There are rules in life! We cannot fly to the Moon. We cannot defy death. We must face facts, not folly. You don't live in the real world.
Terry Gilliam Ranked
(Updated)
I first fashioned this run down
mid-2013, before The Zero Theorem had
been released, and limited it to Gilliam’s solo, bona fide features. To justify
this re-edit (Gilliam would never approve of a director’s cut), I’ve included
not only his co-effort with Terry Jones, but the various, more notable shorts he
has produced over the years; alas, recently there has been a feeling of taking
whatever you can, however meagre, as his fully-fledged gigs have been increasingly
thin on the ground. I’ve also adjusted the placings somewhat, such are
fickleness and passing moods. Number One is in no danger of changing that I can
see, but others can seem better than each other (rather than worse) depending
on the time of day, or what I’ve had for dinner.
17. The Legend of Hallowdega
(2010)
Pretty bad, alas. Gilliam presumably
took the gig for this 18-minute spoof documentary (can I not say mockumentary?), a promotional piece for AMP Energy Juice at
the Talladega 500, out of a desire to keep busy. It certainly has no
discernable creative or artistic merit, featuring Justin Kirk (a poor man’s Jimmy
Fallon) as Justin Thyme (we can’t blame the director; it was written by Aaron
Bergeron, a one-season contributor to The
Daily Show), investigating the notional haunting of the track by
inhabitants of a Native American burial ground.
There’s nary a spark of life in the
proceedings; Gilliam caption-cameos as “Brain
Control Tested on Senior Citizen”, David Arquette hams it up irritatingly
as Kiyash Monsef, ghost hunter, and there’s some incredibly lame stuff about
bananas. Actually, one moment did make me smile; Monsef announces ghosts aren’t
the cause of the mishaps on the track. Then, in response to one of the crew
pointing out a car in peril amid the haunted hoards, advises “he’s just a really bad driver”. Don’t
let this give you the impression Gilliam’s just a really bad filmmaker.
16. Storytime
(1968)
An animated short, pre-Python, Storytime eventually made it to the big screen accompanying Life of Brian in the UK (and then the
re-release of Jabberwocky in 2001). Bolting
together three pieces from Do Not Adjust
Your Set, their combined weight evidences that three minutes really is
ideal for this kind of thing; any longer and you run the risk of exhausting
goodwill.
Don the Cockroach exhibits the Python penchant
for random acts of violence, as the titular roach is stamped on almost as soon
as he is introduced. It also has fun with narrative form and its own
metatextuality, replaying an earlier section and then informing us the animator
has been consequently sacked; a precursor to Gilliam’s later deceasement in Holy Grail. The Albert Einstein Story is a bit of a bust, revolving around
not-that-Albert-Einstein being good with his hands and devolving to a rather laboured
skit about interrelations and class distinctions between hands and feet. We end
on a relative high with The Christmas
Card, though, Gilliam having much fun animating said cards in unexpected
ways, involving everything from cowboys and rockets. Storytime is patchy, but as a forerunner of his Python form quite illuminating.
15. Tideland
(2005)
The
director is fond of suggesting the lack of audience embrace was down to
difficult subject matter. Certainly, it’s true that this tale of an odd girl
with an active imagination, whose father has succumbed to an overdose (but
remains dauntlessly decomposing in his chair), and who encounters equally
peculiar neighbours, makes few concessions to a prudish viewer. But,
unfortunately, it’s not down to that at all. It’s just not very engaging.
This is the
film where Gilliam most needed to discipline himself, not in budget terms (it
was cheap) but in paring down his story. The familiar theme of escape from an
unwelcoming reality into a fantasy world is present, but the telling rambles
and meanders, only reaching two hours in length through an absence of focus.
Ultimately,
it’s a little dull (something I’d hardly have countenanced of the director previously).
The general cry of Tideland’s
adherents is the reductive refrain that if you don’t think it’s a masterpiece
you don’t understand it. I’m afraid that puts me in the realm of the ignorant;
it’s a curiosity, not without merit (Jodelle Ferland’s is yet another winning
performance from a child actor in a Gilliam film), but ponderous and muffled.
14. Jabberwocky
(1977)
Whereas the
problem with Jabberwocky is that it’s
all very thin; a 30-minute short stretched to feature length. There’s nothing
very wrong with it, and it often raises a smile. The art direction is
gloriously evocative; you can all but smell the filth. The creature itself is
highly impressive (much more so than Tim Burton’s recent CGI gubbins). And John
Le Mesurier and Max Wall make a fine double act.
But it’s quite
inconsequential. I previously compared Jabberwocky
to Ridley Scott’s The Duellists;
a case of a director flexing his muscles, building up to the main event (which,
in both Gilliam and Scott’s cases, would be a revelation). But on reflection,
and revisit, Scott’s film is the significantly more impressive debut.
13. The
Crimson Permanent Assurance
(1983)
The one
that started as a six-minute animation (Gilliam felt creatively stifled by the
limitations of his technique), then became a live action beast too big and
unwieldy to be included in the The Meaning
of Life (it went over budget too, an ominous harbinger of the ‘80s to come,
particularly given how the heroes are the elderly in both this and Munchausen), so finding a spot
supporting the main feature. The Crimson
Permanent Assurance is big on style and spectacle (you can’t watch it and
not be reminded of the director’s more renowned visuals of the period, from the
giant of Time Bandits to the cityscapes
of Brazil) but low on actual content,
substance to get your teeth into. It is very much a one-joke gag stretched to
breaking point, and thus it’s entirely the visual acumen and inventiveness
Gilliam brings to bear that carries it.
This is,
though, in terms of channelled ideas, perhaps the purest distillation of
Gilliam the animator as a live action filmmaker, from great chains holding the
Assurance building in place to its sailing to the City of London, and finally
toppling off the edge of the world.
There’s a self-devouring
aspect to these accountants bringing down the very system they depend upon
(they sail the wide accountan-sea, on the high seas of international finance, with
“one by one the financial capitals of the
world crumbling under their mighty business acumen”), and it’s amusing to
see Gilliam nominally siding with the bean counters (oppressed old men
balancing the books) against the (American) upstarts of ‘80s capitalism (“leaving them in ruins, their assets
stripped, their policies in tatters”), lending the most boring of professions
a sheen of glamour by equating book fiddling with actual piracy, rather than
achieving it by way of a ledger. One does wonder slightly at the “Full speed ahead, Mr Cohen”, though.
Gilliam
summons the triumphant spirit of ’40s swashbucklers (the title is a riff on Errol
Flynn’s The Crimson Pirate) complete
with an a period-evoking score, and takes glee in killing off the suited
bankers, their dying words announcing an abject lack of humanity (“File this”). But, much praised (Gilliam
likes to go on about how well it went down at Cannes) and visually prized as it
is, The Crimson Permanent Assurance would
have been much improved running to that significantly slenderer six minutes’
duration.
12. The
Wholly Family
(2011)
There’s
much to enjoy in this 20-minute sort-of promo, albeit that, like his other live
action shorts, it’s a touch on the long side. Gilliam had creative control,
writing and bringing in regular DP Nicola Pecorini, and is blessed with a
jolly, infectious score from Daniel Sepe. You wouldn’t really know – aside from
some pasta face-stuffing by the brought-to-life, dangerous, mischievous
Pulcinellas that taunt Jake (Nicolas Connolly) – that it was funded by the Garofolo
Pasta Company.
Gilliam’s
in his element with the demented fantasy antics of the Pulcinellas. The moment
where Jake is sucked into the belly of one recalls the the director’s exploration
of the malevolence inherent in The
Brothers Grimm’s fairy tales, and some of the content is downright
disturbing: Jake sees his his tiny tot self (with a hideously CGI-d baby head)
nursed by his parents. When he refuses to desist from crying, his mother drops
him to the floor where he breaks, revealing a Pinocchio-like doll. Irreparable,
he is promptly thrown into a fiery trash can. And the conclusion, in which Jake
and his parents are trapped as an exhibit in the street stall from which Jake stole
the Pulcinella figurine that started all this, is entirely fitting with Gilliam’s
sentiment-free impulse.
It’s a
shame, then, that there’s no one to really engage with (Gilliam would likely say
that’s the entire point, hence the ending, but there’s broader issue is that
the performances fail to inspire). Jake is only ever a demanding, obnoxious
brat, and his nominal change of heart fails to right the balance. It’s easy to
see where he gets it from; his bickering unsympathetic parents, who are
subjected to clashing performance styles from Douglas Dean and Cristiana
Capotondi.
11. The
Brothers Grimm
(2005)
A film of
great moments rather than a great film, Gilliam is granted the budget to create
impressive spectacle and then some, but must traverse the nightmare terrain of those
damn meddlesome Weinsteins to reach it.
The premise
is solid enough, albeit one Tim Burton could as easily have dribbled Goth-chic
over; the Grimms are conmen profiting from supernatural menaces of their own
manufacture. All well and bad, but then they encounter a real magical threat. Matt Damon and Heath Ledger bounce of each
other appealingly, but their characters aren’t strong enough to make you care very
much for them. The cast includes both berserk theatrics (Peter Stormare,
Jonathan Pryce) and exquisite menace (Monica Bellucci). And Lena Headey, who
was foisted on the director; you can only agree that Gilliam’s choice of
Samantha Morton would have been far more complementary.
For all the
misplaced talk about sets being bigger than his actors, this is Gilliam’s one
film where what’s on screen does take
over. Because the script just isn’t there. The tower set is gorgeous, and the Ledger
climbing it a vertiginous treat. Gilliam pulls off wickedly clever little
moments, like a dinner party created by a hall of mirrors and an upside down
torture. Whereas, the mud creature is unsettling but the visual effects don’t
quite sell it (unlike the more sinister opening with the big bad wolf). The Brothers Grimm is a broken-backed
hotchpotch; a failure, but a likeable one.
10. The
Fisher King
(1991)
Where The Fisher King comes up slightly short
is that it isn’t lean enough. Both visually and in terms of editing, the pacing
is just that bit off. I blame Gilliam’s conscious decision to forgo
storyboards. It needs to be loose enough to allow the romance to unfold
naturally, but you end up feeling it’s still about 20 minutes too long.
Jeff
Bridges is great in one of his first “mature adult” roles (this, Fabulous Baker Boys and Fearless make a defining trio), Robin
Williams slightly more problematic. But Williams always is. His serious
thesping often veers towards mawkish self-indulgence (when he isn’t playing the
villain) but he’s supported by enough solid craftsmanship (Mercedes Ruehl,
Amanda Plummer) to just about rein him in. The themes of mental breakdown and
aberration are strong ones, sensitively weaved with the love stories, and the
Grand Central Station sequence is justly celebrated, but the film as a whole
doesn’t quite sing.
9. Miracle
of Flight
(1974)
If Storytime gives us Gilliam experimenting
with his animation art and not quite delivering, Miracle of Flight finds him at the height of his post-Python powers, sustaining his running
gag beautifully – it isn’t possible for man to fly, as it defeats all common
sense. Thus, we run through a medley of early attempts to repeat Icarus’ feat,
including men in mechanical chicken outfits, tarred and feathered, or with
hammered-flat arms, each racing over the edge of the same cliff and plummeting
to oblivion.
It takes an
unnamed king to tackle the problem… by kicking a succession of scientists off the
top of his mountain fortress (“Mmmm. Not
as successful as I hoped for”), accompanied by some sly sight gags (an
apparent perfect flight is actually headed straight for the ground again).
Suddenly, 300 years later, the invention of the airline ticket hastens a
succession of further air-related developments, including the air terminal. Through
which a character proceeds, ending up on the edge, and then off the edge, of that
same mountain fortress (“Nope, still not
got it!”). Stylistically, it’s a culmination of the skills Gilliam honed
during his four years doodling for that forgotten TV show, but crucially it
also has a wholly satisfying structure.
8. The
Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus
(2009)
The 2000s
were not kind to Terry. First The Man Who
Killed Don Quixote went tits up. Then he got into bed with the Weinsteins
for The Brothers Grimm; he knew
better, but he did it anyway, just to get something moving. Then Tideland got made exactly as he wanted
to make it, but no one gave a toss. Finally, right at the end of the decade, he
directed his first self-originated movie since Brazil (again collaborating with Charles McKeown). And (whisper it)
it was a minor hit.
But the
road proved no less problematic than before, as Heath Ledger died before
completion. Those who haven’t seen it probably assume Ledger is the star, as
per Brandon Lee in The Crow. In fact,
it’s Christopher Plummer’s titular Doctor, who has made a Faustian pact with
Tom Waits’ Mr. Nick. The elderly Parnassus echoes Baron Munchausen but is also
a readily identifiable alter ego for the director himself.
While the
theme of the power of storytelling is a strong one, and the concept of the
Imaginarium is inspired, the character of Tony (as played by Ledger, Law and
Depp) is arguably less well developed. Gilliam explicitly compares him with
Tony Blair, while the initial discovery of Tony hanging from a bridge is an
overt nod to the Calvi Affair.
If there’s
a lack of finesse in attempting to make a political statement few are disputing
anyway, at times the plotting lacks clarity (the means by which Mr. Nick is
willing to accept Tony’s soul rather than Valentina’s is disappointingly
arbitrary). At others, the giddy inventiveness of the Imaginarium becomes
undisciplined. But the combination of practical effects (cut-out trees becoming
an actual forest) and CGI (the crazy landscapes and perspectives) generally
combine in an appreciably Gilliam-esque fashion.
Parnassus was the first film he storyboarded himself
since Munchausen, but ironically
there’s a formlessness at times suggesting otherwise. Perhaps the improvisation
Gilliam encouraged led to a lack of focus and a reluctance to cut away; the
early stages of the film flounder aimlessly in terms of story, tone and
camerawork. Truth be told, Parnassus
is a mess. But it’s also a seductive compendium of the director’s work, a
greatest hits compilation of sorts, and as such it’s irresistible.
7. The Zero
Theorem
(2013)
Gilliam, a
confirmed atheist yet blessed with the inspiration of one unrestricted by such
labels, here explores the consequences of realising there’s no escaping reality
for a realm with higher purpose. At least Sam Lowry has his world of daydreams.
Qohen lacks even that, banished to another’s electric simulation, an embodiment
of the theorem itself, that the universe is all for nothing and “you led a meaningless life”.
While The Zero Theorem is very much aligned
with both Brazil and 12 Monkeys, it’s much less of a greatest
hits package than Parnassus. Both
are, however, evidently diminished to a degree by the need to rely on (still
creative) CGI rather than physical effects.
It’s
comforting to see the director continues to rally fine casts for no great
financial reward; Waltz in broad mode is a perfect fit, and used far more
keenly than by the likes of Burton and Bond.
Melanie Thierry, David Thewlis and Lucas Hedges (if Gilliam’s eye for an
up-and-comer is any indication, Hedges will be taking up residence in Hollywood
in no time) are particularly strong, and Matt Damon shows off his capacity for blending
in at parties (Management’s outfits match whichever drapes or chair he is in
the vicinity off at the time). Tilda Swinton steals the show with her Dr
Shrink-Rom cameo, but that’s not uncommon. Gilliam’s asides are in abundance,
but perhaps my favourite is a rat scurrying off with a pill evacuated from
Qohen’s windpipe only moments before.
6. Twelve
Monkeys
(1995)
The time
travel plot is rigorously assembled, refusing to succumb to the kind of
paradoxes that often leave one scratching one’s head. There’s a stoicism and
resignation to the post-apocalyptic world depicted here. And a tragedy to the
pre-determination that dictates James Cole’s (Bruce Willis) actions. Until The Zero Theorem, it had the veneer of Gilliam’s
most pessimistic film; the only vision is a portent of our hero’s doom, and all
that can be mustered is a hope that the future world will find a way.
Gilliam is
ignited once again by many of his predilections; the wheels of bureaucracy are
ever closing in around his characters. In this case, the freedom to fantasise
is forcefully impinged upon; those failing to conform are regarded as insane
and medicined until they comply (these themes also link the “American trilogy”
movies that sandwich it, The Fisher King
and Fear and Loathing).
While the
likes of Simon Jones (Arthur Dent) and Frank Gorshin (the Riddler) pop up in
supporting roles, this is the least idiosyncratically cast of the director’s pictures.
One might have thought Willis would summon his freewheeling David Addison in
the crazy world of Terry, but he plays it completely sincerely. His is a
tortured, affecting performance and one of the last really compelling ones
Bruce would give, before falling victim to “serious acting” (picking boring
parts, playing them impassively). It’s Brad Pitt who gives the crazy, one of
the first times we got to see him actively fighting his pretty boy image. In
both cases, Gilliam is revealed as an actor’s director, one who can elicit
surprisingly distinct and against-type performances that muster general acclaim
(and an Oscar nomination for Pitt).
Credit too
to Christopher Plummer (who would return to Gilliam’s world nearly fifteen
years later) and Madeleine Stowe (all but forgotten, but she provides the very
necessary grounding the audience needs). I should also mention Paul
Buckmaster’s haunting, vibrant score (whenever I listen to Gotan Project’s
tango-influenced albums, I’m put in mind of the 12 Monkeys soundtrack – and vice versa).
5. Monty
Python and the Holy Grail
(1974)
And Monty Python and the Holy Grail itself?
It needs little introduction and even less fanfare. If it’s inferior to Brian, it’s only by increments, or by
virtue of just how good the latter is. Gilliam acquits himself with honours on
the acting front, be it as devoted, faithful Patsy or the doomed animator.
Elsewhere are fully justified favourites Brave Sir Robin (who ran away),
Camelot (a silly place), the Black Knight (prone to suffering flesh wounds),
and the killer rabbit (ultimately dispatched by the Holy Hand Grenade of
Antioch). The end is very silly too, of course, which is entirely fitting.
Gilliam modestly commented of Holy Grail’s
key virtue that, “if we hadn’t managed to
make something with a coherently real and gritty feel to it, we’d have been
left with just a collection of sketches”, adding in scornful parentheses “like Spamalot years later”. He’s
probably not wrong, though.
4. Brazil
(1985)
The
director’s first screenwriting collaboration with Charles McKeown, although Tom
Stoppard provided three initial drafts. It’s easy to see why it’s the most
celebrated Gilliam picture, as it remains his most topical. His recurring theme
of fantasy versus reality is tackled in this second cycle of his “ages of man trilogy”; young man Sam
Lowry (Pryce was 38 when the film came out, somewhat older than Gilliam had
envisaged) is ensnared by twentieth century bureaucracy. This is Orwell’s 1984 at its most terrifyingly mundane.
But, unlike the director’s other trilogy protagonists, Sam’s fantasy leads to a
far from triumphant outcome; it’s a reflection of how limited and ineffectual
he is in the real world.
Gilliam
combines retro-visuals (costumes, architecture) with Lowry’s Walter Mitty flights of fantasy, but it’s
the dark satire that resonates. This is a world where false flag terrorism goes
hand-in-hand with sheep-like acceptance of state detention and torture; Gilliam
has little claim to being a prophet of the age, but in the 30 years-plus since
it was made Brazil has become only
more relevant. A bleak inevitability.
His
problems with the release of Brazil first
foisted upon him the “difficult” label, but as with Munchausen, there’s no sign on screen of such behind-the-scenes
troubles (provided you see the longer cut). In this case, it’s because the
troubles began after the fact.
As with the
rest of the trilogy, the supporting players are prone to stealing the show;
Michael Palin gives possibly his best performance (certainly his most – only? –
casually chilling one) as Sam’s friend Jack Lint. Robert De Niro’s freedom
fighter, Ian Holm’s ultimate bureaucrat, Bob Hoskins, Ian Richardson and
Katherine Helmond (the film is a plastic surgeon’s nightmare) fill out a mostly
impeccable cast. Only Kim Greist’s love interest fails to ignite flames of
passion, which is unfortunate as the object of Sam’s fantasies is a crucial
part of the story.
3. Fear and
Loathing in Las Vegas
(1998)
It’s a
Gilliam film I’ve enjoyed more on each revisit, I think because it’s initially
difficult to displace the power of Thompson’s prose (and, to be fair, Gilliam
doesn’t try; he and co-writer Tony Grisoni are rightly guided by Raoul Duke’s
narration). Johnny Depp’s Thompson impersonation is startling, possibly the
best of his more cartoonish creations. All exaggerated movements and staccato
intonations, he only has to open his mouth to induce mirth.
Gilliam has
commented that he’s never been one for artificially achieved altered states; he
has a natural affinity with them. And it shows. His subdued but suitably trippy
use of CGI and prosthetics is only there as the icing on the cake of an already
exaggerated landscape, one informed by performance and the director’s trademark
use of wide angle lens (albeit he also adopts Dutch angles, and adjusts focus
and lighting, depending on the properties of the individual substances
consumed).
Fear and Loathing is all the more impressive given the brief
turnaround time; the project was floundering under initial director Alex Cox,
and Gilliam dived in head-first. 90% of the director’s casting and music
choices are spot-on. Cameos from Tobey Maguire and Gary Busey are amusing and
memorable, while the scenes featuring Christina Ricci and Ellen Barkin are
disturbing and memorable. If there’s a failing, it’s the Benicio Del Toro’s Dr.
Gonzo lacks the warmth to counteract his extreme behaviour (a criticism Ralph
Steadman raised, and one Gilliam acknowledged, albeit he has slightly recanted
since).
I’m not
being perversely choosy by placing two of his least embraced films (see also
the premier spot) near the top of my list; I simply continue to get the biggest
kick out of them. That said, Gilliam’s rendition of the end of the American
Dream seems to be increasingly finding the audience it deserves.
2. Time
Bandits
(1981)
The first
in his “three stages of man” trilogy,
it’s also the first instance of his consistent flair for casting likeable child
leads (no mean feat when you witness the insufferable brats populating most
Hollywood fare). But Craig Warnock is also supported by the kind of magnificently
eclectic cast we’ve come to expect from the former Python.
The sadly
passed-on David Rappaport (of Jigsaw’s
O-Men, he’s mercifully the one who isn’t Sylvester McCoy) deserves the most
acclaim for his charismatic Randall, leader of the motley band of dwarves who
accost Kevin. But Sean Connery also gives perhaps the warmest performance of
his career as a paternal Agamemnon. Ian Holm is delightful as a
height-conscious Napoleon, Ralph Richardson a suitably doddery old Supreme
Being and David Warner relishes the chance to ooze frustrated malevolence as
Evil (a part earmarked for Jonathan Pryce, but given his undiluted hammery in
most of his work with Gilliam, I’m grateful we got the former Omen actor).
Visually
and structurally, Time Bandits is
most comparable to the later Munchausen.
Both organise themselves around quests/pursuits, enabling an episodic and
eventful format. Both also engage with fantastic landscapes, merging myth,
history and metaphysics into a thematically rich adventure, one where reality
and fantasy are left slightly confused.
For a
family film, Gilliam has no qualms in embracing the darkness. Sometimes this
comes through in the striking imagery; the Supreme Being’s commanding face as
the bandits tumble down the time corridor; the broken mirror revealing Evil’s
lair on the other side. At others, it’s thematic; Kevin’s dismissive,
preoccupied parents ultimately meet a fate many adults would think twice about letting
their kids witness (it’s the kind of blackly comic ending you can imagine Gilliam
cackling maniacally over as soon as he thought of it).
This was
the director still finding his way post-Python,
and as such he enlists old comrades John Cleese (as a typically Cleese-like
Robin Hood) and Michael Palin to help. Palin co-wrote the rather wonderful
screenplay with his director, but his recurring role(s) as one half of an
ill-fated couple (with Shelley Duvall) is the film’s only weak spot.
1. The
Adventures of Baron Munchausen
(1988)
The final
part of his “three stages of man” trilogy,
Munchausen best expresses the
invigorating effect of the tonic of imagination on the soul; it’s the central
recurring theme in Gilliam’s work. In Munchausen’s case, the dreary joylessness
of the scientific age is cast off as his weary old soul is physically and
mentally rejuvenated by a precocious young one, who knows no “better”, choosing
to believe in him. In the end, imagination wins out over death itself.
John
Neville is a delight in a rare leading role (he’d been absent from the big
screen for the best part of two decades, but earlier appearances include a
memorable Sherlock Holmes in A Study in
Terror and Wellington in the somewhat Gilliam-esque The Adventures of Gerard). Sarah Polley proves a winningly uncutesy
co-star as Sally Salt. This is the last (to date) of Terry’s Python collaborations, with Eric Idle drawing
the short straw (much to his frustration). But the film is wall-to-wall with
memorable turns, including co-writer Charles McKeown, Oliver Reed (inspired
casting, and an inspired comic performance as a henpecked Vulcan), Time Bandits’ Jack Purvis, Jonathan
Pryce showing absolutely no restraint as the villain, Bill Paterson, Alison Steadman,
Uma Thurman (as Venus), Peter Jeffrey (almost unrecognisable), Robin Williams
and Valentina Cortese (who, for all Williams’ scene-stealing hyperactivity,
gives the more vibrant performance as his wife, the Queen of the Moon). Oh, and
Sting.
The film is
gorgeously shot by Giuseppe Rotunno (the ripples of sand on the Moon, the
insides of the giant fish, Venus revealed from a giant shell in a live-action
Botticelli) and Dante Ferreti’s art direction is sumptuous. The visual effects
are of-a-piece; unexpected, imaginative, cartoonish yet always tangible (it’s
little-remembered, but the film collected four technical Oscar nominations; it
deserved the actual statuettes every bit as much as Fury Road warranted its clutch). This is a film where no aspect has
dated, as it looked like nothing else when it came out. And (as they say) the
money is all up there on screen. It’s one of the last pictures of the analogue
age, and it yields miraculous dividends, be it in the animated zodiac or the delirious
moonscape.
It’s
difficult to single out a favourite sequence; the set pieces of the Sultan’s
palace, the Moon, Vulcan’s volcano and the big fish are all extraordinary in
their own ways. It would be a treat if we could one day get to see Gilliam’s
original cut, just a couple of minutes longer but – so he says – all the
difference in perfecting the flow, yet what we have remains a masterpiece.
The
blending of fantasy and reality is much more self-reflexive than its director would
attempt again, as a performance of the Baron’s adventures gives way to the
arrival of the actual Baron, which slides into a flashback to one of his
adventures and then finds him setting
off on a new one. Gilliam throws in ample suggestion that this is all an
extravagant confabulation on the Baron’s part, but then delivers the pleasing
curveball that it may all be true. Because the tale and the telling are so
interwoven, it’s impossible to prise a definite answer, which is the joy of the
experience.
Pauline
Kael suggested the lack of clear narrative was a fault, and pointed to the
illogicality of the conclusion, yet this dreamlike uncertainty is precisely the
point. Gilliam’s daring you to embrace it, to reject the Age of Reason; here we
have a glorious piece of work, but it may have slightly punctured its director’s
dreams of “hot air and fantasy”. After
his most optimistic film – ironically, given its themes – he would never ride quite
so high and free again (to date). Perhaps we’ll yet see (old man) Gilliam triumph
where the Baron did before him.
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