Touki bouki

Mory, a cowherd, and Anta, a university student, try to make money in order to go to Paris and leave their boring past behind.

This film looks great and is just very interesting from the whole clash of cultures perspective. You have some African tradition here, and mixed in with that you have some Muslim practices. I am no expert, but I suspect Islam in Senegal is much different than in the Middle East. It's an interesting blend. And then, of course, you have the modern world of France, which is different from either of those cultures.

What may strike viewers the most, especially because it happens so early in the film (and is repeated later), is the slaughter of the cattle. Whether the methods shown are humane or not, I have no idea. But they look brutal, and to the modern world it may be a shock to see something that has become so far removed from our everyday life. Now, food is food, and we rarely see that once upon a time it was a living thing.

Disorienting and at times even a bit schizophrenic, this is an extraordinarily vibrant, pulsating, and eccentric film. Comparisons to the anarchic, jumpy, free-associative style of the French New Wavers are not far off, but there's something much more erotic and carnal in the film's playfulness.

The story of self-assured college beauty Anta and her fella - Mory the motorcycle-riding herdsman - starts in Dakar and wistfully wanders toward Paris, the seemingly unattainable city of their dreams. Their get-rich-quick schemes and the breezy, colorful manner in which they unfold are funny and inspired.

Along the way, there are sequences of both utter hilarity and genuine depth, although the film does sometimes seem unsure of its many potentially-symbolic representations. But the stylistic narrative and experimental technical aspects are so full of ideas that talk of the film's minor weaknesses seems trivial.

The soundtrack is outstanding, full of syncopation and polyrhythms pacing the film and giving a rich texture to the images. And there's constant movement, until the film's denouement where character, story, camera and concept fuse together in common paralysis, where all seems frozen in reflection.

The story to this film is simple (maybe deceptively so), but it's told in an avant-garde way by Mambéty, and loaded with meaning. The premise is that a rebel and a university student have had enough of the traditional life in Dakar, and dream of escaping by ship to Paris. They get on his motorbike which is embellished with cow horns, and to the tune of Josephine Baker crooning "Paris, Paris," begin a series of misadventures on their way to the port.

The events that occur along the road trip, most involving theft or attempted theft, really aren't all that memorable, but the visuals that Mambéty and cinematographer Pap Samba Sow conjured up certainly were. Vibrant colors, rugged scenery, a photographer's eye for framing make for many gorgeous moments, pretty impressive for its limited budget. And yet, in stark contrast to the beauty in this land and its people, life is shown to be dirty, and a struggle. The film felt immersive into Senegal in a literal sense, but through its use of montages, fantasy, and misdirection, also immersive into the fractured mindset of its nonconformist protagonists.

Unfortunately, this immersion also includes some absolutely brutal scenes of animals being killed very early on - cattle in a slaughterhouse, as well as a goat out in a field. These go on for extended intervals, there is a lot of blood, and the animals are shown writhing in agony. Images from the slaughterhouse are reprised towards the end, giving it a larger point, that the young man is as trapped as those poor cows, which was a powerful moment, but I don't think the earlier scenes needed to have been as graphic as they were. It was nauseating to me, though admittedly my perspective is from a different culture, and one lucky enough to have the means to be vegetarian.

The film is made with artistry and style, but it's rooted in realism, and a reflection of the desire for a better life for the Senegalese. There isn't an overt argument made as to the devastating effects of colonialism that impoverished the country, but we do get a glimpse into the ugly attitudes of a French couple who have been teaching in Senegal for seven years, through this exchange:

"There's nothing to see in Senegal. Barren, intellectually as well." "Our salary is three times that of the Senegalese teachers, but they don't eat like we do. They're not as refined." "And what would we buy here? Masks? African art is a joke made up by journalists in need of copy."

Overall, despite its power and visual flair, I confess I admired this film more than I loved it. Aside from the animal slaughter (which may seriously turn you against the film on its own), the events on the road trip following that glorious scene on the flat rock with the sea churning below just weren't strong enough, and pacing was an issue. Worth seeing, just be prepared to avert your gaze in the beginning.

I went to the London Film Festival in October 2008 to watch a film from the past, a "Treasure from the Archive". However whilst Touki Bouki was made over 35 years ago it still remains incredibly relevant. Young Africans still drown trying to cross the Straits of Gibraltar to Europe every day. That's what this film is about, the desperation of ordinary Africans (specifically from a Senegalese perspective) yearning to find prosperity and stability. It's one of those films I would class as a "scream of despair". Even if there are some very funny scenes, these scenes are like the scenes of humour that Ford would inject into his Westerns to mollify audience gloom. It would not surprise me if that were a direct influence, but if he wasn't cine-literate, then Djibril must rank as the most precocious director of all time.

The bare bones of the plot of the film concerns Mory, who is a sometime cattle herder, and Anta his girlfriend who is a university student. This especially winsome couple want desperately to escape to Europe. Mory is the object of ridicule in his community, intelligent, but useless and uppity, whilst Anta's university is no real safe-haven of learning, what with it being full of decadent revolutionaries (not an oxymoron). Both yearn to live in France.

As close to a true narrative as we get is that they go to a wrestling match and attempt to steal the stadium's cash box. There are two boxes, a yellow one and a blue one, they can't take both and aren't sure which one holds the loot. They take the blue one and when they get to their deserted, ruined, ex-colonial bunker hideout realise that it is filled with Voodoo craziness, runes and skulls and such. This for me is high Surrealism.

Plan B is to steal clothes, money, and a car off a rich idler who lives in a seaside villa surrounded by catamites. Plan B is successful, exeunt Mory and Anta pursued by the lo (sic).

Dressed as highfalutin dandies they revisit Mory's community driving in a stars-and-stripes festooned car where they are treated as a Lord and his Lady. Whether this is actual plotting or wish-fulfilment dreaming is left up to the viewer to decide.

After Fellinian parades of the mind the story returns to earth with a bump as Mory and Anta reach a port and try to escape to France.

One thing that stands out in the film is the anti-French criticism. The French bourgeois who make their living in Senegal are shown as treating Senegalese as some sort of bonobo-child chimeras. Also there is the aforementioned wrestling match, which is a "charity" event organised to raise money to build a statue of General de Gaulle (the height of absurdism?). This is also internally-driven criticism as the organisers are chiefs of a Senegalese tribe.

The film is ambivalent about life in Senegal, whilst Mory and Anta yearn to leave, Mambéty also shows us beautiful scenes of daily life in Senegal, and the humour of the populace. One part for me stands out, a parade of Senegalese carrying water on their heads in semi-transparent plastic buckets, the sunlight shining through the buckets transforms them into preternatural magic lanterns, the framing is exquisite, the camerashot is filled with green and blue corruscation. The point is that this guy Mambéty is not some sort of amateur who is esteemed out of political correctness, this guy is a force of nature, a director whose capability of expression is really begging to be called primus inter pares when compared to the likes of Parajanov and Bunuel.

One strong warning is that this movie contains scenes of cattle being slaughtered both in abbatoirs and outside of them, right at the start of the film. Really gruesome in the extreme, and far more graphic for example than the familiar scene of an ox being slaughtered in Apocalypse Now. The point of it is metaphorical, young African men are treated as no less than cattle to be slaughtered, fodder for the consumer games of power structures, ultimately commoditised.

An African film here about youth, about the thirst to escape from a place that parches it and the bike ride through dirt roads out to sea where a ship sails for Europe. But I want to avoid merely a museum visit or an aesthetic token from a faraway place, I want the heart that pounds behind appearances and gives rise to their breeze of color. What heart here?

First are the things he says about the home that is left behind. Symbolic cows being led to slaughter and cut to the young lead riding his motorbike with cow horns on the wheel. A stolen chest, supposedly full of money to pay for a DeGaulle statue but it contains a corpse.

These are the things the filmmaker knows exactly what he wants to say about. They're also the least interesting to watch for me. The young lead being wrestled by leftist students is intercut with cows being wrestled before the slaughter. The dear bike stolen by a savage white man and left broken while he's extracted with merely a broken leg. Not without nuance, but some of it is as didactic as we make fun of Hollywood.

More tantalizing is the journey through these to outrun them, even more so once you realize this is the same journey the filmmaker himself made from that same port. A yearning for freedom, but the desired freedom is a life of material comforts in Europe, what every boy his age would dream about, cafés and girls. Meanwhile the girl meekly tugs along behind her childish man. There's a sense that she quietly yearns for more; but she also feels beautiful in the (stolen) pink suit and red hat, as any girl would. I like films where youth is embraced with its dreams and folly, this is one.

But also a deeper heart, things which the filmmaker doesn't know how to express clearly but vaguely feels stirring. There are a few of these where the surface of the film is rippled by some hidden vortix that seems to rage in the deep, like when the girl thinks he has drowned. If the journey is Godard, this is Pasolini. This might be part of what some reviews note as sloppy technique. True. This is a man still trying to fathom how images can surround a feel.

So this is it here, a journey where as these two lovers flee, they get caught up in situations that tear from them images of who they are and what their surrounding world is like, images the air takes along which become the film. In the end one self is left behind, the one who has not outrun this world.