Cobra Verde

Cobra Verde, the last in the box set devoted to the 5 films made by Herzog starring Klaus Kinski, completed my Herzog marathon. I knew it was Kinski's last film, made in 1987, but that was about all, so I did my usual thing - watched it, then read about it in Herzog's book, then watched it again with Herzog's commentary.

It's a fascinating film, and Kinski is, as usual, extraordinary. However, it's clear that he was closer to the edge than usual, and Herzog is clear in his commentary that his presence was more unsettling and harder to deal with. He was, by now, 'completely bonkers', and 'out of control'. Herzog is still ambivalent about him, recognising his extraordinary presence, but saying, that this time, he brought something unpleasant to the film, 'something I don't like that much'. I know what he means, as he's a deeply weird presence, but it's hard to take your eyes off him, and he gives the film its remarkable, insane quality.
It's based on Bruce Chatwin's Viceroy of Ouidah, one of those books I've never got round to reading, but have always meant to. So it's off to the library to borrow a copy as soon as I can. Chatwin was a bit of a Herzogian character himself - nomadic; carrying all his possession in a 1930s leather rucksack. He managed to see the film not long before he died (of AIDS), and appropriately left Herzog his rucksack, something which has clearly left Herzog with a deep sense of pride
I love the opening sequences - Herzog found a traditional northern Brazilian street singer who sings an extraordinary narrative, accompanied by an ancient fiddle played balanced on his shoulder in a way that seems to come from the dawn of time. The camera then cuts to Kinski's face, in close-up. It's now ravaged by time, deeply-etched with lines. He's Cobra Verde, the notorious bandit, a semi-mythical, stylised figure from whom everyone flees when he appears in a town square. He's barefoot - 'I don't trust shoes' he says. This scene is reminscent of a spaghetti western, with long, slow takes, and Herzog takes his time to tell the story.
He goes into a bar tended by a hunchbaked boy with a remarkable face, lit by the broadest smile I've ever seen. He's another discovery of Herzog's - one of those street people whose qualities he recognises as being exceptionally cinematic. He shows no fear of the bandit, and the scene, lit like a Caravaggio painting, has a wonderful warmth - Kinski's face softens for the only time in the film; 'I never had a friend', he says.
He becomes the overseer of a sugar plantation, and Herzog somehow managed to find one in Colombia where the canes are harvested in the traditional fashion. These scenes are priceless, a window on an unknown, unfamiliar world.
He says in his commentary that all the money is on the screen, he doesn't spend it on huge advances, or expensive pre-publicity, but on finding the right locations and people. He doesn't shoot in widescreen either, which gives a highly specific flavour and atmosphere to his films. He doesn't offer any reasons, saying that there aren't any, it's just a preference, but it's another reason why his films look different from anythone else's.
The film moves on to West Africa; Cobra Verde is sent to buy some slaves, and of course, it's hoped and expected that he'll never return, as it's really a punishment for impregnating the plantation owner's 3 daughters.
The king of Dahomey is played by another Kinski discovery, an actual king, described by Herzog as a 'wonderful man', whose behaviour, and that of his retinue, is apparently entirely authentic. They are marvellous, thrilling scenes, wonderfully orchestrated and filmed, and this film is full of them. At the end, a long line of natives stand on the beach facing the sea, waving huge white flags, signalling a kind of semaphoric message. It looks like an ancient ritual, but Herzog states that the whole scene was entirely his own invention. The band of women singing and dancing at the end, shot in close-up is another masterly scene, but Kinski's final scene, when, now a broken man, he struggles despairingly to drag a boat off the beach out into the sea, collapsing into the surf and letting the sea wash over him, drowning him, is suffused with a lyrical, tragic poetry, especially as it was the Kinski's swansong in a Herzog film. He died a couple of years later, burnt out, 'like a comet', as Herzog says.
I could write much more about this film - it was a profound and moving experience watching it. Film does this to you; you can enjoy a cleverly-marketed phenomenon like Cloverfield, (of which more later), having just seen something like Cobra Verde, which will live with you for ever, and which you'll want to see many times.