... but this is overall a pretty dreadful film that says more about the state of the cinema industry in South Africa (although the locations are not credited, I assume it was made in South Africa, since most of the cast and crew have South African rather than Zimbabwean names: in which case shame on you, Christopher Cazenove, for breaking the union voluntary ban on appearances in S. African films during the apartheid era) in 1988 than it does about the Rhodesian bush war in the 1970s.
This is a man's film; in fact, not even a man's film, but a guy's film. It's about male courage; male bonding across the colour bar, male loyalties, and the spell that a woman (even if she is a Czech starlet who didn't ever appear in much else except "Murder She Wrote") can cast over a man. Sorry, a guy.
Unfortunately, all these factors are explored at the expense of other aspects that usually make a film enjoyable, such as script and plot. This is a common failing in apartheid-era S. African films, whose makers seemed to be under the misapprehension that the majesty and splendour of African history and landscape could make up for weak/boring story lines, scripts as flat as the Serengeti plains and performances as wooden as a souvenir carved hippo from the Jan Smuts Airport curio shop. (If you think I'm being over-harsh, get "Shaka Zulu" out on DVD and see if you can sit through the whole thing without your eyes glazing over).
Oliver Reed, essaying a risible Rhodesian accent, makes a cameo appearance as the drunken, brawling priest (nowadays they'd get Brian Blessed to do it, so let's count our blessings) who meets a grisly end for no reason in particular only a few minutes after his character has been introduced.
There are a couple of true-to-life flashes that awake sudden recognition in anyone who was brought up in Africa: overfed, rubicund white men with hair slightly too long and shorts slightly too small; cicadas, and the call of "Piet-my-vrou" in the thorn trees; drinking Lion out of the bottle in smoky bars; old white women in hats and Edna Everage glasses being rude to black people.
Overall, one to be avoided.
This is a man's film; in fact, not even a man's film, but a guy's film. It's about male courage; male bonding across the colour bar, male loyalties, and the spell that a woman (even if she is a Czech starlet who didn't ever appear in much else except "Murder She Wrote") can cast over a man. Sorry, a guy.
Unfortunately, all these factors are explored at the expense of other aspects that usually make a film enjoyable, such as script and plot. This is a common failing in apartheid-era S. African films, whose makers seemed to be under the misapprehension that the majesty and splendour of African history and landscape could make up for weak/boring story lines, scripts as flat as the Serengeti plains and performances as wooden as a souvenir carved hippo from the Jan Smuts Airport curio shop. (If you think I'm being over-harsh, get "Shaka Zulu" out on DVD and see if you can sit through the whole thing without your eyes glazing over).
Oliver Reed, essaying a risible Rhodesian accent, makes a cameo appearance as the drunken, brawling priest (nowadays they'd get Brian Blessed to do it, so let's count our blessings) who meets a grisly end for no reason in particular only a few minutes after his character has been introduced.
There are a couple of true-to-life flashes that awake sudden recognition in anyone who was brought up in Africa: overfed, rubicund white men with hair slightly too long and shorts slightly too small; cicadas, and the call of "Piet-my-vrou" in the thorn trees; drinking Lion out of the bottle in smoky bars; old white women in hats and Edna Everage glasses being rude to black people.
Overall, one to be avoided.
