Mati Diop‘s new documentary is unlike anything else you’ll see this year. The French-Senegalese filmmaker has made a transfixing document that follows the restitution of 26 stolen artefacts that were placed in the Musée Quai Branly in Paris. Looted during the 1892 invasion, these artefacts are now returning to the land of their origin, in Benin. It is a sort of homecoming, as played through the perspective of the 26th artefact- a wooden statue of King Ghezo. The statue gets a voice (as spoken by Makenzy Orcel in Fon language), and this is where Diop’s razor-sharp observation on cultural history, institutionalized monopoly and colonialism begins to take shape. (Also read: Emilia Pérez review: Don’t blame Selena Gomez, but her new movie is a wild mess)
A story of homecoming
In Diop’s gaze, Dahomey begins as a ghost story. This voice of the artefact is aware of the phase of transit, that a series of other statues are being taken back to their homeland. Diop gives voice to the anticipation and poetic contradictions to these figures, as they are measured, fitted in a wooden box and taken out of the walls of the museum. “In several languages, the memories whisper in my ear the full weight of a past of which I am the trance, the trace,” he says, once he is aware that he is back to his own land.
Diop places her audience as a curious and invisible observer, of a place and a history, of the past initiating a locked-in dialogue with the present. This tone of contemplation is synchronized in the gently inquisitive sound design by Corneille Houssou, Nicolas Becker, and Cyril Holtz. It is as if there is a dimension that exists along with these questions of home and identity.
As curious and open as this section of the film sounds, Diop is operating here with an astonishing confidence. In this intermingling of non-fiction and fantasy, the filmmaker is building a dialogue with the nation’s complicated past of colonialism. The nation’s history slowly seeks voice away from the forces of repression. Working with cinematographer Joséphine Drouin Viallard, she often focuses on the halls and empty spaces of the museum as a sort of guarded, dark interior that hides secrets.
Then there are sequences which move, as the workers transport and the statue is placed upright. There are manual labour required for this process. Then there are museum goers, young visitors who are in a sort of intimate dialogue with their history. What do they know of this restitution? What does it speak to their idea of lost heritage? There are no easy answers.
A sharply made documentary
The film’s most electric part is when Diop turns the action to a meeting of university students to search for an objective rationale to how this restitution might add to the cultural significance for Benin. The students of l’Université d’Abomey-Calavi debate on this project, and Diop’s camera faces them with a vitality that infuses Dahomey with a propulsive force. One of them says that restituting 26 out of the thousands is no less than an insult. Another questions whether this truly is a historic milestone or does it allude to political underpinnings to create a certain narrative for France. The camera threads this debate as many students watch it in their laptops and mobiles.
In decentering the gaze away from the landscape of the institutionalized forces, Diop suggests that the dialogue must be taken forward through the minds and voices of the young generation. It is their land, their history, their politics that must exist. They need to be heard. It is a dynamic process, one which needs to be deliberated, thought over and addressed with collective force.
Dahomey is sharp, unassuming and one of those rare pieces of art that consciously attempts to ask questions. In Diop’s extraordinary effort, the vessels of loss and resilience can stem from the past and seep through the present. They are in constant dialogue, never resting for easy answers. Dahomey makes for essential viewing; it is one of those films that you simply cannot miss.
