Tribal bodies are swimming through weeds over sharp-edged mountains to battle at red coats with patterned shields and unmagical scepters, ruining their mud hospital with languages of heat in tongues of flames against ruined alcohol. One crazy soldier relishes shaky sips from a smoked vial before living his then nightly daze of the Zulu Tribe's rapid marches however awkward and to the point the folks with ash'd skin, the British fools, absorb their gravity by stomping hills and working guns out formal piles of weapons. Someone's after royal badges and will leave them in hot dust, only to help a tribe with ammo of the warring dead inside the great outdoors. So, what's the brush at their ankles? The late 1800's is an eclipse of races which hurts the eyes of crude soldiers on this unfair couple of days; in particular to "crude sagacity of dominance" by the British and the Zulu Tribe's sundances of warfare, the white and the black are in their own melting pots even if some of their kins will become supper for the Earth to cherish their rotten muscles. At this point, a fancy hat is hardly a shield when its down shadow looms over places with wild toasters; if one army gives a salute, the other army thinks its pretension. The British armies put so much harm on other armies as well as themselves, and plenty of British residents today are more worried about the names of things; in other words, names that mean nothing. It doesn't matter if God's name is Jesus; people are dying here! Army movements here are either lucrative or diminished soon, bodies flowing over golden weeds of bloody waste, treading on a bright planet during momentary hours of peace when even a wild cat with a fuzzy knob of a dangerous tail hurries against lazy gunshots on divided paws. There's something rich about sunlight as it hits Mr. Caine's temple, so I remark here on the mysteries of shadows and try to define them: slight at moments, dark against flames, becoming ingredients to humanity's melting pots while turning the spectrum of hate into something massive: the eclipse of a smile beyond a fighter's gasping approach, switching her or his face's reflections of odor into resounding thuds of psychological impediments. Everything has a smell, lots of colors, becoming mediums for camera angles; at least, everything shown. When pleasure exists for a soldier, something has to give. Consider this blue sky land as the azure colors of the horizon change gradually with the soaking dips of history; a commonplace historian might say that the Zulu Film is historically accurate on a mild summer day, horrible coffee in hand, reading the newspaper while being a blithering pedant of familiar objects. DVD's permanent at all in small ways signify little; reality changes, and millions of seeds die in the womb before anybody is born. The Zulu Tribe resists goofy temptations to launch as imbecile fools; war is a poor accolade since, quite simply, plenty of sides are wrong, the right sides destroying humans like bugs as if deer look at them too closely. What's notable here is that the British army and the Zulu army own materials that aren't weapons, so their patronizing arrogance lives on for some expert kinds of materialism; what's ironic here is that the actors have to act out pompous stubbornness by being less self-disdainful and livelier in probable tunes of physics for fictional, historical spirits. Of course, it's not that clothes mean nothing; it's that wearable uniforms exist on people's figures in spite of most bodily actions. I know that golf channels advertise clothes; businesses accidently imply that materials are behaviors, so indeed actors must constantly struggle against the urge to run on happy dreamlands when reality is screaming at their faces. History movies of very many kinds have to serve as fictional obras which still get at the partial truths with special information: a deniable plot, more questions, examples laminated in video forms, requisite camera angles rather than perfect ones ever, inscribing technological descriptions of conditioned monsters across the sands of time with presentations that may make you queasy yet soothe my attention spans. Africa has its blinds of madness which are constantly downplayed by the African tribes' gay wits; I've watched so many cheap documentaries about tribes in Africa, and "Zulu" has reasonable physics since one of its creators for the movie for sure had the learned help of studying tribal rumors about foul play and forced kinds of understanding for armies. I actually consider an African tribe as a kind of army. I'm the kind of guy who listens to foreign languages even if I don't naturally speak them (sometimes I make up sounds); not only there's those profits of visual learning when I ignore my own desires sometimes, but nations of cultural types of charm if occasionally failing to be inevitable dominance or imprisoning submission gear themselves for troublemakers. In one of the beginning legend slots of "Zulu," a Zulu Warrior tugs at the clad dress of a prestigious, temperamental woman prior to his inconvenient death by a quick spear, chanting a showy song that is unwelcoming for the Zulu Tribe's reunion celebration. What if a leader is like some butler for our privileges? I'm most certainly not in that much glee for American Freedom when it's defined by world leaders through personal tastes and exotic reasons; let's amplify "Zulu"'s involving meanings or else dispute with ourselves how we live while others suffer. There's this unmelted exchange by the British Army and the Zulu Army between freedom and compassion, shared context of meaning possibly illusionous because of intense whispers between soldiers and battle-cries among warriors. An arbitrary motive that a historian can have is often needed in order to define the truth with optional bias; however alas, some political thinkers are horrible philosophers because they're bad anthropologists constantly feeling the need to pick sides without being so careful due to lack of descriptions. Once I had a black preacher at a ghetto church who told the doubtful crowd to drink the Bible; I'm still drinking it, but humanity at large is still open and long for me to handle, and "Zulu" is a tough poetry source of shattered alcohol and tattered sundances.