This is one of Herzog's earliest films, made around 1969, and it's saturated with late-60s revolutionary subtext. I watched once, and found it a gruelling experience, then decided to give it another go, with Herzog's commentary.
It's a punishing, hardcore experience - several dwarves, or midgets, as Herzog calls them, are in some kind of unspecified institution for criminal dwarves, situated on a barren, bleak island (actually Lanzerote). I managed to work out that an insurrection of sorts takes place, but that was about it as far as making any sense of the action went. Various bizarre happenings happen, and that's it. The dwarves shriek obscenities, and rush around the island, and extraordinary, unexplained events occur. It's a profoundly alienating film in many ways, and it's certainly unusual to see a film that makes absolutely no concessions to its audience.
Herzog talks about the making of the film, and the dwarves with enormous affection, and it's obviously something that's very close to his heart. He was only about 26 when he made it, and, above all, it's a product of its time. I remember seeing films like it at college in the late 60s, and at the art college I was at we attempted to make iconoclastic and radical films. It was like that in those days, so I understand the context in which he made it.
He says that the film was received very badly and proved highly controversial, and I'm not surprised. The Left proved the fiercest opponents, and I know that film studies, which really got going in the 60s and 70s, ignored Herzog. The film makes sense in the context of 1968, though, as the mood was very much that of rebellion for the sake of it. I remember after the famous LSE sit-ins in, when was it? 1968? the students at Oxford Polytechnic, my college, staged one - why? because that was what one did. It was all impossibly incoherent, and in many ways Herzog's film captures the spirit of the times better than any other film I've seen.
Anyway, I can't say that I want to see it again, though you never know. It's extraordinary, unlike anything else I've ever seem before. As Herzog says, it's nothing to do with the entertainment industry - it may be ultimately an inaccessible and alienating film, but, as usual, Herzog's cinematography, and music/sound effects are peerless.
Showing posts with label Herzog. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Herzog. Show all posts
Friday, 22 February 2008
Saturday, 16 February 2008
My Best Fiend
I finished off the Herzog/Kinski box set with My Best Fiend, about his relationship with Kinski. It's a fascinating subject; leaving you with as many questions as answers. Herzog describes himself as 'clinically sane', the opposite of Kinski, but it's clear that the two nourished each other, producing their finest work together.
I first saw Kinski in 1965 in Dr Zhivago, though of course I didn't realise it at the time! I was 14 when my mother took me to see it (she had a special fondness for big-screen epics, and we went to see them all in those days). I was old enough (14) to appreciate Kinski's presence - he played a prisoner being shipped off to some unspecified gulag, presumably in Siberia, in the cattle truck transporting Zhivago and his family east after the Revolution. He was an extraordinary presence, and he made a great impression on me.
Anyway, he reappeared in 5 Herzog films, and, looking at his CV on the IMDB, it's clear that, although worked continuosly from 1948 right up to his death in 1991, he really made very little of note outside his work with Herzog; only potboilers. In spite of their tempestuous relationship, they sparked something off in each other, though, as Herzog says, the relationship burnt itself out with Cobra Verde, and it's clear that, while Kinski may have needed Herzog, Herzog didn't need Kinski.
The final scenes are wonderful - Nosferatu lingers over the Isabelle Adjani's body, and morning breaks. The vampire goes to the window and he crumples in the sunlight. Herzog presents the scene as a metaphor for Kinski's life. The film ends on some home-movie footage of Kinski - a butterfly fluuters around him, resting, almost caressing his hand. There's a look of sheer delight on Kinski's face, and as Herzog comments, the butterfly 'doesn't want to leave him'. IThe film finishes on this enchanting scene, and Herzog leaves us with this wholly benign picture of an actor who was demonic, but capable of a rare beauty.
I first saw Kinski in 1965 in Dr Zhivago, though of course I didn't realise it at the time! I was 14 when my mother took me to see it (she had a special fondness for big-screen epics, and we went to see them all in those days). I was old enough (14) to appreciate Kinski's presence - he played a prisoner being shipped off to some unspecified gulag, presumably in Siberia, in the cattle truck transporting Zhivago and his family east after the Revolution. He was an extraordinary presence, and he made a great impression on me.
Anyway, he reappeared in 5 Herzog films, and, looking at his CV on the IMDB, it's clear that, although worked continuosly from 1948 right up to his death in 1991, he really made very little of note outside his work with Herzog; only potboilers. In spite of their tempestuous relationship, they sparked something off in each other, though, as Herzog says, the relationship burnt itself out with Cobra Verde, and it's clear that, while Kinski may have needed Herzog, Herzog didn't need Kinski.
The final scenes are wonderful - Nosferatu lingers over the Isabelle Adjani's body, and morning breaks. The vampire goes to the window and he crumples in the sunlight. Herzog presents the scene as a metaphor for Kinski's life. The film ends on some home-movie footage of Kinski - a butterfly fluuters around him, resting, almost caressing his hand. There's a look of sheer delight on Kinski's face, and as Herzog comments, the butterfly 'doesn't want to leave him'. IThe film finishes on this enchanting scene, and Herzog leaves us with this wholly benign picture of an actor who was demonic, but capable of a rare beauty.
Thursday, 14 February 2008
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.
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.
Monday, 11 February 2008
Woyzeck
I'm on a bit of a Herzog roll at the moment, and watched Woyzeck twice. This was a very different experience from Fitzcarraldo; less accessible and decipherable. Some background reading between the 2 viewings was essential as I have to confess I was somewhat mystified the first time I saw it. It stars Klaus Kinski, and was made immediately after Nosferatu, with some of the same cast and crew.
I wasn't aware that Woyzeck is a famous German play, based on a true story. Herzog assumes some prior knowledge of the story, and spells nothing out for his audience; Vincent Canby's wonderfully perceptive review in the New York Times notes that 'every Herzog film is a record of the director's questions and speculations about his subject'. He goes on to say that 'though the narrative is as straightforward as a fairy tale', it has become 'even more mysterious by the time we reach the end than it is at the beginning'. In another remarkably acute observation, Kinski 'with his deeply lined face that is simultaneously youthful and ancient, looks like death given a reprieve'. He is possessed by demons, and Kinski's physicality makes this visible, as in the scene when, shaving his commanding pofficer, he has to be told to slow down.
The scene in which Woyzeck murders Marie, the local women who bore him a child, one suspects, out of boredom, is painful and hard to watch, not because of violence - there is none visible, but through Kinski's agonising enactment, and Herzog's slow-motion direction.
It's a visually beautiful film - Herzog manages to make the beautiful landscape seem both tranquil and threatening, and the long, long takes are almost static at times. It's hypnotic, and strange, but unmissable.
I wasn't aware that Woyzeck is a famous German play, based on a true story. Herzog assumes some prior knowledge of the story, and spells nothing out for his audience; Vincent Canby's wonderfully perceptive review in the New York Times notes that 'every Herzog film is a record of the director's questions and speculations about his subject'. He goes on to say that 'though the narrative is as straightforward as a fairy tale', it has become 'even more mysterious by the time we reach the end than it is at the beginning'. In another remarkably acute observation, Kinski 'with his deeply lined face that is simultaneously youthful and ancient, looks like death given a reprieve'. He is possessed by demons, and Kinski's physicality makes this visible, as in the scene when, shaving his commanding pofficer, he has to be told to slow down.
The scene in which Woyzeck murders Marie, the local women who bore him a child, one suspects, out of boredom, is painful and hard to watch, not because of violence - there is none visible, but through Kinski's agonising enactment, and Herzog's slow-motion direction.
It's a visually beautiful film - Herzog manages to make the beautiful landscape seem both tranquil and threatening, and the long, long takes are almost static at times. It's hypnotic, and strange, but unmissable.
Wednesday, 2 January 2008
Nosferatu (Herzog)
I watched Werner Herzog's Nosferatu the other evening, and then I watched it again with the director's commentary. Not many directors' commentaries are worth listening to, but Herzog's always are.
It is, of course an extraordinary film, with the matchless Bruno Ganz playing Jonathan Harker and the incomparable Klaus Kinski as the vampire. Kinski was a notoriously difficult actor to work with, but somehow Herzog managed to coax some of his finest performances out of him. Actually performance is something of a misnomer, as he inhabits his characters rather than produces a performance. In the commentary Herzog says Kinski was, for him, extremely biddable and caused very little trouble; normally he would pick fights with crew members, and stage fearsome tantrums on a regular basis. His portrayal of the vampire has an extraordinary humanity, which is largely absent from other versions. Nosferatu here is needy, imprisoned by his ungovernable desires. He is acutely aware of his condition and of its implications. Kinski brings the vampire to life; there's an extraordinary scene in which Ganz as Harker, cuts his finger. The vampire knows that he must, and will, suck Harker's blood, but, at first, turns away, almost in horror and disgust with the knowledge, before suddenly pouncing. In the commentary Herzog states that Kinski performed the scene in a single take, and was entirely self-directed. Kinski seems to have understood the vampire on a visceral, instinctive level, producing an extraordinarily moving performance, giving the vampire a fragile, needy dignity and vulnerablity.
In the book, Herzog on Herzog, he states that, although he is actually on the screen for only 17 minutes, his presence dominates every single scene, such is his power, and that in the next 50 years no-one else will be able to produce a performance that comes close to it. I have to agree; Kinski is mesmerising.
Of course, as with all Herzog's films, music is central, and the film is meticulously scored, with beutiful and unearthly music from Florian Fricke, who scored several of his films.
Herzog talks about his motivation for re-making Murnau's famous 20s film, one of the classics of German Expressionism. He needed, at this point in his life, to reconnect with the roots of German cinema, as he puts it, 'a declaration of my connection to the very best of German cinema' and with the German cultural heritage, which had been so savagely breached by Nazism. He succeded triumphantly with this beautiful film, and went on to make Woyzeck immediately afterwards, using the same crew, and Kinski. So, the next one on my list!
It is, of course an extraordinary film, with the matchless Bruno Ganz playing Jonathan Harker and the incomparable Klaus Kinski as the vampire. Kinski was a notoriously difficult actor to work with, but somehow Herzog managed to coax some of his finest performances out of him. Actually performance is something of a misnomer, as he inhabits his characters rather than produces a performance. In the commentary Herzog says Kinski was, for him, extremely biddable and caused very little trouble; normally he would pick fights with crew members, and stage fearsome tantrums on a regular basis. His portrayal of the vampire has an extraordinary humanity, which is largely absent from other versions. Nosferatu here is needy, imprisoned by his ungovernable desires. He is acutely aware of his condition and of its implications. Kinski brings the vampire to life; there's an extraordinary scene in which Ganz as Harker, cuts his finger. The vampire knows that he must, and will, suck Harker's blood, but, at first, turns away, almost in horror and disgust with the knowledge, before suddenly pouncing. In the commentary Herzog states that Kinski performed the scene in a single take, and was entirely self-directed. Kinski seems to have understood the vampire on a visceral, instinctive level, producing an extraordinarily moving performance, giving the vampire a fragile, needy dignity and vulnerablity.
In the book, Herzog on Herzog, he states that, although he is actually on the screen for only 17 minutes, his presence dominates every single scene, such is his power, and that in the next 50 years no-one else will be able to produce a performance that comes close to it. I have to agree; Kinski is mesmerising.
Of course, as with all Herzog's films, music is central, and the film is meticulously scored, with beutiful and unearthly music from Florian Fricke, who scored several of his films.
Herzog talks about his motivation for re-making Murnau's famous 20s film, one of the classics of German Expressionism. He needed, at this point in his life, to reconnect with the roots of German cinema, as he puts it, 'a declaration of my connection to the very best of German cinema' and with the German cultural heritage, which had been so savagely breached by Nazism. He succeded triumphantly with this beautiful film, and went on to make Woyzeck immediately afterwards, using the same crew, and Kinski. So, the next one on my list!
Wednesday, 28 November 2007
Rescue Dawn
I've just been to see Rescue Dawn, the new Werner Herzog film. I knew the story, of Dieter Dengler, the German-born pilot, who, after emigrating to the US, became a pilot in the US Air Force, was captured by the Vietcong, and escaped through the jungle, the only POW to have done so. Herzog made a documentary about him a few years ago, Little Dieter Needs to Fly, and this was a feature film version.
One of my sons is a huge fan of Herzog, and, although I've always liked his films very much, I was familiar with only a few, such as The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser, Fitzcarraldo and Aguirre: the Wrath of God and knew little of much of his other work. So he lent me 2 Herzog box sets, and Herzog on Herzog, a book of interviews with him, and I was able to get to know the man and his work properly.
Where to begin! He really is a remarkable character, and I cannot begin to try and sum him up in just a few words. What does come over, in the book, and in some of the interviews with him on radio and TV, is a geniality, gentleness and openness which is quite disarming. He lives in California now, and his English is excellent. I heard an interview with him on the radio a couple of weeks ago, and it was obvious he could quite easily have talked all day, and I'd have been quite happy to listen to him.
What came over clearly was that, although he didn't say as much, Dengler was a classic Herzogian hero, and that their backgrounds had much in common. Both were born during the war, and grew up without fathers. German children at that time led punishingly hard lives, almost feral in many ways, but with a great deal of physical freedom. Herzog's father was away in the military, Dengler's was dead, and their mothers were busy struggling to survive. Herzog talks at length about it in the book, and I have to assume that he must feel a strong identification with him, not only because of his background, but also because of his free spirited character and his mercurial personality, which must have surely helped him negotiate his journey through the jungle. He seems to have been fascinated and amazed by him, as well as lost in admiration, and in the radio interview he talked about him with great affection, mentioning especially his sorrow at his recent death. So, although he saw the documentary, and helped with it, he wasn't able to see Rescue Dawn.
Christian Bale played Dengler, and my admiration of this actor (he deserves a blog posting to himself) grows every time I see him in anything. I've followed his career since Empire of the Sun, in which he produced an extraordinary performance. Very few child actors make the grade when they reach adulthood, but Bale has. His career choices have been excellent, with very few duds (I remember particularly his coruscating performance in American Psycho), and, although he's made the bigtime with Batman Begins, in which he gave the caped crusader an emotional core missing from the previous incarnations, he still appears in interesting small budget films.
Anyway, back to Rescue Dawn. It was a Hollywood production, so there were compromises, but not too many. The ending is regrettable, seems gratuitously tacked on, with no real connection to the rest of the film, which is great stuff. Herzog recreates Dengler's journey through the jungle in extraordinary detail, which is hallucinatory at times. Bale plays Dengler as an open-hearted, yet driven character, whose determination to survive, like his determination to fly planes, somehow keeps him going, against all the odds.
I must mention Steve Zahn, who played Dengler's co-escapee Duane. A gentle, sad character he falls apart, and eventually dies through sickness and hunger. Zahn gives him a heartbreaking humanity, and we feel that Duane's fate is what most of us would experience - Dengler exceptional and extraordinary, and, one has to say it, incredibly lucky.
So, not one of Herzog's greatest films, but even so, it's still streets ahead of nearly everything else. I'll be returning to Herzog in a later blog - I'm still working my way through his oeuvre, an exciting and illuminating task, and plan to see Little Dieter as soon as I can.
One of my sons is a huge fan of Herzog, and, although I've always liked his films very much, I was familiar with only a few, such as The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser, Fitzcarraldo and Aguirre: the Wrath of God and knew little of much of his other work. So he lent me 2 Herzog box sets, and Herzog on Herzog, a book of interviews with him, and I was able to get to know the man and his work properly.
Where to begin! He really is a remarkable character, and I cannot begin to try and sum him up in just a few words. What does come over, in the book, and in some of the interviews with him on radio and TV, is a geniality, gentleness and openness which is quite disarming. He lives in California now, and his English is excellent. I heard an interview with him on the radio a couple of weeks ago, and it was obvious he could quite easily have talked all day, and I'd have been quite happy to listen to him.
What came over clearly was that, although he didn't say as much, Dengler was a classic Herzogian hero, and that their backgrounds had much in common. Both were born during the war, and grew up without fathers. German children at that time led punishingly hard lives, almost feral in many ways, but with a great deal of physical freedom. Herzog's father was away in the military, Dengler's was dead, and their mothers were busy struggling to survive. Herzog talks at length about it in the book, and I have to assume that he must feel a strong identification with him, not only because of his background, but also because of his free spirited character and his mercurial personality, which must have surely helped him negotiate his journey through the jungle. He seems to have been fascinated and amazed by him, as well as lost in admiration, and in the radio interview he talked about him with great affection, mentioning especially his sorrow at his recent death. So, although he saw the documentary, and helped with it, he wasn't able to see Rescue Dawn.
Christian Bale played Dengler, and my admiration of this actor (he deserves a blog posting to himself) grows every time I see him in anything. I've followed his career since Empire of the Sun, in which he produced an extraordinary performance. Very few child actors make the grade when they reach adulthood, but Bale has. His career choices have been excellent, with very few duds (I remember particularly his coruscating performance in American Psycho), and, although he's made the bigtime with Batman Begins, in which he gave the caped crusader an emotional core missing from the previous incarnations, he still appears in interesting small budget films.
Anyway, back to Rescue Dawn. It was a Hollywood production, so there were compromises, but not too many. The ending is regrettable, seems gratuitously tacked on, with no real connection to the rest of the film, which is great stuff. Herzog recreates Dengler's journey through the jungle in extraordinary detail, which is hallucinatory at times. Bale plays Dengler as an open-hearted, yet driven character, whose determination to survive, like his determination to fly planes, somehow keeps him going, against all the odds.
I must mention Steve Zahn, who played Dengler's co-escapee Duane. A gentle, sad character he falls apart, and eventually dies through sickness and hunger. Zahn gives him a heartbreaking humanity, and we feel that Duane's fate is what most of us would experience - Dengler exceptional and extraordinary, and, one has to say it, incredibly lucky.
So, not one of Herzog's greatest films, but even so, it's still streets ahead of nearly everything else. I'll be returning to Herzog in a later blog - I'm still working my way through his oeuvre, an exciting and illuminating task, and plan to see Little Dieter as soon as I can.
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