Ten of the Year 2016: Kati Kati

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Kati Kati (2016)

Dir: Mbithi Masya

Starr: Nyokabi Gethaiga (Kaleche), Peter King Mwania (King), Elsaphan Njora (Thoma)

Kenya / Germany, 75mins

Kati Kati is a dream retreat from the world, a peaceful holiday resort in the middle of the Serengeti, where your every day is occupied with games and activities, and anything you want can be yours simply by writing it down on a piece of paper. Those staying in Kati Kati have no idea how they came to be in such a wonderful place, and they have no idea when, or how, they will leave it. But why would anyone want to leave?
Mbithi Masya’s tightly compacted and elliptical debut feature was the stand out fiction film screening from this year’s Africa in Motion (AiM). It came to AiM having already won the FIPRESCI prize for the Discovery programme at the Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF), earlier in the year. Having been developed by Masya and his screenwriter Mugambi Nthiga during a film training and development program in Nairobi funded by Tom Tykwer and Marie Stenman, the film was then picked up for production by Tykwer and Stenman’s production company One Fine Day.

 

Kaleche (Nyokabi Gethaiga), the nominal heroine of the film, literally emerges from out of nowhere at the movie’s opening. Stumbling upon an incongruously pretty and serene holiday complex, Kaleche walks in upon a group of holidaymakers engaged in a game of Charades. Where is she and how has she got here? Kaleche has come to Kati Kati, an oasis of calm in the middle of the Serengeti. The fact that all the holidaymakers seem to be expecting her is enough to make Kaleche run – something that has already been predicted by some of the others. Running away from Kati Kati, back out in to the seemingly endless surrounding savannah Kaleche is further panicked by the sight of the other holidaymakers animatedly pursuing her. Just as she thinks she is pulling away from them another key facet of her predicament is revealed as she runs into an invisible barrier. You can check out any time you want, but you can never leave.

 

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Relaxing by the pool… but what lies beneath?

 

This is the disturbing and intriguing opening to a film that uncompromisingly examines the various manifestations, processes and reactions toward guilt, both within the individual and the wider community. The idyllic benignity of Kati Kati and the breathtaking plain land that surrounds it is just one of the many creepily claustrophobic aspects of the film. Initially the other residents, the likes of Thoma (Elsaphan Njora), King (Peter King Mwania) and Grace (Fidelis Nyambura), seem to be happily engaged in idling each day away in accordance with a loose schedule of activities and amusing diversions. The resort is kept spotlessly clean, but nobody seems to know who keeps it clean. No staff are ever present. Food seems to magically replenish itself. Whilst the holidaymakers need only write something down on paper and it will be delivered to them in due course. However, this seeming Eden is underpinned by the knowledge that the holidaymakers initially share with Kaleche, everyone in Kati Kati is already dead.

 

The beauty of Masya’s film is in the way in which it presents a purgatorial afterlife that raises more questions than it answers, but never once leaves the audience feeling cheated. Kati Kati is a variation of Sartre’s play Huis Clos (1944), with Kaleche acting as the narrative catalyst who rouses the other holidaymakers from their aimless routines, forcing them to gradually question what they are doing in this place that seems purpose built to pacify. Each member of the community begins to examine why it is that they are stuck in the resort, although not everyone wants to become unstuck. There are inexplicable presences within the film that gradually reveal their wider significance. All these subtle hauntings are directly linked to some aspect of the guilt that fixes each holidaymaker in Kati Kati. Part of the object of the resort seems to be the prevention of remembering, which is then, in turn, a key obstacle to acknowledging and dealing with guilt. As Kaleche gradually pieces together her own past existence, one of the other main characters is shown to be directly intertwined with this past and has a vested interest in preventing Kaleche from remembering. Masya and Nthiga have achieved a very rare thing in this debut. They have created a concrete alternate reality, with an intricate internal logic, that is nonetheless elusive, mysterious and compelling. Much of this atmosphere is established through a visual process of alienation. Masya works with the safari scenic landscapes of the Serengeti, but has filmed them using harsh white light and desaturated colour, that makes these vistas simultaneously familiar and unrecognisable. An overly attentive handheld camera, which frequently gives the impression of spying upon the protagonists, also helps to give visual strength to the notion of haunting presences lurking within and around the frame.

 

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One of the fascinating aspects of the film is the way in which ‘whiteness’ becomes something horrifying to behold.

 

With the film’s running time being just 75 minutes the director has resolutely pared back the narrative to the point where it has an almost poetic quality, rich in allusion and allegory. That said, it also contains some interventions into the contemporary politics of Kenya, most notably in the story elements relating to King’s presence in Kati Kati. King is one of the most troubling ancillary characters within the film. He is the one person among the group that is unyielding in his abdication of responsibility for his actions. It should come as no surprise that his dark secrets are some of the most disturbing, and indirectly reference a sensational news story that occurred in the run up to the last set of elections in Kenya. That said, what lingers most in the memory is not Kati Kati’s reflections on contemporary Kenya, but rather its unerring ability to navigate a truly uncanny space. Kati Kati marks a supremely confident feature debut that surely augurs well for both the director and the Kenyan filmmaking scene that has helped to foster him.

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La Belle at the Movies: The Lost Cinemas of Kinshasa (2015)

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Dir: Cecilia Zoppelletto

Cecilia Zoppolletto’s fascinating documentary film upon the growth and decline of cinema-going and film culture within the DRC is one worthy of wider attention. It is simultaneously a general introduction to the DRC motion picture industry and a psycho-geographical study of the impact of film culture upon Kinshasa and its population. Predominately consisting of talking head interviews, interspersed with superb use of archive footage, Zoppolletto’s film has put together a diverse cross-section of representative voices in spite of the possible obstacles that could come with the endorsement of the DRC’s Ministry of Culture. The film’s strength is located in this intricate blending of voices that range from the incumbent Minister of Culture and the Arts, His Excellency Banza Mokalay Nsungu, right down to Charles Wamba, the owner of the CVP Rental Shop, a local Kinshasa business that helps to continue the street culture of outdoor ‘district’ projections.

Another element of the film’s engagement with the DRC’s fledgling film industry is to be found in its interrogation of colonial, neo-colonial and contemporary experiences of cinema and film culture. This is a film that gives voice to African Congolese filmmakers on the right and left of the political divide, as well as Francophone European filmmakers, such as Robert Bodson, who were central to colonial representations of the DRC. What emerges is a complex snapshot of the shifts in DRC politics in the post-WWII period. The likes of Bodson are shown to be doing something more than merely creating stereotyped images of ‘natives’ or ‘noble savages’. In fact, Bodson appears to be arguing that his film Congolese Realities paints a progressive picture of the Congolese population that serves as a corrective to international notions of educational backwardness among the African population of the country, that were dominant during the 1950s. Likewise, Balufu Bakupa-Kanyinda, criticises the inadequacy of colonial and international representations of the DRC, claiming that the dearth in domestic film output from African Congolese filmmakers deprives the world of a truly critical perspective on the DRC. Bakupa-Kanyinda’s belief that film is “the art of telling the world about yourself” demonstrates the ambitions of the DRC’s contemporary filmmakers, but is itself undermined by the propagandist undertones of this filmmaker’s relationship to the Ministry of Culture and the Arts (he works as an adviser to this governmental body). Things are further complicated by the central propagandising role that ‘Mobutuism’ gave film culture, with one of the most important growth periods in DRC cinema being contemporaneous with the dictator’s interest in the political potential of film. Mobutu’s turn away from film as a tool of mass communication is also shown as being directly linked to the decline in DRC cinematic output and the gradual closure of exhibition spaces through the late-1970s and early-1980s. It is also the contemporary taint of Mobutu and his bloody legacy that has seen one of the most important film archives in the DRC fall into general decay, something that Zoppelletto beautifully captures in lingering shots of mouldering manuscripts and unravelling reels of poorly housed film stock.

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Charles Wamba, the proprietor of the CVP Rental shop in Kinshasa, shows some of the local artwork put together for the release of another popular Italian western import. 

 

Perhaps the most poignant parts of the film are those that incorporate the ghosts and the memories of the cinema spaces themselves. Zoppelletto has structured the documentary around investigations of these exhibition spaces, and the film’s capturing of what remains of them is where the work aesthetically soars. Each of these exhibition spaces comes accompanied by the insights of an owner, a researcher, or a cinema-goer. Among the most memorable is the cinema that was located upon the Avenue du Commerce (or Avenue Charles de Gaulle, as it would have been known during the colonial period). This main street in Kinshasa marked the division between the European and the African parts of the city. Evening curfews drove the African population over the Avenue du Commerce to the outlying suburbs. Yet the cinema that is discussed in the film straddled the avenue and thus was one of the few places where African and European populations would mingle of an evening. Momo Sunguza’s account of the travails of the iconic CineMax filmhouse, that was finally demolished in 2010, shows the great difficulties in trying to keep a cultural centre for film flourishing without government support or anti-piracy legislation. This premiere venue for film in the very centre of Kinshasa was the victim of dwindling audience figures, which Sunguza suggests was in part down to the unlicensed broadcasting of cinematic releases upon national television. The globalised nature of the industry is also constantly hinted at by reference to the competing national cinemas that are imported to DRC (among the most popular being Italian and Chinese). The story of the Drive-In Bellevue cinema is intriguing for precisely these reasons, as it shows how Pakistani influences managed to carve out a niche cinema experience in the suburbs of Kinshasa, replete with freshly baked Samosas. The revelation that many of the cinema houses were actually owned by Greek and Portuguese businessmen also demonstrates the degree to which the DRC’s film industry had a distinctly international profile.

The film’s explorations are rounded out with touches of anecdotal colour. The incomprehensible embrace of the ‘cowboy’ over the oppressed ‘indian’ in the hugely popular Westerns of the 1960s, suggests that much of film’s power is in the stylish image. Honoré Isango Kitoka and Pierre Dikelo were part of the ‘Indubil’ culture that identified strongly with the image of the cowboy. This youth movement was predicated upon adopting the elaborate costume of Western characters, such as the Sheriff or the Outlaw. You also have the central importance of a musical-comedy like La Vie est Belle (1987), which starred the now globally renowned singer Papa Wemba. This film is described within the documentary as a semi-fiction upon Kinshasan life that the local populations took to their hearts. The film then is seen as a cultural artefact that so successfully redefines the city for its population that the distinctions between film and reality begin to dissolve away in the imaginations of the audience. In her own way Zoppelletto has managed to achieve a similar feat, condensing the DRC’s recent history, its film culture and a social history of what film exhibition spaces within Kinshasa meant to the population, into an hour-long documentary-cum-archive that serves as the perfect springboard into the country’s cinematic heritage.

Rating: 8/10

Roaring Abyss (2015)

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Dir: Quino Pinero

Forming a compendium of the diverse musical cultures and traditions of Ethiopia this beguiling and rhythmically edited music film wisely foregrounds the music and avoids the complexities of the country’s cultural mix. Director Pinẽro is a sound engineer and record label chief, who has been involved in the African music scene since the early 2000s. His label SolySombra Recordings has showcased many musicians from the continent. From 2012 onwards he has based himself in Ethiopia, rather than his native Spain, associating with legendary musicians such as Mulatu Astatke (who featured prominently on the soundtrack to Jim Jarmusch’s Broken Flowers). Much like Junun (2015), the Indian-set music project featuring traditional musicians alongside Jonny Greenwood and the Israeli composer Shye Ben-Tzur, this is a film that frames indigenous musical traditions as powerfully rendered live encounters with skilled performers. What makes Pinẽro’s film more effective and satisfying is the fact that the work is not restricted by a sole location and succinctly captures fleeting aspects of the cultures and societies that inform the traditions filmed.

Early in the film an interviewee proclaims: “A song is not only for dancing, it reminds you of your dear ones, it brings back memories of far relatives, it reminds you of those who passed away, it reminds you of the love you experienced in your life”. This idea of music as embedded within a shared sense of culture and history plays into the idea that different notions of time are evoked in the performance. There is the instant, intoxicating moment of the performance, but that also evokes a sense of the past (both in terms of personal history and cultural heritage), whilst simultaneously connecting the performer with those that have performed before them, like the passing of a torch. When Pinẽro comes to the younger musicians that are learning music at the Tigray Art College it is revealing to note that their teacher bemoans the gradual adoption of modern European, or Western instrumentation, and the slow death of traditional Ethiopian instruments like the Masinko and the Krar. The former instrument is the pride and joy of one performer, who has tried to engage his young sons in following in their father’s footsteps, yet tellingly the kids don’t seem so interested. The film argues that skills required to construct these surprisingly intricate instruments are being lost by a generation of young Ethiopian musicians raised on bass guitars and synthesisers.

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A typical set-up for live performance within Pinero’s beguiling music film.

 

Traditional musical forms seem to be most prominently supported and fostered within agricultural communities. There is also a sense that poverty plays some part in preserving traditions. In one sequence involving a predominately brass band from Harar, the musicians have been unable to pass on their skills to a younger generation as there is no money to replace the instruments that were bought for the band some fifty years prior. The agricultural origins of much of the music is wonderfully suggested through briskly edited sequences in which the rhythms of labour are shown to be inextricably fused to the distinct sounds of a particular community’s songs. Despite the occasionally frustrating lack of titling within the film, so that some performances seem to blur into one another, Pinẽro, within the narrow focus that he has set himself, explores a vibrant musical heritage in all of its plangent polyphony.

Rating: 7/10