DAR ES SALAAM: I HAVE now listened to a conversation on the NO TROLLING podcast, hosted by Sean81jax and featuring filmmaker Ernest Napoleon, three times.
Three times, ndugu zangu. By the third round, I felt the interviewer deserved a glass of water, and the Tanzanian film fraternity needed somewhere comfortable to sit before receiving its diagnosis.
For those meeting Ernest for the first time, a little introduction is in order. He is a Russian-Tanzanian producer, screenwriter and actor, born in Moscow to a Tanzanian father and a Russian mother.
His family moved to Tanzania when he was five, and he grew up in Dar es Salaam before moving to Los Angeles as a teenager.
There, he earned a degree in computer science while spending seven years taking acting and writing classes. Some will remember him as an EATV presenter or the Bongo Flava recording artiste MC Napo. He later relocated to Stockholm.
Surely, the guy has travelled through enough professions and time zones to know that owning a camera is only the beginning. Back to the podcast, the host reminds Ernest that he once said Tanzania does not have good films.
He describes the statement as brutal, perhaps hoping his guest will soften it with a little diplomacy.
Ernest responds, “Mention one.” Ohooo! You invite somebody for a conversation, and he turns your studio into an examination hall.
No revision, no consulting your neighbour and no marks for effort. I enjoy somebody who speaks his mind, although Ernest appears to have removed the brakes before leaving home.
Asked what is wrong with Tanzanian filmmaking, he says almost everything. Writing, acting, directing: the inspection is thorough.
The cameras and some directors of photography escape with their certificates intact. Congratulations, equipment department; collect your results before the examiner remembers lighting.
A filmmaker who has spent months wrestling with a production deserves a hearing before somebody throws the whole exercise into the dustbin. Ernest’s verdict struck me as sweeping.
Yet beneath the verbal pepper sits a question worth answering: If you make a film today, how will you recover your money? That question can empty a room faster than a request for contributions towards refreshments.
We understand premieres wonderfully. The jackets fit, and everybody knows where to stand beside the banner. Introduce revenue, however, and half the room must answer an urgent call from Morogoro.
The other half has gone looking for a charger. As a photographer, I know the danger of confusing equipment with ability. Buying an expensive camera does not automatically make somebody a storyteller, just as buying a large cooking pot does not qualify one to cater for a presidential wedding.
Sometimes the camera merely records a poor decision so clearly that nobody can deny responsibility afterwards.
Imagine a producer called Mr Kasheshe, invented for Friday purposes. His poster is ready, his premiere jacket has been pressed, and his WhatsApp status announces, “Something big is coming.”
Unfortunately, the script also wants to know what is coming. His financial plan depends on going viral, rather like planting maize and asking thunder to organise the market.
Ernest recalls when distributors sold films on DVDs. As I understood him, the useful lesson concerns the connection between a film and its paying audience. We need not resurrect scratched discs that froze just as the guilty husband opened the bedroom door.
We do need to establish how customers pay today and how that money reaches filmmakers. His argument that capable people leave when the money becomes hopeless stayed with me.
A sound technician may love cinema dearly, but his landlord is unlikely to accept artistic passion on the fifth of every month.
Even the most patriotic stomach occasionally requires something more substantial than encouragement and a tag on Instagram.
Ask a mechanic to repair your gearbox for exposure and observe how quickly the consultation ends. Yet a writer can spend weeks developing a story and be promised introductions to important people.
Very nice. Will those people introduce him to breakfast or his invoice to accounts? Creative commitment should not require a permanent disagreement with the landlord. Then there is the script.
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In Mr Kasheshe’s imaginary production, a wealthy businessman announces his wealth whenever he enters his own sitting room.
His wife explains their marriage to somebody who attended the wedding. By the second scene, the furniture understands the inheritance dispute, while the viewer is wondering whether there is time to boil the kettle.
Consider a hospital scene where the doctor handles a stethoscope as though somebody lent it to him at the gate.
He announces that the patient has lost his memory, then explains so much family history that the poor fellow may prefer to remain confused.
A little research could spare both patient and audience considerable suffering. Sound also deserves attention.
Picture a marriage proposal competing with a passing motorcycle. The engine comes through beautifully; the bride’s answer disappears. By the closing credits, I understand the motorcycle’s intentions better than the couple’s future.
Someone should nominate that rider for supporting actor and reserve a premiere seat for his exhaust pipe. Ernest raises concerns about personal connections influencing opportunities, including allegations of kickbacks.
Those claims need evidence. Still, a newcomer should be able to establish what a funder requires without discovering which cousin plays football with somebody’s brother on Sunday mornings.
Clear selection criteria would give applicants something useful to work with.
His comparison between commercial financing and European public support deserves discussion. What arrangements could work here, and how would filmmakers qualify?
Somebody must assess proposals and check spending. Otherwise, Mr Kasheshe’s refreshments budget may swallow the sound department, leaving one microphone, two samosas and a promise to settle everything after the premiere.
Before printing “international standard” on a poster, we should ask who will watch and why they will pay. An English title, a drone shot and a borrowed limousine provide limited answers. The limousine will eventually need fuel, bringing those international ambitions face-to-face with a very local invoice.
Viewers give us their time too. Spend twenty minutes showing people entering rooms and explaining what everyone already knows, and audiences start considering their options. Perhaps the car needs washing. Perhaps an auntie deserves a visit.
The skip button has little respect for the trouble taken to organise a red carpet. I would still prefer Ernest’s criticism to examine particular films and explain where they succeed or fail.
Filmmakers can answer through work that keeps us watching. Meanwhile, Mr Kasheshe, remove the sunglasses and open the accounts. Your camera has passed inspection, but the cameraman is outside asking whether exposure can cover his bus fare.