Dusk. A robed man walks into town, leading us into the story. From here, if you haven't read a review, or a synopsis, you will be quite baffled.
Bamako is a courtroom drama, shot mostly in the director's old family courtyard with a cast of judges, 'witnesses' including professional lawyers, actors and non-professional locals. Sissako says that he filmed the trial, in which the World bank and the IMF are in the dock, as he would a documentary. Scenes could not be interrupted, even when a wedding party passes through the yard, all four cameras and the sound man were on camera. There was even a 'cameraman', Falai, who makes videos for the police and for weddings. This forms the main body of the film, as witnesses stand up and make their accusations of neo-colonialism, including the rousing, impassioned and eloquent speech made by a lawyer (William Bourdon) against the economic policies of the international financial agencies, one witness who, once on the stand, finds himself unable to put his feelings into words and the elder who sings his evidence, with a timeless voice, the living antecedent of the blues and the call of the muezzin. Sissako gave his witnesses, some of whom had been victims of the 'structural adjustments' of the World Bank and the IMF, a lot of freedom in testifying, accusing or defending, so they were able to put all their genuine feelings into their 'testimonies'.
In parallel to the courtroom, lives are being lived outside: even before we get to court a local singer, the goddess Mele (Aissa Maiga) sings to camera but just as the band kicks in there is a cut to a sick child in bed, her mother unable to afford medicine. Then there are women dying cloth, a plot with a gun, the wedding, Mele's marriage to Chaka (Tiecoura Traore) getting shaky, a little boy (born too late) sadly watching the goddess doing her hair and kids watching TV, where there is a B western, Death in Timbuktu. All these sub-plots were intended to be parables but the western looks most like one - the cowboys shooting down innocents until one of them, Danny Glover, turns on his fellows, one played by Palestinian film director Elia Suleiman. With the multi-ethnic cowboy sequence, Sissako says he wanted to point out that the 'West' isn't solely to blame for Africa's troubles.
The tale is rounded off with another visit to the night-club, where Mele is allowed an entire song, tearfully at first but triumphant in the end. It doesn't wind up in neat Hollywood style, though: even during the final song the camera cuts away to the sober 'reality' of life outside, followed by a piece of drama that seems to sum up both the court-room "J'accuse" polemics and the little parables. Being the wordy film that it is, although its sentiments are right on, it felt at least as long as it was. Perhaps a second look would feel better; such a mixture of justified anger and fragrant warmth is rare. CLIFF HANLEY
Bamako is a courtroom drama, shot mostly in the director's old family courtyard with a cast of judges, 'witnesses' including professional lawyers, actors and non-professional locals. Sissako says that he filmed the trial, in which the World bank and the IMF are in the dock, as he would a documentary. Scenes could not be interrupted, even when a wedding party passes through the yard, all four cameras and the sound man were on camera. There was even a 'cameraman', Falai, who makes videos for the police and for weddings. This forms the main body of the film, as witnesses stand up and make their accusations of neo-colonialism, including the rousing, impassioned and eloquent speech made by a lawyer (William Bourdon) against the economic policies of the international financial agencies, one witness who, once on the stand, finds himself unable to put his feelings into words and the elder who sings his evidence, with a timeless voice, the living antecedent of the blues and the call of the muezzin. Sissako gave his witnesses, some of whom had been victims of the 'structural adjustments' of the World Bank and the IMF, a lot of freedom in testifying, accusing or defending, so they were able to put all their genuine feelings into their 'testimonies'.
In parallel to the courtroom, lives are being lived outside: even before we get to court a local singer, the goddess Mele (Aissa Maiga) sings to camera but just as the band kicks in there is a cut to a sick child in bed, her mother unable to afford medicine. Then there are women dying cloth, a plot with a gun, the wedding, Mele's marriage to Chaka (Tiecoura Traore) getting shaky, a little boy (born too late) sadly watching the goddess doing her hair and kids watching TV, where there is a B western, Death in Timbuktu. All these sub-plots were intended to be parables but the western looks most like one - the cowboys shooting down innocents until one of them, Danny Glover, turns on his fellows, one played by Palestinian film director Elia Suleiman. With the multi-ethnic cowboy sequence, Sissako says he wanted to point out that the 'West' isn't solely to blame for Africa's troubles.
The tale is rounded off with another visit to the night-club, where Mele is allowed an entire song, tearfully at first but triumphant in the end. It doesn't wind up in neat Hollywood style, though: even during the final song the camera cuts away to the sober 'reality' of life outside, followed by a piece of drama that seems to sum up both the court-room "J'accuse" polemics and the little parables. Being the wordy film that it is, although its sentiments are right on, it felt at least as long as it was. Perhaps a second look would feel better; such a mixture of justified anger and fragrant warmth is rare. CLIFF HANLEY