What Went Wrong?

The Adventures of Baron
Munchausen
By Nathan Williams

Joseph Goebbels is known for many things, most of them bad. This is probably deserved. He was, of course, third in line behind Hitler. High-ranking Nazis deserve no apologies. And I have none to give. None whatsoever. He was a bad guy. Really, really bad.

But, gosh, if he didn’t love movies like nothing else.

As Minister of Propaganda and Popular Enlightenment he had total control over film production and exhibition in Nazi Germany. His tyrannical rule, in addition to more general Nazi heinousness, is credited with driving the bulk of the talent of the German film industry to Hollywood (including Fritz Lang, Conrad Veidt, Peter Lorre, Max Ophüls, Douglas Sirk, Robert Siodmak, and Max Reinhardt).  But his passion for quality cinema was genuine.

When the Nazis took power in 1933, the German film industry expected censorship. Out of this fear, significant self-censorship was undertaken and film production dropped by about 40% between ‘33 and ‘34. Yet they were shocked when Goebbels began banning films based on their lack of quality rather than any political reason. About one banned comedy he wrote, “It is tasteless, void of any imagination…dull, stupid film fare.”

He was fanatically jealous of Hollywood. When he saw It Happened One Night he tore apart the screening room in a fury. After watching Gone With the Wind he was so depressed as to seclude himself for several days. For birthdays and Christmas he always gave Hitler reels of films from America. Goebbels personally made a point of watching at least one film a day. He repeatedly fought Hitler to exempt film personnel from conscription and to prevent the closing of cinemas due to coal shortages.

In short, an evil man who loved movies. Like Lars von Trier or Walt Disney. Does this make him more human? I’m not sure. But it means that Nazi-era German films are better than you’d expect.

One such film is Munchausen (1943), the “Nazi Wizard of Oz” (as described by Eric Rentschler); a cinematic adaptation of the Baron Munchhausen legends. The film is the first German full-color feature and flaunts its special effects in a less integrated manner than MGM’s fantasy. But it is a solid film with charm, humor, and a captivating narrative.

Munchhausen is a German nobleman with the power to seduce any woman at any time simply by walking in the room. His primary motivation in life is to get laid, a goal he achieves quite often over the course of the film. He has no other innate powers or skills (except for his brief, unexplained ability to ride a cannonball), but has a mechanically gifted manservant, a fast-running friend, and a friendly arch-nemesis who bestows magical presents. His adventures are episodic, selfish, and violent, yet whimsical at the same time. It is a surprisingly lusty film with some fairly explicit dialogue and more than a little nudity. Its humor is often edgy (suicide, torture, tits) but never sadistic or outright low-brow.

It is not a great film, by any means. It meanders, there is pretty much zero emotional investment, and it is willing to show off effects at the expense of story at every possible opportunity. But the foundation is strong, the base legends are hardly exhausted, and the film, due to its context, is consigned to the rarely seen Nazi-era vault. A great candidate for a remake!

Terry Gilliam certainly thought so, and, having nursed the idea for almost a decade, approached Columbia with his adaptation of the Munchhausen stories (to be titled The Adventures of Baron Munchausen). Gilliam had just gone to war with Universal over their brutal re-editing of Brazil, but Columbia apparently looked at the profits of Time Bandits and the critical enthusiasm for Brazil and decided that Reagan-era America was ready for the whimsical (and expensive) adventures of an 18^th century German nobleman. His Baron teams up with a young girl and recapitulates many of his historic adventures as she learns the value of imagination or tying her shoes or something. The production ran wildly over-budget and was, upon completion, the third most expensive film ever made. It starred unknowns, confused the hell out of the audience, and made almost nothing upon release. I believe I’m one of six people currently living who saw it in the theatre.

Though I have great personal affection for it, the film is more curiosity than coherence. Like Satyricon before it and Casino after, it is a big, dense, complicated film that inspires jaw-dropping at the expense of giving a shit about what happens. It is far from a failure and fits nicely as the third chapter of Gilliam’s “Trilogy of Ages.” But it is in no way an equal of Gilliam’s better work and, it pains me to say, an unsuccessful film.

What went wrong?

Decision #1: The budget.

The producers (Columbia wisely capped their own investment and had little control over production) were somehow convinced that Gilliam’s past history of budget discipline and his prepared, animator’s mentality would make the $25 million budget a reasonable goal. Yet they misread Gilliam’s toughness in the fight against Universal as merely an artist righteously defending the sanctity of his work. Gilliam, more than any other filmmaker of our era, lives through his work and his characters. Brazil was a man fighting against the system and Gilliam fought the system. Munchausen was a man repeatedly defying reality, so Gilliam defied reality. Before shooting began, Gilliam told Sight and Sound, “"I get the feeling that, a bit like Brazil, the making of the film is going to be like the film itself, where one is trying to do something impossible. Whereas Brazil was about a nightmare, this one is about impossibility and overcoming it, and trying to push through a lot of things and a lot of people who don't think they can do it, ‘cause they're realistic."

Gilliam’s budget was obviously unrealistic and somebody should have noticed this before they started running out of money with only half the film shot. The drastic cuts that the insurers forced on Gilliam mid-production compound the disconnected feeling of the narrative, and, while his fault, could easily have been avoided.

Decision #2: The location.

Newly emboldened filmmakers seem drawn like moths to Rome’s hallowed Cinecitta Studios (Fellini and Visconti owned the place in the 50s and 60s). Martin Scorsese took Gangs of New York there for intangible reasons, as did Wes Anderson with The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou. Unsurprisingly, those films, like Munchausen, are expensive failures. The studio is understandably quite large, one of the largest outdoor stages in the world. But the reasons for foreigners to go there are pure egoism.

Gilliam admitted, again to Sight and Sound, “To choose to come to Italy is a very bizarre thing to do. I mean, they don't have the experience. The Americans and the English are the only ones with the kind of experience that's necessary to make this sort of film.” Gilliam’s battles with the crew were constant and the language issue was always at hand. The design and lighting are marvelous but too many sequences are awkwardly executed, and Gilliam’s inability to connect meaningfully with his crew is the most likely culprit.

Decision #3: The writing.

It’s obvious that Gilliam wanted spectacle. He wrote the biggest film he could think of (locations: the moon, inside a volcano, the Sultan’s palace, etc.). But his intended themes (imagination overcoming rationalism) do not need huge sets and casts of thousands. The 1943 Munchhausen does not amaze the modern viewer, but it demonstrates that you can achieve wonder in an audience’s eyes without gigantism. Andrei Tarkovsky made an entire career out of small moments of magic that transport an audience.

He also defangs the Baron more than he ought to. Gilliam’s Baron is constantly falling in love with women and giving them flowers or talking about the good old days. The Nazi Baron preferred to occupy himself undressing Catherine the Great and taunting eunuchs. Gilliam’s desire to connect this film with the childish wonder of Time Bandits is admirable, but he lurches too far in this direction and makes the Baron as much of a child as his co-star, even when his reverse aging occurs. Some of the original’s lustiness would have made for a film that actually seems to be about the dilemmas of old age rather than a child’s romanticized version of it.

There is a good film at the heart of Baron Munchausen. And there is some wonderful spectacle. But it’s clear that Gilliam is only talented enough to focus on one or the other, and spectacle won this round handily.

Best illustration of the mindset behind this remake: Long after the main characters have exited the scene, Oliver Reed (playing Vulcan) locks lips with Uma Thurman (Venus) next to a nuclear bomb as several dozen giant Cyclops sing a mournful song and even-more-giant machinery bashes along with the tune.

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