The BFI film festival played host to the UK’s first showing of Terry Gilliam’s, (25 years’ late) pet project, The Man Who Killed Don Quixote. The red carpet was rolled out, paparazzi took their place, and fans waited anxiously about the garden; the sycophantic narcissism was getting more meta by the second.
Gilliam steps on stage and advises his audience that ‘there’ll be a Q and A, where we’ll apologise first of all […]’; Olga Kurylenko tells her this is the most outrageous character she’s played; Jonathan Pryce tells us he can’t stay, but hopes we enjoy this film that’s been in the works for a quarter of a century. There’s an arrogance to Gilliam’s opening statement that implies that he knows why we’re here: to see a Gilliam film, no matter the consequences. Judging by the predominantly very white, very male, very middle-aged audience, he’s not wrong.
The film begins and is instantly out of place in this post Me Too and Time’s Up world. A quick run-through of the film’s finest imagery:
- We have a young, ambitious, white man come to Spain to exploit its scenery and people. He entices an elderly local to play his Quixote and an underage girl to play the virginal archetype and hero’s obsession.
- Muslim characters with lines are played by white, European women
- The supporting female cast members have approximately five lines (mostly moans) and represent the tropes of The Whore and The Virgin.
- There’s a smattering of Trump/Russia/moon-landing jokes to prove its relevancy
This film is incredibly uncomfortable to watch.
We know it’s not didactic, but remember that Gilliam has spent 25 years trying to make this film. Somewhere along those two and a half decades, he’s morphed into his own Quixote; he’s Narcissus looking into an infinity mirror, and his hubris is his downfall.
The most uncomfortable thread of the film is this bizarre archaic obsession with the young Angelica (Joana Ribeiro). We first see her being seduced by an older male director, being told she’ll be a star – so long as she conforms to this angelic (yes, like her namesake), virginal stereotype. Weinstein, anyone?
A decade passes and we find out she’s turned to prostitution and is being violently abused by her current partner. No matter – she still has the glow of hopeful innocence and our hero will save the day while our real-life director/write continues to limit her dialogue, opt for over sensualised shots of her in lingerie and low-cut dresses, and have her be the mute damsel in distress that 2018 cinema is really missing.
It’s unsettling, but not shocking, that the same Hollywood activists who publicly fight for equality and representation, have willingly participated in something is nothing more than a white-washed vanity project that doesn’t make any attempt to effectively represent people of colour or women.
Character development is weak across the board and it’s not hard to read between the lines and understand that they are merely mirror images of everyone involved in the production of this film. At its core, this is a story of powerful men (writers/directors/etc) convincing other powerful men (studio executives) to take on their projects and let them ‘create’. We’re watching a distasteful reimagining of Gilliam’s plight to make this film his reality; the Fourth Wall was a ruin long before the audience started out on this pilgrimage. This film is 25 years too late and it shows.
Gilliam is so desperate to remain relevant and prove a point (that the studios who rejected him in 1989 were wrong), that he doesn’t spend one moment thinking of the evolving socio-political zeitgeist of his current audience. He is Quixote: foolish, old, and delusional.
”The Man Who Killed Don Quixote: a tone-deaf exercise in narcissism’ is an article written by Helen Tippell. You can find Helen on LinkedIn.
