Filmmakers in sub-Saharan Africa tend to divide their attention between city life today and village life once upon a time. This rule has its exceptions, of course; but if you’re searching for an African film that truly overcomes the split, deftly merging the contemporary with the folkloric, I doubt you’ll find

anything more ingenious than Joseph Gaï Ramaka’s retelling of Carmen. Set along the coast of modern-day Dakar, this Karmen Geï drapes current Senegalese costumes upon the now-mythic figures of Mérimée and Bizet, puts old-style songs and African pop into their mouths and has its characters dance till they threaten to burst the frame.

The film’s American distributor, California Newsreel, suggests that Karmen Geï is Africa’s first movie musical–that is, an all-singing, all-dancing story, rather than a story with song and dance added on. If so, that breakthrough would count as another major achievement for Ramaka. But nothing can matter in any Carmen without Carmen herself; and so I propose that Ramaka’s true claim to fame is to have put Djeïnaba Diop Gaï on the screen.

Practically the first thing you see of her–the first thing you see at all in Karmen Geï–is the heart-stopping vision of her two thighs slapping together, while a full battery of drummers pounds away. We discover Karmen in the sand-covered arena of a prison courtyard, where she is dancing so exuberantly, lustily, violently that you’d think this was a bullring and she’d just trampled the matador; and at this point, she hasn’t even risen from her seat. Wait till she gets up and really starts to move, shaking and swerving and swiveling a body that’s all curves and pure muscle, topped by a hairdo that rises like a mantilla and then spills down in ass-length braids. A rebel, an outlaw, a force of nature, an irresistible object of desire: Gaï’s Karmen embodies all of these, and embodies them in motion. The only part of her that seems fixed is her smile, shining in unshakable confidence from just above an out-thrust chin.

Is it just the memory of other Carmens that brings a bullring to mind? Not at all. There really is a contest going on in this opening scene, and Karmen is winning it, effortlessly. She is dancing, before a full assembly of the jail’s female prisoners, in an attempt to seduce the warden, Angélique (Stéphanie Biddle). Pensive and lighter-skinned than Karmen, dressed in a khaki uniform with her hair pulled back tight, Angélique yields to her prisoner’s invitation to dance and soon after is stretched out in bed, sated, while Karmen dashes through the hallways and out to freedom.

From that rousing start, Ramaka goes on to rethink Carmen in ways that vary from plausible to very, very clever. It’s no surprise that the Don José figure (Magaye Niang) is a police officer; the twist is that Karmen snares him by breaking into his wedding, denouncing all of respectable Senegalese society and challenging his bride-to-be to a dance contest. The chief smuggler (Thierno Ndiaye Dos) is a courtly older man who keeps the lighthouse; and Escamillo, the only person in the movie big enough to look Karmen in the eye, is a pop singer, played with smooth assurance by pop star El Hadj Ndiaye.

Ramaka’s best invention, though, is Angélique, a previously unknown character who is both a lovesick, uniformed miscreant and a doomed woman–that is, a merger of Don José and Carmen. By adding her to the plot, the film gives Karmen someone worth dying for. The details of how she arrives at that death are a little muddled–the direction is elliptical at best, herky-jerky at worst–but thanks to Angélique’s presence in the story, the climax feels more tender than usual, and more deliberate. Karmen shows up for her final scene decked out in a red sheath, as if to insure the blood won’t spoil her dress.

Karmen Geï has recently been shown in the eighth New York African Film Festival, at Lincoln Center’s Walter Reade Theater. It is now having a two-week run downtown at Film Forum.

The title of Fabián Bielinsky’s briskly intriguing Nine Queens would seem to refer to a sheet of rare stamps–or, rather, to a forgery of the stamps, which two Buenos Aires con artists hope to sell to a rich businessman. But then, the businessman is himself a crook, the con artists don’t actually know one another and the sale just might involve real stamps. You begin to see how complicated things can be in this movie; and I haven’t yet mentioned the sister.

The action, which stretches across one long day, begins in the convenience store of a gas station, where fresh-faced Juan (Gastón Pauls) draws the attention of Marcos (Ricardo Darín), an older, more aggressive swindler. Teamed up impromptu, just for the day, the two stumble into the con of a lifetime when Marcos’s beautiful, prim, angry sister (Leticia Brédice) summons them to the luxury hotel where she works. She just happens to need Marcos to cart away one of his ailing buddies; and the buddy just happens to know of a guest who might buy some stamps.

No, nothing is as it seems. But Bielinsky’s storytelling is so adept, his pace so fleet, his actors so much in love with every nuance of their dishonesty that you will probably laugh with delight, even as you’re being dealt a losing hand of three-card monte.

And if you want social relevance, Nine Queens will give you that, too. As if Juan (or was it Marcos?) had scripted the whole country, this release swept the critics’ awards for 2001 just in time for Argentina’s economy to crash. Enjoy!

I hadn’t intended to review this last film; but since it’s become a critical success, here goes:

The Piano Teacher is a pan-European remake of Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?, with French stars Isabelle Huppert and Annie Girardot playing the sacred-monster roles and Austrian director Michael Haneke fastidiously avoiding the camp humor that alone could have saved the movie. Set in Vienna and cast (except for the leads) with German-speaking actors, whose lips flop like dying fish around their dubbed French syllables, The Piano Teacher is a combination of immaculately composed shots and solemnly absurd dialogue, much of it about the music of Franz Schubert. “That note is the sound of conscience, hammering at the complacency of the bourgeoisie.” Sure it is. Add a sequence in which Huppert humps Girardot (her own mother!) in the bed they share, throw in an extended sex scene where the characters grandly ignore any risk of interruption (though they’re grappling in a public toilet), and you’ve got a movie that ought to have made classical music dirty again.

But to judge from critics’ reactions, Schubert remains the touchstone of respectability, and The Piano Teacher is somehow to be taken seriously.

The aura of high-mindedness that cloaks the action (at least for some viewers) emanates mostly from Huppert. No matter what her character stoops to–doggie posture, for the most part–Huppert seems never to lower herself. She maintains her dignity because she is being brave. She is acting. She is allowing herself to be shown as sexually abject before an athletic younger man, Benoît Magimel, who has a cleft chin and peekaboo blond hair. Huppert has been similarly abject in recent years, in Benoît Jacquot’s The School of Flesh, for example. I wonder what hope other women may nurture for themselves after 40, when this wealthy, celebrated, greatly accomplished and famously beautiful woman has no better prospects. I know we’re expected to give prizes to Huppert for such ostentatious self-abnegation. (Last year, at Cannes, she collected a big award.) But what pleasure are we supposed to get from seeing the character humiliated?

A dishonest pleasure, I’d say; the same kind that’s proposed in The Piano Teacher‘s now-notorious scene of genital mutilation. The meaning of the scene, for those who are pleased to give it one, is of course transgressive, subversive and otherwise big word-like. See how (women) (the Viennese) (the middle class) (fill in the blank) are repressed, how they turn against themselves, how they make themselves and everyone around them suffer. Then again, if you subtract all that guff about the complacent bourgeoisie, maybe the scene means nothing more than “Ew, gross!”

I have admired Haneke’s films in the past, beginning with the antiseptically grim The Seventh Continent and going on to the tough, much-maligned Benny’s Video. When Haneke has proposed that clean, affluent, educated people may do horrible things, I have agreed, as of course I must, accepting what would have been a mere platitude for the sake of the films’ clear vision and genuine sense of dread. But as I watched Huppert’s preposterous impersonation of a music teacher, I began to wonder if Haneke knows that characters can be something other than horrid.

The dynamics of Schubert’s music represent emotional “anarchy,” says Huppert at one point, in a pronouncement that would get a pedagogue sacked from any self-respecting conservatory. Listen to Rudolf Serkin play the great B-flat piano sonata, varying his touch with every breath, and you will hear not anarchy but imagination. It’s the quality most lacking in The Piano Teacher–followed closely by warmth, humor, realism and purpose.

Fun at Home: Nation readers will want to know that Zeitgeist Video has just brought out a DVD of Mark Achbar and Peter Wintonick’s fine documentary Manufacturing Consent: Noam Chomsky and the Media. All the original fun is there, plus added features such as Chomsky’s own commentary on the picture. The film is now ten years old. You will probably find it’s more to the point than ever.