White Portuguese aid worker Sérgio (Sérgio Coragem) arrives in Guinea-Bissau to help one particular NGO with their dealings. He measures roads, engages in conversation, but is constantly reminded of his colonial heritage. “Beware of black chicks”, he is warned, suggesting that a fate that happened to his predecessor Leonardo certainly awaits him. The more Sérgio searches for answers in this land, the greater the perplexion.
The interesting ensemble – a sexually confident black woman, a transvestite and a builder prone to explosive mood swings – are given something of a short shrift in favour of the bland lead. This is no reflection on Coragem, who brings a soulful yearning in many of the scenes he’s in, but that the character himself is just so dull. He sits there, watching a city of colour pass him by, with barely a nod of interest. The only discernible trait he possesses is that he is attracted to females of colour. That’s it.
Director Pinho spends a lot of time building the surroundings, possibly in 16mm, and there are some gorgeous pictures that look like 19th century paintings. The imagery is impressive, beautifully transcribing the country and all of the flairs that inhabit the environment. But lost in the visual structure, he loses sense of plot, pillorying the audience with footage that could very well make a BBC documentary. There’s an embarrassing scene where a white tourist asks a villager how they live with water, perpetuating a stereotype about Westerners and their view of Africa as a continent.
Everywhere he goes, Sérgio is told he’s unwelcome. His boss cheekily tells him not to date “locals”; his friend says his blood is “white”, no matter his pure intentions; and a mother refuses to let her son work with the NGO because they “have taken all the young people away.” There’s the small matter of the Italian everyone mutters about. Some say he was murdered, others suggest he ran off with a woman. But the exile places a stronghold on the lead.
The more words are repeated, the less of an effective they have, and by the time Sérgio has heard this spiel for the umpteenth occasion, it borders on self-parody; or self-sabotage from the creative team. I Only Rest in the Storm could be tighter with a clearer narrative hook.
Lasting for a massive 211 minutes, I Only Rest in the Storm only holds a story that lasts two hours. The rest is filled with musical interludes, long shots over rivers and chitter-chatter about European rule. Dialogue is repeated endlessly: in almost every scene, there is a character who reminds Sérgio of his white privilege. Some of it is insightful, a monologue about architecture brimming with blood has pathos, but it’s also too wordy, obvious and humdrum. The viewer witnesses everything Sérgio endures, from the death threats to the threesome he partakes in, but it never really leads to anything grand. By the close of the work, viewers are no more certain of the hero’s journey than he is. As a result, this work is bloated, overlong and occasionally pretentious.
I Only Rest in the Storm premiered in the Un Certain Regard section of the 78th Festival de Cannes, when this piece was originally written. Also showing in the 31st Sarajevo Film Festival.
