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MOVIE: HOTEL RWANDA (2004).
A Hutu in Kigali shelters Tutsis in the luxury hotel he manages during the 1994 Rwandan genocide. The story of Rwanda has never really been told to the white West, a problem which this film takes first steps to correct. The skilled, selfless Don Cheadle plays the hotel manager who is forced into heroism by the mass slaughter erupting around him. Armchair historians may bitch and moan about the film's less than thorough recitation of the region's larger context. But former Tutsi dominance (and the Somalia debacle) aside, Hotel Rwanda's story is more of the inspirational sort, like the smattering of Apartheid films made in the late '80's (Cry, the Beloved Country et. al.). Moreover, it is a story about shame.

The gory details of the massacre, toned down for the sake of drawing in a wider PG-13 audience, still effectively portray the horror of a world turned upside-down. The filmmakers probably should have opted for a more jarring documentary cinematic style instead of their by-the-books, flatly-lit Hollywood camera work. but those are small details when compared to the sheer strength of the story they're telling. Most moving was not so much the hotel manager's heroics, or his ingenious street diplomacy, but a certain scene in which a Belgian cavalry bursts onto the beseiged hotel only to rescue just its white patrons and leave the brown-skinned people behind. This, the film seems to want to say, is the true lesson of Rwanda, and it I think it held back from what could have been a harsher indictment of Western racism for fear of alienating audiences.

Still, the film gripped everyone in the theater (save for the few high school students who, too young to care, were obviously assigned it as homework by a well-meaning teacher), and left me and Nicki stunned as we stepped outside, the world now suddenly trivial and brutally random. The Holocaust filmic canon continues to draw empathy and cries of vigilance. I really hope that Hotel Rwanda, and 100 Days before it, mark the beginning of a similar body of work which strives to understand this long-neglected chapter in history, and maybe even lead to greater awareness of African ex-colonies in general. I hope this despite the continuing lack of films about the Bosnian tragedy--surely we can do better than the lurid, rock-n-roll swagger of Welcome to Sarajevo.

The West, all the superpowers, they think you're dirt. They think you're dung. You're not even a nigger. You're African.


 
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PHOTO DIARY.


So there I was, thinking that the recent storms were a delightful change from the constant Californian sunshine. But then I saw this BMW just down the street from my house. Its roof had been smashed in by a tree uprooted by rainwater pooled around its base.

 
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PHOTO DIARY.


We went to Chris Poe's birthday party at the Tee Gee bar in Glendale last Saturday.


Debbie & Tom were there. Kristina provided the food.


Tamara, Selina, and Adhithi showed up, too.


Tad braved the rain to make an appearance.


The night rolled on as we huddled in the rain to smoke and chat.


Tony and Chris Bass (fresh from Detroit) didn't mind getting wet.


Denise was also in town from Detroit.


I tried on Tom's new glasses.


The funniest part of the night was when actor John Cho appeared out of nowhere. Debbie, who is in love with him, was drunk enough to ask for a picture.

 
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