The narrative parsimony of Munyurangabo is such that revealing the plot, even in a synopsis, would spoil the pleasures of the slow, patient unfolding of events. They’re not “spoilers” per se, but each tiny revelation of the backstory – people’s relationships to each other, or the purpose of their trip, for instance — forces the audience to recalibrate its understanding of previous events or lines of dialogue. I’ll at least say a little less than what one can read from your newspaper’s synopsis: after stealing a machete – perhaps the most recognizable symbol of the Rwandan genocide – two boys, Munyurangabo and Sangwa, set off on a journey.
The film has a loose, almost improvised feel, but my initial expectation – that the journey would become a Jarmusch-like road trip, with outsized characters popping in and out – thankfully proved to be wrong. It settles down firmly, as wanderers often do, in Sangwa’s village, with the latter’s parents. His return is something of a surprise, after being away for three years, and his mom’s uncontainable joy in seeing him again — even to the point of spoonfeeding him — is genuinely touching. (So is the physical affection between the two boys, played by Rutagengwa Joseph and Ndorunkundiye Eric.)
But not everyone is excited about Sangwa’s return; his father berates him quietly but intensely, in a scene made more uncomfortable by Sangwa’s silence. The rest of the film, in a sense, is Sangwa’s quiet attempt to return into his father’s good graces, to have his family made whole again. It’s in contrast to Munyurangabo’s experience — himself also burdened by his father (but in a very different manner) — as we see him looking from the outside in at Sangwa’s family, at something he does not have anymore. He becomes impatient at their temporary visit becoming longer and longer; Sangwa is supposed to accompany him, after all, on his mission elsewhere. We discover fairly early in the film that it’s one of vengeance — and so there’s a constant reminder of the machete in the backpack — and it’s this knowledge that gnaws tensely at the edge of the scenes of reconciliation.
Part of director (and co-writer, along with Samuel Anderson) Lee Isaac Chung’s vision in Munyurangabo is to immerse the viewer in the ordinary rhythms of Rwandan work — that is to say, something explicitly other than the genocide, which has understandably overwhelmed the representation of Rwanda in recent years. It’s about the act of creation, in other words — cultivating land, creating clay, rebuilding houses — even if it all starts with just the slow trickle of water into a filthy yellow diesel can.
This act of creation isn’t limited to the land; it’s also about the creative process in general: telling tall tales, dancing, and wriiting poetry. One of the standout moments features Uwayo Edouard, who has the longest single scene (indeed, probably more lines than anyone else), where he recites his own poetry directly to the camera. The poems articulate the themes of the movie — perhaps a little too obviously — but they’re employed in direct contrast to the reticence of the two boys earlier. One also realizes that Chung included the scene not just because it verbalizes what has remained more or less unspoken, but because, one figures, he found it necessary for the audience to hear a Rwandan poet’s own words. (I write more about this, particularly in connection with “Asian American cinema”, in a separate blog entry.)
Munyurangabo is filled with small visual grace notes, tucked into the narrative. There’s a scene, for instance, when Munyurangabo is telling Sangwa’s friend about his parents, and the camera wanders, almost offhandedly, into the banana trees above them. He sounds as if he’s about to become choked up, but I don’t think that’s why the camera averts its gaze; it’s literally meant for the audience to look, instead, at the play of sunlight on the banana leaves. Earth, water, leaves: if it sounds like something out of a Terrence Malick film, it’s probably deliberate, though I’d like to see him discover more of his own visual style.
Chung also makes much use of a handheld camera as it bounces up and down, following the two boys as they walk down the road. When, towards the end, the perspective shifts to that of Munyurangabo as he walks alone, it’s jarring. Paired with the film’s lone voiceover — Munyurangabo relating his experiences during the genocide — it’s as if the landscape itself (the hills, the trees) is shaking, a visual analogue to the upheaval he has experienced.
It perhaps sounds cliched to say that the film is about an attempt at healing and forgiveness, but it does so in perhaps the most unassuming, quietest way possible. The fact that it all seems so tranquil makes it hard to conceive of the terror that occurred, and the film is stronger for it. Chung’s eloquent debut is one of the best I’ve seen this year.
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