AGUIRRE, THE WRATH OF GOD

Aguirre, the Wrath of God (1972)

SYNOPSIS

1560, Peru.  A Spanish expedition led by Gonzalo Pizzaro descends from the Andes into the jungle, in search of El Dorado. Encountering difficulty crossing the river, Pizzaro orders a party of forty to forage onwards on makeshift rafts.

  Commanding this expedition is Don Pedro de Ursua, with Don Lope de Aguirre as second-in-command, joined by nobleman Don Fernando de Guzman, Gaspar de Carvajal,  a monk chronicling the journey, Ursua’s mistress Dona Inez and Aguirre’s daughter, Flores.

  Setting off, one of the rafts becomes trapped in a whirlpool, its crew turning up dead before they can be reached. Though Ursua wants the bodies returned for a proper burial, Aguirre orders for a cannon to fire and sink the raft.

  Overnight, rising tides sweep away the remaining rafts and Ursua orders the convoy to turn back. Aguirre rebels, promising fortune for those who follow him. A mutiny follows where Ursua and a disciple are shot.  While Inez cares for them, Aguirre convinces the mutineers to elect Guzman their new leader. The new regime finds Ursua guilty of treason, sentencing him to death, though Guzman shows clemency.

  Setting off on a new, larger raft, the explorers encounter a native couple who are accused of blasphemy and killed when they don’t recognise Gaspar’s bible.

  Guzman has the expedition’s only horse jettisoned overboard as it annoys him. Guzman is later found dead outside the raft’s outhouse, prompting Aguirre to take control. Ursua is taken away and killed.

  Indians attack with arrows and during the battle Inez disappears into the jungle. Aguirre then beheads a would-be traitor.

  Starving and hallucinating, the crew believe they see a sailboat in a tree’s branches. Indians attack again, killing everyone but Aguirre, whose daughter dies in his arms. Aguirre becomes surrounded by dozens of monkeys who he addresses, claiming he will endure and rule all of New Spain.

REVIEW

  At the climax of Werner Herzog’s impressive imagining of a doomed sixteenth century Spanish expedition to El Dorado, the fabled ‘City of Gold,’ Klaus Kinski’s fantastically unhinged commander Aguirre delivers a passionate, frenzied speech to an oblivious tribe of monkeys. Though it is evident the conquistador has finally taken leave of his senses, Aguirre poses some intriguing questions about the correlation between mental illness and strong leadership.

  Historically, some of the greatest leaders, from Churchill to Ghandi, suffered from emotional disorders, yet managed to be astonishingly determined and inspirational in times of despair. Likewise, last man standing Aguirre defies his inner torment, exhibiting the unflappable resilience that convinced so many to follow. So certain of his deserved place in history, the deluded commander is completely uncompromising, inviting interesting comparisons with Herzog himself, a committed, resilient director, rumoured to be mad, who seemingly revels in doing things the hard way.

  This is the auteur who, on Fitzcarraldo (1982), decided that the best way to portray a ship being moved over a mountain, deep in the rainforest, was to actually move a real ship over a mountain and film it, and this absurd resoluteness can be traced right through the bold venture that is Aguirre. Shot in the hazardous jungles of Peru, there is a sense of genuine intense peril in the raft-bound scenes. Cast and crew seemingly risk life and limb in treacherous, choppy conditions to conjure a real feeling of vulnerable isolation, man versus nature in the inhospitable wilderness. Many scenes, such as when a raft becomes stranded in a deadly whirlpool, are downright terrifying, a result of Herzog’s determination to film everything on location. This is real menace, as authentic as it gets, the director showing shades of the film’s titular commander, more than willing to push his performers to the edge.

  You would expect this level of conviction from a man who once ate his own shoe to settle a bet, and the resulting film is fascinating. At times Herzog can be deliberately oblique, often frustrating, such as when he presents a patience testing fifty second sustained close-up of  a roaring river, but the film consistently intrigues. Dialogue is sparse and there are prolonged scenes where little transpires, but with the sustenance of progressive Krautrock band Popol Vuh’s minimalistic score of haunting strings and desolate synths, the effect is often soothingly hypnotic. In fact, Aguirre is often most effective when completely silent, crafting a mood of ominous seclusion, a sense that these travellers are truly lost in the unknown at the behest of a madman.

  In his portrayal of the sneering despot, Kinski is extraordinary, controlling scenes with frightening intensity, intimidating potential usurpers with a smouldering glare. The actor and Herzog shared a famously volatile relationship, but here he displays a remarkably restrained, chilling physicality which would lead the director to cast him a further four times. Kinski deftly depicts Aguirre’s escalating madness, compounding the grisly sense of dread to the point where it is clear that his crew’s fate is sealed long before they drift into a salvo of native’s arrows.

  Based on the Herzog’s conviction and the evident hardships involved in making the film, Aguirre is easy to admire, though it is difficult to totally enjoy. The film sags in places with many supporting players portraying conquistadors and slaves giving static performances, lacking urgency and expression, making them difficult to care for. However the gradual build-up of a supremely brooding atmosphere makes amends. Quiet, contemplative moments are punctuated by sudden bursts of extreme violence and horror and there are wonderful instances of beauty and vision, like Aguirre’s aforementioned demented discourse with his simian counsel, that will live long in the memory.

  As much an exploration of insane perseverance, as a meditation on the folly of delusional, self-righteous colonial invaders, Herzog and Kinski’s first collaboration is an engaging, haunting achievement. It is a film about dogged perseverance that manages to reach places cinema rarely goes, because its architect was crazy enough to push that bit further. Like Aguirre himself, Herzog’s desire to achieve something significant leaves a legacy that won’t be easily forgotten.

TEARS OF THE BLACK TIGER

My mother likes to put jam on her cheese on toast. In many ways Wisit Sasanatieng’s Thai western- melodrama oddity reminds me of my progenitor’s fondness for curious culinary combinations – it is an undeniably weird amalgam of elements that may work for some, but will inevitably alienate other palates.

  Walking a tightrope between parody and homage, Sasanatieng’s 2000 paean to classic Westerns chronicles the journey of peasant boy Dum (Chartchai Ngamsan), transformed by tragedy into outlaw gunslinger the Black Tiger, and his doomed romance with childhood beau, wealthy Rumpoey (Stella Malucchi), now lamentably betrothed to another. Sounds conventional, but Tears… is far from typical melodrama, thanks to the hyper-stylised, borderline insane manner of its telling.

  Poetic, maudlin, musical moments gleefully give way to breathtaking scenes of surreal Grindhouse ultra-violence that could easily have escaped from the mental, druggy dreams of The Mighty Boosh. Packed with provocative, pastel-hued visuals, the film has the look and production values of a Christmas pantomime, with camp, caricatured performances to match. Ridiculous, eye-patch wearing, moustached villains cackle excessively against vibrant painted backdrops, while cowboys fire bazookas, causing heads to explode invigoratingly like showers of strawberry jam, but the pervading air of cheap naffness is hard to ignore.

  Any film that replays gnarly action sequences for those who missed them first time round deserves respect, but sadly, when teeth aren’t bursting from skulls in fountains of crimson gristle, laboured, syrupy scenes between the romantic leads drag like a ball and chain. Ngamsan is a peculiarly dull leading man, his monotone delivery, lack of charisma, or indeed chemistry with Malucchi, making him difficult to root for.

  Tears… is fun, but so compellingly strange, it is difficult to guess the director’s intentions. Sasanatieng has simmered a bizarre fusion of ingredients into an unconventional stir-fry, bursting with flavour, but overcooks it, leaving a bitter taste of saccharine. My mother might enjoy it.

Xala

With the finest political satire, for the bungling powers that be, whatever can go wrong will go wrong, birthing surefire hilarity from tragic misfortune. Certainly, with 1975's Xala, the tale of a middle-aged official's struggles with the onset of horribly-timed impotence, eventually resulting in his professional ruination, legendary Senegalese filmmaker Ousmane Sembene appears to have devised an indubitable formula for caustic hilarity.
 As cocksure, polygamous El Hadji, embezzling funds for the needy in order to take a third wife, only to fail to rise to the occasion,  Thierno Leye is delightfully amusing and self-effacing. Suspecting himself the victim of a 'xala' infertility curse, the dignitary plumbs suprising depths to lift the spell, cavorting in various states of undress at the behest of 'marabout' witchdoctors, providing some memorable, amusing moments.
 The luminary's desperate exertions, coupled with several titillating run-ins with his dysfunctional extended family, provide a humorous counterpoint to constant, vivid reminders of the grim poverty of the neglected post-colonial Senegalese underclasses. With rich imagery, bureaucrats wash their cars with Evian, while deformed beggars forage in the street, Sembene's camera commendably reminding us of the cadaverous squalor of the gutter. Preoccupied with his own ultimately insignificant woes, El Hadji's complete emasculation is an apt metaphor for his complete political inadequacy.
  However, though fertile with potent satirical comment, this allegory of corruption and retribution comes up short. Though enlivened by an eclectic musical score, furnished with rich, intoxicating African beats and instrumentation, the film becomes a frustratingly laborious experience, chiefly due to its phlegmatic pace. Although demonstrating early promise, particularly in scenes between Leye and Younouss Seye as his thoroughly acerbic, griping second wife Oumi, Sembene, like his protagonist, can't keep it up. Despite scoring a disturbingly striking, memorable climax, Xala takes far too long to get there and is far too limp and lethargic to have enough lead in its pencil.

Glasgow Film Festival 2012

A dynamic line-up of screenings and events has been unveiled for 2012’s Glasgow Film Festival. Opening February 16 with the UK premiere of Your Sister’s Sister, starring Emily Blunt and Mark Duplass in a “painfully funny and utterly captivating tale of bad timing, broken hearts and the healing power of love,” according to the festival, Humpday director Lynn Shelton’s offering will be the first of 239 films screening in 16 venues across the city. Running from 16 to 26 February, this year’s event includes a record number of UK and European premieres including Rob Heydon’s much-anticipated adaptation of Irvine Welsh’s Ecstasy, and heartthrob Robert Pattinson’s latest turn in sensual period drama Bel Ami.

 Growing steadily in popularity since its 2005 inception, with more than 34,000 visitors last year, festival co-director Allan Hunter has promised “an amazing week for Scottish film.” Notable highlights include a Gene Kelly retrospective, promising “all of the Kelly classics,” including 1952’s Singin’ in the Rain. The celebration culminates on February 25 with the intriguing Gene Kelly Ceilidh, where attendees are encouraged to put on their dancing shoes following a special screening of 1954’s Brigadoon.

  Billed as a “festival of festivals,” 2012’s event will incorporate Film4’s Frightfest, showcasing eleven horror-fantasy exclusives, including Gareth Evan’s Indonesian martial-arts action picture The Raid and the UK premiere of William Brent Bell’s exorcism chiller The Devil Inside. Additional strands of 2012’s programme include Kapow!@GFF, dedicated to all things comic and superhero, and the Glasgow Music and Film Festival, presenting compelling music documentaries and exciting live performance from the likes of sonic pioneers Silver Apples.

  Supporting what promises to be a lively period, Scott Taylor, Chief Executive of Glasgow City Marketing Bureau enthused about Glasgow’s “reputation as a first-class filming destination,” observing that the festival “plays an integral role in that success, positioning the city on the global film festival stage and highlighting our passion and expertise in the broadcast industry.”

As a taster, the festival is preceded by the Short film Festival (9-12 February) and the Youth Film Festival (5-12), including an advanced family gala screening of The Muppets.

 Tickets are available now from www.glasgowfilm.org/festival.

Singin' In The Rain

With the past decade’s remarkable film musical renaissance and with this year’s The Artist captivating audiences with its adroit study of the silent film era, the timing is perfect to revisit Gene Kelly’s exhilarating 1952 song and dance spectacular Singin’ in the Rain. Kelly, who co-directs with Stanley Donen, is irresistible as silent film star Don Lockwood, whose impressive propensity for captivating physical performance  catapults him up the 1920s Hollywood ladder, only for the arrival of ‘the Talkies’ to force him and his studio to re-evaluate everything they know.

  What follows is a wry, heart-warming look behind the scenes at this pivotal time in film history, with some quite staggering, energetic musical set-pieces that challenge you not to smile goofily. Kelly himself choreographs the film’s spectacular, colourful dance numbers and the results, particularly his famous, soggy performance of the title track, are breath-taking.

  As Lockwood, Kelly is eminently likeable, commanding scenes with an impressive physicality and a winning smile. Deft support is on hand from Donald O’Connor as sage crony and comic foil Cosmo, and Debbie Reynolds as Don’s songbird love interest whose remarkable voice may just be the key to the studio’s survival. When the three of them get together to croon and boogie through the number ‘Good Mornin’,’ the chemistry is extraordinary, the performance entrancing.

  Jean Hagen injects added comedy calibre as Lina Lamont, Don’s shallow, vindictive co-star whose struggles with new sound techniques, not to mention her own shrill, annoying voice, provide some riotous moments. The bewildered diva’s hilarious woes with the microphone also sum up rather sweetly the film’s portrayal of a cinema slowly finding its voice with dazzling style.

  Singin’ in the Rain is Kelly in his element, doing what he was born to do and clearly relishing it. And it is nigh on impossible not to get swept away in the flood. 

The Importance Of Arts Journalism

Due to rapid technological advances, journalists face a challenging, ever-changing landscape.  With fewer full-time critics, less space given to coverage in traditional print media and with the arts in Britain facing major funding cuts, the arts journalist’s responsibility has never been greater.

  The arts columnist continues to inform the public of cultural events, allowing audiences the freedom to decide how to spend their spare time. Imparting wisdom and opinion, they allow consumers to make informed decisions. Writing, interviewing, reviewing and previewing on cultural events ensures the arts stay on the agenda.

  Arts journalism matters because the arts matter – the basic way we engage with philosophies and ideas comes from discussing and dissecting art as intelligently, as publicly and as entertainingly as possible, and art does not exist in a vacuum. The best arts journalism puts its subject in context while remaining enriching, engaging and informative. It asserts a vital role in the community, guiding and inspiring audiences to discover creativity, while encouraging attentiveness and discussion.

  Exceptional writing can be critical in encouraging audiences to question the economic systems and controlling ideologies that condition everything we consume, fostering important discussion and debate. Art is a language through which the world communicates itself to itself and the skilled writer helps decipher the code, uncovering hidden meanings and highlighting revelations that have been overlooked or misunderstood.

 The proficient reviewer understands that the privilege of influencing strangers carries responsibilities and though many believe the critic’s fundamental role is to nurture and promote the arts, they have a duty to be truthful. The astute, commendable critic understands that their purpose is not to flaunt their brilliance, but to communicate balanced, sound arguments.

  Though often dismissed as trifling and superficial, arts journalists provide a vital service, advising, enlightening and entertaining with absorbing prose that can be enjoyed as art in itself. 

The Descendants

Re-evaluating his existence as his wife lies comatose following a boating accident in Hawaii, George Clooney’s land magnate Matt King ruminates that “family feels like an archipelago…separate, but part of a whole, drifting slowly apart.” This is an apt metaphor for Matt’s dilemma, with indifferent husband and father suddenly forced to reconnect with his dysfunctional family, while confronting the revelation that his catatonic wife was cheating on him.

  In this slight, yet funny and moving film, Clooney, so used to inhabiting supercool alpha males,  gives a poignant, understated career-best performance. Always content as the “back-up parent,” King struggles to relate to two confused daughters Alexandra (the impressive Shaileene Woodley) and Scottie (Amara Miller), while simultaneously trying to seal a significant land deal and also track down and confront his wife’s lover. As vulnerable and exposed as he’s ever been, Clooney is subtle and touching, emotions simmering just below the surface, communicating so much weighty inner turmoil with just his eyes.

  The Hawaii of Sideways director Alexander Payne’s latest is certainly no paradise and his characters struggle to express their muddled emotions. All except Alexandra’s hilarious, omnipresent buddy Sid (scene-stealing Nick Krause, channelling a young Keanu Reeves), who says whatever is on his weed-addled mind, no matter how offensive. The slacker’s side-splitting, inappropriate commentary on a family member’s dementia is a prime example of Payne’s talent for wringing heartwarming comedy from bleak tragedy, examining life from illuminating angles.

  Though perhaps a little more superficial than Payne’s previous work, The Descendants is a tender, emotional, rewarding pleasure. Leisurely paced, eased along by gentle, soothing Hawaiian strings, this tale of a man adrift cruises by like a warm, comforting sea breeze.