Oh man. Out of Africa has broken my heart clean open.Which is weird because my first reactions to colonial-era films are usually always political. I have no idea why this one should escape. I think I should feel terrible, or second guess how I do feel, or protest, somehow.
But I suppose once you get used to a certain narrative of history, you learn to feel between the lines. Something other than discomfort. Something other than rage. Something other than what is now so obvious to me, it has become almost invisible. The fibs are transparent, glass-like: tangible, yet uninterfering.
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(April 8)
On another level entirely, this film is so resonant it scares the pants off me. Does someone really need to die in order to facilitate a nostalgic resolution and a successful writing career?
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