'le ballon d'or'

The most recent film I saw at the Goethe-Institut Toronto's Monday night tributes to soccer and film, was Le Ballon d'Or, or The Golden Ball.

The 1993 Guinean film, directed by Cheik Doukoure, tells the story of a young 12-year-old boy, dirt-poor like the majority of his compatriots, who believes he is destined to become a world-class soccer player.

In his thatched village, Bandian and the other children play soccer in the red dirt in their bare feet, with a ball that they have created out of sewn-together rags. Over a transistor radio they hear and exult about the Cameroon team's exploits in the World Cup. They steal chickens to hear the local shaman's predictions that indeed, young Bandian will receive the Golden Ball. In Europe the Golden Ball is given to the European soccer player of the year.

Bandian and his brother sell wood in the town, trying to raise money for a real soccer ball. They go to leathersmiths and other craftsmen, and after getting prices realize they would have to work three years before they could afford a ball not made of rags.

Bandian keeps his money with a sympathetic European doctor from Medecins Sans Frontieres, who one day presents him with an old soccer ball that she has been able to find. He paints it gold, and when he holds the ball to his chest, the gold paint sticks to his shirt. He wears it proudly.

Soon, due to a misunderstanding with his father, Bandian heads for the big city to stay temporarily with his sister. On this adventure he encounters real danger and real friends, and his prowess with the golden ball becomes noticed. Eventually, the shaman's prophecy unfolds to become young Bandian's destiny.

I believe this is the first African film I have seen created by an African. I believe this is the first time I have ever had a sense of seeing a real Africa, or at least a real Guinea, even though French colonialism has left its language with the land. The culture though, of the people, still thrives, evolving, caught between tribalism and modernity.

Doukoure examines this dichotomy and pull between the old and the new throughout his film. Everything has two sides, and life is a journey between the past and the future. Doukoure, with throwaway detail, reveals the spirit and ingenuity of people who live on their wits and humour, often in desperately poor conditions. He presents the remnants of colonialism as not necessarily bad remnants, while also presenting the case for an Africa strong for itself.

The young Bandian hones his skills under the creative coaching of a great African soccer player, played by real-life soccer hero, Salif Keita. Keita's character, though, wants to forge an African team. A local businessman, acting as Bandian's agent, signs the boy to a multi-year training contract in France. Keita's character denounces it and refuses to be a 'slave-trader'.

Yet, even though Keita's character works hard and trains superlative soccer players, there is still the sense that Africa's time is in the future. For now, for youngsters like Bandian, their best hope is to leave their homeland. Even, or especially, the shaman understood that the 'golden ball' was a monetary gold mine for Bandian's community and not just a child's dream of soccer.

But Bandian is still a child, and for him, it is all about the dream. The film has great humour and a belief in making the best of one's chances. Bandian's 'agent' has told the French team that their new talented prodigy is 16 years old. The film ends with a definitely 12-year-old Bandian embarking on another adventure as he lands in France, ready to fulfill the shaman's predictions.

This film will make you more than a little in awe of African soccer players, and give never-before-seen glimpses of the rich, cultural complexities and ingenuity of Guineans.

the 49th parallel universe

I hitched a ride with my niece, who attends university in Waterloo, and we drove through Sarnia and Port Huron to an early Easter at her parents' home in Michigan.

Her station wagon was filled with both of our belongings and my mother's dog, now my dog, asleep in its travelling case.

On the American side of the border crossing, at Port Huron, a wizened, cheerful customs officer began his round of questions. After the standard few, he asked:

"Is that a cat in there?"

"No," I replied. "Just a very old dog."

"Does she have dog food?"

"Yes."

"Is it in its packaging? If it's made in Canada, I can't let it in."

The customs officer and I met at the back of the car, and I opened the bag containing the dog food. I asked him if this had something to do with mad cow disease, and he nodded in the affirmative.

First bag -- made in Canada. Confiscated. Gone. Sheesh, I thought.

Second bag -- both he and I examined the small print, and it was safe, made in the U.S. of A.

Third bag -- seeking the small print again; safe again, made in the U.S.

The last was a Tupperware-type container, filled with the primary dog food.

"I don't know," I said, "whether this is from Canada or the U.S."

"Oh," he said, quickly.

"That's from the U.S."

sweet illusion

Well, I did not get the proofreading job at Harlequin -- though I was in the finals. They gave it to someone with more experience in 'book publishing', and will keep my resume on hand for six months, and maybe 'our paths will cross again.'

I should be more upset about this -- I found out on Tuesday -- but, after my delirious celebration of making it to the final stage, I prepared myself for this news. So, I am believing at this point, that this means there is a better job out there for me (rather, than say -- no job -- can't believe that).

And I'm surprised I hadn't posted this month yet. Time does fly. I'm always thinking of posting in my head, and unfortunately, that's where some of my best posts seem to remain.

Anyway, I came back from an early Easter with my brothers and their families last weekend with a mighty piece of burn in my throat, which subsequently laid me out flat on Wednesday. It is now a thudding sinus cold, which suits this rainy Good Friday. (As a Catholic, you know it is supposed to rain on Good Friday).

It's all put a bit of a damper on my renewed job-hunting optimism, but life makes its own pauses.

Wednesday was also the first anniversary of my dad's death. Today I walked to Our Lady of Lourdes parish nearby to light a candle, but all the candles were gone. The holders were there, empty. I had never noticed this being done before because of the Passion. I'm assuming they will reappear on Easter Sunday. I wonder if they extinguished them all first, before moving them, considering I had just lit one for my mother a few weeks ago.

I bought myself an Easter lily yesterday, with seven possible blossoms on it. And tulips earlier in the week -- the only cut flower I know of that continues to grow after it's been cut.

Yesterday I was able to walk down to the video store and get a fresh supply of rentals for my semi-sick status. Brought home Brokeback Mountain, Crash and Scorsese's film on Bob Dylan, No Direction Home. I watched Brokeback yesterday and was expecting to be disappointed since the film has become such a running joke, but it is a good film and was very moving. I'll probably watch Crash tonight, as it and Brokeback are due back tomorrow. I have a week for the double-disc on Dylan.

And, I may watch Jesus Christ Superstar again, as it is an Easter ritual of mine. There are not a lot of movies I can watch more than a few times, but this film by Norman Jewison fascinates me. Every time I watch it, I am intrigued by choices made in the filming. And the acting and performing are pitch-perfect on every account. It says something to me, every time.

Time to wander off this post . . .