August 2, 2022

Precious Harry’s eight-minute indie short film opens with the only characters we see on screen throughout the film: an unnamed psychologist (the fact that the psychologist is unnamed throughout the film might symbolize her representation of the average Nigerian psychologist) and a young man, Tokunbo Olaotan. Tokunbo, who has lost both parents within two years, comes for counselling because he needs someone to talk to. One would think he is grieving or having mental disorders as a result of his loss. This is proven by the therapist referring to “his demons”. He also claims that his mother still speaks to him and follows him everywhere even though she is dead. This way, the film draws the attention of the viewer to empathize with Tokunbo. However, things take a drastic turn when Tokunbo reveals that he is, in fact, the killer of his sister and parents. A major thing one can notice in the film is the emotional reaction (or its absence) of the psychologist.  The psychologist, after hearing the confession of someone who has murdered three people, does not react with terror like any normal human would. While some people might argue that she conducted herself and took the news like a professional in her field, I dare argue that she is first of all a human being who has emotions before she is a trained psychologist. Something else that comes to attention is the lack of believability. Believability, like the word implies, simply means the quality that makes a story capable of being believed. When Tokunbo starts to confess, we see the psychologist bring out her phone to record the conversation. While it is believable that the psychologist would violate the confidentiality expected of a professional, that shot is not properly executed. Firstly, she is not covert enough, as the person she is trying to hide the phone from is sitting in the exact opposite direction and can see her. Secondly, she places the phone on the table, making it quite obvious what she is trying to do. (This makes me then ask, why is Tokunbo surprised towards the end of the film when he discovers that the psychologist has been recording all along?). It would have been a different case if the psychologist brings out the phone when Tokunbo’s attention is divided by, say, a phone call or something he bends down to pick up from the floor. Furthermore, it is quite absurd that after the confession, the psychologist wants to call the police. Even a layman would be smart enough to know that someone who killed his mother for the same reason (wanting to inform the police), would stop at nothing to kill anyone who tries to do anything similar. I would say the film makes it quite unclear as to whether the psychologist is a professional or not. However, from the way events play out, it is clear she is either professional and not smart enough, or simply unprofessional. To further buttress this point, Tokunbo is a psychopath (he murders his three family members and is still not remorseful for crying out loud!), and should be treated by the psychologist with discretion.  The acting in this film, however, contributes to the film’s lack of believability. For instance, Tokunbo tries to stammer “I felt unseen. I…I felt like an outcast”, and makes it obvious that he is acting. At this point, I became disconnected from the character and the world around the character, and became very aware that I was seeing just actors trying to follow a script. This made it quite difficult for me to reconnect in the subsequent sequences of the film. Also, in the dialogues between the psychologist and Tokunbo, the actors are too conscious of the fact that they were acting, causing the sequences not to be as natural as they should have been. Another Murder tries to introduce a twist at the end, in that the killer’s attempt to commit another murder becomes his final attempt to do anything at all, and becomes the psychologist’s first murder. I wonder though, if the twist also leaves the viewer wondering about the undertones of the film: Can a psychologist kill a patient? Is a psychologist, who also happens to be a woman, capable of doing this? The viewer, though unsatisfied, might end up being reminded of the twistedness of the world and its contexts. And maybe, just maybe, this is the point the film (believable or not) hopes to drive home. Fancy Goodman

I saw Mistress America (2015) sometime in July and I was really impressed by it. I talk a lot about why I like Mumblecore, but that’s usually from a philosophical perspective. I admire the courage and determination of young people, who, like in the French New Wave, decided to tell their stories without being discouraged by a lack of a substantial budget or major studio interest. There’s more to it, I imagine. Mumblecore originated in the early 2000’s and is a style of indie filmmaking marked by its affinity for naturalistic dialogue and performances. The films in this subgenre place emphasis on dialogue over plot and reflect the lives of their creators: young people in their 20s and 30s. Some of the prominent figures in the movement include The Duplass brothers, Joe Swanberg, and frequent collaborators, Greta Gerwig and Noah Baumbach who co-wrote the indie comedy/drama, Mistress America. The talkiness of the mumblecore style is something about it I really admire. Film is a visual medium first, yes, but it is also aural. And while we tend to focus on music (both diegetic and non-diegetic) and sound design whenever we intend to enrich a film (by creating motifs or building soundscapes), I believe dialogue plays a major role in this too. The pace and delivery of the lines can add a certain musicality to scenes and the film as a whole. Watching Mistress America (2015), I was reminded of screwball comedies from Old Hollywood, where the humor is not only in the lines being said by the characters but the speed and pace at which this is delivered. Sentences have a rhythm to them, a certain cadence, when they’re read out loud. That’s why the best kind of prose appeals to the ear, ditto for film dialogue. Wes Anderson for example understands how to use this well. There’s an intricate, almost absurd(ist) pacing to Anderson’s films, expressed in the movement of the actors and the camera, as well as the editing and the music that accompanies the scenes, but especially in the way lines are delivered, with a certain affect unique to the worlds he creates. Not as dry as Lanthimos’ but mixing the comical and the dramatic with flair and poise; maybe ‘quirky’ is the word I’m looking for. Mumblecore also reminds me of the dialogue of Quentin Tarantino: Postmodern and proud to show it, constantly referencing other works of art and entertainment – from music and poetry to film, painting, food and other aspects of popular culture. Like in the New Wave, it’s spoken by young people unsure of their place in the world, trying and failing to understand themselves. Here, everything is said. Sincerity is shrouded in words and words and more words. It might have an understated visual style but the dialogue is over-the-top. Film is a visual medium, yes, but viewers connect to these stories because our world is full of noise too. People are constantly talking. The 24-hour news cycle inundates us with information, both relevant and ridiculous. Walk into a random coffee shop and take note of the way people are using words: to argue, to demean, to seduce, to convince, to blame, to mock, to shield from criticism. Even when we aren’t talking, we are tweeting or posting or meme-ing. And yet, despite the overabundance of words that we hurl at each other, we are lonelier than ever. More isolated, even with better technologies that facilitate communication. When we imagine films that tackle loneliness, we picture visual poems where the characters are framed in extreme wide shots, against staggering backdrops that highlight their state of being, shut out from the rest of the world. But in a film like Frances Ha (2012),  a different type of contrast is used; one that isn’t primarily visual but verbal. There is a list on Letterboxd titled, Lonely People in Neon Cities (and the movies listed there are bold and riveting). But this is why the audience feels for Frances – because even in a city of 20 million people who are never not speaking, no one seems to be able to hear her. In Baumbach’s film, The Meyerowitz Stories (2017),  there are scenes where characters talk over each other creating a cacophony of voices, each one fighting for dominance. They’re always speaking but no one is really listening. It makes for good comedy, and also good pathos, because there’s clearly something wrong there. Something painfully human. After seeing Mistress America (2015), I wanted to make a case for ‘talky’ films and say that in essence, they are just as beautiful and effective as their more visually-oriented counterparts – you know the ones I’m talking about, films like Maborosi (1997) where nothing is said or indeed ‘happens’ for long stretches of time. I believe that in Nollywood, one thing our comedies lack is intent, a deliberateness behind the camera. Comedy doesn’t just happen, it has to be carefully crafted, same as thriller, drama and horror. One lesson I learned from Greta Gerwig a while back is that even though the way her characters talk sounds like it’s courtesy of the actors who had to improvise their lines on set, the entire thing is actually written that way. The tone and intent is determined on the page first before she goes to the director’s chair. We could learn a lot from that in the industry. Joseph Osamudiamen