Sanders of the River (1935, Zoltan Korda) (Patreon)

37/100

Stodgy colonialist garbage, for the most part. How much I'm put off by blatant racism of yore depends largely upon how much it's foregrounded; here, the entire movie celebrates "Lord Sandi" (Leslie Banks, seemingly bored by his character's unfailing condescending decency—this is an actor who launched his career as The Most Dangerous Game's sneering Russian villain), with the story hinging on Nigerian tribes that instantly descend into violent chaos when he's not there to impose ostensibly benign paternal order. We even get Paul Robeson belting out a song in praise of him, featuring such lyrics as "Sandi the strong / Sandi the wise / Righter of wrong / Hater of lies / Laughed as he fought / Worked as he played / As he has taught / Let it be made." Even within its own noxious parameters, the film's weirdly inconsistent: It's expressly conceived as an opportunity for Westerners to gawk at the natives, yet Robeson and Nina Mae McKinney make no effort whatsoever to disguise their American-ness, apart from wearing what may or may not be Nigerian garb. (I can't speak to accuracy on any level, kinda doubt much care was taken in that regard.) Though, in fairness, some of their dialogue is very specifically upper-class English, with Lilongo at one point telling another Nigerian "You know we shan't," as if she were Maggie Smith on Downton Abbey. Korda keeps the story moving briskly enough, and I can't pretend that parts of the film didn't grab me—another of Robeson's songs, a battle march, is both genuinely stirring and insanely catchy—but then a card would appear informing us that "Under Sanders' just rule the People of the River enjoyed their primitive paradise." Okay, we get it, Brits rule Africans drool. Jesus. Oh, and there's rampant female toplessness on view throughout, just as a National Geographic-style reminder that breasts weren't then considered erotic by the Anglophone world unless they were white.