Cobra Verde

Werner Herzog’s Cobra Verde is, as A.O. Scott points out, a movie deeply concerned with mania. But it’s also a lush, wild, historical epic about the insignificance of man in the face of nature. The story about a Brazilian bandit sent to Africa to revive the slave trade is meandering and largely beside the point, as are all of the characters except for Cobra Verde (Klaus Kinski, who appears something like a cross between Hannibal Lecter and a rabid mountain lion). No, this is a movie about sight and sensation, will and self, man and the elements.

The movie’s visuals are, quite simply, astounding; Herzog’s orchestration of masses of African natives into singing, marching, fighting swarms and hordes is an awesome feat. But even the stillest, most sparsely populated shots are fascinatingly dense. The film’s shots have incredible depth, and are layered with action, not just giving us the simple long view, but as many as four or five planes of movement between the subject and the camera. Even in shots where it may seem unnecessary, Herzog always puts something in background and the foreground—as if to suggest that his subject will always be obscured in some way.

More importantly, the relentless depth and detail serve to remind the viewer that each and every action takes place within a complex, detailed context; often, the context nearly overwhelms the main action. Cobra Verde, then, is the story of a man struggling to break free from the crushing, dense confines of his surroundings. When, in the film’s epic and devastating final shot, he attempts to drag a boat into the sea and is finally swallowed up in its waters, we see that even his insane, Herculean efforts are not enough; his surroundings have pulled him down to the ground and all but washed him away.