Movie Review: "Heart of Africa 2."

 

Despite pandemic restrictions, the movie "Heart of Africa 2" is still showing in theaters across Utah and receiving a warm reception from hardy cinephiles who enjoy its timely story line and the sincere performances of the main actors and actresses. 

It would be a shame if this film, which won third place for a feature film at the recent LDS Film Festival, is allowed to slip out of theaters anytime soon. It's one of those films that will benefit from word of mouth and grow a respectable audience if given half a chance.  

 It's message of intercultural understanding and the relevance of conflict resolution in today's disintegrating world has never been more important -- or needed. According to one of the movie's producers, Bruce Young -- who spends most of his time teaching Shakespeare and C.S. Lewis to students at Brigham Young University.

Bruce Young. Producer, Heart of Africa 1 & 2.

I spoke to Bruce recently about his involvement in "Heart of Africa" and "Heart of Africa 2."  We viewed the second film together at the Thanksgiving Point Megaplex. Bruce says that he and his wife Margaret, who has script credit on both films, were determined to help revive the film industry in the Congo DR, after it ground to a halt nearly thirty years ago during a period of civil unrest.

The couple teamed up with Congolese director Tshoper Kabambi, helping to find grant money, equipment, and staff behind and before the camera. Both movies were filmed entirely in the Congo DR.

"Heart of Africa 2" basically retells the story of "Heart of Africa" from the POV of Elder Jason Martin, a service missionary from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, called to help build an orphanage in the Congo DR with his native companion Gabriel Ngandu. 

This is not a Church PR film, by any means. We see the two companions struggling with demons from their past and coming to grips with cultural and racial misunderstandings and intolerance that at several junctures lead to very unChristian macho behavior. Emotions and dialogue get pretty raw in places. At one point Elder Martin calls Elder Ngandu a 'jungle monkey.' This is both extremely shocking -- and extremely real.

As a Church missionary myself, serving in Thailand for two years, I had companions that ranged from true saints to slackers who were only there because their parents promised them a new car if they would carry on the family tradition by serving a mission. I was physically threatened by my companion on several occasions -- fortunately, instead of resorting to macho responses I tended to joke my way out of those situations like Woody Allen or Bob Hope. Putting two young men together in a strange place, with a ton of rules and restraints added into the bargain, is not your average formula for immediate camaraderie. Perhaps one of the real miracles of the Church's massive missionary program is that almost all companionships lead to lasting friendships instead of assault charges. 

But even though "Heart of Africa 2" is not propaganda, it does take on the controversial and complex issue of the role of Jesus Christ in an individual's life. The film dares to sidestep other issues like racism, colonialism, and sex, for a good fifteen minutes to focus on how the Savior's sacrifice and atonement influenced and changed both Martin and Ngandu. This Christ-centered dialogue is breath-taking because, among other reasons, it's not pandering to the normal popcorn-chomping movie crowd's cravings.

It's a bold, and, to my way of thinking, admirable, movie maker who is willing to challenge audiences with the age-old question "What think ye of Christ?" 

Movie goers will be well rewarded for taking the trouble to view "Heart of Africa 2" during it's limited run. Bruce Young assures me the film will eventually be available to stream, but the film really benefits from the generous screen of a Megaplex; there are many exceptionally beautiful and haunting shots in the film that will stay with the viewer for a long time. 

 

Intercession for the children of men.

 

Only One can intercede

for us -- Father, his words heed!

Christ will plead for all who try

to follow him and don't ask why.

And those who never heard his law

will also feel his care with awe.

And even those who scorn his plea

will be forced to bend their knee.

Photo Essay: Postcard Triptych Mailed to Journalist Jennifer Graham of the Deseret News.

 

He giveth grace unto the lowly.

 

Grace cannot be bought or sold;

it has no truck with rank or gold.

God showers it on lowly folk

who in this world may seem a joke;

but those who laugh and scorn will find

when they need grace it is declined.

In Memoriam: Irvin Holst Torkildson

 

The years have softened nothing;

where I walk is rawness still.

Where I walk without my Irvin,

who lies in the sod so still.

Forgive me, God, my bitterness

at death so young and swift;

so final and unyielding

that it set my heart adrift.

I lost too much to ever heal

completely here in dust.

I want to see my little boy,

and so to Thee entrust 

my prayers that Resurrection

will allow me to erase

the present misery I feel,

denied his cherub face.

 

Photo Essay: Unmailed Postcards to My President.

 Due to recent severe illness, I'm reworking my budget for the merry month of March; postage has no place in my emaciated accounts for the next several weeks. But I still create, document, and will eventually mail these postcards to President Joe Biden -- soon as my stimulus check arrives . . . 

Photo Essay: Postcards from Friends.

I have spent this past Pandemic Year creating and mailing a good many postcards, to both friends and strangers.

And occasionally I receive one in return. Such as the following:

From journalist Andrew Van Dam: 

From printmaker Victor Femenias Von Willigmann, of Chile:

From Eli Raczynski, of Massachusetts:  

I remember the days of old; I meditate on all thy works; I muse on the work of thy hands.

 

I meditate on all thy works,

O Lord of Night and Day;

thy mighty hands have formed my soul

like supple potter's clay.

Remember not my frailties 

and follies, Lord of hosts:

Forgive my idle reveries

that turn to pompous boasts!

Restaurant Review: Tommy's Burgers has discovered the secret to patty cohesion.

 

This place has been around a long time in Provo.

But I ain't gonna tell you where it is.

Cuz I don't want it to be busy when I want

to go there to get a good hamburger.

They also do Chicago dogs, but they tend to turn

into gloop after the first few bites, cuz

they have more soggy verduras heaped on 'em

than Carmen Miranda's hat.

I don't know how they do it. Maybe voodoo or

jiggery-pokery, but their burgers hold

together, stay strong and cohesive

like the Rock of Gibraltar, even when

they get shook up bad while I lumber

uneasily on my arthritic legs the three

blocks back home.

I had this gargantuan burger this morning. See, they

open at 10:30, and that's about the time I get home

from the Rec Center after my deep water aerobics class

and a long soak in the hot tub -- so today I decided

I wanted something decadent, something that pandered

to the carnivore in me to break my morning fast.

 This burger did the trick. For five bucks.

I didn't bother with fries, which I now regret.

There would have been room for 'em.

Just thinking about how good that first bite

was when I got back home, sitting in my

recliner and watching an episode of Star Trek: Enterprise

on Netflix, makes me want to go back there right

now for for maybe a Texas burger this time.

As my old Thai girlfriend Joom used to 

say to me, shaking her head:

"May roojug paw!"

Which means "You always want

too much of a good thing."

I tried to take a picture of my reflection in their window.

Didn't quite turn out; I'm sure that after watching

me struggle to get this shot, the proprietor 

now thinks I am an elderly overweight lunatic.

You may be sure I'm going back there tomorrow,

Wednesday, because they give a Senior discount

on Wednesdays -- ten percent off.

Maybe I'll try the Texas burger then . . . 

Prose Poem: Norwegian Walnuts.

 

We sailed through the Suez Canal during a sultry 

afternoon in March.

I was worried about our cargo:

Norwegian walnuts are subject

to all sorts of hot weather wilting

issues.

But many members of my crew

had never seen sand in their entire

lives:

Lascars and Antimacassars,

Laplanders and Foozlemen. 

After our rough passage around the

Grimstead Archipelago, 

I figured they deserved a

reward for their hard work

and sacrifice.

Abbiby, our pilot, seemed nervous.

 "These waters can be Quixotic" he told

me, when I mentioned his twitching

and feral glances. 

"The Canal has many moods"

he continued, chewing on a 

Baby Wampas Bar. 

"So do I" I told him grimly.

"So don't hand me any tall tales

and just get us past the Dry Heaves, pronto!"

My little outburst seemed to settle his hash,

but two days later, as we sighted Marmalade Kettle,

Abbiby abruptly abandoned the wheel to jump overboard.

He landed on a sandbank and scuttled away.

We grounded on that same sandbank,

at which point I lost control of my crew --

they threw themselves onto the sand in an

ecstasy of unbridled joy, scooping up the grains

to pour over their heads and down their shirt

fronts, and they even began swallowing the sand.

"Tastes yust like sugar!" yelled Finn Mark, 

my first mate. 

I knew it wouldn't be long

before the sand flies got 'em,

so I lured them back onboard 

with rollmops and lemon schnauzer. 

Then opened all the stopcocks. 

The ship settled into the sandbank,

never to move again.

And I planted all the Norwegian walnuts

along the bank of the Canal . . . 

Eventually we built a country club

and started a credit union. 

Then the crew started clamoring

to make me King of Sandbank Island.

But I told them such a thing

would surely lead to vassalage,

and their daughters would become

confectionaries.

But they insisted, 

so now I'm the King.

King of an upstart gang of 

arrogant and immature men.

They're such proud boys . . . 

**********************************

An English Professor at BYU responded to the above with his own poem, based on the Beatle's 'Norwegian Wood.' --

I once had a nut,

Or should I say, I was a nut?

She showed me her nut:

Isn’t it good, Norwegian nut?

 

She called me a nut

And she told me to sit on a nut.

So I picked up a nut

And noticed it wasn’t a walnut.

 

I sat on a rug, eating my nut,

Drinking her nut.

We talked like a nut

And then she said, You are a nut.

 

She told me she worked like a nut

And I laughed like a nut.

I told her her nut

Took a bath and then crawled like a nut.

 

And when my poor nut

Woke, I was the nut!

This bird was nut.

So I fired the nut--

Isn’t it good, Norwegian nut?