Like the film itself, the central figures of this plodding cinema verité style documentary never go anywhere. The older of the two, a jovial native American dope dealer who thinks nothing of jacking his cohabitant up on drugs in front of her two-year-old daughter, appears to be an intelligent man — and he has some remorse about making a living by getting the young people of his reservation addicted to meth and crack. Just not enough remorse to stop doing it and get a job. His younger protégé doesn't seem nearly as intelligent — and frankly, may not be long for this world. Are we supposed to feel sorry for these people? Certainly, native Americans have gotten the rawest of deals . But that doesn't give anyone a pass to sell dangerous drugs to teenagers. The documentary paints a ghastly picture of life on the reservation, although those who actually live there are on record as saying that the portrayal is unfair. Certainly, I have seen vibrant native American communities in the US and Canada, which is not to minimize the plague of drugs that has infected all our ghettos — black, native American, Latino, and white suburbia. The film more or less sputters to an end. The jovial drug dealer winds up back in jail, which is exactly where he belongs.
Review of The Seventh Fire
