By AMY NICHOLSON
By ALAN SCHERSTUHL
By CAROLINA DEL BUSTO
By AMY NICHOLSON
By STEPHANIE ZACHAREK
By R. Scott Moxley
Fitzcarraldo is my best documentary. Grizzly Man is one of my best feature films.
Perhaps only Werner Herzog, who once hauled a real ship over a real mountain to make a fiction about a man who wants to bring opera to the jungle, could make a nonfiction film about a man whose inner life was a Disney family movie and who met a death as sensational as a horror flick. Herzog has never bothered much with the boundaries between the real and the imagined, and all his films are wolfish appreciations of grand madmen at war with nature. But I fear that, in the case of Timothy Treadwell—an ardent environmentalist and bona fide fruitcake who lived unarmed among wild bears for 13 summers before being killed and eaten by a particularly cranky one—Herzog may have picked himself a dud.
From Aguirre, The Wrath of God to Fitzcarraldo and My Best Fiend(his fond and frank 1999 tribute to his longtime leading man, Klaus Kinski), Herzog has indulged his attraction to self-mythologizing rebels who court destruction from the very natural world they're trying to master. A passionate iconoclast whose worldview leans more toward Hobbes than Marx, Herzog is clear-eyed about the havoc such men cause, but he also identifies with them as the heroic, diabolical superstars of a world in which man and nature coexist uneasily at best. But while Grizzly Manis never less than a fascinating portrait of a troubled Peter Pan who couldn't function in human society and tried to remake the animal kingdom into his own private Hanna-Barbera cartoon, it fails to establish Treadwell as much more than a serious headcase, let alone a titanic figure.
Editing down more than 100 hours of highly professional video footage that Treadwell shot himself—up to and including the moment of his own demise—Herzog has put together a magnificent wildlife documentary, one of whose centerpieces is a bear fight that will ensure you never look at your teddy in quite the same way again. In much of the footage, the bears, on whom Treadwell bestows the kind of names my 7-year-old gives to the stuffed animals at the foot of her bed, lurk cautiously in the background while he soliloquizes up front. One sees their point: tricked out in aviator shades and knave-of-hearts blond hair, Treadwell has surfer-dude swagger to burn, and he prattles unstoppably in the falsetto rap-like cadences one finds so often in manic people as he alternately scolds the bears and tells the camera how he loves, loves, loves them. And Herzog has given him ample room to stake his claim as the bears' lone defender against a hostile world of poachers and Park Service officials—a curious posture for one camped in an animal sanctuary.
Treadwell and Palovak
Treadwell had his loyal supporters, many of them tree-hugging romantics like himself, as well as plenty of irritated detractors. One less-than-sympathetic Park Service employee interviewed by Herzog suggests that the bears gave Treadwell a wide berth because they had concluded he was retarded. An Aleut Indian curator with a Ph.D. from Harvard argues that by cuddling up to these extremely dangerous animals, Treadwell, far from protecting them, was crossing the line of respect humans must preserve between themselves and wild beasts. Herzog is too smart to deny any of this, or to skate over Treadwell's past forays into drink and drugs, or the lack of success with women and people in general that led him to sentimentalize the bears and their habitat. But he seems all too willing to buy into Treadwell's chest-thumping self-aggrandizement. For a formidable intellectual, Herzog can also be a shocking drama queen.
Treadwell's life and death could hardly be more inherently sensational, but Herzog jacks up the emotional register just the same. He can be coarse, as when he coaxes Jewel Palovak, Treadwell's former lover, friend and co-founder of the educational organization Grizzly People (and, not incidentally, the film's co-executive producer), into saying she feels like Treadwell's widow—an idea that clearly hadn't occurred to her before, but which she embraces with alarming alacrity. We also see him listening to the audio of Treadwell's death (the lens cap was never removed), then coyly pronouncing it too horrifying to include in the movie. Perhaps so—one of the men involved in the cleanup after the bear was shot tells Herzog that they hauled away "four garbage bags of people out of that bear"—yet it seems oddly unlike the director to play censor of life's unsightly underbelly. Nor was I ever convinced that Treadwell measured up to the long line of transcendently self-immolating madmen who are Herzog's artistic obsession. Behind many an avowed ecstatic there hides an angry, impotent little man who feels rejected by the world. Treadwell, for all his gooey encomia to his furry friends, could be petty and vicious about people. Herzog gives that side of him full play, but, having shown us one of Treadwell's paranoid on-camera rants against the Enemies of Bears, Herzog remarks, "His rage is incandescent, almost artistic." Me, I saw a sad, overgrown schoolboy throwing a hissy fit.
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