Aguirre: The Wrath of God
Written and Directed by Werner Herzog
Starring Klaus Kinski (Don Lope de Aguirre), Del Negro (Brother Gaspar de Carvajal), Ruy Guerra (Don Pedro de Ursua), Peter Berling (Don Fernando de Guzman), Cecilia Rivera (Flores), Helena Rojo (Inez), Edward Roland (Okello)
There is some evidence to support the theory that Werner Herzog was completely out of his mind. We're talking here about a fellow who once ate his own shoe, sole and all, on a bet; who reportedly used a loaded pistol to keep eccentric actor Klaus Kinkski from deserting a production; and who has been accused of enslaving indigenous populations to assist with his location shots. If a tendency towards instability and excess is one hallmark of genius, Herzog certainly qualifies.
Ironically, instability and excess are the very traits Herzog seems to be criticizing in his first major feature, _Aguirre: The Wrath of God_. The title character in this film is driven by obsession -- especially by self-obsession. It would be easy to argue that Herzog's production of this film demonstrates the same characteristics; he dragged his cast and crew off into the Andean highlands for weeks of filming, reportedly spouting rather self-importantly about his art for the duration of the shoot. But while Aguirre's traits lead him to disaster, Herzog's pay off for him in spades, because _Aguirre_, though deeply flawed, is also a truly great film.
The film is based on an incident that occurred in the Andean highlands in the late sixteenth century. The party of Gonzalo Pizarro, seeking the fabled city of El Dorado, sends out a small scouting party, headed by the ostensibly valiant Don Pedro de Ursua (a very pretty Ruy Guerra). Disastrously, however, Ursua's deputy is the leering Don Lope de Aguirre (a credibly crazed Klaus Kinski). The rest of the party is assembled in classic epic fashion: we have the noble priest, Brother Gaspar de Carvajal; the token black man, Okello; the ostensibly noble but completely ineffectual nobleman, Don Fernando de Guzman; and a couple of damsels in distress, Ursua's wife Flores and Aguirre's daughter Inez. So far, we have what looks like a perfect opening for a rather stirring epic adventure, a la _The Seven Samurai_.
But almost immediately, things begin to go wrong -- both with the expedition itself and with our expectations that this will prove to be an ordinary epic adventure. Following a deadly attack by local villagers, Aguirre takes advantage the confusion and distress to stage a mutiny. He believes that the party can find El Dorado on their own, and set up a vast empire, not answerable to Spain. Abandoning all ties to Spain and Pizarro, Aguirre leads his party farther down the river through greater and greater hardships, all the while seeking the elusive El Dorado. I don't think I'm giving away too much to say that things end very badly for all concerned.
The centerpiece of the story is the figure of Aguirre, played with crazed demonism by Klaus Kinski. He's terrifying in the part -- his lips contort underneath cold blue eyes that convey a ruthlessness that slips, not so slowly, into insanity. By placing him and his arrogant delusions about himself and the environment he finds himself in, Herzog seems to be criticizing the entirety of Western culture, from imperialism to Nazism to the American occupation of Vietnam. Aguirre and those who follow him are ultimately destroyed by their own delusions of grandeur; in the end, the world they're confronting is simply too large and complex to be encompassed by their petty plans and ambitions. Herzog makes this point effectively; unfortunately, to drive home this allegory, he makes a number of concessions, particularly in drawing his characters. The parts somewhat underwritten, and Herzog's use of the camera doesn't help -- he uses plenty of sweeping shots of the river and wilderness, at the expense of close-ups and sustained shots of individual actors. This is, to some extent, and intended effect; it drives home the idea that Aguirre and his crew are rendered almost irrelevant by their environment. But it also gives the film a rather cold, cerebral feel that might frustrate some viewers.
But despite these sacrifices, the film still makes for compelling viewing. It's filmed with a delirious energy, all sweeping pans and unsteady footing, emphasizing the hallucinogenic quality of the expedition and Aguirre's slide into madness. The colors are striking, sometimes lurid, and the scenery is just exquisite. And the structure of the tale itself, with its allusions to the very heroic epics which it is in fact critiquing, makes the film more than watchable. We can't identify with the characters, but we recognize the story well enough to be carried along until it's too late for us to back out. We're tricked into following a story that promises to be glibly satisfying, and by the time we realize what we're in for, it's already too late.
(c) 1998 Chris Loar
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