Bamako, the capital of Mali, West Africa, is the scene of this arresting film of the same name. It’s another of those endlessly possible hybrids we might call documentary fiction, or fictional documentary, or somewhere in between. In short, it is full of reality, global in scope of issues, dirt-present in terms of local interface. The faces there are slow, the tread measured. Even a random insect makes a featured cameo appearance, as if disguising Kafka himself. Meanwhile the Trial drones on in the public square, interrupted joyously at times by a griot of a wedding party, or a stick-waving shaman in harsh-truth chant to the authorities of the IMF and the World Bank pontificating there. In the course of the community testimony we learn that half of this struggling country’s budget goes to pay off debt - while social programs are cut and people are left to choose wage slavery if they are lucky. Welcome to the New World Order, African-style. The beauty of this film (aside from the soulful sound track) is the human reality that substantiates its politics; the camera finds more power in mere presence, than in pretense; more in silence than in slick justification; more in earthy dignity than as a rising or falling statistic.