There are few things more off-putting than being repeatedly told how astounding something is, whether it's a work of art or natural phenomena. The thing, whatever it is, should be allowed to speak for itself whenever possible. To drown the object in question with rhetoric that serves only to pump it up, not to actually elucidate its importance, is nearly always to lessen its power. Werner Herzog's latest nonfiction toss-off, Cave of Forgotten Dreams, violates this cardinal rule whenever it's not indulging in 110-proof Herzogiana (not as entertaining or enlightening as in some of his previous works) and some rather beside-the-point 3D trickery.
The underground wonder in question is Chauvet Cave, and from everything the film shows us, it does appear to be one of the archeological discoveries of the century. Discovered only in 1994, this cave in the south of France contains not just a wondrous collection of crystalline stalactites but also walls covered in cave paintings pristinely preserved from their creation over 30,000 years ago. The paintings, mostly of herds of animals, are so old -- twice as ancient as any previously discovered -- that some are covered in claw scratches left by now-extinct cave bears.
Even without Herzog's bombastic, Teutonic narration reminding us of this fact, it's apparent that the French government reacted to the news of this discovery exactly as they should have. Instead of inviting every interested party in to wander the Cave and goggle at its sights, they immediately narrowed access to only a tiny group of scientists, and even installed a bomb shelter-worthy steel door at the entrance with a code-controlled lock. In a situation like this, Herzog's gaining access for himself and his small crew is testament to the director's clearly impressive salesmanship (supposedly, in a meeting with French Minister of Culture Frédéric Mitterand, Herzog offered to become an employee of the French government, to be paid only one Euro). The problem with the film is that not enough of Herzog's clear passion for the subject ends up on the screen.
The inside of Chauvet seems both spacious and cramped, with grand ceilings and long vistas glittering in the darkness, the expanded sense of depth in such tight spaces serving to emphasize the cluastrophobia of the setting. (In fact, the mix of 3D shooting and handheld camerawork could easily prove problematic for motion sickness-prone viewers.) The paintings themselves are indeed incredible, simple powerful strokes of black charcoal looping over the rock face's rounded surface, creating impressionistic images of rushing herds of horses, lions, rhinos, and other animals long disappeared from this part of Europe. Herzog lingers lovingly on them, particularly one showing several horseheads right behind each other, their manes seeming to be tossed by the wind. One imagines their dreamlike power being exaggerated by prehistoric peoples' only being able to see them by flickering torchlight.
Where the film fails is not in its choice of subject but in its approach. Herzog's documentaries have always had a rough and unfocused feel to them, with his darting and easily distracted mind roaming around the exterior of his central theme, trying to explain why he's telling you all this and not always succeeding. When faced with a sharp human tragedy like that visualized in Grizzly Man, the films can snap into focus without much effort on his part. When he's trying to comprehend the savage beauty of the Antarctic in Encounters at the End of the World, his rambling voiceovers and off-kilter interviews can take on a feverishly emotive pitch that overcomes all structural deficiencies.
But Cave of Forgotten Dreams hews closer to the approach of something like his film about Klaus Kinski, My Best Fiend. As in that provocative failure, Herzog doesn't seem to have thought out how best to approach his subject, and in winging it, ends up with a lot of not necessarily illuminating footage that he buttresses with similarly directionless interviews (including a wider range of experts for his interview subjects might have helped). When in doubt, Herzog just gazes at the paintings and cranks the soundtrack -- appropriately operatic compositions by Ernst Reijseger -- up to 11. There are times when the film approaches a level of pure cinema, all voiceless gaze and music. But by the time Herzog gets to his ludicrously beside-the-point coda, it's apparent that all of his ponderings on the nature of beauty and art and mankind might have been deeply felt but no more linked to a central theme than random jottings in a notebook.
The underground wonder in question is Chauvet Cave, and from everything the film shows us, it does appear to be one of the archeological discoveries of the century. Discovered only in 1994, this cave in the south of France contains not just a wondrous collection of crystalline stalactites but also walls covered in cave paintings pristinely preserved from their creation over 30,000 years ago. The paintings, mostly of herds of animals, are so old -- twice as ancient as any previously discovered -- that some are covered in claw scratches left by now-extinct cave bears.
Even without Herzog's bombastic, Teutonic narration reminding us of this fact, it's apparent that the French government reacted to the news of this discovery exactly as they should have. Instead of inviting every interested party in to wander the Cave and goggle at its sights, they immediately narrowed access to only a tiny group of scientists, and even installed a bomb shelter-worthy steel door at the entrance with a code-controlled lock. In a situation like this, Herzog's gaining access for himself and his small crew is testament to the director's clearly impressive salesmanship (supposedly, in a meeting with French Minister of Culture Frédéric Mitterand, Herzog offered to become an employee of the French government, to be paid only one Euro). The problem with the film is that not enough of Herzog's clear passion for the subject ends up on the screen.
The inside of Chauvet seems both spacious and cramped, with grand ceilings and long vistas glittering in the darkness, the expanded sense of depth in such tight spaces serving to emphasize the cluastrophobia of the setting. (In fact, the mix of 3D shooting and handheld camerawork could easily prove problematic for motion sickness-prone viewers.) The paintings themselves are indeed incredible, simple powerful strokes of black charcoal looping over the rock face's rounded surface, creating impressionistic images of rushing herds of horses, lions, rhinos, and other animals long disappeared from this part of Europe. Herzog lingers lovingly on them, particularly one showing several horseheads right behind each other, their manes seeming to be tossed by the wind. One imagines their dreamlike power being exaggerated by prehistoric peoples' only being able to see them by flickering torchlight.
Where the film fails is not in its choice of subject but in its approach. Herzog's documentaries have always had a rough and unfocused feel to them, with his darting and easily distracted mind roaming around the exterior of his central theme, trying to explain why he's telling you all this and not always succeeding. When faced with a sharp human tragedy like that visualized in Grizzly Man, the films can snap into focus without much effort on his part. When he's trying to comprehend the savage beauty of the Antarctic in Encounters at the End of the World, his rambling voiceovers and off-kilter interviews can take on a feverishly emotive pitch that overcomes all structural deficiencies.
But Cave of Forgotten Dreams hews closer to the approach of something like his film about Klaus Kinski, My Best Fiend. As in that provocative failure, Herzog doesn't seem to have thought out how best to approach his subject, and in winging it, ends up with a lot of not necessarily illuminating footage that he buttresses with similarly directionless interviews (including a wider range of experts for his interview subjects might have helped). When in doubt, Herzog just gazes at the paintings and cranks the soundtrack -- appropriately operatic compositions by Ernst Reijseger -- up to 11. There are times when the film approaches a level of pure cinema, all voiceless gaze and music. But by the time Herzog gets to his ludicrously beside-the-point coda, it's apparent that all of his ponderings on the nature of beauty and art and mankind might have been deeply felt but no more linked to a central theme than random jottings in a notebook.
