Cave of Forgotten Dreams

As I have previously pointed out, I am a great admirer of the work of Werner Herzog. And while he hasn’t exactly changed tack over the last few years, his recent documentary filmmaking has been especially impressive. Documentaries such as Grizzly Man and Encounters at the End of The World approach perfection in the form, striving as they do for Herzog’s idea of “ecstatic truth” and the essence of the human soul. The director’s latest documentary, Cave of Forgotten Dreams, may appear slightly different, yet has, in fact, the very same objective.

Through good fortune and reputation, the director had the chance to make a film about the cave paintings of the Chauvet Cave in southern France – the oldest known examples of prehistoric art, made roughly 32,000 years ago. Discovered in 1994 after remaining sealed for millennia, access to the public has always been completely restricted, given that human breath can cause mould to grow on the paintings. True to type, with a crew of only four people permitted, Herzog decided to make a 3D film, in order to make the viewer’s experience and appreciation of the cave more real. So, combining this footage with interviews with scientists and experts, he attempts to provide some sort of background and reason for these miraculous works of art.

Though it is not always executed to perfection, the 3D element is vital to the films success: immersing you as it does in the cave environment. It also allows you to appreciate the walls’ contours and their impact on the paintings. The “serene pace” of the camera’s movement ensures the images stay with you, for they truly are some of the most striking pictures you could ever hope to see – almost too good to be true. Herzog has spoken of the “intensity of the paintings” and the “drama” which affected him; I’m happy to report none of it’s lost here.

Paintings from the Chauvet Cave

There are, of course, some typically Herzogian flourishes in the film: such as an image of Fred Astaire dancing with his shadow in Swing Time (“the most quintessential moment in cinema” according to the Bavarian), plus the superimposed sound of a heartbeat and a crazy postscript involving mutant albino crocodiles; but they all serve a purpose. For Herzog, the key to the human soul is found somewhere in the “abyss” that he sees in the cave. To enter in there is to look back to simpler times and universal truth: why the need for artistic representation? Why no pictures of man?

I should point out that while it is an incredible watch, I didn’t think Cave of Forgotten Dreams quite scaled the heights of his last two documentaries; it felt spellbinding, though slight. Whether it was because it didn’t expose the lack of meaning in life and the cruelty of the world with the trademark bleak existentialism I have come to expect, I don’t know. What I do know is that it is a film that should be seen to be believed: a necessary use of 3D. I can’t wait to see what he does next.

Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call, New Orleans

It took Werner Herzog many years to finally make a Hollywood picture with Rescue Dawn, a surprisingly straightforward adaptation of an earlier documentary of his. Therefore, it was something of a shock when he decided to make a reimagining of Abel Ferrara’s 1992 cult classic, Bad Lieutenant. But like any other Herzog fan, I have grown accustomed to expecting the unexpected. The only things you know you’ll get from his films are echoes of his overtly nihilistic worldview and preoccupation with madness and unreason. After watching his version of Bad Lieutenant, I can safely say I was in no way disappointed.

I haven’t seen the original and so am entirely unqualified to talk about similarities and differences from it; but I can say that Nicolas Cage’s Terence McDonagh is a drug-addict cop, and that’s about where the similarities most likely end. Where the original was centred on the rape of a nun, the case in Herzog’s is the murder of a family of Senegalese immigrants. Just from that detail, it is clear how Herzog’s fiercely atheistic views of the world and chaos don’t allow a Ferrara-style examination of evil and his film is preoccupied with something wholly different.

McDonagh’s problems with chronic back pain, which stemmed from a strangely heroic act in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, are the root of his drug problem, though it is clear that he was unhinged beforehand. As the movie progresses and he rapidly loses his mind, his troubles continue to mount up. Gambling debts and the travails of his druggie prostitute girlfriend Frankie, a wooden but stunning Eva Mendes  (is she anything else?), are as important to him as the case itself. In a meandering, inimitable and episodic way, the movie builds towards its conclusion, making light of the noir crime genre.

Werner Herzog

It is punctuated by surreal scenes of alligators, iguanas and various other reptiles, which highlight McDonagh’s weakening grasp on reality. These are darkly comic, as are many of the other exchanges, and remind the viewer of the humour that lay at the heart of much of the Surrealists early 20^th century work. Cage himself revels in the role, unleashing a trademark performance, which none of his peers could hope to emulate. Or his fellow actors in this film can match. Let’s now hope that his Wicker Man/National Treasure days are over and this and Kick Ass represent a return to form.

Although not quite a classic, the film’s oddity and genuine comedy make it well worth seeing. You just can’t help feeling a bit sad about the quality of some of the acting, though. That said, the trippy scenes are a very welcome addition to the noir genre and no other living filmmaker could have made the film; for that I urge you to seek it out.


Bring on The Cave of Forgotten Dreams.

Hollywood vs. Arthouse

When trying to make a list of my favourite films recently, I was struck by a few telling things. Firstly: how few films were from mainstream cinema, and, secondly: my mortal weakness for the arty, wanky side of film. I know all the truisms about everyone being different and art being wholly subjective but it did make me reflect on what I value and enjoy in a movie, as well as my expectations from the medium. Without intending it, this quickly debated into a bloodied-knuckle discussion about ‘cerebral’, elitist indie and ‘brainless’, commercial Hollywood – which is better, and why do I prefer it?

I am clearly aware that the objectives of Mike Leigh when making a film are entirely at odds with those of Michael Bay; but it is where their differing methods and ideologies diverge that is most of interest to me. Should cinema be art or entertainment? Or both? Or neither? Should I be worrying about this at all?

As my friends would tell you, I remain an unflinching acolyte of the goofy, dick-joke style of fratboy humour, of which my DVD collection can bear testament. Are these comedies any worse films than other films in my collection, such as Barton Fink or Stroszek? If pushed, I would probably just as happily sit down and watch 90 minutes of (most) Apatow than I would suffer through 120 minutes of Haneke. But then – almost counter-intuitively – if pushed, I would have to admit that enjoyment and satisfaction isn’t the only reason I watch films; and it is by this logic that the quintessence of my taste is defined.

Genre will inevitably define the audience’s expectation of films and I am just the same as anyone in that in my love of horror and comedy, as well as my indifference towards action movies. However, what I truly value is that semi-mythical beast: the transcendent film that makes you think. Not a homo-erotic, greased up Rambo/Stallone “taking names”. And that doesn’t necessarily mean words on the screen and an almost teenage fascination with wanking. It can mean reference-heavy, literate dialogue, like the Coens or Tarantino; beautiful or innovative cinematography, like Roger Deakins or Christian Berger; or even the surrealist, what-the-hell-is-going-on? craziness of David Lynch. And of course much, much more. For me, what’s important is that the material is thought-provoking and will keep you talking in the pub or car or tube or house afterwards.

I think it’s possible to demand more from Hollywood without descending into Empire-reader geekdom or Nuts-buyer bloodlust. Recent startling and brilliant smash-hit Inception, with its coruscating special effects and cornucopia of WTF moments, may well lead the way towards a more nuanced blockbuster, somehow informed by arthouse. But until those days arrive, I’ll be happy with some gritty, weird and beautiful film from a former Yugoslav republic that might, in someway, change my perspective.

Comments, as always, are most welcome.