The Dynamiter

Crystalline microcosms of rural Mississippi introduce Glen Allan; the isolated, fringe-of-America town which is the setting for the small-budgeted, big-hearted story of The Dynamiter (2011), the debut feature film from documentarian Matthew Gordon. The brothers Hendrik, Robbie (William Ruffin) and Fess (John Alex Nunnery), while away listless Summer afternoons in the countryside, stabbing hay bales, throwing 
homemade spears and revelling in their shared adolescence. Fourteen-year old Robbie gently but insistently 
educates his younger brother about everything he considers important; self-defence, an almost ascetic work 
ethic, and most significantly, the importance of family. This filial loyalty is instilled despite their own family life 
being dysfunctional; Robbie heads the home, taking care of his mentally myopic grandmother, there is no sign 
of either of the children's fathers and their shared mother is reportedly in California, trying to nurse her own 
mental breakdown. 

A vestige of family normalcy, however, seems to arrive with the return of the boys' older brother Lucas (Patrick
Rutherford), a former star sportsman for the local high-school and current freeloader and seducer of meal-ticket
women. Although the end of his absenteeism sparks a hope in Robbie of having a real family (he idealises the 
unit that Lucas's return might finally establish), it soon becomes clear that the situation can no longer hold water,
and Robbie has to decide how to rescue himself from the situation.


The smallness of The Dynamiter is made stunning by its masterful production; a soundtrack primarily consisting
of Animal Collective and Mumford and Sons is lacquered dreamily to visuals resonating with agrarian intimacies
that avoid tracking back into the stock-footage of rurality. More impressive, though, is that the cast consists of 
non-actors; residents of the community whose plausibility and earnestness negates the need for conventional
acting. Rutherford, Nunnery, and especially Ruffin, deliver a forceful reminder that formal theatrical training can
be dispensed with when the actor genuinely connects with the soul of the story.     

Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives

2011's Durban International Film Festival is currently splattered across the city like a pyrotechnic peony, exhibiting a smörgåsbord of cinematic outings originating from distant locales around the world. For instance, Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives (2010) arrives from director Apichatpong Weerasethakul's Thai homeland (though it detoured through last year's Cannes Film Festival to pick up the Palme d'Or), and gently, lazily spun through its reels at UKZN's Elizabeth Sneddon Theatre this Friday past.

Conspicuous before any character is made worthy of investigation is the grinding hum of Boonmee's atmospheric audio, and its intentionally, beautifully degraded film-stock which, for the majority of the film's excursion into Thailand's ominous forestation, remains decidedly underexposed. Eventually the eponymous Uncle Boonmee (Thanapat Saisaymar) surfaces from fashioned obscurity, made vague through languid filming, when the parole of his different relationships (with his late wife's sister, with his farmhands, with his medical aide) work to display the kind, faintly tumultuous mind of a man approaching death due to illness in his kidneys. The mundanities of his life are then emphasised, rather than thwarted, when one evening the apparition of his late wife fades into an empty seat at Boonmee's dinner table, only to be later joined by their son who had vanished years before, and who is now closer in appearance to a man-sized monkey than the man he was. The mostly underwhelming entrance of spectres from Boonmee's past into his present indicate the obliqueness of Weerasethakul's film, which has a The Sound and The Fury-like non-differentiation between one's history and memories, and one's current state. Occasional reminiscing by Boonmee, accentuated by a stunning vignette of still photographs, navigates his regrets at killing communists in a distant war and killing insects around his home. This deliberation is as bathed in absurdity and dim turmoil as the rest of the film, but its ability to place past emotions on a tangent with his current disposition especially affecting.

Uncle Boonmee dawdles almost listlessly through its 114 minutes; its commitment to not being hurried bordering on tableau vivant. Admittedly, the movie is more fondly remembered than viewed; it’s tedious in that it films tediousness. Yet, without being hindered by traditional narrative structures (the film is interjected by a seeming Thai fairytale in which a princess lamenting her looks is seduced by an amorous catfish) Uncle Boomee has an austere grace as  it ebbs and flows, moving from thick forests, through a cavernous portal to the afterlife, and into guadily lit urban areas. Resisting simple explanation of the film's many bizarre esotericisms, Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives is nevertheless a worthwhile expression of surrealism's value in delving into the mysteries of death, and everything thereafter. The film will be re-screened at Musgrave on July 30 at 22:00.

Zanzibrrr in Three Distinct Movements

Movement Three: Bwejuu and Back Again


After four nights in Stone Town we taxied to the South East side of the island, to a rusticated stretch of coastline called Bwejuu. With a Rastafarian Bed and Breakfast as our base, we ventured into monkey-populated forests, abandoned beaches and luminescent coral reefs.This was taken after a few hours of beach biking and snorkeling.






Never cycling again.



I altered my white balance for this. We'd woken up early for the sunrise, but the clouds obscured it...





...but then they kind of worked out.



These are the monkeys of Jozani Forest. I was all set up with my zoom lens to shoot these guys, when I realised they were practically tame. I switched to my 50mm f1.8 and got right in there.











This was taken a moment before this little guy tried to get a handful of my lens. I couldn't believe how placid he was.















Once again, everyone snuck a nap while I went shooting.



Beach soccer got intense. One kid was carried off, dumped, and left sobbing.





Goal!



A direct representation of that feeling of having to wake up when you know you should be heading to bed.





Twenty odd hours of travel later, Jono more or less sums up how we felt about having a plush penthouse to crash in back at Melrose Arch. My bed was a pillowy abyss.









Go here if you want to see any more of my photos. Thanks for reading!

Zanzibrrr in Three Distinct Movements

Movement Two: Stone Town's End

En route to Prison Island.



I was particularly enamoured with the tortoises on the island. Their eyes would roll back if you scratched their necks.











I spent nearly forty minutes negotiating sharp rocks and an incoming tide to get to this stairwell. My battery died as I got there.I then found a path that lead back to the beach; it was a gentle two minute walk. 







The next three shots were taken while waiting to buy ferry tickets to Tanzania. The had power failed, and the excessively agitated ticket seller shouted over the buzz of a generator and one hundred or so people for me to stop taking photos. His ferry was stupid anyway.









My woman. I was taking photos of the door when it creaked ajar, placing her mild surprise in the center of my lens.









This kid cycled up to me, stopped in my way and wouldn't break eye-contact until I offered him a photo. Shooting strangers can be tricky, so I was glad for the help.





While everyone else indulged a toasty afternoon nap, I went people watching with my 55-200mm. I was really chuffed to get these kids playing through the pier.





His friend told him to flex; he didn't waste any time.













Z-bar was littered with cats. This one considered black plastic a legitimate dietary allowance. Sadly, more then a few looked genuinely haggard.




This guy will break hearts someday. His dad was selling the girls tea-cups while he mustered up a grin for me.




Coffee and ginger tea shots we sold on the corners for around 50 cents a cup. The coffee gave true meaning to the ditty 'Black Gold'.






A kitten found in the antechamber of a fabric shop. He and his two friends were well looked-after.


Jono bought second hand bowling shoes. Enigmatic.


Another child just pumped to be in the photo.










Tinted by my sunglasses.


Each evening the local hoods somersaulted their local flavour of parkour.





In the middle is Chi-Chi, our Rastafarian friend. He made sure we paid the right amounts and got to where we needed to be. It was great having him with us.





All the photos are on Flickr, should you be interested.