TIM WONG reflects on another first day at the Wellington International Film Festival.

MIMING Little Dieter Needs to Fly almost note-for-note, Rescue Dawn is a faithful and formidable prisoner of war ordeal book-ended by a weakness for military and Hollywood clichés. In the weathered hands of Werner Herzog, however, such concessions are almost entirely forgivable, and while amiably servicing the film’s commercial needs, he also circumvents any pressure to mythologize Dieter Dengler’s capture and escape into a Commando serial of pungent patriotism and chest-beating heroism. Christian Bale, himself a fine example of method madness and mainstream nous, embodies the rabid life-force of Dengler, particularly the ex-pat German’s propensity to talk, and the performance itself becomes a model for the obsession Herzog regularly warps his cinema with. The consumption of snakes and maggots, extreme emaciation, and an excruciating scene involving leeches are just some of the lengths Bale goes to for authenticity’s sake, and evidently also, in honour of Denger’s memory. The film’s other magnificent obsession is ‘Little Dieter’s’ need to fly – or in the context of the captivity, take flight – and there’s something morally precarious at times about his compulsion to escape at the risk and expense of others. Nature fetish aside, Herzog turns out a robust, riveting big screen movie that omits some of the more overt distinguishing features of his oeuvre, and it’s at least surprising he resisted the temptation to include one of the documentary’s more surreal – and indeed, Herzognian – moments of altered reality: when Dengler, exhausted and near-death, witnesses a grizzly bear emerge from the jungle overgrowth.

Meanwhile, proof that Lars von Trier has a sense of humour after all (Dogville’s scenes with James Cann do not count) can be found in The Boss of it All: a preposterous method comedy of office space, Gambini worship, and passing the buck. Thrown into the deep end of an unorthodox acting gig, Kristoffer (Jens Albinus) must pose – or more precisely, adlib – as the director of an IT company, and the arbitrary nature of his job description is mirrored by the schizophrenic aesthetic of the film (brought to us by the randomised, computer-controlled spectacle of ‘Automavision©’). It’s jarring, consistently hilarious, and ridiculous beyond belief – indeed, there’s only so clowning around a film can take before its backlog of absurdity starts to cancel itself out.

A geriatric male fantasy coaxing elderly cackles, and some hushed gasps, from the mostly senior audience in attendance, a majestic Peter O’Toole transcends the genial late-life appearance of Venus through plenty of f-words, c-words, and a youthful taste for pussy. In what is something of a twilight sequel to My Favourite Year, the veteran plays another revered actor on the outer who finds a foil – and much-needed companionship – in the barely legal houseguest of old chum Ian (Leslie Phillips). It’s Harold and Maude with a sexual understanding, and Maurice isn’t ashamed to tickle his 70-year-old libido – if Jessie (Jodie Whittaker, delightfully incorrigible) will let him. Venus’ prefabricated charms aside, O’Toole, who refuses to retire, can rest in peace knowing he got to live a little before signing off for good.