The Archetypal Visions of Werner Herzog

Since time immemorial, one of the privileged paths of art in approaching the realm of existence has undoubtedly been that of the archetype. What, then, is an artistic archetype? It is a primordial figure, an immediate example, an innate and predetermined symbol of the collective human unconscious, to use purely Jungian terminology.

Nature is everything in Werner Herzog’s cinematography. The boundless savanna, the vastness of the Amazon, the depths of the oceans, the aridity of salt lakes, and the lush fertility of the northern European forests — all come together to form a supreme stage for Man, engaged in his battle for life.

Within the grand filmography of this illustrious director and documentarian, two films, released a decade apart, stand out above all others. Both are the fruits of Herzog’s memorable collaboration with actor Klaus Kinski and producer Walter Saxer. In these two films, by observing the antithetical stance of Man towards Nature, one can discern the two great archetypes, the two great Weltanschauungen1 that drive modern man and with which we all inevitably contend: Aguirre, The Wrath of God (1972) and Fitzcarraldo (1982).

Aguirre, a character modeled on the historical rebel conquistador Lope de Aguirre, who died in present-day Venezuela around the mid-16th century, is nothing less than the personification of hubris. Aguirre is the overbearing man, one devoid of all pietas,2 of any ideal, of any good beyond his own ego. He is willing to drive an entire expedition to ruin in despair and bloodshed, to let his men die in vain, even to condemn his own daughter — towards whom he even harbors unhealthy incestuous intentions — solely for his own vanity, profit, and reckless ambition.

‘Aguirre, the Wrath of God’ (1972)

For the cunning Aguirre, who was evidently once a capable officer, no roots exist. He is the man of subversion — indeed, he is subversion itself, embodying it in his diabolically gleaming eyes, in his serpentine whisper, in his insatiable pride. His subversion is threefold: subversion against God, meaning against the Catholic Faith, the official religion of the Kingdom of Spain and the summation of a specific hierarchy of values against which Aguirre, in his arrogance, defiantly stands; subversion against Caesar, meaning against the Spanish Crown, the rightful holders of imperium, whom he dares to “dethrone” in a grotesque ceremony — installing in their place a puppet ruler, a mere useful idiot, over whom he immediately asserts his own authority as lieutenant; subversion against Justice, as he orchestrates a sham trial to have the expedition’s rightful and upright commander, Pedro de Ursúa, executed for treason.

Aguirre’s hubris, that of a cruel tyrant, is summed up in his relationship with Nature. Since he has no respect for men or gods, he does not hesitate to abuse creation itself, convinced that nothing, earthly or divine, could ever hinder his unstoppable ascent. In a crescendo of fury, it seems as though every defeat, every corpse, every disaster only fuels his ineffable hatred toward the fatherland, toward tradition, toward all that is good. And in the annals of cinema, his immortal monologue still resounds, where, in supreme arrogance, he acknowledges his own infamous status: “Ich bin der große Verräter. Es darf keinen größeren geben.” (“I am the greatest traitor. There shall never be one greater.”), before launching his final, blasphemous challenge to Nature, which, relentless, will punish him in the most merciless of ways: “Ich bin der Zorn Gottes. Die Erde, über die ich gehe, sieht mich und bebt.” (“I am the wrath of God. The earth I tread sees me and trembles.”).

If Aguirre represents gold as a human archetype — the modern, uprooted man, driven by self-interest and willing to betray others for personal gain — then his stark, titanic opposite is Fitzcarraldo.

Brian Sweeney Fitzgerald, called “Fitzcarraldo” by the indigenous people who cannot properly pronounce his English name, is what we might call an example of the Übermensch.3

Who is Fitzcarraldo? He is a captain of industry, a magnate of enormous wealth with business interests in Latin America, spanning railways, ice, and rubber. Having recovered from past financial setbacks with moderate success, he has always known how to enjoy life’s pleasures. He is esteemed by his employees and awaited in his boudoir by a stunning lover (none other than Claudia Cardinale), who adores him madly. A man who has everything, who has lived every moment of his existence with a tragic joy — yet, even all of this is not enough for him.

Who is Fitzcarraldo? A dreamer, a visionary genius, a man who feels he can truly live only in service of something greater. It is beauty, the enchanted and poignant mirage of beauty, that ignites his constructive will. A passionate lover of opera, he conceives the most daring and astonishing of ambitions: to build a magnificent opera house in Iquitos, a remote Amazonian village in the heart of the vast jungle. His idea is to flood those lands with beauty itself and to have none other than Enrico Caruso perform there, the voice of whom had mesmerized him in Manaus.

‘Fitzcarraldo’ (1982)

There is no material gain to be had from such a mad project — on the contrary, his efforts will place a heavy strain on his business finances. Yet Fitzcarraldo throws himself into it with incredible fervor, boundless love, and resplendent daring. There is no greed in this dynamic man, clad in white even amidst the river mud and jungle tribes — no spite, no envy. No, only an immeasurable, ineffable, inexplicable dream, a dream worthy of an entire lifetime. Captivated, we follow the adventures of this entrepreneur-turned-captain, his attempts to haul an entire steamship over a mountain, his outbursts of frustration, and his drunken dances of joy when he sees the miracle within reach and, with Promethean effort, stretches out to grasp it.

Will Fitzcarraldo achieve his goal? No, he will fail, just as it seemed that all was about to be accomplished. Yet his effort has not been in vain: he is proud, equally satisfied, less wealthy, but infinitely happier. For although he has not succeeded in building that magical theater, the pride of his unspeakable will, of his transcendent striving, of his joyful dance on the edge of the unknown, pervades and pacifies him.

Who, then, is Fitzcarraldo? Fitzcarraldo is Man, with a capital “M,” the one who has truly lived, who has made himself the coherent interpreter of an organic way of engaging with the becoming of things, the one who has mastered Nature without ever abusing it, who has launched a fair contest with the cosmos and serenely accepts his defeat.

Here lies the supreme contrast between gold and a higher idea; here is the mortal struggle between speculation and the sublime. And if, in his final image, we see Aguirre alone on his raft, adrift, surrounded by bloated corpses, delirious and covered in monkeys, the closing sequence of Fitzcarraldo presents us with its splendid protagonist, joyful at the arm of his beloved, contemplating the glory of one last concert aboard his ship before returning it — his back straight, his gaze fixed upon the Sun. The gaze of one who has failed, yet who, even in failure, has known how to triumph.

(Translated from the Italian by Heinrich Matterhorn)

Footnotes