A CANADIAN MAGAZINE 5th Floor 489 College Street Toronto, Ontario Outside Canada: add $3.00, payable in U.S. tunds 1 yr. $12 / 2 yt. $20. institutions: 1 yr. $18 / 2 yr. $27 VUKA: SHARING THE IMAGE Myra Davis “Each generation is relevantto itself, its history-making role, above all, the circumstances thatdictateits life.’””! Whenblack political theatre regrouped after 1976 it was with a clear sense of purpose. Two companiesin particular — Soyikwa African Theatre Company and Bahumutsi Drama Group — have acted as catalysts and exponents of a new alignmentoftheatre with the needs andaspirationsof‘the dispossessed’. During the early 1980s both companies undertooka series of international tours. There was no contradiction in this. Maishe Maponya, playwright and founder of Bahumutsi in 1983 gave an interview to the East Anglian Daily Times in which he is quoted as saying: “We hopeto bring about change bydepicting true incidents and situations . . we want to stop white playwrights representing us in our theatre’’.? . Matsemela Manaka, playwright and founder of Soyikwa, argues that ‘the dispossessed’need ‘realistic entertainmentthatwill give them courageto survive and forge ahead’. But dispossession presumesa dispossessor. Thus, he argues, ‘the theatre of the dispossessed’ is addressing both the dispossessed and the dispossessor’.? From this point of view the tours acquire a strategic significance ~ in which audiences, venues and publicity are all important. The appropriation policies that ‘allow’a few plays to travel overseas in order to placate/mislead the liberal conscience have to be exposed.‘ The problemsoftransposing community theatre from its constituency audiences also have to be faced. Can theatre created for a particular audience ‘meaningfully’ uproot from that audience?Is there danger of cultural distortion‘to fit the international market’. When such questions are considered it becomes clear how important it is that black companies are not subject to white mediation. Indeed, even the term ‘black theatre’ has to be questioned whenit is stretched around the contributions of white South Africans. “I don’t want to use the broad term ‘black theatre’ ” Maponyadeclares in the Foreword to Umongikazi, ‘‘as it also encompasses a ES 28 Critical Arts Vol 4 No 3. 1987 Critical Arts Vol 4 No 3 1987 29 white playwrightreflecting black feelings and getting blacksto reflect his feelings about himself.’*’ Robert Kavanaghhas expressed the opinionthatin the South African context of dislocation and urbanisation it would be unrealistic to expect “a genuine moderntraditional theatre withits roots in a vital rural culture”. Theplays of Soyikwa and Bahumutsi suggest to an outsideviewer that the expectationis far from unrealistic. The dispossessed are engaged in a struggle fortheir future and they need the imagestoreoftheir past, not as some museum piece, butasit lives in their present knowledge ofall they have lost. “Undoubtedly,” Manaka declares,‘‘we all agree that ourcultural wave todayhasto integratepast, present and future”’.* In Pula the ruralpast is invoked not as idyll but as indictment: in The Hungry Earthit is restored as history; in Vuka itis recognized as broken. The plays associated with the Black Consciousness movementat the beginning -of the decade included works which werestill largely within the European tradition.'® Anouilh’s Antigone (TECON 1971) and Weiss’ Marat/Sade (MDALI1974) were given a black significance. Mthuli Shezi’s play Shanti (PET 1973) was written entirely in English and it was written as a “well madeplay”thoughclearly straining to freeitself.!' Even as those groups were being brutally suppressed a new indigenous theatre was coming into being. The plays of Soyikwa and Bahumutsi speak with the same purposeful and relevant voice as the plays of groups like the women of the Cape squatter town of Crossroads (Imfuduso, 1978)? and the factory workers dismissed from Rely Precision Casting (The Sun Shall Risefor the Workers, 1980)." Aware of the wide range oftheatrical discourse, confident of their own voice within it and determined to use only what suits their purpose, Soyika and Bahumutsi present ‘theatre of the dispossessed’ as a coherent and extensive aesthetic for black theatre in South Africa at the present time. The general features of the aesthetic derive from two principal sources. Firstly, there are the communal and highly socialized forms of African performancetradition'* — song, dance-mime,story-telling (role-play), poetry (symbolism and metaphor). These are the formspreserved and extendedin the various modes of township theatre and in township culture generally. Secondly, there are certain concepts associated with European vanguard theatre. Filtered outward from the multi- racial theatre groups active throughout the 1970s, the ideas of Brecht, Grotowski, Boal and othertheatreactivisists have been absorbedaspart of an available language. Six fundamentals emerge. This theatreis createdcollectively through workshop improvisation and exploration. It is a living and not a written text and thereforeinfinitely adaptable and ready for change.It is performed in poverty, that is, through creative use of minimalism, essentially dependent on thefirst word ofthe theatrical vocabulary, the bodyofthe actor. '5 It is directedto liberating and challenging the imagination of the audience in an open andfluid discourseofepisodic narrative, role-play characterisation and shared symbolism. a 30 Critical Arts Vol 4 No 3. 1987 It is experiencedby the audience throughjoyin the “skilled and subtle messages” of performance’ andin the opportunity for participation and comment.It is resonated through a multiplicity of languages both literally and figuratively. Finally, this theatre has a sense ofincompleteness which, as Etherton explains,is necessary if the audienceis to be involved in the process of the play.!7 The content of ‘theatre ofthe dispossessed’ will clearly be as wide ranging as the needs ofthe community dictate, but the form,as so far Proposed, seemsto havea with the popular culture. It demonstrates collectivity as a way of changing things. “‘We saw clearly what we already knew, We belong together.” These are the words ofMandlenkosi Makhoba describing the touring ofThe Sun ShallRise for the Workers to audiences offellow metal workers.“They knew what they saw was true...so... theyjoined in. Thesefellow workers also wantedtotell oftheir struggles,”?!8 “VUKA’: STORY AND IMAGES Soyikwa African Theatre Company wasset up bystudents in Soweto in 1976. Matsemela Manakais the playwrightin the Companybutall works are created collectively in workshops, The Company has developed a rigorous training programmeand hasa special interest in traditionaloral literature, Vuka is a Soyikwa production created by Manaka and Moalusi John Letwaba(performer). Essentially it is in the story-telling tradition and employs manyofthe elements noted in Scheub’s accountofXhosa ntsomi.'® Three generalfeatures mentioned by Scheub are ofparticular interest. Profound themes are implied through the structuring of surface plots. The imaginations ofthe audience “have their full role to play”. There is an intricate blending of word, song and body movement. Twostructural devices in Vuka seem to refer directly to story-telling tradition: the use of the “‘answerer’””°in the audience and the shaping of the story around the same eventtold twice. Repetitionis, according to Scheub,“atthe structural and aesthetic core of ntsomi production”’.?! In its extensive use of image and metaphor andin its historical/political Perspective as described by Kunene, “Oral poetry uses symbolisms which aim at Operating as a common language”.2? The performer of Vuka thus has a constantly shifting discourse athis command. Unrestricted by Stage apparatus heis free to approach his audience and makethem partofthe event. At the same time the structure ofperformanceskills and the images he createsall allow him to make a distance — in order to demonstrate,elevate or Provide opportunity for critical assessment, The fluidity ofthe formal structure thus enables the actor to respond anewto each audience and its particular context. The story concerns one Nkululeko Maluti. It begins andendswith his death in = EE] AS) & (h! Critical Arts Vol 4.No 3 1987 31 captivity. Between the two representations of that death — the first a deeply moving lament, the second a stark statement of fact — Nkululeko takes the audience through the events of his life. His brother has run away with a girl-friend without paying lobola (bride wealth). The girl’s family, the Dubula clan, attack Nkululeko, demanding compensation of R2 000 — an unrealistic demand accompanied by unrealistic menace. Nkululekois precipitated into a nightmareflight from persecution that becomes a journey toward understanding the economic source of his troubles. Understanding leads to action andto his death in prison. But the story of Nkululeko is not the story of one man. For Nkululeko is the Xhosa word for Freedom and Dubula(literally ‘tto shoot”) signifies Violence. Moreover, the title Muka means “wake up”. Nkululeko’s story thus has the quality of myth. It is the story of the struggle between the forces of good andevil from which no-one, thetitle implies, should stand aside. There are three central and interlinking images metaphorically proposed in Vuka. Thefirst is that of the journey in search ofrefuge. The train, the bus stop, the suitcase, the disguise, the work permit, the passbook, the PO Box number; these are the experiential references of a nomad people, dispossessed and unfree. In Vuka each of these familiar images is encountered anew — made strange — in the abbreviated sequence of Nkululeko’s story. The second imageis that of violence endemicin a system that deprives people of the meansto establish social norms. The initiating image of lobola corrupted and debased by materialism is treated humorously — there is no reverence for lobolaitself. What matters is the actual and structural violence that permeates society. Violence in the ‘homelands’, in the townships, the violence ofpass laws, unemployment, exploitation, insecurity, harassment —- Nkululeko encounters the Dubulas at every turn. The actor employs a percussive sound beaten upon the consciousness of the audience. Spade, sjambok (club), dustbin, bucket, ladder, are the audible as well as visible symbols of struggle andflight, of every nightmare escape across the backyards of Soweto, Thethird imageis a visual one: the Christian cross simply painted in black ona large white cloth hangs at the back of the acting space, In front ofit at the beginning of the play Nkululeko is buried. In front ofit at the end he stands, arms outstretched, and tells the audience that he was “‘mysteriously found hanged”because he went amongst“his people’’. The lights fade on that image. In black theology, as in liberation theology, the Cross is a symbol of God’s active intervention in the world. Through its association with the resurrection it proclaims Godalive, building His kingdom in the caring community. ‘God cares that people starve, that people are uprooted, that families are separated,” Bishop Demond Tutu reminded the congregation of St. Paul’s Cathedral, London, 1984, “‘you were turned toward Godin order to be turned toward your neighbour.””? The cross in Vuka representsthe spiritual dimension ofexistence as proposed in black theology. It also makes ironic commentary uponthestate ) a of affairs in a nation professing Christianity. Aboveall, it acts asa challenge to the conscience of the audience, whether Christian or not. Before he dies Nkululeko addresses the audience: “Is this how Jesus Christ died on the cross? GreatBritain on top, Russia to theleft, USAto the right, Europe underneath?” The questionsare brief, dramatic. They imply much and effectively recharge the symbolofthe cross by a processof “defamiliarisation”. Since, as Schlovsky has said, a signal given many times produces drowsiness and inhibition there is always a needfor the recreation ofimagery — a way of returning an object from “recognition” to “seeing”.** The connection of Christ on the cross with contemporary world economic/political forces in such uncompromising. language doesjust that, provoking dialectic in the closing momentsofthe play. “VUKA’: THE PLAY Atthe back ofthe acting space hangsthecloth with the simple cross marked uponit. Some props andpiecesof costumeare concealed behindit. On the floor at one side is an old-fashioned record player, at the front, almost amongst the audience, a battered brownsuitcase. Stage right, a large stepladder with bucket, sjambokanda pair of cumbersome sandals standing besideit, a pair of blue dungarees draped across one rung.Stageleft, a large filled sack, a heavy duty metal spade anda metal dustbin witha lid. The lightingis basic, used to spotlight the actor and to indicate changes of moodorevent. The Prologue: Death and Mourning The stage dark,there is heard, as at a distance, the sound of a man singing. He enters, moves around thestage area slowly, painfully making the shape of a prison ashesoftly laments the Zulu chant ‘Khali Shoni ilanga” (when the sun goes down). Suddenly the lights comeup and the actor (who only wears a pair of longjohns) ‘becomes’ another prisoner who must bury Nkululeko whohasdied. Swiftly he collects the sack, heavesit onto his shouldersandcarriesit with realistic mime gesture to backstage wherehelets it down and returns for the spade. This he employs,violently ‘digging’ the grave underthe imageof the cross. The sound of the spade crashing onto the stage in fierce rhythm, together with the heavy grunting breaths of a man working under pressure provide the ‘music’ of the scene, violent, rhythmic, and strongly emotive of power and determination.Itis “the pulse of a people, the beatof their life’’.25 Now the theatre becomesgraveyard. The earth gapesto receiveits terrible load. 32 Critical Arts Vol 4 No 3. 1987 Critical Arts Vol 4.No 3 1987 33 The actorstruggles to raise up the ‘body’, lowers it into the space before the cross. Because there is only oneactorthis is both a telling of the tale and a metaphysical symbol of man’s control over his ownlife. Kneeling now,grieving over the sack,the actor intones in Sotho the invocation, the traditional call for the dead. Gradually,as the lights focus narrowly upon that central image a great cry swells and swells his whole body. Heaving under the weight of the words he movesintothe farewell chant in Zulu: “Hamba kahle cawelihle: Rest in peace warrior”. Suddenly the actorstands, the lights go up and he speaksin Engish:“‘It is time to break the chains of oppression’’. As he mimesthe tearing apart of a chain with his hands the Prologue endsandthe story of Nkululeko begins. With the English words, however, the previous lament acquires the dimension of anguish and anger for a nation. The sound ofthe chant which almostbreaksthe bodyofthe actoris more than individualgrief. And it is very simply by the introduction of the English language words at this precise moment that the transition is registered andits significance madeclear. The Beginning of Consciousness The actor as Nkululeko now addresses himself to “Baba”(a term widely usedin Africa to denote both “father” and respected ‘‘elder”) who is invested somewhere in the audience. Thus, the audience as a wholeis paid a respectful compliment and putinto the position of having responsibility to care and to help. The role of the ‘answerer’ thus acquires a widersignificance. Nkululeko tells how his brother has run away with a pregnant girlfriend. Then heenters the role-play, becomesthe father of the runawaygirl. He puts on the blue dungarees, huge earrings, wooden sandals and clumpsnoisily to the attack, demanding R2 000. With just a changeoffacial and body expression, Nkululeko‘returns’ (no change of costume) and comments wrily “My god whata lot of money”. Suddenly, his whole posture puffs out with indignation as he struts around mimickingthe“ghetto queens” gossiping amongst themselvesatthe effrontery: “R2 000! He would do better to forget her and take me for R200!”. The mood and characters change again. The actor now plays Dubula and Nkululeko in quick succession, Dubula insistent, swaggering hypocritical over the loss of a daughter; Nkululeko anxious, appealing to the audience — “‘asif we hadn’t lost a son also!” Dubula swingsinto the attack, sjambokflailing and a Zulu war chant presenting ambiguous challenge and warning of violence building in society: “We are a burningfire. Be careful we burn, we burn. Where are the weapons? Where are the arms?” This section ends quietly. The actor discards the Dubula propsas he continues the narrative to the audience in the Nkululekorole,tells how he fled to the Transkei on a bicycle and foundthe placefull of Dubulas! The humourframes the metaphorofviolence in the ‘homelands’predicated on ethnic divisions and separateness. Keeping the intimate tone of shared amusementthe actor moves the story onto Johannesburg and the themesthat city presents. “My god what a pool of unemployment!” From Metaphorto Irony Nkululeko puts on a grass skirt, plays some local ‘pop’ music and begins to danceonstilts. This, he tells “‘Baba’’, is the “business” he set up. Enlivening the audience with noisy laughter, he gestures, indicating that they should throw moneyand join in making the rhythm byclapping and stamping. Heuses Zulu language to get the show “‘on the road”. Thereference to lack of employment opportunities and to blacksploitation tourist entertainment is underlined by Nkululeko’s own commitmentto the only form of independenceleft to him. Temporarily the experience of this scene is one of vibrancy and fun. Through active participation in the event, however, the audienceis in anironic situation whetheras exploiters or as sharers in misfortune who accept crumbs of comfort and do notresist. The audienceis stopped short when the actor abruptly flings down his props, rushes to turn off the record player and returns putting on the mask of white officialdom — a pantomimenose and spectacles. In the role of white policeman the actor chastises Nkululeko, appropriates his meansoflivelihood and dumpsit at the back of the stage. The nextscene,inevitably,is the pass office. Nkululeko pulls the ladder to the centre of the stage,filling in with extemporary jokes. Mounting the ladder he faces the audience who must now share the role of Nkululeko since the actor has becomethe white bureaucrat. This he does simply by gesture and expression. Once used, the mask ofwhite identity is discarded —it has been absorbed into the discourse as reference. The space between the top rungsofthe ladder is now the window wherepetty officialdom issuesits bored questions and commands,nowtheridiculouslittle grid asit appears from‘the other side. The actor with but a slight adjustmentof feature conveys the two sides of the familiar dialogue and implies the glass between. The whole pass law system is reduced to a confrontation at the top of a ladder. Thevisual imageis contrasted by the language which is-left to speak foritself. Nkululeko is forced into a low-paid job as a window cleaner, and political enlightenmentbeginsashe recounts to the audience whathe saw of developing affairs in Johannesburg and Soweto. “The white people tell us to clean their windows — clean their windows whilst their city is on fire!” a 34 Critical Arts Vol 4 No 3. 1987 Critical Arts Vol 4.No3 35 The approachis conversational butit is the quiet before the storm. The Soweto Uprising The ladder becomes alive as the story of Soweto is unleashed. Theactoris the embodimentofthe disturbances, the sound ofthe streets. He forces the ladder across thestage, a vehicle of fury from which he leaps with the bucket that was but a momentbefore the workman’s tool, At one and the sametime he recreates the jubilation of the students in their solidarity and the oppressive sounds of police retaliation. The scene progresses with conscious dialectic. The actor portrays both the students and the workers whofindscraps of papertelling them to stay home from work — messagesthey cannoteven read. The hostel dwellers, anxious to protect their jobs, attack the students. The actor throws himself into the percussion sound ofstreet violence with the sjambok clashing on the metal dustbin lid. And then quietness. The parents of the children return from work into the Soweto railwaystation. The toneis elegaic: “Some people died. Some people arestill wearing black to this day. And I ask: why?” The question is allowed to hang a momentin the air. The Journey from Soweto’ The audience is now providedwith an opportunityforself-critical perception as the actorrecreates the public meeting at Regina Mundi Hallin Soweto. Dressed in a priest’s surplice he seeks to calm emotions,to lead his flock back to peace and reason, and get them all to join in singing the African national anthem. The question of howto reactto the familiarcall to “turn the other cheek”is thus madereason for the audience andrestoredto their control. Thenit is the turn of the politicians: “My god! What language! Who could understandit?” Once more the Dubulascatch up with Nkululeko. Imagesofprison, violence, terror and flight return. The actor hauls the dustbin into the centre ofthe stage, clambersonit, scrabbles at imaginary walls. He becomesa flailing mass of arms andlegs andtwirling sjambok. The Dubula metaphorreachesits tragic climax. But death in a hostel riot is not the end for Nkululeko. With thestage in almosttotal darkness he crawls forwardto the suitcase that has beenlying at the frontof the stage throughoutthe play as a visual image of the 2 36° Critical Arts Vol 4 No 3 1987 metaphysical journey.In half light andinsilence the actor holds the attention of the audience upon the new imageheis creating as he gathers clothes from the battered case: the imageofdisguise andtotalisolation. Fora momenthisspirits revive as he ‘dresses up’ underthelights — the audience his mirror. But the game does notlast. The actor becomes desperate as he searches every pocket, every cornerof the suitcase for a scrap of paper,the address ofa friend to whom he can turn. Whenhefindsit, it is of no use: “TI need a house number, not a P.O. box number. I need somewhere to go.” The actor walks forward amongstthe audience: “I need someoneto help me. I need a volunteer. I need someoneto help me find my freedom.” From this moment of claim upon the audience the actor returns into the narrative, describes the journey to Bophuthatswana by "bus, train and on foot. Finally, he sits on his suitcase, a discarded newspaperin his hands, creating a sense of the world that is oblivious. Humour and irony bounce back as he reads and then comes the momentofrevelation: “Sharesgo up and we go downinto the bowels of the earth.” The commodity statistics provide the challengeofthe cross to the conscience of the world. Is this how Christ died, trapped between the competing interests of the over-powerful? It isa dangerous understanding. Now thelights are flashing, the actor running,trapped,tearing offhis clothes (having them torn from him) till he is stripped to the original long johnsand falls dead. Black out. Epilogue Spotlighted, in direct line with the cross, arms outstretchedasif in blessing, the actor speaks quietly to the audience, offering them a new and even more responsible role. “My good people it was not my intention to disturb your peace of mind.I just wantto tell you that I went amongst my people to bring them together . . . I was mysteriously found hanged.” Thelights fade on the image that embraces all who accept the message of the cross and/or the challenge of Nkululeko whois Freedom. a Critical Arts Vol 4 No 3 1987 37 “VUKA’: THE PERFORMANCE Moalusi John Letwaba seems throughthe responsiveness ofa well trained body anda controlling intellect able to changein stature,age, even racialfeature with but a slight adjustment of posture, a hint of gesture. No movement is exaggerated, everything is controlled and flows from the centre of his being. Whennecessary he can demonstratea terrifying energy,filling the stage with not one but an army of the Dubula clan. Then as suddenly he magnifies the space around him, becomes a child, approaching the audience (Baba) with respect, with hope that creates a shape for response. He hasalso a wide vocal range. He can adoptthetoneofself-assured bureaucrat, offerventpolitician or optimistic priest. He can shake the house with rage or grief or jubilation and he can drop one quiet wordinto a spaceofsilence to provide it maximumeffect. But thereis no sense of effort. His musical register of tonal speech elides the- distance between the spoken word and chantso naturally thatthere is no transitional disjunction. The complexity of Vuka derives in part from thesense of ease with which Letwabainhabits andcreates the many formsthat work together. Direct narrative and comment,coolirony, the poetry of passion and compassion and a particularlevel of shared humour — he balances them all one against another, presenting them to the audience, even drawing them from the audience which he holds alwaysat the centre of the event. Andit is this centrality of the audience whichis at the heart of Soyikwa’s work. NOTES AND REFERENCES 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 Kunene, M. 1976: “South African Oral Traditions” in Heywood, C. (ed): Aspects of South African Literature. Heinemann, London, p29. Maponya, M. in East Anglian Daily Times, 2 November, 1983, p2. Manaka, M. 1980: “Theatre of the Dispossessed”, Staffrider, Vol 3 No. 3. Steadman, I. 1985: ““The Other Face”, Index on Censorship, Vol 14 No 1. Itzin, C. 1980: Stages in the Revolution. Eyre Methuen, London, p269. Ajayi-Wood, F, 1985: “Reclaiming our Creativity”, New Internationalist, No. 144. Maponya, M. 1983: Umongikazi, The Nurse. Polyptoton, London. Kavanagh, R. 1981: South African People’s Plays. Heinemann, London. Manaka, M. op.cit. International Defence and Aid Fund. 1976: Black Theatre in South Africa. IDAF, London. Shezi, M. 1981: Shanty in Kavanagh, op cit. NUSAS, 1978: We Will Not Move, The Struggle for Crossroads, IEUF, London. Makhoba, M. 1984: The Sun Shall Rise for the Workers (Manga Lizophumela Abasebenzi). Ravan press and Fosatu, Johannesburg. Kunene, op.cif. Boal, A. 1979: Theatre of the Oppressed. Pluto Press, London,p125. Kunene, op, cit. p.36. Etherton, M, 1982: The Development of African Drama. Hutchinson, London, p350. Makhoba,op.cit. p35, Scheub, H. 1975: The Xhosa Ntsomi. Clarendon Press, Oxford. Finnegan, R. 1967: Limba Stories and Story-Telling, Oxford, pp67-81. Scheub, op. cit., pp171-4. Kunene, op. cit. p31. Tutu, Bishop. D. 1984: Drawbridge Lecture. London. Typescript. Schlovsky, V. 1974: Mayakovsky and his Circle, Pluto Press, London, p115. Sepamla, 8. 1976: The Blues is You and Me. AD Donker, Johannesburg, p58. 14 15 16 17 18 19 _ 20 21 22 23 24 25 EeLe 38 Critical Arts Vol 4 No 3 1987 NARRATING eae 5 Narrating the Crisis: Hegemony and the South African Press. 1. A Conceptual Framework for Media Analysis - Ruth Tomaselli, Keyan Tomaselli, and Johan Muller. 2. The Construction of News in the South African Media - Keyan Tomaselli, Ruth Tomaselli and Johan Muller 3. The Political Economy of the South African Press - Ruth Tomaselli and Keyan Tomaselli 4. Press Houses at War: Nasionale Pers and Perskor 1915-1983 Johan Muller 5. Cacophony of Consent: The Press and Educational Reform: Case Study - Johan Muller in the late Seventies and early Eighties - Simon Burton 6. Ideology on the Beat: Labourand the English Language Press 7. On the Social Reconstruction of Urban Problems: the Print Media and the Black Housing Issue in South Africa, 1925-1979 - Jeffrey McCarthy and Michelle Friedmann Published by James Currey in association with R Lyon. SA Distributor: R Lyon, P O Box 50139 Musgrave 4062 British and European distributors: $4b Thornhill Syuare, Islington, London Ni 1BC James Currey, . R15.95 exclusive in paperback. ue eee) This book examines films, videos and TV series made by local and foreign producers. Titles dis- cussed include Van der Post's Testament to the Bushmen, films by John Marshall on the !Kung, The SABC's They Came From the East and the British-made White Tribe of Africa. The authors discuss the very thin line between propaganda and documentary, State propaganda films examined include To Act a Lie, A Place Called Soweto and White Roots in Africa. Myth, Race and Power South Africans Imaged on Film and TV Koren’ Famasat® Atay winless Lynatie Steenveid » Ruth Tomaselli ; Order from Anthropos, P 0 Box 636, Bellville 7530 R14.19 including GST Price: Critical Arts Vol 4No 3 1987 39