DRAMATIQUE
Friends and colleagues have asked me if I’m shooting any films while down here in Haiti – no doubt thinking that the country is rich with images and compelling stories from ancient and modern history – enough to build a documentary or drama around. And the country is, indeed, rich in content and possibilities. Many wide-eyed documentary filmmakers have visited our school describing their interesting industrial subjects and human stories in development or production and their intentions of bringing out truths that will help the Haitian cause. Other visitors – actors who have been part of indigenous or foreign dramas about Haiti have expressed similar altruism. I cannot, however, pick up a camera and start shooting my environment or that, which is “en face.” I need to know more about the people, the history and the culture – deeper into the voodoo symbolism, the subtle and overt connections to slavery, where the white legacy stands, the Haitian sexual signals and their body language around passion and revulsion, and how their spirit manifests itself in everyday life. Why do Haitians care about some things and not about others? This is my dilemma: I haven’t found their soul and my way of connecting to it. I keep getting mixed messages: One afternoon while riding my moto in busy downtown traffic someone came up from behind and tried to cut me off. At first, I thought it was an innocent prank until I looked to my right and saw where I could end up: a deep concrete ditch filled with standing water and thick garbage bordering the road – he appeared again coming up from behind and this time came closer to steering me off the road – it was clear he was stalking me when he drove up for a third attempt which almost caused me to plunge into the ditch. I was finally able to turn off the main road without incident – as I saw my pursuer disappear in a maze of motos. Contrasting this incident was what often happened at the end of class when one of my female students would appear beside me and take my hand to walk with me – quite casually, without erotic innuendo or ulterior motive – and silently lead me from the choucoune. In this gesture, if only for a moment, I have felt the Haitian soul – ancient, assured, benevolent, even superior in a strange way. Yet another incident brought me closer to an understanding: During one of the student shoots, a story of love at first sight, I arrived on set to see what the cameraman had framed. He told me he had completed the usual master shot and close-ups but thought the scene lacked drama. I suggested a shot that he deemed worth a try and we began to set it up. In the story, before he was to meet the young woman the nervous young man knocked over a box of nails scattering them across the floor – As he began picking them up the young woman appeared – causing him to slowly rise to meet her eyes. The shot was to simulate his character’s point of view – slowly rising from her feet, past her hips and chest to arrive at her beautiful face with her eyes looking straight at him. The cameraman had a little trouble though because of his height (he’s the smallest student in the school) – he could only reach the woman’s shoulders with his hand-held rig so I stood behind him, grasped onto his hands, and lifted the camera higher to meet her eyes looking straight into the lens – we held on her and captured a little magic for she was the personification of love and beauty. The cameraman didn’t say a word – just shot me a proud look that said he had crossed a threshold and entered the inner sanctum of artistic cinematography.
If this sense of personal accomplishment could only infiltrate their collective imagination, Haitians might be able to build an infrastructure to a new society. Instead, they are slaves once again – now to colonisers with smiling faces who serve charity and dependency on the same plate. Behind closed doors, UN, Charity Orgs and NGOs decide what is best for Haitians – their numerous white vehicles are seen speeding everywhere seemingly in a constant state of disaster relief. When they return home at night it is to luxurious walled compounds with a karaoke room. I heard a statistic that twenty years ago Haitians grew their own rice, their staple food, but now they import eighty percent from the US. Former political foes now form the nefarious Clinton Bush Foundation which develops Haitian industry and American interests simultaneously. No one could blame Haitians for being cynical and depressed about this reality. And I can perceive a profound sadness of spirit running through student work. As we enter the final term at our school, the first year students undertake their final projects: the scripting, production and post-production of four short dramatic films with crews of nine and editing staff. Their stories, short-listed by a Haitian teacher and chosen by a group of teachers for their varying views of Haitian life, convey a harsh reality. The only story with a happy ending is a comedy of sorts where a young man tries to impress a young woman from a richer class with an elaborate dinner. The ruse disintegrates into chaos but the woman is charmed by the effort and falls for the man anyway. The other stories though are more troubling: one is about a bag of rice given to a poor family and the code of honour they struggle with to keep from eating it. Another story is an account of domestic strife and the repercussions of the brutal rape of a teenage girl by her uncle. Yet another Romeo and Juliette story cites a corrupt police force – a police chief tries to blackmail a young woman into having sex in order to free her boyfriend in prison – when the young woman tries to turn the tables, she is shot dead.
I had a personal experience with each of these films – I would drive to the locations on my moto to see how their dramatic interpretation of the written word was unfolding – after all their workshops, prep, administration and advice. Often, the locations involved the local community with their houses and buildings – I’d show up like someone (a blanc) who had lost their way – quickly surrounded by curious onlookers. I’d sometimes help the crew by holding a reflector, discussing a camera angle or giving an acting tip and I’d hang out with them as they burned through the scenes. In one location I got a glimpse into life in rural Haiti – a single room dwelling made from loose concrete painted dull green with a corrugated aluminum roof and a crude “gallerie” as they call their verandas. The house with its separate kitchen and out-house in the back, seemed isolated in a patch of banana and palm trees – but its surrounding network of footpaths led to a small village of sorts with clusters of similar dwellings, the odd shop or loto kiosk and an outdoor school with a large blackboard against a tree and an adjacent small tent. The story of this short student film, a powerful piece of social realism, revolved around a poor family’s moral and spiritual dilemma when given a free bag of rice. The actors were cast from real people in the community – five characters comprising the family, the father’s friend and the lady who gave the bag of rice. I was present while an intimate scene was being shot in a corner of the small house – with the family at a makeshift altar – father in a Hawaiian shirt and ripped jeans, mother in a wrinkled, full-length sac dress and daughter in a double-blue school uniform – praying to the Virgin Mary. Made more poignant by the concentration of the actors who went about their task without prompting, it was a transcendent moment I’ll never forget. Perhaps I should look no further than this for a glimpse into the Haitian soul.
