The Werner Herzog Box Sets
By Joe Boden
6th January 2010
Whilst watching the second of the two released Werner Herzog box sets over Christmas (I know; ideal Christmas viewing, eh?), I noticed that these DVDs are separated into two quite distinct subgroups. Yes, the obvious fact is that the first of these two box sets contains the five films – and one documentary – that Herzog made with his long term muse, friend, and enemy, Klaus Kinski. But, slightly less obviously, this is the box set that most film fanatics will own. Films like “Aguirre, the Wrath of God” (1972) and “Fitzcarraldo” (1982) are about as close to populist as Herzog is ever going to get, and even though they are hardly a permanent fixture in most homes’ DVD cabinets like “Love, Actually” and “Notting Hill”, chances are that anybody with a more-than-vague interest in film will have heard of them or seen them. And, those that have seen them and have liked them, will have more than likely seen the other three narrative films in that set; “Cobra Verde” (1987), “Nosferatu” (1979), and “Woyzeck” (1979).
Indeed, these are the films that Herzog is renowned for, whilst the second box set (which in itself doesn’t contain the most obscure films ever made… I mean, it’s a widely sold DVD) is for those who want to delve a little further under the skin of the great German filmmaker. It contains the films that are often considered second tier Herzog, like “Fata Morgana” (1971), “Stroszek” (1977), and a handful of others. Often neglected in favour of the Herzog-Kinski efforts, I felt compelled to write this article for the minor fans of this great director, as a plea to take a look at his non-Kinski work. Obviously, many of you will be devote Herzog fans, fully subscribed to the Church of Werner. However, I know for a fact that a lot of people – including myself until this winter – will believe that the Kinski collaborations are the be all and end all (or, rather, the very pinnacle) of the director’s work. Werner Herzog’s name is indeed closely linked to that of Klaus Kinski, but their partnership is not quite as important to the director’s oeuvre as it may seem.
Obviously, both box sets contain some wonderful films. The most famous two, as mentioned earlier, are worthy of their reputation. “Fitzcarraldo” is an epic film about a man (played by Kinski) who wants to bring Opera to one of the most culturally barren places in the world; the Peruvian Jungle. Not only is it an intelligent meditation on the importance of art, but it’s also a sublime character study. It successfully examines the real life enigma of Carlos Fitzcarrald, but it’s as much about Herzog himself as any of the characters. It’s a story of a man struggling to achieve his dreams, something that the director can certainly identifying with. Shooting with no special effects and with a bunch of hostile natives as extras, Herzog finished the project with pretty much none of the crew left on his side. “Aguirre, the Wrath of God” was made ten years earlier and is just as effective in its purpose. Slowly paced but never languid, the film examines ruthless ambition and the atrocities of war whilst always remaining firmly in the realms of narrative cinema. “Aguirre” is possibly his most acclaimed film, yet its uneasy pacing and so-called rickety aesthetics certainly divide popular opinion.
The other four films are all worthy follow-ups to the partnership. “Nosferatu” isn’t quite as widely loved as F.W. Murnau’s film of the same name from 1922, but is renowned for its eerie, atmospheric visuals and yet another fine performance by Klaus Kinski, and Bruno Ganz almost matches him. “Cobra Verde” is perhaps the weakest film on either box set, but gets by on the raw charisma of Kinski and its epic scope. “Woyzeck” is probably the best on the set outside the aforementioned masterpieces, and is based on a Georg Buchner play. Buchner’s stage story was unfinished at the time of his death, and Herzog’s film is nothing more than his interpretation of how the finished parts fit together. Helped out by two fantastic performances (by Kinski and Eva Mattes) and a stunning ending (as far as Herrzog goes, this film’s climax is only surpassed by that of “Stroszek”), the film is again a bit of an oddity, but undoubtedly a successful and engrossing one. “Klaus Kinski: My Best Fiend” is a documentary about their long term partnership, and provides interesting anecdotes about the films they made together as well as their relationship off screen.
As you can see from this little summary of the set, I don’t dislike it by any stretch of the imagination. Herzog is one of the most consistently interesting directors who ever lived, and this box set is predictably enthralling. However, although these are the more famous works, the second box set contains much more interesting and – in my opinion at least – better works. Kinski is absent, but replacing him is the third most prolific Herzog collaborator (behind Kinski and, more surprisingly, Brad Dourif); Bruno S.
Bruno S. in "the Enigma of Kasper Hausar" (1974).
Bruno S’s story is one filled with deep sadness and sorrow. At the age of three, he was placed in a hospital for severely retarted children. He spent most of his early life in such institutions, before becoming a largely self-taught musician who became considerably skilled on the piano, accordion, glockenspiel, and the hand-bells. His story surprisingly and strangely parallels that of Kasper Hauser, a mysterious German foundling who claimed to grow up in complete isolation for the first sixteen years of his life. It seems fair, then, that Bruno should play Kasper in Herzog’s film, “the Enigma of Kasper Hausar” (1974). The film is an involving character study of this mysterious enigma, but also a deep study of society’s insecurities. The naivety and innocence of Kasper is slowly corrupted by ‘civilization’, and this disdain for society’s shortcomings is a theme continued in the other Bruno-Herzog collaboration. “Stroszek” (1977), which is possibly the director’s very best film, is a vicious attack on the myth that is the American dream, as well as an engrossing and highly sympathetic character study of another troubled soul lost in a world that doesn’t understand his plight.
The other three films are equally as thought provoking. Herzog’s second feature, “Even Dwarves Started Small” (1970), is a meditated look at the consequences of imprisonment and rebellion. “Fata Morgana” is effectively an art instillation, but a hypnotic and entrancing one at that. It’s a look at creation and civilization at its most remote, with some awe-inspiring visuals and a dream-like atmosphere that makes it one of the most bizarre yet intriguing documentaries of his illustrious career. The final film in the set, “Heart of Glass” (1976), is a look at civilization at its worse. It’s a meditation on mass hysteria and propaganda, whilst remaining an intriguing and enigmatic narrative piece that defies logic and supersedes genre. The most interesting point about it, though, is that the majority of the cast (minus lead actor Josef Bierbichler) performed under hypnosis.
This is often called Herzog’s most radical experiment, and although using an entire cast of dwarves seems a little more radical to me, it’s certainly one of them. The interpretation of the director’s intentions is something that has interested me since I first saw it. He claims that it was to produce true, deep feelings that would otherwise be unobtainable to the actors involved, which is indeed believable. The hypnosis does lend the film a dream-like quality, and the whole thing seems so mellifluous in its pacing and construction. Herzog claims that his intended end result was to evoke freedom, but you could also interpret it as a lust for control over his actors. It seems odd, though, that a director who so desperately yearned this control – and who would go to such lengths to get it – would later cast such a volatile oddball as Klaus Kinski on four further occasions (he’d already used him once on “Aguirre”). Perhaps, then, Herzog’s intentions were to elicit freedom and honesty, and if it was, it certainly works. I don’t think that “Heart of Glass” is exactly Herzog’s best film, but it’s certainly one of his most intriguing, and it all leads to one of the strangest and most evocative filmic experiences of the last fifty years.
The second box set, then, is – at least to me – the better of the two. His work with Kinski seems like more of an entrance point, a series of five (or six, including the documentary) relatively accessible films that give you a taste of the great man’s work. The non-Kinski set, on the other hand, is a look at Herzog’s nuances, and his skill as an experimental filmmaker. It contains great documentaries as well as great narrative films, and it has an overarching theme to tie them altogether. These five films seem to be about the dehumanization of society, and the shortcomings of civilization as a whole. The Herzog-Kinski box set, on the other hand, is linked only by the overwhelming presence of a collaborator. Kinski’s presence is obviously not unpleasant – he’s a great actor, after all – but it somehow feels like Herzog is playing second fiddle in his own films. The other set, though, is a testament to a unique vision, and the only proof you need to know that Werner Herzog is one of the few auteurs working in cinema today.
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