AfriCannes

It is the largest, most important film festival in Africa. Held every two years in Burkina Faso's capital, Ouagadougou, it is a celebration of the arts and African culture, by Africans, ostensibly for Africans, a gathering point for inhabitants of all African nations, as well as western tourists and film industry professionals. It is FESPACO, the Pan-African Film and Television Festival of Ouagadougou.

Much to my surprise, upon my arrival in town, I find that most of Ouaga's taxi drivers have—quite against character—not taken advantage of the situation and hiked fare rates. Perhaps only one out of three refuses to take you for anything less than four times the standard fee (the "white price"). Their services are essential to attend the film festival, for the contending films are divided among five movie houses throughout the city, each a long hike from the others. Another surprising feature to the festival celebrating the achievements of African filmmakers is the number of foreign films in evidence. American, European, and even one Haitian film are selections in this year's catalogue. Tsotsi, last year's Oscars foreign film winner, is representing, as are recent American releases Blood Diamond and The Last King of Scotland. My personal favorite—embarrassing, as I came to see African films—is a British entry entitled Shoot the Messenger, directed by Ngozi Onwurah. It's the film I feel like I've been waiting the past 10 years for Spike Lee to make in the States.

The first movie house I enter, cool, air-conditioned air hits me in the face immediately, and for a moment I hallucinate, thinking I have suddenly been transported far away from third-world West Africa, to some surreal, western cinematic oasis. Plush, padded chairs, white faces all around me (which is kind of weird now), quality electronic technology, and—ooo! There's popcorn! Where am I? I wonder as I settled down in my comfy seat to watch eight back-to-back film shorts. Then, after the first 3 films, there is a 45-minute delay, followed by a terse announcement that the other five films have not yet arrived, and we are turned out back into the heat and the dust, no apologies, and you'd be crazy to ask for a refund on your ticket. Ah, yes, I remember where I am now. The rest of the week continues in similar fashion, a bizarre mix of the luxury I'd near forgotten and the relaxed schedules and indifference to customer irritation to which I've gotten used. In general, all films are in either Arabic or tribal languages with French subtitles, or French with no subtitles of any sort. (Sorry, all you visiting Americans.)

It's also pretty clear that the art here is not made for the sake of mere entertainment; a popular story theme is the frustrated young African man, unable to find work or emigrate, beaten down by poverty and outrage until he at last takes a desperate, ill-thought action and is crushed at the end of the film. Apparently, something seems to be occupying the minds of African filmmakers these days. Ironic, seeing as the majority of my fellow filmgoers here are very, very white Americans and Europeans. On the other hand, if there were more Burkinabé in the audiences, these films would just be preaching to the converted. When a sizeable group of Africans do get into a film screening, they make their presence known to all; here in Burkina, you show your film approval by shouting at the screen and laughing, your disapproval by clicking your tongue and shouting at the screen, and your disinterest by pulling out a cellphone for a chat (and shouting at the screen). Take the film Africa Paradis, by Sylvestre Amoussou, which presents the United States of Africa, 30 years or so in the future, trying to keep their borders closed to those pesky white Europeans who keep trying to sneak in from their impoverished, war-torn homes. Man, how those Africans in the audience howled with laughter as we watched the scene where the smug black civil servant turned away white visa applicants because one tiny detail was out of order, or because they had advanced engineering degrees and refused to take work as janitors or domestic servants.

Anyway, to wrap things up, the French-slash-Nigerian film Ezra won top prize, the Yennenga Stallion (doesn't that sound sexier than "Oscar"? No? Just me?), at the end of the festival. It centers around a child soldier in the civil war in Sierra Leone, something that our American Blood Diamond touched on too. The film's director, Newton Aduaka, walked away with $20,000... something probably more useful here than a pretty li'l statue. Might even help that filmmaker make another film in the future. And me? Did I shmooze like a Hollywood pro, put all my past training to use? Did I close any film deals? Did I get digits? Um. I did get the contact info for one promising filmmaker, but i wrote it down on my film program, which a fellow unscrupulous volunteer stole from me later that same day. Bastard was probably from CAA.