There is a rare creative lucidity to the defecatory madness of Hard to Be a God. I would be lying if I claimed to have fully grasped its essence, though cogency is hardly a feature the author seems to be after. What clearly reads in his Bruegelian delusion is rather what he once declared, to not be interested in anything but ‘the possibility of building a world, an entire civilisation from scratch.’
Converted from native colour stock to a stunning, silvery b/w that reminded me at times of Ben Wheatley’s digitally photographed A Field in England (coincidentally released the same year), German’s apocalyptic orgy of rot and rain demands a certain degree of cinephile stamina, but not in exchange for nothing. Its exhaustingly slow pace and murky narrative convey a palpable sense of stillness, anguish, and oppression, that are likely meant to evoke Stalinist Russia’s dereliction while stirring broader reflections on human nature.
The camerawork is enthralling. Crisp spherical lenses wander throughout the delirious carnival seamlessly shifting in and out of POVs, often framed by bizarre objects in the foreground to an alienating effect. Characters emerge from behind the camera à la Klaus Kinski in Herzog’s Aguirre, occasionally staring straight at us, delivering random lines or lovely guttural grunts.
However arcane and strenuous, Hard to Be a God is the monumental work of a master. It left me singularly fascinated, inspired, and eager to take a long, warm shower.