Two years ago I reviewed Werner Herzog’s Where the Green Ants Roam, in which the German director dramatized a native title dispute and clash of cultures between an Australian mining company and Indigenous custodians of Arnhem Land. Herzog is not the only German New Wave filmmaker to make a film in Australia: so too did Wim Wenders with the international co-production Until the End of the World (1991). The film is co-scripted by novelist Peter Carey—whose literary work provided source material for adaptations Bliss, Oscar and Lucinda, and the dreadful True History of the Kelly Gang—and co-conceived with star Solveig Dommartin.
I’ve seen fewer Wenders films than I have Herzog’s, though I’m less wary of Wender’s methods. Of the films I’ve seen, I best like Paris, Texas—a fairly uncontroversial choice—and, more controversially, Hammett and The Million Dollar Hotel, which star Mel Gibson—not a guy afraid to opine—called “as boring as a dog's ass”. On the flip side, I'm lukewarm on The American Friend, The Buena Vista Social Club and, most controversially, the celebrated Wings of Desire (starring Dommartin). Until the End of the World, my seventh Wenders film, unfortunately falls seventh in my rankings, though it shares attributes with the three films I like: it’s a road movie like Paris, Texas (and many other Wenders productions), albeit on a global scale spanning four continents; it has noir elements like Hammett; and it features a cast of misfits ala The Million Dollar Hotel.
Claire (Dommartin) has a chance encounter with fugitive Trevor (William Hurt) in Europe, where he’s evading authorities after committing industrial espionage. The story that follows, which unfolds in the near future (1999) against the backdrop of a looming global disaster, propels the pair and a cast of eclectic characters—including Claire’s on-off boyfriend (Sam Neill), a private detective (Rudiger Vogler), and an investigator doggedly pursuing Trevor (Ernie Dingo)—from Paris to Berlin to Lisbon to Moscow to Beijing to Tokyo to San Francisco to, finally, Coober Peedy in South Australia.
There’s
a lot of business and busyness going on in Until the End of the World. The film entertains
plenty of interesting ideas—including the prescient notion of people becoming
glued to electronic devices on which they can rewatch their dreams—and
entertains intermittently thanks to its engaging cast, including David
Gulpilil, Max Von Sydow, Lois Chiles, and Jeanne Moreau. Hurt is particularly
alert and charming, unlike his later sleepier work in Dark City, in full
possession of his leading man credentials after a strong decade that included Body
Heat, The Big Chill, Kiss of the Spider Woman, Broadcast News, and The
Accidental Tourist. But the film is a slog, even in the abridged 2 and a half
hour version I watched. There are several longer cuts of the film, one running almost five
hours. Whilst the other cuts might be more cohesive and rounded, I’m grateful
for the (relative) brevity. Having said that, Until the End of the World is in the Criterion Collection along with eight other Wenders titles, four of which I haven't seen, so I'll happily concede that maybe I'm the problem on this one.