Mali, as a country, is, to some extent, physically divided. In the south there are the thriving cities typical of Africa’s burgeoning society, but in the deserts to the north a lawless extremism has sporadically taken hold — to the extent that in 2013 the French military sent troops into the region. One particular — if, considering the circumstances, minor — casualty in the ongoing fray, has been music. Mali, local musicians like to claim, is the cradle of the blues, the true birthplace of the genre. All of which makes the setting for the new music documentary “Mali Blues” ever more promising. The trouble is, while the film lavishes in the beautiful landscape and the vibrant, eclectic music that abounds, it never coalesces into anything greater than the sum of its parts, or become the film the subject deserves.
In theory “Mali Blues” centers around the long awaited return home for Fatoumata Diawara, a native of Mali who fled the country as a teenager. Despite her international success as a musician, Diawara has never played a concert in Mali, which, by the end of “Mali Blues” she will have done with aplomb. But for some strange reason, director Lutz Gregor (in his feature debut) doesn’t capitalize on this inherently narratively interesting event, and Diawara’s return is relegated to the periphery of the film, despite her essentially being the linchpin of the picture. Instead Gregor doubles down on the music. Which both elevates and clutters “Mali Blues”; the music is what makes the film as good as it is, but the aimless stabs at exploring the political social landscape of the country set everything off kilter.
After Diawara has returned home, “Mali Blues” begins something of a tour of the music of the country. The first, and possibly most interesting musician of the bunch, is Ahmed Ag Kaedi, a Tuareg guitar master who has fled religious persecution in Kidal, in Mali’s north, for the uncomfortable bustle of the south. Kaedi is a somber, pensive man whose life revolves around his home and his music. But when Islamic extremists came to his village they burned his home and his guitars and threatened to cut off his fingers if he ever played again. His anguish is palpable, especially in the honey-thick guitar lines he plucks off with Diawara and his crooning, cracked voice. Much like Diawara, Kaedi is searching for his home in depths of song.
Then, in the city there is Master Soumy, a young rapper making a name for himself with his politically charged tracks of anger and rebellion. Master Soumy sees music as a weapon, as a way to highlight the violence in the north, the repressive tendencies of the government, and the general struggle of Malians. In a country as politically volatile as Mali, it’s a dangerous task to take such an offensive, public stance, but Master Soumy is eager to — “It’s for you people I write and take the mic,” he raps. And later, more soulfully, he says, “Rap is music that can change society, that can change mentalities”
The final player in “Mali Blues” is Bassekou Kouyaté, a legendary master of the ngoni (an ancient predecessor of the banjo). Like Master Soumy, Kouyaté sees himself as a voice of the people. Though, where Master Soumy chants, “We’re fed up,” Kouyaté wants to send a peaceful, healing message to his country. But, like with the others, Kouyaté and his struggles are sold short. Plenty of time is given to the music of each musician — and all of them are great and collectively they paint a beautiful, diverse portrait of Mali’s musical scene — but surrounding the music is a deep battle that each is facing, both as an artist and a human being, and this is where the doc falters.
It’s easy to picture different versions of “Mali Blues.” One where the film focuses solely on the diverse and unique music of the country. And another where the complex struggles that each musician is facing are foregrounded. Instead, Gregor’s film flounders somewhere in between. Plenty of questions are asked and issues are raised, but we don’t get to spend much time contemplating them, nor do these narrative strands ever work harmoniously — each feels disparate and isolated, despite all their thematic overlap. The film also doesn’t seem to know what to do with Diawara. She’s an excellent presence, and much of the attempt at an overarching narrative follows her journey, but just as much of it doesn’t. In a way it’s hard not to feel like there is an important, lean doc hiding in the lumberous, meditative cut we have now.
If anything, “Mali Blues” is a missed opportunity. The subject — Mali more than anything, a vibrant, diverse nation with a rich history of culture and music — is worthy of a film more focused and refined. But it does show that Gregor has an ear for good music and a knack for tracking down interesting, urgent subjects. Let’s just hope that next time around he knows what to do with all the magic in front of him. [C]
Click here for our complete coverage of the 2016 Toronto Film Festival
