"La Noire de..."--better translated as "The Black Girl/Woman de...," retaining the French preposition with its ambiguous connotations, either meaning "of" or "from" or "belonging to"--is credited as the first sub-Saharan African feature film to receive international acclaim. Its author, Sembène Ousmane is likewise considered the "father of African cinema." Indeed, Senegal had only recently declared independence from French colonial rule in 1960, and, reportedly, before that Africans in French colonies were prohibited from making their own movies. One assumes this ban existed because the authorities feared such a thoroughly anti-colonialist picture being presented as in "Black Girl" and even more so that it be artfully composed. For, despite clocking in at under an hour (although originally a bit longer), Ousmane's film tenders a taut thesis, subtly adorned in art and while still managing a shamefully shocking end and strikingly symbolic epilogue.
If this were simply postcolonial social commentary, as admirable as that message may be, it would be easy to write off "Black Girl," which is what the French Film Bureau did in rejecting to produce it (although, they later purchased the rights to (or not to) distribute it). It's the crafting of the message that makes this a great film, though. I especially love the use of the mask here--a piece of African art much like the film itself that serves as a source of contention for its control, within and without the film. At first, while in Dakar, Diouana, the protagonist, offers the mask as a gift to her employers, for which they place it beside other pieces of African art decorating their villa. Back in their high-rise apartment in France, however, the mask hangs alone on the white family's wall, with the only apparent other they take back with them from Senegal to France being Diouana. When the boy who originally possessed the mask regains it, he shadows one of Diouana's employers, the man, as if haunting him with the history of colonialism while simultaneously deporting him from a newly free nation.
The precision of the black-and-white cinematography is worth remarking upon here, too. With a minimalist aesthetic reflecting its low budget and the influence of the French New Wave, it may be easy to miss how well the photography reinforces the social commentary. Jonathan Rosenbaum (see his book, "Movies as Politics"), for one, reiterates what another film critic, Lieve Spass, says regarding the black-and-white dichotomy of the picture in everything from the dots on Diouana's dress, the food they consume (white rice and milk, black coffee and "Black and White" whisky), to, most dramatically, Diouana in the white bathtub. There's also the dark mask on the apartment's white wall, the black void Diouana stares out at from that apartment, in addition to the obvious pigmentation. When the white French woman looks over a crowd of black women waiting for work as maids, the visual connotation to a slave market isn't lost. Nor is it when Diouana is mistreated by those she serves in France: the shrewish madame treating her as inferior, the mostly indifferent monsieur, kissed by a stranger who doesn't bother with a request or introduction after remarking that he's never kissed a black woman before, overhearing another guest suppose that Diouana instinctually, "like an animal," understands commands in the French language (one may be forgiven for thinking it was the two centuries of French colonial rule that explains the people of Senegal knowing French--heck, the Normans only controlled England for half a century a millennium ago, and there remain thousands of French cognates in the English language to this day, but I digress).
It rather goes without saying that this is an economical picture, although, again reportedly, originally the film included a color sequence. In addition to the photography, however, there's the sparsity of story and dialogue, which I admire, notwithstanding that some Westerners seem to be put off by it. Regardless, relying on Diouana's internal narration is effective in focusing the narrative and getting the point across--that the dream and promises that led her to France becomes alienated from her confined reality, which she compares to being treated like a prisoner and slave, as others cast her as a racial, supposedly inferior "other." Her illiteracy along with her general muteness compounds her alienation, as wrenchingly detailed in the scene involving a letter supposedly from her mother. The general English translation of the title is rather suiting in this regard, to simply label her and the film as the "Black Girl," to not even question from whence she belongs--her identity simply stated and assumed, as her employers and the colonizers would have it. The film returns her voice, if only for the spectator, and likewise the identity of postcolonial Africa.
If this were simply postcolonial social commentary, as admirable as that message may be, it would be easy to write off "Black Girl," which is what the French Film Bureau did in rejecting to produce it (although, they later purchased the rights to (or not to) distribute it). It's the crafting of the message that makes this a great film, though. I especially love the use of the mask here--a piece of African art much like the film itself that serves as a source of contention for its control, within and without the film. At first, while in Dakar, Diouana, the protagonist, offers the mask as a gift to her employers, for which they place it beside other pieces of African art decorating their villa. Back in their high-rise apartment in France, however, the mask hangs alone on the white family's wall, with the only apparent other they take back with them from Senegal to France being Diouana. When the boy who originally possessed the mask regains it, he shadows one of Diouana's employers, the man, as if haunting him with the history of colonialism while simultaneously deporting him from a newly free nation.
The precision of the black-and-white cinematography is worth remarking upon here, too. With a minimalist aesthetic reflecting its low budget and the influence of the French New Wave, it may be easy to miss how well the photography reinforces the social commentary. Jonathan Rosenbaum (see his book, "Movies as Politics"), for one, reiterates what another film critic, Lieve Spass, says regarding the black-and-white dichotomy of the picture in everything from the dots on Diouana's dress, the food they consume (white rice and milk, black coffee and "Black and White" whisky), to, most dramatically, Diouana in the white bathtub. There's also the dark mask on the apartment's white wall, the black void Diouana stares out at from that apartment, in addition to the obvious pigmentation. When the white French woman looks over a crowd of black women waiting for work as maids, the visual connotation to a slave market isn't lost. Nor is it when Diouana is mistreated by those she serves in France: the shrewish madame treating her as inferior, the mostly indifferent monsieur, kissed by a stranger who doesn't bother with a request or introduction after remarking that he's never kissed a black woman before, overhearing another guest suppose that Diouana instinctually, "like an animal," understands commands in the French language (one may be forgiven for thinking it was the two centuries of French colonial rule that explains the people of Senegal knowing French--heck, the Normans only controlled England for half a century a millennium ago, and there remain thousands of French cognates in the English language to this day, but I digress).
It rather goes without saying that this is an economical picture, although, again reportedly, originally the film included a color sequence. In addition to the photography, however, there's the sparsity of story and dialogue, which I admire, notwithstanding that some Westerners seem to be put off by it. Regardless, relying on Diouana's internal narration is effective in focusing the narrative and getting the point across--that the dream and promises that led her to France becomes alienated from her confined reality, which she compares to being treated like a prisoner and slave, as others cast her as a racial, supposedly inferior "other." Her illiteracy along with her general muteness compounds her alienation, as wrenchingly detailed in the scene involving a letter supposedly from her mother. The general English translation of the title is rather suiting in this regard, to simply label her and the film as the "Black Girl," to not even question from whence she belongs--her identity simply stated and assumed, as her employers and the colonizers would have it. The film returns her voice, if only for the spectator, and likewise the identity of postcolonial Africa.