinnings of the strike, but theory must coexist with reality, and as Alioune says, he does not understand men (or women for that matter). Bakayoko has some radical ideas about how society should be, but he’s out of touch with how it is. Strike leaders like Lahbib are necessary intermediaries between Bakayoko’s ideology and the reality of the people, without them it would never work.

When the strike is over, Bakayoko returns home and leaves the strike leaders to deal with the practical arrangements that must be made. He had an important role to play, but Ousmane leaves no doubt in the readers’ minds that he is a flawed and limited character. He is not the savior that he appeared to be at the beginning of the novel. To drive home his point about the tension between theory and reality (or Bakayoko and the common man), Ousmane writes (at the end of Alioune and Bakayoko’s late night conversation), “A voice from the other side of the office interrupted [Bakayoko]. ‘What you are saying is very interesting, but also very tiring. Tomorrow is going to be a hard day’” (210).

Work Cited
Ousmane, Sembene. God's Bits of Wood. Essex, UK: Heinemann, 1970. Print.

The Importance of Costumes in Sia

In A Short Guide to Writing about Film, Timothy Corrigan writes that costumes provide “the key to a character’s identity” (58). This is especially true in the film Sia: The Dream of the Python, which chronicles the political intrigue surrounding a young woman who is chosen as a sacrifice to the Python-God. Not only does costuming provide insight into the various characters, it also illustrates the changes that they undergo as the narrative develops. Most importantly, the costumes highlight and underscore the film’s critique of politics and religion.

The first costumes that the audience encounters are the robes of the priests, who are purportedly engaged in a ritual to determine the will of the Python-God. The physical appearance of these robes (long and dark with hoods covering their eyes) shrouds these men in mystery and mysticism and gives the audience no reason to doubt that they are communing with the gods. Likewise, the emperor and the townspeople are taken in by their appearance and do not doubt their authority (although some of the villagers are skeptical). In the scene before Sia’s rape, the priests are revealed without their hoods, smoking and drinking like any other men. It doesn’t take too long for the audience to realize that they have been taken in by the costumes; these priests are merely men acting on their carnal urges.

In other cases costumes do not obscure the characters’ true nature, but underline them. For instance, Kaya Maghan (the emperor) is dressed in an opulent purple robe and tasseled hat that represent his power and wealth. This costume also serves to illustrate the distance between him and his people (a circumstance he frequently bemoans but is ultimately unable to rectify). When he realizes the impotence of his advisors he strips off his outer robe and hat as if that act will puncture the bubble in which he lives. However, underneath he is still wearing a gold tunic and he is still no closer to knowing his people. The village madman, Kerfa, also has a distinctive form of dress which sets him apart from the majority of the townspeople. The audience can immediately tell that he is different from everyone else. His cape and raggedy shirt lead the people to think that he is a lunatic (as well as his rambling speech), but as the story unfolds we find that he is the only one who sees things clearly. If he is mad, it’s because he understands what’s going on and is powerless to stop it.

The changes to Mamadi’s costume over the course of the film highlight the problems with the emperor’s government. He starts out in the garb of a soldier, which indicates his susceptibility to being controlled by others (particularly by his uncle Wakhane). All of the soldiers in the film are portrayed as mindless automatons doing the bidding of the people in power, even when it involves brutalizing the townspeople. Wakhane fills Mamadi with his own political ambitions until the latter becomes the new emperor and dons Kaya Maghan’s robes. In case the symbolism of this was not clear enough, Mamadi kills Wakhane for disagreeing with him and perpetuates the cycle of totalitarian regimes. Although Wakhane had earlier told Mamadi that they would be “reinventing the world” by overthrowing the emperor, they have merely upheld the status quo.

Sia’s costume transformations throughout the film are also highly significant. She starts out dressed like the other women at the river and is largely indistinguishable from the rest. When she is singled out to be sacrificed, her separation from the community begins. This is symbolized by her presence at Kerfa’s house on the outskirts of the village. The strikingly white dress and scarf she wears as a part of the sacrifice ritual are a visual representation of her distance from the community (they also symbolize her virginity). After the rape she tells Mamadi that she feels “soiled.” Her costume, which is torn and muddied, is a physical representation of this. As a part of Wakhane’s attempt to legitimize Mamadi’s rule and downplay the trauma that Sia has undergone, she is dressed as a queen and paraded before the people. However, she quickly realizes what the men are trying to do to her and (more importantly) to the truth and she strips off the costume. Now mostly naked, she leaves the palace and the community behind and becomes mad like Kerfa, wandering the streets of a modern-day city in a cape and shouting her wisdom to the passing cars. The lesson: After all these years people are still blinded by falsehoods and no one heeds the lone voice of truth.

Welcome!

Hi, my name is Heidi and this blog was created for an African Film and Literature class that I am taking at CSUN in Fall 2010. I named my last blog after a poem, so I thought I'd do the same for this one. To me this poem is about immersing oneself in the unfamiliar in order to "see" it, which seems a good way to approach this class (among other things).

"How to See Deer"
by Philip Booth

Forget roadside crossings.
Go nowhere with guns.
Go elsewhere your own way,

lonely and wanting. Or
stay and be early:
next to deep woods

inhabit old orchards.
All clearings promise.
Sunrise is good,

and fog before sun.
Expect nothing always;
find your luck slowly.

Wait out the windfall.
Take your good time
to learn to read ferns;

make like a turtle:
downhill toward slow water.
Instructed by heron,

drink the pure silence.
Be compassed by wind.
If you quiver like aspen

trust your quick nature:
let your ear teach you
which way to listen.

You've come to assume
protective color; now
colors reform to

new shapes in your eye.
You've learned by now
to wait without waiting;

as if it were dusk
look into the light falling:
in deep relief

things even out. Be
careless of nothing. See
what you see.