"Invictus" partially reviewed!

How many films has this film-addict seen since her child was born 51 weeks ago? Zilch. To only see snippets and beginnings of films feels like sacrilege, or a violent dismembering of my imagination! I'd rather actually not watch any films than this. Anyway, self-pity aside, Craig put 'Invictus' on for us the other night while we sipped our usual poison, munched our way through matching pepperoni pizzas and tried to entertain a rumbunctious, over-tired Layla. Half an hour into the film, not even having been able to hear above Layla's happy squawking if the 'South African' accents were a good copy or not, I had to make the irritated decision to pause the movie so I could get Layla off to bed.

But................ what I can say about the film is that Morgan Freeman is a man with such gentle strength and quiet dignity as to be the only actor capable of doing Tata Madiba the homage he deserves. Other roles that Morgan Freeman has portrayed impacted heavily (and not just on me - but the whole movie-watching world, I think) as a collective, iconographic sort-of influence on Mandela's persona in the film. If you think of Freeman's role of God in 'Bruce Almighty', his portrayal of a prisoner in 'The Shawshank Redemption', and another - slightly more obscure one - the blind piano tuner in "Danny The Dog" where Freeman's character is endlessly kind, wise and all-seeing. (If you never thought an action film could EVER be poetic and a work of art, you're wrong! Four years after seeing it, and my heart pounds a little faster...) >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> my two brothers-in-law are making us boerewors rolls for lunch and then we're heading to a pub called 'The Aviator' at the aerodrome nearby: I'll have to finish up writing later ;)

...........After my pint of Guinness, I took Layla in my arms and follwed Craig and his boets to survey the vast grassy airfield, bereft of sunshine and blue skies, and sporting only a thick grey mist - probably why there were no planes to be seen. Two, most definitely African, couples walked into the glass-encased viewing space - and Craig and Co. exited politely -- while I, probably too inquisitively, chatted to them and asked them if they were also from Africa. "Zimbabwe," the one lady beamed. I don't really know how to explain this, but black people from Africa living in the UK look African - as opposed to looking like black Brits. Does that make sense? I don't know if it is something in their body language or their demeanor, but over the span of six years of fellow-African-spotting, I have never been wrong. Quite what it is continues to elude me. To use words like 'humility' might have a slightly racist slant... but there is definitely something Africans exude which is somehow magnetic, like a deep drumbeat, a vital heartbeat. And actually, to be quite honest, many white South Africans living abroad also emanate this same power. For example, arriving at Terminal 5 in June last year to fly to South Africa, Layla - at 3.5 months miaowed hungrily for a feed. And do you know, that bench after unbudging bench of waiting English passengers simply looked the other way in an obvious act of protecting 'their' space. But, a few benches along, an older woman waved us over, her smile telling us the same thing as her passport: she was South African! She shifted over to the most cramped corner of the bench, making it seem like the most welcoming oasis of calm and benificence. Within minutes I had Layla latched on for a feed, her frantic cries at last appeased, and Yvonne and I were chatting the hind legs off donkeys! (I still actually have her email address scribbled on a torn scrap of paper in my wallet... I must email her!)

Gosh - what a tangent that was!! The Zimbabweans.
"We watched this cool film, 'Invictus' - have you seen it?" I told them I had watched the beginning half hour - and Morgan Freeman was hailed by them as the perfect man to portray Madiba. They had actually all seen "Danny the Dog" - what a stroke of serendipitous African kismet! I could have chatted to them all afternoon... But the boys were on tenterhooks, trying not to look impatient as they waited to leave for the next game of rugby, so Layla and I bade adieu - and my heart felt a little (no, a LOT) lighter for having met them.

Time has run out for the day - and I'm going to head to bed to read a couple more pages of Julie/Julia but which I continue to read with slightly irritated skepticism, knowing how Julia Child really felt about 'The Project' and that Julie actually divorces her husband in real life. Yes, in real life.

The Telly and the Cow

Confession: I am one of those wretched, painful people who don't really like TV - and, this is the part I am most ashamed about: I don't actually approve of it. Admittedly, there are evenings when I'll plonk myself down in front of the TV and mindlessly let whatever's on wash over in a numbing wave of colour, movement, noise and questionable information. I'll watch things like 'America's Got Talent' and 'The X Factor' for the early rounds of auditions, but lose interest once things supposedly 'get serious'. Sometimes a documentary will catch my attention - but even then, it is so often a disappointment: it never delivers enough information to sink my teeth into! And then, of course, there's Jamie Oliver and that sweetly scraggly guy from the River Cottage which I enjoy for their almost perfect package of information, personalities, visuals.

But where is all this leading, Lisa? Well, in our house we have a disparity of opinion regarding television. Craig can watch TV from the minute he walks through the front door. It's his way of unwinding. Where I can watch maybe an hour's worth before needing to do something 'more constructive' (you can see my snotty bias, huh?), Craig can spend the entire evening soaking whatever may be on - even content to randomly switch between channels, mid-programme. THIS infuriates me beyond reason - usually throwing him a glare of such hot indignation very quickly has him hunting for the channel we were on before!

I want to know that a programme starts at 8pm -- then I'll settle in to watch it from beginning to end. Not so the man of our house! But, truth be told, I think it's really me who is the problem. I'm the one who's potentially anally retentive/ eccentric - where Craig is probably the most normal and well-balanced. And, to combat my need for TV that is stimulating and satisfying for me, Craig joined Lovefilm.com so I could at least get my weekly dosage of nourishing television!

Last night, we watched 'Atonement' and 'Brick Lane'. 'Atonement' was beautifully filmed and layered in meaning and iconography - speaking of love, mature and immature - as well as truth, betrayal, time lost, forgiveness and, naturally, atonement/penance. (My mom, a dress designer in Cape Town, had to make a replica of Keira Knightly's green silk dress for a client. Throughout the entire film, I found myself being distracted by how the dress managed to stay on --- did she need double-sided tape to keep the dress glued to her willowy, flat chest?!)

'Brick Lane', also mostly set in London, was filmed with the most exquisitely sensual attention to detail, and especially colour and light. The story reminded me so much of my friend, Pakshi, who was forced to marry an older, Indian man in London - exiled from her cherished sister and the land of her heart to live in the crowded grime of alien London. Slow-moving, like a languid poem, the story unfolds like a fading sari until the very end is reached... (of which I can say nothing about - but for Soutpiels living in the UK, it will surely surprise you!)

Our domestic television habits aside, I must also tell you that my homesickness reached such a devastating low, that it has taken weeks of building myself up again with hope and keeping busy. But this is a conversation for another day...