Review

By Adejumobi Oluwatomiloba  Weeks before the production of Last Card, I was added to a WhatsApp group named The Motherless. My mother had just passed away during the short three-week break the University of Ibadan had given us. There was no room to grieve. On resumption day, I found myself heading—not home, not to process—but to the outskirts of the university, alongside Keona, the film’s production designer, to begin work on the set. I was new to film production, still learning the ropes. I assisted the production designer, Keona, with her design tasks and lent a hand to the welfare team whenever I could. It was all a blur—grief, work, newness, unfamiliar faces. The activities on set, when the actors let loose with their crying, brought back memories of my recent loss and my reaction to it. This motivated me to tell one of the Assistant directors (Chabod) that I didn’t react this way when my mother died. I must have cried once or twice, and that was even a day after my mother had died. Observing the actors’ reaction to a tragedy made me question the plausibility of their performance. However, as life would teach me, I learnt that people’s experiences and reactions to news differ. Enough of my life history. Let’s talk about Last Card. The story follows two siblings, Remilekun (Ethan Abanikannda) and Ayomide (Elizabeth Gbamboye), who lose their father in an accident. The screeching sound that opens the film suggests he died in a car crash. Entering into the film, we would experience this unique combination of this screeching sound, a visual of several hands fiddling with a game card, intermittent blackouts, and the frail voice of a supposedly dying man apologising to his children and promising them a better life in courtesy of his sister, who is their aunt. The weary voice of the children pleading with their father to “fight” would also be heard. The latter would remind me of Dylan Thomas’ Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night. The poem resounds with the words, “Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” Watching this opening scene, we are blessed with a unique audiovisual effect of unseen voices and card-fiddling hands. This would make me appreciate the creative and thrilling work that occurred during the post-production activity. I was taken aback with utter admiration at the outcome of a production that took a linear motion in my eyes. All I’m trying to say is that the scenes were edited into fine cuts, and I was awed by it.  The film rises from its prologue to the bereaved faces of Remilekun and Ayomide as they become saddled with the task of hosting their sympathisers as they troop in one by one to render, “I’m so sorry for the loss,” “They said your father died, how, when?” “Chai!” “Stop crying,” “Stay strong, you hear,” “I will call you from time to time, and don’t forget to come for weekly service.” A means to prevent isolation. These are typical words of condolence that the bereaved must remain recipients of because it’s the African way—the expected way.  The Nigerian Way of Handling Grief: Expectations vs. Reality Death is considered a communal event in the Nigerian society, be it the death of an old or a young person. When someone passes away, it is expected that neighbours, families, friends, and associates visit to console and show solidarity with the grieving family. Common phrases like “Eyaa,” “sorry,” and “stay strong” are meant to provide comfort. The house of the deceased is filled with people offering moral support, material support, and endless promises. The sad reality is that sometimes their words of support are generic— a cliche— such that they are not accompanied by true acts of support. Also, the support they offer is often transient, as people move on quickly from others’ tragedies. Also, phrases like “stay strong” could sometimes place the burden of resilience on the bereaved, trivialising their need to express and gradually live through their grief.  For me, I was fortunate enough to estrange myself from the community the moment the sad news of my mother’s demise dropped. My escape didn’t mean to disregard the condolences of the community, I just couldn’t find myself sitting in a midst of people crying, showcasing their bewilderment, and urging me and my siblings to stay strong. So, I left the house. This is, however, not the case with Remilekun and Ayomide, who suffer the need to conform to the societal way of attending to grief for the second time. They must heed people’s condolences and stay strong regardless of the hurt. They must also learn to survive on their own, whether or not constant support shows up. Last card richly mirrors the Nigerian way of dealing with grief. Where is the depth in all of this? I ask myself. A film where two adults cry throughout without giving much valid depth for the audience to feel their grief. The story of the dead or their deeds on earth determines if their exit should be painful or not. This film, however, doesn’t provide much information as to who the deceased was. What were their fathers’ aspirations? What were his dreams? What legacy or mark did he leave behind that should be worth the viewers’ grief?  All I’m left to feel is the actors’ outward sadness, not really the gravity of what has been lost or the persona of who left them in a void. A quick mention of Adaptation, a brilliant film written by Charlie Kaufman. This film follows the story of twin brothers (Charlie and Donald) presented as opposites. While Charlie is a worried, self-conscious, and perfectionist screenwriter, Donald is his direct opposite, an untroubled, optimistic screenwriter willing to embrace a conventional storytelling narrative. The latter isn’t so anxious about originality compared to his brother. What am I driving at? Donald reflects a part of Charlie that he struggles to embody… somebody ready to take risks and accept

The first time I saw Mathew ‘Mao’ Adeboye’s film, tiny drops of tears invited itself to the corridor of my eyes. Having lost promising secondary school classmates to avoidable death and seen firsthand youth in my community lose their lives to senseless community fights, I thought I was familiar with dirge. But, watching Adebayo’s emotionally-prone film made me realize that unmindful of how stoic we present ourselves or our supposed kinship with a dirge, it’s impossible to dismiss the cold and callous pain that cripples our consciousness when death arrives. Grive, a willing companion to death, introduces itself in different guises. Familiar with its traits or not, ensure it deprives humans of joy even for minute seconds. Thus, watching Endless it becomes impossible not to recall moments of personal grief and tragedy.  Endless follows the story of an unnamed couple navigating complications in their relationship. A one-location and two-character film, the film explores how transient time is. On a picnic date, the man(Femi Olawole) reiterates, using a poetic Biblical verse, his emotional commitment towards his girlfriend(Maureen Vincent.) Eager to respond to social media comments and participate in a trendy conversation, the girlfriend fails to acknowledge said boyfriend’s love gesture. After a few verbal exchanges, tragedy strikes. The girlfriend is back at their favourite picnic spot six months later and is emotionally drained. The only difference is that, unlike the first date, the guy is no longer there. But, constantly, the girlfriend invites him for a conversation.  What becomes apparent upon watching the twelve-minute film is how fleeting life is.  Humans live uncertain lives without the supernatural or mythological power to extend or detect our lifespan. Each assured and reluctant step — a dash towards the bedroom, a gentle picking of one’s gadgets and outdoor activities, is implicit with the potential of our mortality as humans. And in an age where illusory and social-media-cultivated friends take primary attention, the film lends its voice to the need for living in the moment. In recalling that popular axiom, I will be repurposing, Endless shows viewers that there is just a hug and kiss between life and death. Every second, minute, hour, and moment matters. Embrace and jealously treasure each gesture and moment with your loved ones and families.  Despite its fine and layered subject matter, the actors’ performance doesn’t lend itself to properly communicating the layered emotional core of their roles.  The acting is emotionally bland for a film that mostly depends on the actors’ vulnerability. Olawole’s performance as the boyfriend starved of attention is passable. But Vincent’s performance as the grieving and distressed girlfriend isn’t commendable. We see her striving to be vulnerable and distressed but falter in reaching the climax. The inability of the performances to embrace the needed emotional tone mars the viewing experience.  The technical elements make up for the poor acting performances. Shot by Ayobami ‘Elite’ Ademola who skilfully doubles as the editor, there is an acute attention towards separating the different timelines of the film. The colour grading distances each timeline from the other. On the couple’s first date, the colour is vibrant. While in the second solo date, the colour is pale and bereft of life. The vibrant colour of the first date not only solely captures the lovers’ blooming love story but the celebration of life and the importance of love. The muted and dull colour doesn’t just tend to separate the moments apart but serves as a metaphor for her psychological head space. Additionally,  the editing allowed a seamless transition between two moments.  Nothing, other than this moment, is assured.  Despite the actors’ dispirited performance, the film suggests, for adept viewers, the urgency to cherish each moment. As someone who is mostly thinking about work and the next film to review even when sharing silent moments with my loved ones, I left the film with the intention of correcting this. Nothing, other than this moment, is assured. 

This is an attempt to write about a film I had high expectations for, but with almost every Nollywood film we are reminded to lower those expectations so that we are not disappointed. However, with Breath of Life, I refused to lower my expectations, as it is supposed to be an important film. A friend once said that “lowering expectations is harmful, you need the pressure to attain mastery.” and I agree with him. As I consider my thoughts, I ask myself if I should evaluate the film based on what it intends to do rather than what I think it should have done. I choose to play around with both ideas, however rough they might appear. Breath of Life was released on December 15, 2023, as an Amazon Prime Video original film, under MGM and Nemsia Films with Derin Adeyokunnu as executive producer and produced by Eku Edewor. It is the third feature I’d be watching from Director BB Sasore after Banana Island Ghost (2017), and God Calling (2018). “Breath of Life” is about faith, sacrifice, finding purpose, healing, and redemption. Redemption is a recurring theme in these films and how the characters try to deal with loss and their faith. The trinity of the plot is around the Man, the Church, & his God. I’m carrying my months-old son through the doors as I start with the film, phone in hand. I’m careful not to wake him up but I fail. He just stares at the screen, seriously like a critic. However, this story is not about him, it’s about Reverend Ayodele Timilehin Johnson (March 30th, 1935 – June 12th, 2023). When the film opens, we see old man Elijah in a wheelchair narrating in his younger voice about his adopted father – Reverend Timilehin. Young Timilehin is played efficiently by Demola Adedoyin. He is described as a genius, a man who spoke 16 languages. For fun he would rewrite Holy Books in different languages, he was the highest honoured Cadet in Entry Class of Her Majesty’s Navy, and he was also one of the youngest people to ever become a member of Clergy in the Great Church of England, he’s also a record breaker who could stay underwater for almost an hour.  He decided to return home to Nigeria to serve God as a clergyman and get familiar with the community after the death of his father. Rev. Timilehin was special. Now married to a beautiful wife (Eku Edewor) who has given him a daughter, they are going to be living in his mansion, happily ever after. He even fixed up the church in his community (even though the characters go on to say he built the church). He is here to stay. But there’s a bad man in the community, he is called Baby Fire (Sambasa Nzeribe). They say he is notorious for terrorizing small towns. He loves nothing more than to “see things burn”, but all through his screen time I don’t feel it. On the happiest day in the town, Baby Fire rains down fire on the people buying and selling at a fair. They open fire and spray bullets on one man, killing him in slow motion. Rev. Timi is a witness.   There’s a church meeting. Members are afraid to testify that it was Baby Fire who carried out this madness, but Rev. Timi is willing to bear witness in court. He plans to point the finger. His wife is not happy about this. He assures her that all is well, but it is not. In what was a very brief court sitting, Baby Fire is discharged and acquitted without struggle. It’s a corrupt system. Baby Fire is the colonialist’s stooge. He is their boy, paid by “leftover colonials who used him to terminate troublesome elements”. Now there’s going to be trouble for Rev. Timi. Baby Fire and his gang lurk. Rev. Timi decides to send his wife and daughter out of town for safety while he soldiers the town and be the messiah. “I didn’t marry a martyr, you better come home to me”. They leave. But Baby Fire is way ahead of the plan. He and his goons block the road. Tragedy is about to hit. We know what is coming and we are prepared for it. No suspense here. Baby Fire is a killer and he’s about to make Rev. Timi watch his wife and daughter burn. Rev. Timi must be reminded that to be a messiah, a merciless crucifixion is required. It’ll be a sin not to feel the texture of the coming scene. I’m supposed to be in hell for the next few minutes as the pain, and the screams rent the air, as Rev. Timi would watch his wife & daughter burn, trapped inside his car. It is supposed to be a big scene filled with enough intensity to make my day miserable. It’s supposed to give us a villain that we should hate. But this pivotal scene appears as mere decoration and doesn’t challenge imagination. I was not moved by Sambasa Nzeribe’s performance as Baby Fire, I had no reason to be. I had no pity for Rev. Timi either. I wasn’t drawn in and allowed the pleasure to feel his pain. A tragedy that does not elicit fear and pity fails to meet its purpose. I believe very much in narrative freedom but when a genre takes a form some elements are required to help produce the needed effect, a catharsis. Since we’re invited to the story from Elijah’s point of view, his narration is a recount of what he heard & witnessed, so the time we’re supposed to spend with Rev. Timi as a character in grief is lost. Nevertheless, I learn soon enough that this quick brushstroke narrative is only a bait inviting me to partake in an even bigger story, that something bigger is ahead of us. Rev. Timi tries to kill himself without success. God evidently has a bigger plan