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celestemgracia's review against another edition
3.75
A diary containing beautiful description of solitude and the irreverent quality of nature.
However, it is very much apparent that it was written by a man in the late 70s.
However, it is very much apparent that it was written by a man in the late 70s.
kingkong's review against another edition
4.0
How did he have the energy for all this, just reading it was exhausting
mobilisinmobili's review against another edition
3.0
Entertaining for the Herzogian tone and worldview, but not overly edifying about the making of Fitzcarraldo.
melanie_reads's review against another edition
2.0
Coronavirus (update: Coronavirus + Rebellion 2020) book review #43 – 2.5 stars
Meh, this isn’t the moment for this book, the journal in which he chronicles the making of his masterpiece Fitzcarraldo.
The NY Times recently ran an article about the lack of diversity among The Criterion Collection, the seminal film collection, and I’ve been unable to stop thinking about it. Herzog’s journal also raises the specter of whose stories get told.
There’s no dearth of the musings for which Herzog is known, and which I find wildly amusing.
But to be honest, I couldn’t help thinking about what the Native people’s perception of Herzog and his film crew was. He makes references to made up stories in the press and I have to wonder, were they really made-up? Wasn’t he acting the full white man? How is it that he can spend over two years to make this movie, including filming Mick Jagger, one of the biggest rock stars of all time, only to ditch it later?
I also struggle with the blatant misogyny. Kinski doesn’t want to talk to a woman on the radio. The endless stream of nameless Native women who are sick and dying. It’s hard to look at Herzog’s story without looking at the stories of the nameless he encounters. To say nothing of the treatment of the local animals.
When you open your eyes to see someone else’s story, you start to question everything. I so wanted to love this book to recognize the privilege of clinging to one's dream to share what's in your soul, but alas.
Meh, this isn’t the moment for this book, the journal in which he chronicles the making of his masterpiece Fitzcarraldo.
The NY Times recently ran an article about the lack of diversity among The Criterion Collection, the seminal film collection, and I’ve been unable to stop thinking about it. Herzog’s journal also raises the specter of whose stories get told.
There’s no dearth of the musings for which Herzog is known, and which I find wildly amusing.
But to be honest, I couldn’t help thinking about what the Native people’s perception of Herzog and his film crew was. He makes references to made up stories in the press and I have to wonder, were they really made-up? Wasn’t he acting the full white man? How is it that he can spend over two years to make this movie, including filming Mick Jagger, one of the biggest rock stars of all time, only to ditch it later?
I also struggle with the blatant misogyny. Kinski doesn’t want to talk to a woman on the radio. The endless stream of nameless Native women who are sick and dying. It’s hard to look at Herzog’s story without looking at the stories of the nameless he encounters. To say nothing of the treatment of the local animals.
When you open your eyes to see someone else’s story, you start to question everything. I so wanted to love this book to recognize the privilege of clinging to one's dream to share what's in your soul, but alas.
artupop's review
adventurous
emotional
inspiring
reflective
medium-paced
5.0
Conquista de lo Inútil es un regalo para el alma. Podría decirse que es la obra cumbre de Herzog. Un relato que te transforma a un lugar que escapa de cualquier definición tradicional de set de rodaje, y entra en la naturaleza en su máximo esplendor. Hasta un punto de salvajismo, pureza y fuerza capaces de dejar en entredicho todas las seguridades en las que en Occidente se basa la vida cotidiana. Una auténtica delicia. Un libro para releer y recuperar un sinnúmero de veces.
dustymantle's review against another edition
3.0
I learned, amidst all the vicariously harrowing minutiae of Fitzcarraldo's making, that Herzog had a knack for observations regarding animals and other beasts that surrounded him, like a guttural German David Attenborough.
lv2's review
5.0
I laughed the entire way through the book, which is all you can really ask from anything, really. Herzog is only disguised as a bat-shit crazy director--his real profession is a brilliant jester of tragicomedy.
uncleflannery's review
5.0
Compelled to update this because I am quoting it in something else:
"Nature has come to her senses again; only the forest is still menacing, motionless. The river rolls along without a sound, a monster. Night falls very fast, with the last birds scolding the evening, as always at this hour. Rough cawing, malevolent sounds, punctuated by the even chirping of the first cicadas. From all this working in the rain my fingers are wrinkly, like those of the laundresses. I must have a hundred bites on my back from some insect I never did see; all of me is rotting with moisture. I’d be grateful if it were only dreams tormenting me. Across the table came a strange primeval insect, with a thin, lance-like, excessively long proboscis and feelers on both sides. I couldn’t make out any eyes. It was dragging a dead insect of the same species, and disappeared through the cracks in the bark floor. Then caterpillars crawled toward me from all directions, brainless but unstoppable. I thought intensely of the great moment when I showed my son, five at the time, the mountains of the moon through a telescope."
"Nature has come to her senses again; only the forest is still menacing, motionless. The river rolls along without a sound, a monster. Night falls very fast, with the last birds scolding the evening, as always at this hour. Rough cawing, malevolent sounds, punctuated by the even chirping of the first cicadas. From all this working in the rain my fingers are wrinkly, like those of the laundresses. I must have a hundred bites on my back from some insect I never did see; all of me is rotting with moisture. I’d be grateful if it were only dreams tormenting me. Across the table came a strange primeval insect, with a thin, lance-like, excessively long proboscis and feelers on both sides. I couldn’t make out any eyes. It was dragging a dead insect of the same species, and disappeared through the cracks in the bark floor. Then caterpillars crawled toward me from all directions, brainless but unstoppable. I thought intensely of the great moment when I showed my son, five at the time, the mountains of the moon through a telescope."
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