FESPACO is the African cinema event. Held during alternating odd years in Ouagadougou, the capital of Burkina Faso, for 40 years it has been the main showcase for film from Africa and the Diaspora. With impressive premises in central Ougadougou, it’s some measure of the importance cinema holds in this West African country that Place des Cineastes, a huge sculpture in the shape of film canisters in the middle of a busy traffic intersection, is half a mile up the road.
You collect accreditation at the two storey, pink headquarters building; it’s an identity badge which, it transpires, also enables entry to MICA, the industry trade fair held at a convention centre in the suburbs. I wander around the building. The most basic information such as how to buy tickets is unavailable. Eventually I find someone in an office photocopying sheets of paper. He gives me several pages – timetables with films and the venues where they’re showing. It’s infuriating to discover that the programme is incomplete and I’ve missed two films I really wanted to see. Three days before the finish I finally get a catalogue proper listing films with synopses and limited information.
Two frustrating, infuriating days were spent going back and forth to the offices in sweltering heat, trying to get a ‘badge.’ This allows, for a fee, unlimited entry to all films. Eventually I give up. It’s not cost effective in any case since I decide to leave two days early, overwhelmed and exhausted. The heat amplifies the effort needed to accomplish the most simple of tasks. One rapidly becomes tense, irritable, losing it quickly. I learn by day three to do nothing between the hours of 11.30 and 15.30. Either be at a hotel swimming pool or in an air conditioned cinema. Between these times the city noticeably slows down. There isn’t the widespread practise of the European siesta, but plenty of people find a convenient spot and sprawl out, dozing. This is Harmattan season, the wind from the Sahara carrying a sandy haze most apparent at night, when lights are surrounded by a halo. Not like fog – the light has a different quality. Everywhere is dusty, grubby and by noon the collar and cuffs on my shirt are lined with brown. I blow my nose frequently, understanding why so many street vendors sell small packets of tissues.
Ouagadougou comprises elegant buildings and wide, tree-lined streets, although the lack of pavements presents a challenge to those without the dexterity of the locals skilfully weaving their way through. There’s a noise typical of African cities, a blend of car horns, conversation, animals, people shouting, advertising their wares. Café culture is a big bonus when you’ve an hour or so between films. Several patisseries serve delicious cakes and proper coffee. I risk drinking several glasses of tap water which is chlorinated but otherwise fine, safe to consume.
An enjoyable and efficient way of getting around is by hired moped. The festival uses around half a dozen venues in the centre, some are a distance apart. There isn’t exactly a cooling breeze, but whizzing along with the traffic gives some relief from the searing heat and avoids the unwelcome attention of would-be guides and touts.
Film-wise there’s a mix of official competition entries, festival films and unofficial screenings. MICA, the trade fair, offers an opportunity to watch films in screening booths. I took advantage of this to see several excellent documentaries, both African and European produced. Jeanne d’Arc, part of a series produced for Cameroon state television about remarkable women, was outstanding. It’s about a mother of five, mechanic and bus driver. Also excellent was Fangafrika (pictured), a French produced documentary about Burkina Faso’s rap scene. Chien Noir, Chien Blanc was another intelligent, provocative film challenging our attitudes not just towards animals, but towards one another. The fate of a pampered poodle in France contrasts with that of a dog from Africa destined for the dinner table.
It wasn’t clear which films were in competition. I didn’t manage to see any fiction, but caught Comian, la Voie des Genies (Comian, Vision of the Genies) from Ivory Coast in competition. This is about a caste of female priestesses of traditional religion very much in the mould of the ethnographic documentary. More appealing was A Griot’s Story from Polish musician and cameraman Adam Rozanski. The life, work and art of maestro djembe player and griot Adama Drame is a starting point to examine issues such as globalisation and the integrity of the artist. Seeing Fanta Régina Nacro (Night of Truth) speak about her documentary highlighting the stigma faced by people with HIV and the lifeline offered by anti-retrovirals was a highlight. It’s disturbing to realise the condition carries such stigma on a continent where so many people are affected.
Documentary seemed stronger than fiction, but my experience is subjective. Having no information about what films to see, combined with the sheer difficulty of finding venues, inhibited wider exploration. What I saw had generally low production values. It sometimes wasn’t clear whether you were watching something made for television. Coeur Commune (Hearts Together) sold out and had a retinue of Burkina stars lining up for photo opportunities. It had the look of a ’70s sitcom, and my French wasn’t up to catching the innuendoes and double entendres of the comedy of a young woman stirring up the male occupants of a compound house. It was intriguing watching the audiences highly favourable reaction and having to stand in a cinema where every seat was taken. One thing puzzling me was the presence of video cameras apparently recording the film being played out on the screen. I saw this several times.
A first was watching Les Inseperables (The Inseperables) from Benin at Wemtenga open air cinema. It injected a wry sense of humour into its tale of child trafficking with great performances from its young leads. Social issues were also addressed in Freedom In Chains, the first Nollywood production I’ve seen with decent production values, making skilled use of lighting, composition and editing. It’s about three narratives of domestic abuse weaved together through a flashback structure. I enjoyed meeting the film’s directors and producer. It’s surely only a matter of time before Nollywood finds a wider audience with films of this quality.
It’s just a shame that the standard of films on offer was compromised by atrocious non-organisation and frequently abysmal exhibition. Sound quality in two of the venues was hopeless and commented on by more than one director. The consensus among festivaliers I listened to was that the organisation and delivery has been getting steadily worse, with this year a nadir. The self-aggrandising of the catalogue notes doesn’t alter the chaotic nature of the event, with no one seeming to take charge or ownership. Given the considerable effort and expense those attending have made, people, especially filmmakers, deserve better.
