Western cinema, and by extension much of Western culture, has had a complicated relationship with colonialism. From the pro-British propaganda of Gunga Din to the “cowboys vs. Indians” subgenre that Stagecoach (1939) occupies, European and American representation of the very races that they oppress has been predictably wanting. This is why James Gray’s revisionist epic, The Lost City of Z (2016), begins with a deliberate juxtaposition, following a shot of Native Amazonian tribesmen with a shot of the British Percy Fawcett (Charlie Hunnam) on horseback. This is not a display of dominance or conflict, but rather one of harmony, representative of the film’s protagonist being one of the few progressives of the time willing to give Aboriginal tribes humanity. The Lost City of Z is partly a thrilling exploration adventure and partly a thoughtful examination of obsession, but the real reason it succeeds is because of its politics.
Despite the typical refrain to preach the concept of separating art from its politics or, rather, to review its “objective qualities” only (of which there is no such thing), The Lost City of Z derives much of its emotional and thematic depth from said politics. James Gray, ever the humanist, realizes that empathy can very well be a political act. By creating an audience surrogate that forces the viewer to view Native peoples in a truthful light, Gray manages to make an exploration movie for modern audiences filtered through a classical lens.
It is this classicism that really carries the film. Gray’s style of filmmaking has always felt out of step with modern tastes, even if his politics have not. Combining the grandiose period flourishes of David Lean with the visceral verisimilitude of Werner Herzog, Gray’s film has a majestic scope to it, bringing with it a sense of refinement that never gets bogged down by pretension. Every shot feels carefully considered, not with the intention of creating a pretty image, but rather to reflect a character’s emotional state. Take, for instance, a shot where Percy Fawcett finds himself overtaken by a flash flood. A less experienced director may seek to capture the scene in as exciting a manner as possible, utilizing extensive close-ups and handheld camerawork. Gray, on the other hand, dwarfs his character in an imposing wide shot. As a result, the flash flood pushes beyond being a simple action scene and turns into an effective metaphor for Fawcett’s all-consuming obsession overtaking him.
Fawcett himself is given an effective and subversive character arc. Eschewing a typical cause-and-effect structure, Gray instead decides to break the film into a series of episodes, with each episode following a different adventure that Fawcett takes, ranging from an attempt to communicate with a hostile tribe to him fighting in the trenches of World War I. The result is a film that feels epic in scale, spanning decades in a manner that turns the Amazon jungle into an omniscient presence, either as a looming threat or a tantalizing paradise. It is a surprisingly experimental narrative, which seems at odds with the formalistic style presented. However, this contradiction is more of a feature than a bug, for it is this very juxtaposition that gives the film its unique energy.
Charlie Hunnam, who plays Fawcett himself, has never been better. I previously have not been impressed by Hunnam’s wooden turns in Pacific Rim (2013) and King Arthur: Legend of the Sword (2017). However, in this film, he turns in a deeply layered, emotional performance. What I admired most about his work here is his commitment to restraint. There is never a moment where he appears to overact and, in a story like this, that must surely be a temptation. Instead, Hunnam simply seeks to inhabit this character, bringing forth a naturalism that perfectly complements the film’s similarly restrained tone. Consider, for example, the scene where Fawcett refuses to let his wife accompany him on his journey. A lesser actor would take this chamber drama scene as an opportunity to swallow the scenery whole. Hunnam, however, restrains himself, keeping his barbs short and terse. Not only does it feel more true to the character, it holds a metaphorical weight. The British class system he so desperately tries to break out of reinforces itself on him, not only repressing his mobility, but his very behavior. Sienna Miller, additionally, has an excellent turn here as Nina Fawcett, elevating what could very well have been a typical “worried wife” role into a character with deep-seated, burning passions that often run parallel to Fawcett’s goals.
Once the ending comes about, we realize just how important of a character Nina is. In The Lost City of Z, if obsession is an affliction, it is a contagious one. The jungle overtakes everyone close to Fawcett, not because it is terrifying and mysterious, but because there is a hidden humanity to it. These characters find themselves trapped in the rigid British class system and, through the Amazonian tribes, find some sort of escape. The irony is that this obsession is not born through a form of objectification but, rather, through a realization of these tribsemen’s humanity. It is in this way that James Gray prevents his film from containing neocolonialist themes. Fawcett never looks at the Amazonian tribespeople through an objectifying lens. He does not seek them because they are “spiritual” and “mystical,” but rather because he desires human connection. By showing Nina similarly being overtaken by the jungle, Gray’s thesis is clear: it is our search for what is truly human that prevents us from being just that.
Author Biography
Keshav Srinivasan is a student at Chapman University.
Film Details
The Lost City of Z (2016)
USA
Director James Gray
Runtime 140 minutes
