The screen drowns in it, a squid-ink dark so dark it almost hurts my eyes. It’s making me think danger.
It’s also a good way to spotlight something. And so we can see a woman standing alone where the waves crash—decorated, like them, with flourishes of white. Ah! Light can live in this darkness, can pierce it.
Artsy, right?! So begins Mami Wata. Its masterplays of light, positioning, sound- and costume-design never end, guaranteeing gorgeousness throughout. But the movie isn’t just pretty. It’s also a gripping small-town drama and allegory, filled with twists.
At its center sits Mama Efe. She’s the intermediary, the one who can (supposedly) channel the power of Mami Wata, the spirit of the water. Kid sick? Take ‘em to Efe. Crop good? Sacrifice it by giving it to Efe. Some of the villagers are fine with this, but a few are not. They ask loudly and often: How come Mama Efe lives in luxury while we still have no hospitals, schools, or roads? Why do we allow her to lie to us? Even Efe’s two daughters struggle with believing.
Eventually, tensions break like waves. Again and again the spiritual folk can’t answer questions about the practical. Will Mami Wata let them down after all these years? And are the alternatives any better? If the movie draws us in with its visual/aural beauty, then it keeps us interested with a cycle of tension and surprises. Think spirits, daughters, warlords.
Moviemakers, I am impressed. For a while I even believed.
Mama Efe, concerned.