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"Keep your fly zipped," advises the parole officer early on, prison bars reflected on glass for the benefit of Grosbard and Hoffman (Straight Time). The immigrant's ballad by Werner Herzog, out of the cooler and into the hands of bullies. "Berlin's been really getting on my nerves," so off to America for the cracked accordionist (Bruno S.), the mauled prostitute (Eva Mattes) and the wizened neighbor (Clemens Scheitz), their ship is a tiny white dash on the high-angled New York panorama. The drive to Wisconsin is an impressionistic road-movie distillation, awaiting the trio are wintry expanses and one pooch with a bright green Hawaiian lei. (Not for nothing is Errol Morris thanked in the credits.) Happiness on credit in the New World, a vision of freedom only until the reality of repossession, the mobile home is wheeled in and then away to the scratchy tune of "Silver Bell." "Can't say I know the language, but something smells fishy to me." The Berliner Mauer in the heartland is a patch guarded by rival tractors with shotguns, the blunt degradation back home is here doled out "politely, with a smile." And yet there's genuine affection from Herzog for these oddball Americans with their ribald limericks and auctioning lingo, so much that the story can't resist ending like a Western, cowboy hat and barbershop robbery and all. The spindly newborn's instinctive grip, the metal detector on top of the frozen lake, all part of the sustained captivation. At its center is the rough glow of Bruno S., part Rip Torn and part Beethoven, ludicrously clutching a stolen turkey and still mysteriously gallant in his battered understanding that "it goes in circles." The dancing chicken at the coin-operated kitsch parlor is Dickinson's "Hope is the Thing with Feathers," assuredly, Sonny Terry's hollering harmonica is a requiem for every dreamer. With Wilhelm von Homburg, Burkhard Driest, Clayton Szalpinski, Ely Rodriguez, and Scott McKain.
--- Fernando F. Croce |