Film Review: Aguirre, the Wrath of God (Aguirre, der Zorn Gottes, 1972)

In an era marked by the volatile boom-and-bust cycles of cryptocurrency, where countless investors have chased the mirage of overnight riches only to face catastrophic collapse, Aguirre, the Wrath of God emerges as a hauntingly prescient parable. Directed by Werner Herzog in 1972, this visceral period epic mirrors the folly of repeating others’ success without regard for consequence—a dynamic as relevant today as it was in the 16th century. The Spanish conquistadors, intoxicated by the exploits of Hernán Cortés and Francisco Pizarro, embarked on countless expeditions to replicate those empires of gold, only to meet with disaster in the unexplored and unforgiving lands. Herzog’s film dramatizes one such doomed venture: the 1560 expedition led by Lope de Aguirre, a man whose megalomania and delusion spiral into tragicomic ruin. Far from mere historical fiction, Aguirre transcends its setting to interrogate the universal human tendency to pursue power at any cost, rendering it a landmark of 1970s cinema and a chilling reminder of ambition’s peril.

The film opens in 1560, a decade after the fall of the Inca Empire, as Spanish conquistadors, now ruling over Peru, grow restless. Local Indigenous tales of El Dorado—a mythical city of gold hidden deep in the Amazon—ignite fresh fantasies of conquest. Gonzalo Pizarro (played by Alejandro Repullés), half-brother of the infamous Francisco, assembles a massive expedition: hundreds of soldiers, Indigenous slaves, and a fleet of rafts, all bound for the jungle. Yet logistical chaos soon ensues. The dense Amazonian terrain slows progress, supplies dwindle, and morale crumbles. Pizarro retreats, but orders a smaller detachment, led by his lieutenant Pedro de Ursúa (played by Ruy Guerra), to continue. Ursúa’s faction includes his lover Inés de Atienza (played by Helena Rojo), the noble Don Fernando de Guzmán (a figurehead for Spanish authority, played by Peter Berling), and Ursúa’s second-in-command, Lope de Aguirre (played by Klaus Kinski)—a man of quiet cunning, accompanied by his daughter Flores (played by Cecilia Rivera).

When a river flood destroys their rafts and claims lives, Ursúa attempts to abandon the quest. Aguirre, however, seizes the moment, orchestrating a mutiny. He imprisons Ursúa, declares Don Fernando “emperor” of the territories they “conquer,” and compels the remaining soldiers to press onward. The group’s delusions of grandeur clash violently with reality: the Amazon offers no gold, only disease, starvation, and hostile Indigenous tribes. As their numbers dwindle, Aguirre’s rhetoric grows increasingly unhinged. Yet the jungle swallows them whole, leaving only Aguirre on a raft adrift, surrounded by monkeys—a fittingly absurd finale to a tragic farce. Herzog’s narrative, though loosely based on historical events, distills the essence of colonialism’s hubris: the quest for glory and wealth leads not to triumph, but to madness and oblivion.

Shot in Peru and Mexico with a modest budget, Aguirre thrives on its raw authenticity. Herzog, working with co-producers from West Germany, Mexico, and Peru, opted for real locations over studio sets, immersing the cast and crew in the same harsh conditions as the characters. This pragmatic approach had unintended benefits: the lack of elaborate scripts or special effects forced Herzog to adapt on the fly, resulting in a documentary-like spontaneity. The absence of stunt performers meant actors, including Klaus Kinski, performed perilous stunts themselves—such as crossing suspension bridges over raging rivers—heightening the film’s visceral tension.

The minimalist production style also shaped the aesthetic. Unlike Hollywood epics of the era, Aguirre lacks sweeping orchestral scores or grand vistas. Instead, Popol Vuh’s haunting electronic compositions—a fusion of tribal rhythms and eerie synths—imbue the journey with an otherworldly, almost ritualistic atmosphere. This stark, unpolished aesthetic underscores the film’s central theme: the futility of imposing order on chaos. The Amazon itself becomes a character, a malevolent force that consumes all who dare to defy it.

Klaus Kinski’s portrayal of Aguirre is nothing short of mesmerizing. Though Herzog and Kinski’s on-set clashes are legendary, the actor’s restrained yet incendiary performance captures Aguirre’s duality: a calculating strategist who morphs into a raving lunatic. Initially, Aguirre bides his time, observing his superiors’ weaknesses with cold precision. His mutiny is swift and ruthless, yet his subsequent speeches—delivered in a feverish, almost poetic rage—reveal a mind unraveling. Kinski’s physicality, from his predatory stillness to his manic gestures, embodies the paradox of ambition: the pursuit of power demands discipline, yet ultimately corrupts it.

Aguirre’s final monologue, delivered atop a raft as monkeys swarm around him, epitomizes this collapse. His declaration is both a delusional claim to divinity and a pitiable admission of isolation. Kinski’s performance transcends mere villainy; Aguirre becomes a tragic figure, a man so consumed by his vision that he cannot recognize reality.

Herzog’s refusal to adhere to traditional genre boundaries elevates Aguirre into a sui generis work. While framed as a historical adventure, the film oscillates between travelogue, psychological drama, and horror. The documentary-like realism—aided by Gaspar de Carvajal’s (played by Del Negro) voiceover narration based on the monk’s diary—blurs the line between fact and fiction. Carvajal’s detached, almost clinical observations mirror the found-footage tropes of modern horror, positioning the audience as passive witnesses to unfolding catastrophe.

The Amazon itself functions as a character, a labyrinthine antagonist that tests the group’s resolve. Herzog’s camera lingers on the jungle’s oppressive grandeur: towering trees, serpentine rivers, and the perpetual mist that obscures the horizon. These visuals evoke a primal fear, suggesting that the expedition’s failure is inevitable. The film’s structure—slow-burning tension escalating into frenzied collapse—anticipates the nonlinear storytelling of later horror films, while its meditation on madness prefigures works like Apocalypse Now.

Critics have long debated Herzog’s adherence to historical truth. While Aguirre’s 1561 expedition did occur, the film takes liberties with facts. For instance, Gaspar de Carvajal, the monk whose journal inspired the narration, was actually chronicler of another expedition, by Francisco Orellana, unfolding nearly two decades earlier. Similarly, Gonzalo Pizarro’s role in the film is fictionalized; he was executed for rebellion before the Amazon expedition. Even Aguirre’s fate diverges from history: the real Aguirre was captured and executed, not left to drift in solitude.

Herzog, however, prioritizes myth over accuracy. The film’s power lies in its allegorical resonance, not its factual precision. By conflating history with fiction, he transforms Aguirre into a universal symbol of obsession—a man whose delusions mirror the colonial project itself. The jungle’s indifference to human ambition becomes a metaphor for the universe’s apathy toward human folly, a theme that resonates far beyond the film’s historical context.

Though Aguirre initially underperformed in Germany, its reputation grew steadily through international acclaim. Critics praised its audacity, particularly its fusion of poetic imagery and existential dread. Francis Ford Coppola cited it as an influence on Apocalypse Now, particularly the journey downriver into madness. Herzog himself revisited the themes in Fitzcarraldo (1982), a film both homage and inversion: here, the protagonist’s obsession with opera becomes a similarly doomed quest, yet his “success” hints at a more ambiguous morality.

The film’s enduring relevance lies in its exploration of human frailty. In an age of climate crisis, political extremism, and technological overreach, Aguirre’s descent into megalomania feels eerily contemporary. His declarationa echo today’s cult leaders and tech bros promising utopia through unchecked ambition. Herzog’s genius lies in recognizing that ambition, however noble its intent, is inseparable from its capacity for self-destruction.

Through its stark visuals, visceral performances, and genre-defying narrative, Herzog crafts a meditation on the dangers of unchecked ambition—a warning that resonates as loudly in the boardrooms of Silicon Valley as it did in the Amazon’s jungles. The film’s power lies in its unflinching gaze at humanity’s capacity for both greatness and ruin, reminding us that the line between the two is perilously thin. In a world still gripped by the allure of El Dorado, Aguirre stands as a testament to the cost of chasing ghosts.

RATING: 7/10 (+++)

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