“MATANGI/MAYA/M.I.A.” [Credit: Cinereach]
Early in the documentary of her life, rapper M.I.A. is posed an interesting question by the director, Stephen Loveridge, which puts her quick wit on display, as she deftly dissects it. “Why don’t I just shut up?” she quips, and the two share a laugh at her ability to cut to the quick. Although the artist is able to give a fairly succinct answer, in the moment, it soon becomes clear that this will be the overriding question of not only the film, but her life: Why can’t this woman just play the good pop star and stay in a lane?
The movie, much like its subject, is a strange one to pin down. Instead of the kind of face-to-camera scripted interviews one might expect from the genre, Matangi/Maya/M.I.A. is told mostly by the musician’s own hand. Very few of the shots are actually original for the film, as it’s quickly noted that M.I.A., herself, grew up with dreams of being a documentarian. Because of this, she has kept a wealth of home videos, shot in her own hopes to one day tell the unique story of those around her, which have found new purpose in the 2018 biopic.
For those not in the know, M.I.A. is a Sri Lankan-born UK-immigrant who rose to prominence with her uniquely-blended style of hip-hop and her overtly political overtones. The daughter of one of the founders of the Tamil Tigers, a group of resistance fighters in her home country, she and her family fled the genocide of their home when the artist was only ten years old, leaving their father to continue the struggle. This is why M.I.A. infuses so much of her work with a sense of struggle, alienation, and survival, including what is perhaps her most famous track, featured in films like The Pineapple Express and Slumdog Millionaire. While her fusion of poppy, infinitely-danceable beats and powerful lyrics have always been a matter of discussion, the documentary of her life makes it clear how M.I.A. has always been someone caught in the lurch between worlds.
The film goes to great lengths to juxtapose M.I.A.’s struggle to find a voice against her rise to stardom. Beginning with her early days as a film student at Central St. Martin’s College, the themes that would shape her career are quickly apparent. The young Maya tries filming her siblings talking about their mixed feelings from integrating into English society and the looming return of their father, Arul Pragasam, after years of separation. Her talents as a communicator and her ability to capture the energy of a moment jump from the simple hand-cam footage in these dressed-down scenes. But the woman who would one day become one of the most controversial names in music takes her time showing up, as our first glimpses come from a near-crying monologue she gives to her camera in a bathroom, while touring as the camera woman for the band, Elastica. Knowing that the prominent artist could be spending her time and influence to reach people on a more effective level, but being turned away as simply a kid looking for attention, it’s here that Maya starts the journey towards M.I.A., dropping her professional role to return home – all the way back to the forests of Sri Lanka.
It’s here that the movie really goes into overdrive, as Maya takes the opportunity to interview her family and the other survivors of the Tamil war. Returning to her childhood home is obviously a difficult task for the young artist, but the pain is peppered with an immense amount of joy, as well. Between the horror stories of the fight, we see her share the love of music with her young nephews and other local children, Maya’s grandmother’s pure joy at their reunion, and the day-to-day lives of people just making the best out of an awful situation. It’s no wonder, then, that the movie transitions so smoothly into her life back in London, as we see the birth of her breakout album, Arular. Voice-overs from producers and critics, alike, show how Maya’s intense passion and drive to express the bubbling mixture of feelings inside her culminate in a completely unprecedented auditory experience.
As her popularity grows, M.I.A. remains clear on her goals: meeting people with music, and using her art as the means to spread the truth of the world around her. To little surprise, however, this isn’t a particularly ingratiating move for such a new star, even more so for a woman of color. Between the unbelievable strength of her music talents and the looming double-nomination for a Grammy and an Oscar in the same year, we see the way that Western media and even her home government tried to pull the rapper back down to the ground. Questions of her social validity, whether using the Tamil people’s fight was simply a pity-ploy, and other frankly racist implications (the piece-de-resistance of this shitshow being her “interview” with Bob Maher, where the HBO host spent more time asking her if all Sri Lankans had a cockney accent than actually engaging with her) serve to highlight the myriad way in which those in power tried, unceasingly, to silence the rapper for her activism. When the climax of the documentary, M.I.A.’s (in)famous Super Bowl performance with Madonna and Nicki Minaj, arrives, it’s all too clear why she feels so outraged at the world around her. Reel after reel from local and national news shows reacting to her gesture bring the absurdity of the situation home to the audience in a way that couldn’t have been processed in the moment.
Yet it’s also here that Matangi/Maya/M.I.A. shows its seams. As the film winds down to the modern day, there’s flashes back to those freshman documentaries. The entire movie is split between past and present at all times, and while it serves to show why these causes remain so poignant for the artist and the cyclical nature of her struggles, it also makes the piece harder to follow, at times. It’s never too jarring to swap from old film cuts to modern scenes in M.I.A.’s home or on the set of her latest videos, but the lack of summation on the thesis makes the ending of the documentary surprisingly abrupt. The showing I was able to make was a rather casual affair in the conference room of a coffee house, but there was a pervasive air of “Wait… we’re done now?” as the credits began to roll while “Borders” plays in the background. Sure, it’s true that M.I.A.’s fight for legitimacy is still ongoing, and that the questions the film raises are meant to be taken and dwelled upon by the viewer long after the celluloid cuts, but the rambling return to its thesis makes for a strange effect, which is hard to say is more rallying than it is distancing.
While the film begins in the present, it ends in the past, as a young Maya asks her grandmother how she stays so positive through all the dark times. The one-eyed woman, due to a recent attack on the civilian “safe zone,” smiles and says, “Because I can sing, and that makes me happy. You should, too!” In that moment, the true message of the piece becomes clear. Why don’t we just shut up? Because artistry is a privilege, and the platform that comes with stardom bestows as much responsibility as it does prestige. M.I.A. is a survivor, a refugee lucky enough to make it big, and it would be completely unethical for her to not use that opportunity to the fullest to make the world better. We can’t shut up because we’re too joyful, too pained, too much in love, have grieved for too long. We have a message that must be heard, and no one can make us shut up about that.
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Soul Charger 