His first ten action flicks, for example, used cow blood as a special effect. Hofmanis realized that RFP, the entity behind Captain Alex, was a full studio.
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He was shocked to learn that Who Killed Captain Alex was one of more than 20 films that Nabwana had made under the auspices of his production company (because Nabwana didn't have the software to archive his films, he'd lost count of his own filmography long ago). Hofmanis peppered him with questions about his equipment, distribution, aesthetics, and influences. When the men left, Hofmanis and Nabwana talked film. As the four men made awkward small talk in the studio, Hofmanis was annoyed that the Frenchmen used the phrase "indigenous film" to describe Nabwana's work, as if Captain Alex were interesting only as an anthropological footnote, not as cinema. Hofmanis arrived at Nabwana's house, called in through the open front door, and shouted to him with a concise sentence he'd practiced on the harrowing motorcycle ride: "Hi, my name is Alan, I'm from New York City, and I'd like to talk to you." Nabwana, a soft-spoken, genial man of 38, greeted him with a nonchalant handshake, as if mzungus popped by the house every day.Īnd indeed, Hofmanis discovered that two French documentarians had arrived just before him (they were working on a film about African cinema and had stopped by the house as a courtesy call). The two then set out on a boda-boda, a motorcycle taxi, through the snarled flow of Kampala traffic. Hofmanis cornered the man, and after mutual assurances (that the seller wasn't peddling pirated DVDs and Hofmanis wasn't an Interpol agent), the vendor admitted that he knew where Nabwana lived. He dashed down narrow stall lanes to reach the mysterious stranger, who in turn-thinking a charging mzungu (the local term for a white Westerner) could mean only trouble-sprinted in the opposite direction.
Suddenly, amid the throngs of people, he spotted a distant DVD seller wearing an RFP shirt.
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