Lisandro Alonso 2014 Denmark/Argentina/France/Netherlands/Mexico/USA
Starring: Viggo Mortensen, Viilbjørk Malling Agger, Ghita Nørby, Adrian Fondari, Esteban Bigliardi, Brian Patterson
In his past work Argentina's Lisandro Alonso has stayed firmly within the 'slow cinema' movement that has risen up over the past few years. Previously narrative has been pared to the bone, incident minimised, words notable mostly only by their absence. With his latest, Jauja (pronounced How-ha and named for the mythical city of plenty mentioned in the cynical opening narration), however he has gone completely in the other direction, melding the western, war, explorer and mystery genres into something resolutely unlike any of them, evoking Werner Herzog's "colour-drenched, violently physical moving painting" Aguirre, the Wrath of God and displaying hereto unforeseen cinephile urges in the vein of Leos Carax. Here Alonso isn't aiming for present-day realism or everyday life but has placed the story in Patagonia in 1882 with Danish captain Gunnar Dinesen working as an engineer in the Argentinian desert, a role that doubles as a cover for the small company of officers he commands to exterminate the indigenous people of the area. What's more, not only are his actors no longer non-professionals but his leading man is Hollywood star and Cronenberg associate Viggo Mortensen who also contributes to the eerie soundtrack. The presentation of the lush images also shuns the purity Alonso has become known for and places the screen within a rounded black frame as if the entire tale is being watched clandestinely through the captain's telescope or glimpsed via a series of ancient photographs, quite possibly as much a moral myth as the realm of the title. As the film opens with a dictionary definition of Jauja itself you'd be forgiven for thinking Dinesen was just another Aguirre, tirelessly searching for a fabled land of milk and honey that may not exist anyway with his beloved daughter in tow and his underlings, not to mention his sanity, dropping like flies, but he seems thoughtful, friendly and even-tempered. He wants to understand the natives rather than eliminate them even as he fails to understand parts of his own life or even realise that he doesn't. Another man, an officer named Zuluaga, is mentioned with whispers that paint him as a crazy man, a deserter who has disappeared into the undergrowth and even a cross-dressing wannabe despot. Some claim to have never seen him, others talk of him in unsure descriptions. Could he in fact be Alonso's Aguirre or is he closer to Coppola's Colonel Kurtz, retreating into a delirious but successful fantasy where he alone is king? Dinesen's girl, Ingeborg, is an odd presence in herself. With her billowing blue dress covering her from throat to wrists and trailing through the earth below her feet she could be on the cusp of her teenage years or pushing 25 but, either way, is still her father's "sweet girl". She is infantilised, denied any sexuality and her only wish is to have a dog who will follow her everywhere and live only for her, characteristics that describe what her father wishes her to be pretty well. Soon though Zuluaga and Jauja fade from the story (although not entirely) and the tables are turned with Ingeborg absconding with the young soldier/white slave Corto and her father becoming the dog with nothing in his life, future or mind other than finding her. On discovering her missing he is frantic and grabs his gun but stops suddenly, sits, reflects in a moment sodden with suicidal self-pity then dresses calmly and brushes off his men, the pace growing languid and the gorgeous, dream-like atmosphere calling to mind Alejandro Jodorowsky's El Topo and the feral, mind-bending westerns of Glauber Rocha as Dinesen goes out into the landscape astride his horse, the conquering avenger to no-one but himself, his inexperienced malice released from his formal beginnings. In a stunning visual we look through his eyes at his own reflection in a lake before he himself swipes it away with his hand. Later the scene is echoed unexpectedly and quietly with a tin soldier discarded beneath the surface of a spring. For her part Ingeborg and her new paramour don't seem all that enamoured of each other and, in a disarmingly awkward scene, she takes the lead, undressing him, exploring his body and the birthmarks she mistakes for wounds, unsure that she even wants him but desperate to feel everything that her father has forbidden her. A late twist takes thing quite literally to another plane with time and terrain becoming malleable, another character who shares the name of actress Viilbjørk Malling Agger (Ingeborg) appearing and Dinesen's role as central figure becoming questionable. The new girl too is fond of dogs and her favourite carries the mark of one Dinesen encounters several minutes earlier, apparently a nervous reaction to her long and mysterious absences. Here Agger is better and more natural than her earlier performance and her delivery far less stilted. Mortensen though is excellent throughout, embodying Dinesen's impotent amiability as well as his increasing desolation with capable subtlety. Fascinating and refreshing as Alonso's approach is the enigmatic ending nevertheless can't help but feel evasive and even slightly lazy. The majority is hallucinatory and haunting but there's not enough weight to the finale and too many plot strands are left unanswered. In truth there could comfortably have been another half hour or more added on without the film losing anything, it may well even have prevented the ambience of an interrupted experience it carries as it is.