Film Review: Sand, Drum & Shostakovich

This documentary explores contemporary dance in Africa. It introduces eight modern dance companies; Compagnie Danse Nyata-Nyata (Congo/Canada), Compagnie Vincent Mantsoe (South Africa), Compagnie Cie Salia Nï Seydou (Burkina Faso), Compagnie Sylvain Zabli (Ivory Coast), Compagnie Tchétché (Ivory Coast), Companhia Clara Andermatt (Cape Verde/Portugal), Compagnie Mathlide Monnier (France/Burkina Faso/Mali), Compagnie Jant-Bi (Senegal/Germany), all participants at the Festival International de Nouvelle Danse in Montreal, Canada in 1999.

The film opens with a powerful visual image on a blackened stage. Cinematography, lighting, costumes, and sets add to the overall effect. African dancers from Mathlide Monnier enter the stage seemingly from all directions; some might have descended from Heaven, performing acrobatic and rhythmic dances. The chiseled dancers defying gravity on film would make anyone head to the nearest gym and then on to an African dance class. Continuing with the opening sequence, there's a dancer from Companhia Clara Andermatt standing in front of a metallic door of what might appear to be an exclusive club, save for the fact that he's topless, barefoot and wearing a pair of body-conscious shorts. He isn't there to exclude anyone; he's there to welcome the audience to a multi-ethnic dance and drum jamboree. The film is narrated in French and English by various choreographers, artistic directors and noted writers as snapshots of performances that are seen later in their entirety phase in and out of focus.

The theatre audience at the Walter Reade Theatre in Lincoln Center shifted in their collective seats, not knowing what to expect as sounds of African drums poured from the speakers. African dance involves every fiber of the human body, as demonstrated by solo performers and groups. African dance has endured for many years, and has been embraced by modern dancers who have meshed their influences to create a valuable gift to their ancestors. Traditional dances have not been abandoned; they have been enriched by collaboration between the western world and African dance into a hybrid that is not exclusively western or African. From the joint efforts both have a stake in keeping the history in tact and an evolving dream alive.

In Africa, there are over fifty countries and every country has more than two-to- three thousand dances. It is clear to see that a single African dance does not exist. In the film, illustrated maps of Africa guide the viewer along the journey of African dance history, including its modern collaboration of dancers, drummers, musicians, and guest choreographers.

The film also explores the spirituality inherent in African dance. Sand is very important in African culture as a reminder that one comes from the ground and will return to the earth. The fragility and strength of the human body and soul are demonstrated by the use of sand. In one of the performances, three dancers from Compagnie Cie Salia Nï Seydou are seated on stage mimicking each other's moves as they contemplate the depth of friendship. One of the dancers sifts sand through his hands like a rope pulling him forward in time, toward his inevitable death. Later, sand is poured over the head of another dancer in the company until he's completely covered, an hourglass turned upside. The screen fades to black.

Dancers are aware of negotiating the space in which they perform which acknowledges and pays homage to their ancestors. Dancing is therapeutic: healing to the mind, body, and soul. Music is an important accompaniment to the dancers on stage, communicating on various planes, transmitting and receiving different messages, which are transferred to the bodies of the dancers. There's an internal connection between the dancers and musicians, witnessed by a similar call-and-response in African-American churches.

Masculinity and femininity are woven into the texture of the film as the viewers are challenged to address the stereotypical roles men and women are relegated to in African society. Compagnie Tchétché, an all-female company, has explored the dynamics of female solidarity through the use of improvisation and theme. Béatrice Kombé, choreographer, set out to create a piece about the sensitivity of African women as they step outside of their expected roles of wife and mother.

One outstanding concept is an outreach program sponsored by Compagnie Sylvain Zabli. The project trains street kids in music and dance, and then sends them back out into the community to teach others what they have learned. The lives of the participants are changed upon completion of the program; they leave the program with a new skill, no longer having to live on the streets and follow destructive life paths.

As depicted in this film, African dance is dramatic, animated, spiritual, and verbal. It educates as it tells a story and builds bridges between communities and cultures. Westerners at first don't have enough expressive emotional means to perform African dance, while in Africa, there is an enormous palette for expression. Westerners usually have to be taught to free their body in order to appreciate the levels of African dance, whereas Africans are more naturally free and expressive in their movement.

In the final performance of the film the viewer is treated to the unexpected. Men from Compagnie Jant-Bi are dressed in designer suits dancing to traditional drum music until the advent of a Shostakovich string quartet. The company demonstrates that it's possible to perform African dance in sand to classical music, thus bringing home its universal appeal and adaptability. Despite outside influences, African dance will remain African.

For more information on the film, visit the web site: Kino Dance.

Writers Working For Free & Clips

I am so exhausted from the all the online ads seeking writers to work for free from would-be literary, cultural, or urban magazines. This video clip featuring Harlan Ellison best answers the question: Should writers work for free? Warning: Some of the language might offend those with delicate ears.

Community Building

I am coming into my own as a community builder as founder and moderator of Morningside Writers Group, organizer of past English/Spanish intercambio groups in the metro NYC area, and when I used to dance barefoot in Central Park with the West African drummers and dancers.

I didn't set out to be a community organizer. This role developed organically over time because I was a frustrated artist seeking others to workshop my fiction, screenplays, and most recently personal essays and memoir chapters.

I happened onto the outdoor roller-skating and inline skating rink when the disco and R&B music floated through the trees and over the lake in Central Park one hot summer afternoon. I was taken aback by the assortment of people seemingly stuck in a time warp, dancing, wiggling, and shaking their groove thing to music from my youth made popular in the movie Roll Bounce.

I found a new home away from home among the locals and tourists armed with camcorders; and for the hours spent, I was in a different world where nothing else mattered besides the bass and treble pouring from the speakers. The organizers were good-natured, spirited, and passionate about skating. They had t-shirts, took photos, and arranged other events throughout the season.

The community welcomed anyone with a pair of skates and a desire to congregate or temporarily escape from whatever ailed them just outside the park perimeter.

The West African drum and dance circle was a similar international community that was just as welcoming and escapist. I'd never seen anything like it before in Texas. I'd only seen or heard African drumming and dancing on PBS. There was a touring company years ago, Ipi Tombi, that I was unable to see, but knew they existed. Prior to the Central Park drum circle, the only other African dance I was familiar with was Alvin Ailey and Arthur Mitchell because of Black History Month.

Both communities subconsciously filtered into the foundation of Morningside. I wanted to create a group for various writing abilities and personality types. I wanted to create a modern-day interracial Harlem Renaissance.

The past five years have been instructive on what works in New York City. I don't know if the same would hold true in Houston, Chicago, or Los Angeles. Does it matter that New York is the understood literary capital? It shouldn't because successful writers live in other parts of the world. My goal moving forward is to create a thriving writing community of published fiction writers and produced playwrights and screenwriters.

Adventures in Filmmaking

My Portuguese roommate, Jorge, and I have been auditioning actors and interviewing potential crew members for several weeks, and it's only now that I've made time to write about the unfolding experience. I wanted to establish distance so that I could see the good and bad of what's been happening, and what might take place in the coming weeks.

Jorge and I are at different places in our respective creative careers. He's a new photographer and videographer, and I am a trained stage and film actor who made the transition to writing and editing.

We posted audition and crew ad on Craigslist, Backpage, Backstage, and in forums on Meetup.com, with varying degrees of success. Craigslist by far was the worst because our ads were constantly being flagged by insecure or jealous people.

We held the video auditions in our small living room, and there were times when we felt overwhelmed by the process. I was approached by a representative of an online audition service to upload our audition tapes to their server for future use by actors who'd sign a release form. I never heard back from the person, and resigned myself to the fact that it wasn't meant to be.

This is our first time producing a film. Jorge has enough faith for both of us, but I know I must dig in and rev up my faith and believe in the genuine goodness of people. We're both optimistic, but that's not enough when we're asking actors and crew to volunteer their talent, time, equipment, and skills on weekends for several months until the summer.

The story is semi-autobiographical, which in itself was unnerving as we explained the character descriptions and motivations to the actors and other interested parties. There were times when it felt all too real as actors soaked up direction and pointers that poured forth from my lips. There were times when I revised the characters and their history on the spot in an effort to distance Jorge and I from the people depicted in the script.

Jorge and I have met with a few people who say they've experience, equipment, and filmmaking expertise. We've no one else to rely upon for the time being, but are taking mental and literal notes on which personalities and procedures work best for the types of projects we'd like to produce.

There's more to learn and refine as we gear up to film promotional trailer scenes in early March. Jorge read a few books to get up to speed: The Complete Book of Scriptwriting, Film Directing - Shot by Shot, and Film Directing - Cinematic Motion.

The goal is to shoot three scenes to attract investors, producers, and additional crew members. Wish us luck!

Give Me That Old Time Religion

I grew up Southern Methodist, and was content with the weekly services absent of bass guitars, drums, or tambourines that were a staple of my cousin's Southern Baptist church.

When I was younger I thought our family went to church because we were supposed to like all good Christians.

Religion can be a confusing topic with various denominations and theologies seemingly competing and contradicting each other. To my mind, spirituality has nothing to do with religion, pomp, circumstance that takes place in most churches.

In the years I've lived in New York City, I've never formally joined a church, but was always interested in finding a regular place of worship. I don't know if it was a feeling of dissatisfaction or confusion that kept me out of organized religious ceremonies.

One Sunday morning years ago, I opted not to go to church and expected my mother would demand that get dressed and make my way to the car. She didn't. It was as simple as my saying I didn't want to go that I was allowed to remain at home. That was pivotal in my ongoing spiritual quest to question my beliefs and why I attend church.

I read scriptures and participated during Sunday morning services in various capacities because I enjoyed public speaking and was encouraged by Sunday school teachers and church personnel. When I landed in New York City, I didn't decide forgo formal church services again. By not actively pursuing a church, the decision was cast in stone.

I miss the spirituals and gospel songs of my adolescence at church and during the glee club. I yearn for inspirational and invigorating Southern-style sermons that are based on reality, not clogged in religious rhetoric or conflicting scriptures.

I've twice attended evening church service at a Midtown Manhattan church that felt more theatrical than spiritual or religious. I didn't like racing into church to get a seat.

The search for God and the strengthening (or establishing) of faith is a continuous process. There's too much information, stimuli, versions of the Bible.

I've began going to a new nondenominational, international church closer to home that's a beautiful place to behold, but the pipe organ and ceremony aren't replacements for what I seek: a meaningful church service with a message.

Black History Month

We live in a country that earmarks the shortest month of the year as Black History Month, which feels like a huge slight against generations of slaves who helped build America.

Other nationalities and minorities have designated months and parades, not in February. I understand that non-black people might have begrudgingly conceded that African Americans and other people of color deserved a special time to highlight our accomplishments.

We shouldn't have to cram the recognition of our past and present inventions, achievements, and rewards inside twenty-eight (or twenty-nine during Leap Year) days.

African Americans should be within their rights to celebrate throughout the year, parades and parties perhaps confined to living rooms, backyards, church, and state parks for family reunions.

Teachers and administrators in predominantly African American schools tend to bring out the heavy artillery for Black History Month. I remember performing or speaking every year during an assembly or at church until I transferred to a white school on the other side of town.

It wasn't until my senior year in high school that I made daily Black History Month announcements. I don't know what prevented me from stepping up during my sophomore and junior years. Actually, I do. I didn't think the suggestion would go over well with the administrators. I wasn't in the comfortable environment of my previous neighborhood or schools. I was in a school with students who drove imported sports cars and had domestics, some of which had bungalows on their property larger than my grandmother's house.

It took me two years of acclimation to step up to the microphone to inform the privileged multi-ethnic student body of the contributions of Black America. I didn't take on the role of Cultural Adviser, but it did feel good to educate the masses even for one month.

Prior to changing schools, I'd never asserted my blackness before; there was no need to make a stand prior to the first time I was called boy by someone other than an African American. I was defiant and felt temporarily out of place after school when a white student spun his hair dry the way a dog shakes itself after a bath. I hadn't felt invisible before that incident, but in that moment I knew I had to say or do something.

We still have a long way to go before there's harmony among the races. There was a series of articles in The New York Times that formed an essay collection, How Race Is Lived in America, that I'd recommend everyone read in addition to the works of Frederick Douglass, W.E.B. DuBois, Maya Angelou, Edward P. Jones, and James Baldwin (to name a few).

It would be an amazing occurrence in the United States to have our first African American president. Barack Obama would truly make history!

Time To Heal and Reflect

A lot of time and energy is spent on being a couple, that most people forget about taking care of themselves in lieu of caring for another. It's important to share your life with family, friends, and loved ones, but not at the expense of your sanity or life.

I'm not advocating a life of isolation. Some people aren't couple material, and are able to lead healthy, rewarding, and productive lives without a significant other. Adopt a cat, dog, or exotic animal rather than deal with someone else grief.

How can I get out of bed in the morning if I'm emotionally, spiritually, and physically exhausted from someone else's drama or neediness?

My granny would always say, "You don't need nobody to help you do bad, you can it by yourself." I like the simplicity in that statement. You're either helping or you're in the way.

Valentine's Day is lucrative day for chocolatiers, greeting card companies, and vacation getaways that prey upon our human guilt, jealousy, and insecurities. I'm not a total cynic, but we live in a country with a fifty percent divorce rate.

I think people need to spend more alone time before logging into Match.com, E Harmony, or any other hookup and dating website. How can I complement another, if I'm not comfortable in my own skin and where I want to be in life?

Are we so terrified to be alone that we latch onto the first available person with come hither smile? Relationships like those tend not to last, founded on weak or eventually transparent motives.

Your boyfriend shouldn't be your surrogate father, nor should your girlfriend be used as your surrogate mother. Whatever issues precede a relationship will be magnified during difficult times, family visits, and professional obligations.

Granny Grums was married to one man her entire life. They were separated by death back in 1973. Our family grew up with their relationship as a model, yet that hasn't prevented divorce in subsequent generations.

My challenge in seeking a mate is not to compare her to my granny, mother, or any of my aunts. My challenge is to try not to compensate for past mistakes, or heal wounds that I had no part in creating.

I think most of us are damaged goods in need of continuous grooming, exercising, and unconditional love. However, we must take the time to get as close to ideal as possible before casting our net into the dating and marriage sea.