Seldom has social rot been more beautifully photographed than here. It's 1940. Bombs are raining down on London, soldiers are dying across Europe, Hitler is on the rise, yet not a drop of alcohol is being spilled by the rich and idle colonialists of British east Africa. Time is spent drinking and gossiping, drinking and swapping mates, drinking and dancing, and drinking and cross-dressing. It's all really rather empty and boring, sort of a sub-Saharan "La Dolce Vita", summed up in the death-mask visage of the sumptuous Greta Scacchi. Once jealousy takes hold, it's fun to watch the emotions build and shake loose behind these perfectly mannered mannikins.
Based on an actual murder case, the movie is salvaged from cliché by the elegantly understated style of the film-makers, who know how to both seduce and make a subtle point. Two scenes stay with me. A black man-servant sets up targets for practicing colonialists and narrowly escapes being shot in the process. The episode passes quickly, but it's evident the elitist whites take no notice of what almost happened -- a whole little world captured in one fleeting event. The other is the deathless and x-rated line -- "Oh my God! Not another f...king beautiful day." -- uttered by the super-jaded Sarah Miles as she surveys yet one more splendorous sunrise from the veranda of one of the film's many lush mansions. For contrast, there is John Hurt's scruffy and enigmatic "Gilbert", reputedly the richest man in Kenya, and a fascinating study in laconic reserve. What exactly is going on behind that wide- eyed stare and silent tongue -- envy? disgust? It's probably best that we never know. Anyway, this is an all-around first rate production that qualifies for permanent cult status and promises to remain with you long after the final scene has faded from view.
