Critics reviews

The first thing to be noted about this splendid film is just how seldom it feels Herzogian... Indeed, stylistically it far more closely resembles several other Nicole Kidman vehicles, such as Jane Campion's The Portrait of a Lady (1997) and Olivier Dahan's Grace of Monaco (2014). The connections between the Dahan (which I defended in a previous Bradlands column) and the Herzog are especially striking, since these films, which were made the same year, introduce Kidman in exactly the same way

The film doesn't have the epic sweep of David Lean's masterpiece, and the romantic despair bogs down the feminist jolt when we see Bell stand up to those men in the macho Arab world. So atypical of Herzog's solid style, Queen Of The Desert feels almost woozy, since the hard-edged adventure of Bell is rendered in an inappropriate soft focus.

Queen of the Desert certainly takes liberties with its subject—historian/spy/writer Gertrude Bell, who traveled through the Middle East during the demise of the Ottoman and British Empires and its aftermath—but it's classical Hollywood cinema done the Werner way, telling its story with brisk efficiency while finding time for romance, humor, a generous dose of macho swagger, and occasional moments of ebullience.

Yes, this biopic of English archeologist, linguist and explorer Gertrude Bell is somewhat dashed off, and doesn't look great, but if you're in a forgiving mood it's a lot of fun, because the dialogue is full of Herzogian banter.

For a director so adept at discovering, eliciting and pursuing a kind of inspired mania and adventurousness in his fellow man, coming across his first female heroine Herzog stumbles. Or perhaps coming across Nicole Kidman, a force of will in the film similar to that of Isabelle Huppert's presence in Claire Denis's White Material: a female actress whose persona and process is so strong that it actively fights the efforts of the director.

You would be excused for not recognizing it as a Herzog film; none of the director's stylistic tics are visible. Instead, we are treated to a biopic/love story about Gertrude Bell, a British explorer of the Middle East who became one of the West's earliest experts of the area, known as the "female Lawrence of Arabia." Revealing how uncertain he is with his material, Herzog reverts to melodrama, producing what may be the twenty-first century's first major cinematic example of high camp.

A hopelessly dull and sudsy reduction of an inherently very interesting story, and maybe the only Herzog film ever sorely lacking in a sense of physical scale and peril. The great French critic Jean-Michel Frodon has said that, watching it, one forever senses the actors' air-conditioned trailers lurking just outside the frame, and, despite my lifelong admiration of Herzog, I must sadly agree.

Herzog seems to believe that focusing unduly on Bell's love life is the key to grasping Bell's essence. By the end of Queen of the Desert, one may well be surprised to learn about how influential she in fact was to British foreign policy, since Herzog lavishes so little attention on her actual achievements. All the film adds up to, unfortunately, is a sweeping romantic epic made with barely any persuasive romantic feeling underpinning it.

As Gertie's two leading men, Herzog casts a lazy jester in Franco and an overworked thesp in Lewis. Given the intrigues and even political insights that a serious, fully committed treatment of Bell's life might have resulted in, it's a shame her years in the land she loved are apparently reducible to ill-fated investments in two bland, charmless men.

As a group of wayward critics gathered outside the theater after the screening, one noted that several lines of dialogue might have been stomached more easily read off the page rather than heard delivered by some of the actors up there on the screen. I suggested that Herzog should have dubbed everyone. Point being, it's difficult to make sincere wonder or blanket statements on politics and culture devoid of all irony convincing if your voice hasn't got the shadowy weight Herzog's has.

If Herzog is going to be so cavalier about such details, why does he punctuate his film with so many datelines – specific years, places, "three months later," and so on – and give the whole thing a tawdry, old-fashioned TV movie air? And if the "accountant's truth" is to be eschewed, wouldn't it be a good idea to instead deliver a bit of his preferred alternative, "ecstatic truth"?

Some of [Gertrude's] diary entries and letters are read aloud by a breathy Kidman providing a tantalising glimpse into the soul of a truly poetic individual. Every so often the story threatens to grasp at the essence of her individuality but then it descends back down into a line as flat as desert plains.Some of [Gertrude's] diary entries and letters are read aloud by a breathy Kidman providing a tantalising glimpse into the soul of a truly poetic individual. Every so often the story threatens to grasp at the essence of her individuality but then it descends back down into a line as flat as desert plains.