Deeply browned little children, how sad their lives. Lives lived in drooping huts among puddles of urine, on rationed food flung out of planes in the sky, and ended by a swing of the machete, perhaps.

A splendid story, that--which is why Africa is the prime character of any film that mentions it. It unsettles our dormant discomfort, urges our sympathy, uplifts our spirits with its openness to being held and hugged by benevolent Hollywood stars. Africa forces humility upon viewers, silencing criticism. It is no longer a film they discuss, it is a country. A disappointingly mediocre film, then, is welcomed as a glorious exploration of grave issues. Who dares say, but, you know, The Constant Gardener stumbled and scraped through its underdeveloped story, the characters clinging to barren sentimentality and, of course, many runny nosed children.