I’ve recently been watching a lot of films by Werner Herzog. If his name isn’t immediately recognisable, his voice would be something everyone has heard at least once. From cameo roles in Star Wars to narrating the now viral clip of the “depressed penguin” (an excerpt from one of Herzog’s seminal documentaries, Encounters at the End of the World (2007)), Herzog seems to pop up in the places you least expect him to. Behind his distinctive, and often uncannily funny, icy German drole is a filmmaker where the term “quality over quantity” seemingly doesn’t apply as, over the course of his 50-year long career, he has directed over 75 films. Over these 50 years, Herzog has made a reputation for himself as going above and beyond to complete his pictures. No more so than in the case of Fitzcarraldo, his 1982 period piece about the trials of bringing opera to the heart of the Amazon.
Brian Sweeney Fitzgerald, colloquially referred to as the titular Fitzcarraldo, is a failed railway pioneer, now bankrupt, with a dream of bringing western culture to the heart of the Peruvian Amazon in the form of a contrastingly aristocratic opera. To achieve his dream, he must rebuild his fortune through the booming rubber trade and a genius idea to cross the Amazon River in an unconventional way – cutting through the mountain rather than going around it. As the film takes place in the early 20th century, the technology at Fitzcarraldo’s disposal is limited, highlighted evermore so when paired with his manic ambition to achieve his mission at all costs.
When watching the film, it quickly comes apparent that you as the spectator are made acutely aware that what you are watching is in fact a film, a work of fiction. However, this does not undermine the authenticity of the picture’s tale but rather enhances it with a sense of tactility. This is best captured in the film’s most (in)famous sequence where Fitzcarraldo and his crew recruit local tribespeople to assist him in hauling a steam ship over a mountain. Whereas today this feat would be easily achievable with the use of computer-generated imagery, or even arguably back in 1982 through miniatures, Herzog chooses to do this for real. Yes, he hauled a life-sized boat over a mountain for real. And he used period-accurate mechanisms to do it, adding to sense of realism. This whole sequence is dirty and grubby, with every extra scrambling around in the debilitating clay-like dirt. Arguably it is impossible to not feel the very real struggle that went into the film’s troubled production. This struggle is all finely detailed in Les Blank’s companion piece documentary Burden of Dreams (1982) which was shot on set over the many years of Fitzcarraldo’s production. As a short side note, I do believe that it is essential to watch these two as a double feature. Herzog may as well be a fictional character within Fitzcarraldo considering his onset presence and direction (not that all directors’ presence is not important, just that Herzog firmly asserts himself in such an extreme way it cannot be ignored).
What makes the film even more explosive is the pairing of lead actor Klaus Kinski who, despite their numerous partnerships on film, was constantly at odds with Herzog. In a separate interview for the Southbank Show, Herzog explained an on-set altercation between himself and Kinski when Kinski insisted on leaving the production. With so many years of production behind him, this was unacceptable and would have been the end of the film. In a tone immediately recognised by Kinski as serious, Herzog explained that he had a rifle with nine bullets. If Kinski left, eight of them would be for him. The last would be for Herzog himself. In a fit of paranoia, Kinski screamed and raved for the police, despite being fully aware that the nearest police were some 300 kilometres away.
It may be demonstrative of how I see this film in how little I’ve actually explained it, its themes, or even why it is regarded as culturally important. To tell the truth, the myth surrounding Herzog and Fitzcarraldo’s production, the actual film seems dwarfed by the herculean effort seen in the production. Moreover, this grand myth seems to follow Herzog like an adoring fan follows a great gladiator. Every guest appearance, interview, or master class seems to be an opportunity for the now wizened old man to drop yet another titillating tale of how he was forced to speak French (a language he refuses to speak on principle of the French’s insistence on irony) to avoid getting arrested by drunken guardsmen or about the time he was shot during a live interview with the BBC. To be a fan of Herzog is to constantly wrestle with what aspect of his career you conceptually find more entertaining: the balls-to-the-walls legend of a filmmaker who will literally go to the ends of the earth, into the deepest caves, and sit having tea on the edges of volcanoes to get the story; or the sombre, melancholic storyteller who shares some seldom light on the worlds underappreciated? I suppose both ought to be embraced simultaneously.
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