#48 — Stroszek (Werner Herzog, 1977)
It’s difficult to write about Stroszeg without caving in and turning the whole thing into a prolonged essay on all the distinctive elements that make Werner Herzog’s films, the good and the bad, so endlessly fascinating. That’s not just because of my recurring bad habit of making every review of a major director’s work into a rambling consideration of its place with their entire oeuvre. I do that. I know. Instead, the temptation flares up because Stroszek is as perfect of an encapsulation of Herzog’s style, strengths and off-kilter instincts as could be imagined. His relatively consistent theme of man’s hubris in the face of nature’s awesome power is the only piece that’s missing from the puzzle. Otherwise, this is Herzog being Herzog at his most vividly Herzogian. It is loopy and prone to digression, dotted with moments that are deliberately unpolished to the point of amateurish. Remarkably, it is also controlled and firmly, fiercely committed to its overarching themes, particularly its flatly considered exposure of the false promise of freedom.

The title character is played by Bruno S., who’d previously appeared in Herzog’s The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser. Herzog structured the character around his leading actor, drawing on his experiences, especially those in the first part of the film, which takes place in Berlin. Stroszek is released from prison, begins working as a street performer and starts up a relationship with a prostitute he encounters in a bar. That naturally leads to a conflict with her pimp, who arrives as fully adorned in furs and finery as any overdressed extra slipping information to Huggy Bear on Starsky and Hutch. The situation gets dire enough that the join and elderly neighbor in fleeing to the expected safety of the United States, eventually settling in rural Wisconsin. This is where Herzog starts bringing the film to giddily surreal new heights, largely by conceding whole scenes to the mundane bizarreness of the world Stroszek and his compatriots encounter: a businesslike auctioneer, hunters who are politely baffled by their encounter with a foreigner and, after a change of locale, the assembled oddities at a lonely and decrepit roadside attraction. With wickedly funny understatement, Herzog makes the point that there’s nothing stranger than the American experience.

And there’s nothing more deceptive than the so-called American Dream. The weary travelers come to the country that promises prosperity and find opportunity that is always immediately countered by insurmountable heroes. Stroszek is outfitted with the trappings of success–his own home, an assemblage of the latest conveniences and a steady job where the Point Beer is shared freely as a reward for finishing the day–only to find how quickly it can all be stripped away. Easy Street is actually pockmarked with ruts and bumps, but no one explains that when they’re ushering in a newcomer.

Herzog captures it all with the same plainspoken and opinionated fascination that marks his documentary work. Just as Stroszek is flummoxed by his environment–the main expression Bruno S. employs uses a heavy, creased brow to convey a placid irritation–Herzog is entranced by it. This isn’t in some sort of romantic way, seeing the terrain as some sunbeam, soft focus paradise. Instead, he sees the drabness, the coldness, the landscape perennially scorched into haunted inactivity by the rigors of winter. Herzog sees the challenge of simple survival and makes that into its own murmured drama. Amidst the goofiness–or maybe because of his enduring respect for the goofiness–the director’s voice is resonantly clear.