The title character in Bruce Bereford's film is a native clerk in British West Africa (circa 1923), who becomes alienated from his own people after ingratiating himself with his English masters. He likes to say he's a true English gentleman in his heart, but the color of his skin tells a different story, and for all his delusions of civilized grandeur he can't see that a civil servant is, by any other name, still a servant. There's much to admire here: clearly a lot of care and attention went into the film. But although it captures superbly the heat and light of the African veldt, the story is surprisingly dark, despite Bereford's best efforts to minimize the discomfort of his audience. The servant Johnson is made to seem entirely innocent of any wrongdoing (even after being totally corrupted by colonial British culture), and his white overlords are, likewise, not portrayed with any ambivalence. Up to a point, at any rate: Pierce Brosnan's final, chilling act of grace isn't likely to send moviegoers home in an upbeat frame of mind.
Review of Mister Johnson
