"Aguirre, The Wrath Of God"

He limps around the corpses of his followers, his torso arched sideways as if he were half-paralyzed, his wide blue eyes scouting the wild, unforgiving environment as he rants about his plans to take over the New World to the monkeys that have invaded his raft. He is Don Lope de Aguirre, self-described wrath of God and greatest traitor, and last remaining survivor of the film.

This is the final image of a film that challenges all conventions typically associated with its kind. Consider: The true story of a doomed expedition of Spanish conquistadors who set out on a long deadly journey across the Amazon River to find the fabled city of El Dorado, and never returned. One of its leaders, Aguirre, takes control of his party and turns it into a grotesque little parody of an empire whose strings he pulls.

Such a tale of hubris, greed, manipulation and lust for power appears to have all the necessary ingredients worthy of a Shakespearean tragedy. Indeed, the story is said to have inspired Joseph Conrad’s “Heart Of Darkness”, which has since been somewhat clouded by its masterful cinematic adaptation “Apocalypse Now” (1979). One might expect something similar to the latter film, something both grand and complex, with detailed, memorable characters and dialogue; suspense, action and excitement. 

But “Aguirre, The Wrath Of God” is something different entirely. It is grand, yes, but it does not flatter its characters’ desires about themselves by granting them any more importance than what they already have. The dialogue and acting are kept to an understated minimum. Even Aguirre himself only appears on screen from time to time at first, before his presence gradually devours all those around him. And when he does appear, rather than the unpredictable torrent of fury you’d expect from the notorious Klaus Kinski, he is quiet and restrained, like a boiling cauldron of insanity waiting patiently for its time to erupt before simmering down again. His wild eyes observe his surroundings, not quite understanding and never completely decided on what his reaction will be. Observe him as he looks at a Native slave playing a dissonantly cheerful tune on wooden pipes, standing right next to him. He moves about, looking at the man and looking away, as if unable to make up his mind whether or not the music offends him or leaves him cold.

The film is visually striking from its very first scene, which shows what must be at least a kilometer-long line of conquistadors descending the cloudy mountains and into the jungle, set to reverent South American choir music. After a few shots establishing the mountain's majesty, the camera slowly pans from the clouds to the top of the trail on the other side of the mountain where the leaders are. We may not realize it yet, but Herzog is introducing us to the true protagonist of the film: The rainforest, as powerful, all-encompassing and ruthless as God himself.

This is reflected in Hezog’s cinematography and editing. When his camera isn’t gliding inconspicuously around his characters’ bodies, he’s cutting from one face and object to another. Scenes of attacks by native cannibals go completely against what expectations one might have based on preexisting cinematic experiences: No action, no suspense, no valiant attempt to evade and fight an invisible enemy. Only shots of dead and dying men who, by the end of the film, have become so accustomed to this that one of them remarks that “long arrows are gaining fashion” before falling dead in the water.

This is one example of quite a few instances of black humour in the film. A more surreal one comes after Aguirre overhears one of his men conspiring to desert him, and has him beheaded as he counts seconds. The head comes off, rolls on the floor and finishes counting “ten” before staying still. A more subtle example comes when the horse on the raft goes berserk and Aguirre orders it removed from it. The horse is pushed off the raft and the men watch to see whether or not it will drown. A couple of shots later, it has made its way on the land and watches as its ex-owners drift away, still locked in their mad little empire and still running out of food that it could have provided for them. These unexpected moments of humour make the film almost seem like an exceptionally dark Monty Python comedy.

Ultimately, “Aguirre, The Wrath Of God” is a film driven less by its character and more by its own theme, which the characters all serve. It continues Herzog’s pitting of humans against their environment – which he did with more overt humour and affection in “Even Dwarfs Started Small” – but gives the environment every possible advantage. Alfred Hitchcock once said that in a traditional film, the director is God; whereas in a documentary, God is the director. This film is like a documentary directed by God, gazing upon the fools who thought they could defy him with a mixture of amusement and pity.