The Movie Review: 'Grizzly Man'

It is the fervor of Treadwell's belief, more than the particulars of his circumstances, that seems to fascinate and perplex Herzog, the cultured European rationalist. For him, nature is cruel and cold and desolate. Surveying a gorgeous glacier near Treadwell's site, Herzog muses, "This gigantic complexity of tumbling ice and abysses separated Treadwell from the world out there. And more so, it seems to me that this landscape in turmoil is a metaphor of his soul." Responding to Treadwell's "sentimentalized view" of nature after the discovery of the dead fox, Herzog declares, "I believe the common denominator of the universe is not harmony, but chaos, hostility, and murder." (Whose soul is supposed to be in turmoil here?) Near the very end of the film, he confesses, "And what haunts me is that in all the faces of all the bears that Treadwell ever filmed, I discover no kinship, no understanding, no mercy. I see only the overwhelming indifference of nature." This conflict between Treadwell and Herzog, between delirious belief and cultivated nihilism, is at the core of Grizzly Man.

It is not, however, an argument Herzog seems much interested in winning. To begin with, it's hard to tell how devoutly he believes his own existential denunciations: His vehement language--"chaos, hostility, and murder"--seems at odds with his placid delivery. Moreover, the film itself is emphatically humane, its portrayal of Treadwell affectionate and even admiring. It's as if Herzog yearns to be persuaded he is wrong--and on an emotional level perhaps senses he already has been.

There is a very peculiar scene in the film in which Herzog has in his hands viscerally compelling evidence of his view that nature is cruel and violent but declines to share it. Moments before the fatal grizzly attack, either Treadwell or Huguenard had turned on the video camera but had not had time to remove the lens cap. The result is an audio recording, several minutes long, of their agonized deaths--the screaming, the pleading, the desperate, unsuccessful efforts to drive the bear away. We first learn of the tape from the coroner, who offers a detailed description of its contents. In the very next scene, Herzog is with Jewel Palovak, a close colleague and former girlfriend of Treadwell. Using headphones, Herzog listens to the tape. He does not allow Jewel, who's never heard it, or the audience to listen in. He then tells her, "You must never listen to this. And you must never look at the photos that I've seen at the coroner's office. ... I think you should not keep [the tape]. You should destroy it. I think that's what you should do because it will be the white elephant in your room all your life." The scene has no ordinary narrative purpose: It tells us nothing we did not already know about the tape or the attack or Treadwell. What it tells us about is Herzog. He does not want Jewel (or us) to share his pitiless vision of the universe, whether because he himself has doubts or because he thinks a comforting lie is preferable to the horrible truth. He is an anti-evangelist for his own nihilism.

At the end of the film, Herzog advises, "Treadwell is gone. The argument how wrong or how right he was disappears into a distance, into a fog. What remains is his footage. And while we watch the animals in their joys of being, in their grace and ferociousness"--look how far we've come already from the "overwhelming indifference of nature"--"a thought becomes more and more clear. It is not so much a look at wild nature as it is an insight into ourselves, our nature. And that for me, beyond his mission, gives meaning to his life and to his death." The very last shot of the film, as the cowboy dirge "Coyotes" plays in the background, is of Treadwell walking alongside a stream with two bears following docilely close behind, like pets.

It's not quite an explicit philosophical surrender for Herzog. But it is a recognition that, the recklessness of his life and violence of his death notwithstanding, Timothy Treadwell had something to teach us about man's ability to coexist with nature. And regardless of what he says, Werner Herzog seems to have learned it.

The Home Movies List: Unreliable Narrators

Bladerunner (1982). "Unreliable" doesn't begin to do justice to the studio-mandated voiceover of the theatrical release, which flattened and dulled the film to the point of sabotage. Thankfully, the director's cut does away with it and the equally insipid tacked-on happy ending, restoring the dark, ambiguous vision of Ridley Scott (and Philip K. Dick).

The Usual Suspects (1995). The unreliable narrator has a deep affinity for film noir, but in this otherwise stylish thriller screenwriter Christopher McQuarrie and director Bryan Singer overplay their hand. By placing the entire story in the mouth of a liar they subvert not merely the identity of Keyser Soze but everything that has come before. Instead of the resolution to a clever puzzle, the film's ending becomes the functional equivalent of "It was all a dream."

Lolita (1997). By contrast, Adrian Lyne's appallingly misconceived adaptation features far too reliable a narrator. Instead of allowing Humbert Humbert to introduce himself (falsely) as a brilliant, debonair man of the world, it opens with him as the pitiable creature Nabokov only slowly revealed him to be. In so doing, it loses all of the master's dark wit and reduces one of literature's great characters to a pathological diagnosis. Though less true to the text of the novel, Kubrick's 1962 rendering captures its spirit far better (and includes a memorably witty cameo by Peter Sellers).

The Opposite of Sex (1998). Now here's a film Nabokov might have enjoyed, a mordant black comedy that gradually unfolds into something more. It also includes the best work to date by the wonderful Christina Ricci. More like this one, please.

Memento (2000). A magnificently clever and dextrous narrative puzzle. My only complaint (and it is a small one) is that the ingenuity of its gimmick obscures the film's considerable tragic dimensions.

Tarnation (2003). There is no subject on which a documentarian is less likely to be reliable than his own life, and Jonathan Caouette's creepily fascinating self-portrait is no exception. Flattering to those in a position to dispute it (though often not those who aren't) and full of undisclosed re-creations, it is a useful reminder that we can't always believe our eyes.

This post originally appeared at TNR.com.
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Christopher Orr is a senior editor and the principal film critic at The Atlantic. He has written on movies for The New Republic, LA Weekly, Salon, and The New York Sun, and has worked as an editor for numerous publications.

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