Wednesday was movie night in our little village on the edge of the Kalahari. We showed up at sunset not caring what film would show. The screen was an exterior wall, and everyone – locals, the few expats – sat beneath the southern constellations to watch, enthralled. That’s where I saw
Zulu Dawn, in which Zulu warriors unexpectedly triumph over a modern British army. Burt Lancaster, playing an enlightened British officer, falls valiantly in battle – a scene calculated to generate sympathy in filmgoers. But that night, the crowd cheered enthusiastically at his skewering, and I realized how far I was from home.
[Image source: Copyright American Cinema Releasing, 1979]
Wednesday was movie night in our little village on the edge of the Kalahari. We showed up at sunset not caring what film would show. The screen was an exterior wall, and everyone – locals, the few expats – sat beneath the southern constellations to watch, enthralled. That’s where I saw Zulu Dawn, in which Zulu warriors unexpectedly triumph over a modern British army. Burt Lancaster, playing an enlightened British officer, falls valiantly in battle – a scene calculated to generate sympathy in filmgoers. But that night, the crowd cheered enthusiastically at his skewering, and I realized how far I was from home.
Last week I came across a sensational murder trial in the paper. The details of the case were lurid, disgusting, titillating – just the kind to captivate layabouts, shut-ins and readers of National Enquirer. Apparently this has been big news for three years, culminating recently in saturation coverage on certain all-news cable channels. Sure enough, a Google search shows that Nancy Grace is all over it. I learned all this on the day the verdict (Not Guilty) came out, and couldn’t help myself – that night I watched the smug, supercilious Nancy rail sanctimoniously for hours. The crap some fools will watch...
