Directed by Ron Fricke Club, IFI, Dublin, 96 min
EAGLES CRY against snowy peaks. Stooped ladies sweep the streets of Kathmandu with makeshift twigs. Orthodox Jews gather at the Wailing Wall. Balinese holy men stomp through an ancient monkey chant. Dervishes whirl. Java smoulders.
In the early 1990s Baraka, documentarian Ron Fricke's sublime, defiantly non-narrative ethnograph, found a cult following across a crusty continuum that included loved-up pill-poppers, students and eco-warriors. Barakais a big, glorious picture, shot over 152 locations in a crisp experimental format. Here was stellar viewing for those who liked to say "wow, man".
Almost two decades on, the MDMA kids have taken their place as suburbanite parents, and Baraka's environmental concerns have found their way into mainstream culture. The director admirably keeps his eco-editorialising on the lowdown, but transitions from images of tranquil Nepalese monasteries to the bustle of Hong Kong (scored with angular noises from Phillip Glass and Dead Can Dance) let us know that it's more than okay to be a Luddite.
Like Koyaanisqatsi,on which Fricke served as cinematographer, Baraka is just about as far removed from véritéas documentary can be. Eschewing such niceties as narration, dialogue and plot, the film unfolds in dreamy, poetic rhythms, yet retains its sense as a document. Fricke match-cuts and juxtaposes morning worship, tattoos, burning oil fields and the occasional snow monkey to create a grand sweep across the planet – think "extreme backpacking with macaques".
As diehard Barakafans break out the fermented elderberry in anticipation of next year's sequel, the cine-curious should make their way to the Irish Film Institute in Dublin, where a spanking new 70mm print of the 1992 original is guaranteed to make even straight-world folks sit up and say, "like, wow, man".
