Cary Fukunaga’s newest film, Beasts of No Nation, released through Netflix this past October, follows Agu, a child soldier from an unnamed west-African country, through the trials of civil war. Based on Uzodinma Iweala’s 2005 novel of the same name (which itself was based on an Afrobeat album by Fela Kuti), the film is violent and visually arresting. Recently, a number of our Editorial Assistants came together to watch and discuss the film in The Strand’s first roundtable panel of the year.
Ainsley
Beasts of No Nation is not a film for the light-hearted. Filled with violence, it follows child soldiers through a purposeless and testosterone-fuelled mayhem of death and blood. But as necessary as all this violence is in showcasing the truth of third-world warfare, the movie is difficult to connect to and empathize with. As an art form, film must allow time for the viewer to digest scenes and connect them to a greater context or purpose. Beasts does not allow for such action; its shots of discomfiting violence and its barrage of visuals and colours make it distracting and confusing. This is not helped by the lack of narration from the main character, Agu, as the movie continues.
At the beginning, Agu’s voice-overs were heard often in creating exposition, but were included less as the movie went on while the violence increased. Leaving only a few predictable statements by Agu in the few voice-overs that were included, viewers are forced to imagine what he must be thinking, a difficult exercise since seldom is his true personality shown before conflict hits and he begins to kill and assault. Such disunity makes for a difficult film to watch, not only because of the violence itself, but because of its relentless and non-stop horror that leaves no chance for reflection.
Josh
Beasts of No Nation is undoubtedly an unflinching portrait of a crisis that concerns a global audience, a crisis that is universal because it threatens children. Not happy children with chocolate stains over their mouths and tantrum issues. No, children who trade toys for AK¬47s, chocolate stains for the splatter of rusty-smelling crimson, and radiating wonderment for shrivelling emotionlessness. Beasts deals with child soldiers.
Now before this universal audience immediately fans out into either tear-jerkers dialling UNICEF lines with credit cards in hand or apathetics who simply do not care, Beasts of No Nation commands pause. This is where the film’s greatest strength comes from. This pause, the lull that makes the audience question what is so unique about Beasts is precisely the film’s masterful cinematography. The bold yet honest visuals elevate the film from a meagre political commentary to auteur¬-like craft. With a distinct mise-¬en-¬scene of over¬saturated colour palettes, artful compositions of shallow depths of field, and kinetic photojournalist camerawork, Fukunaga commands captivating visual acuities that augment the movement of each scene in the film.
A notable example of this is in the film’s opening scenes of Agu’s peaceful life in his village, where we see Fukunaga’s aptitude for vibrant colours at play. The greens of the foliage and the yellows and reds of the village are noticeably vibrant, reflecting the wonder and cheerfulness of childhood that Agu rightfully possesses. As the film progresses and delves deep into Agu’s degradation into a mindless slaughterer of men, the colours dissipate and the camera often unchains itself from stable stationary shots into frenetic, steadicam sequences as to mimic the chaos of bush warfare and draw a voyeuristic perspective to Agu.
It is easy to become enthralled by Fukunaga’s visuals; his command of the camera holds a tight grip around the plot, squeezing in intensity during the kinetic and chaotic scenes and loosening comfortably in moments of serenity. Yet, considering the lengthy runtime of Beasts (200 minutes), it is a fair point to make that Fukunaga’s visuals, although enthralling, are self-indulgent, dragging on the story far longer than it should have gone. Moreover, this disregard for concise pacing to present a constant stream of cinematic images is a permeating flaw of Beasts, and one to look out for when watching the film.
Tamilore
Beasts of No Nation serves as the first of possibly many original feature films from the growing streaming service Netflix. From start to finish, the imagery and scenery of the film grabbed my fullest attention. The director, Cary Joji Fukunaga, shot each scene enclosed in the heavy and breathing life that is the African jungle and truly rugged streets and areas of African villages, positively staying faithful to his subject. I was also thoroughly pleased with the versatile craft of Idris Elba in his role of “The Commandant” as he took different personas of a troubled individual.
As the film developed into the hurried life of young Agu (Abraham Attah), I had sadly come to realize that I was following a story that I was not fully enveloped in emotionally. The onslaught of frantic violence with vague impetus and background behind it gave a large helping hand to this lack of immersion, as it all just portrayed a surface image without examining it in depth. The film failed to leave a lasting impact and gave off the perception of just wanting to create violence for the sake of showing brutality rather than leave even tidbits of educational information. The incessant profanity, moreover, only perpetuated the trope of “African” films made in visibly American style. In all, I left the film feeling that the idea of the civil conflict-riddled African nation is all that Westerners wish to see, and that they would gladly be at ease not knowing any real historical background.
So, while Beasts of No Nation is truly an entertaining and compelling piece of film-making, it fails to leave a real emotional impact, instead leaving only feelings of horror and blind sympathy for a Western construct of “Africa.”
Tanuj
By focusing on conflict through the eyes of child soldiers, Beasts of No Nation attempts to portray the psychologically damning effects of war through a heavy emphasis on its visual aspects. Fukunaga’s film adaptation of Iweala’s novel paints both colourful life and death onto the West African jungles, where the mahogany soils and verdant vegetation are stained by unflinching scenes of slaughter.
It isn’t any mystery why Fukunaga focuses on a decidedly visual approach in portraying our protagonist, Agu, and his horrific experiences as a child soldier under the Commandant in the midst of a civil war. Throughout the film, we see multiple changes in the colour palette, reflecting Agu’s constantly shifting psychological state, juxtaposed with a seemingly continuous stream of violence. The film forgoes consistent personal monologues and dynamic characterisations in favour of a feast for the eyes that attempts to bombard the viewer with scene after scene of visual interest.
While these scenes often successfully portray aspects of Agu’s psychology, Beasts‘s tendency to overplay them detracts from its other aspects—sound, characterization, consistent narrative—that would otherwise clean up and vastly improve the film. Beyond Elba’s stunning performance as the Commandant in his final scenes and Agu’s powerful words concluding the film, Fukunaga’s emphasis on visuals leaves no room for subtlety in sound or speech. But perhaps this was as intended: even though the film’s visual cornucopia leaves viewers thirsting for something beyond what their eyes may see, Beasts of No Nation does show that the brutality of war is anything but subtle.
Tristan
Agu is set adrift after the violent civil conflict, which his community hoped they’d escaped, tears through their town. It is here, after the deaths of his father and brother that Agu’s own odyssey begins, where he is discovered by the film’s unnamed antigovernment militia and transformed beyond recognition.
Fukunaga illustrates an unstable world in which to place his protagonist, a world unlike the one he had known with his parents, brother, and infant siblings. This stark contrast resonates not just within Agu but also within the viewer who has just watched almost 20 minutes of the film completely dedicated to portraying the boy’s early life. The starkness of this contrast is a notable factor in the entire film and should not be overlooked. Fukunaga repeatedly illustrates the complete abandonment of one group of qualities for another.
The final scenes of the film show Agu, after surrendering along with his fellow soldiers to the government’s army, in the care of an unnamed organisation which appears to be intended to care for those swept up by the war. He is sitting in a room, in front of a woman asking him to talk about the things he experienced and the emotions he feels. Agu narrates this scene: he tells the audience how, although he’s still very young, he is far older in experience than the woman sitting across from him. He explains how although he had committed so many horrible atrocities, he was once someone’s son, someone’s brother and that he was loved.
The film concludes with the boy approaching the beach on which his friends, other former child soldiers, are playing in the water. He hesitates for a bit before running forward and joining the others. It’s as if his hesitation is a period of reflection on all that has happened to him just before returning to being a child. It’s this final sequence of scenes that truly reflects Fukunaga’s recurring depiction of transformation. It is a depiction of an individual’s ability to adopt qualities far beyond the ones they already possess—good or bad. It’s this ending that explains the film’s quality of anonymity: an anonymous war in an anonymous country with no explanation of when it takes place. These factors hint towards the statement Fukunaga is making, and Beast’s conclusion only emphasises that.
