Film Review: Étienne Charles' "Carnival: The Sound of a People Volume 1"

A famous carnival character, known as ‘Jab Molassie’ or ‘Blue Devil’

Kirese Narinesingh reviews “Carnival the Sound of a People: Volume 1,” as featured at the Native Spirit Film festival launch.

While attending the Native Spirit foundation’s launch of their film festival (12th-20th October), I found out that the United Nations had dedicated 2019 to “Preserving Indigenous Languages.” What is interesting about this is the regrettable fact that I have only heard this in October, within the last months of the year. It begs the question: is this a fault of memory, or a lack of media attention?

If it is the former, then it is not only a fault of my memory, but of our collective memory — which is, conveniently, the exact message of the Native Spirit festival. The aim is definitively the preservation of minority languages, but simultaneously a recognition of our forgetfulness: languages, and with it, culture, are lost when we renege our past for a technological future that erases it. If it is the latter — a lack of media attention — then let me rectify this mistake:

Film is a medium of integration. It blends sound, word and image in a culture of unity appropriate for a narrative that brings this element to the forefront. Such a production is demonstrated in Étienne Charles’ “Carnival: The Sound of the People,” a succinct example of a culture of mixture, and (appropriately) one of the first films that premiered at the festival. 

Set in Trinidad and Tobago, it showcases the vibrancy and musicality of Carnival that is inextricable from its sheer spectacle of characters and their upbeat movements.

It’s set up as a simple narrative of three movements, each delineating some of the most ecstatic melodies in combination with a visual array of costumes that epitomize the spirit of Carnival, which, in Charles’ words, is the essence of a “culture of resistance.” Before the beginning of each “act” is a reminder of the origins of Carnival: a brief introduction to the history of slavery and the slave-owner/captive dynamics, which provided the base of satirical characters who conveyed a powerful resistance to their statuses.

Each act covers an essential part of Carnival, that is “sound, image and word” incarnate: the steelpan music, the tamboo-bamboo that preceded it, and the vast array of participants who celebrate freedom, while following the rhythmic patterns of the drums. Paradoxes abound in characters; though there remain comedic resonances behind tragic personified figures, like the Blue Devil or “Jab Molassie”, who, in vengeful fury, literally spits fire out — one can call it a production of rage that simultaneously carries forth festivity — a complex character who is symbolic of the struggles and triumphs of resistance.

I’m a Trinidadian. I was brought up learning about these characters. I’ve played the steel pan, I’m accustomed to the seemingly frightful Jab Molassies. Part of the film is even set in Claxton Bay, where I call home. Carnival, as in Étienne Charles’ docu-film, is a language uttered by former enslaved, brought to the present by the strong cultural traditions that have been passed down and preserved through generations, gaining in strength and keeping its emotional (and comedic) performances of resistance. 

It is an out of body experience viewing my own culture in the format of a documentary, partly because of a confrontation with its truth, the beauty of our culture and because it’s a filmic product that preserves our heritage.