Magellan ★★★★

For centuries, Ferdinand Magellan’s legacy lived in the shadows of that of more prominent and popular explorers such as Christopher Columbus. The latter’s voyages were also financed by the Spanish crown that gave Magellan his big sailing shot at fame when the Portuguese King Manuel I refused to support his daring plan: to sail around an only crudely sketched-out South America into the Pacific Ocean (which by then wasn’t even called the “Pacific Ocean” since that name, too, came from Magellan). This is only a fraction of the controversial endeavours of the titular character. His colonialist conviction and self-righteous sense of purpose are at the core of Lav Diaz‘ meticulous historical account. 

A complex and calculated work of cinematic contemplation, his post-modern political epic presents a counter-perspective to new-found reverence for a neglected neo-colonist icon. Portrayed by Gael García Bernal as a man plagued by feelings of minority, whose calm demeanor easily masks his fanaticism and cruelty. Both are elemental to his major achievement, the first complete circumnavigation of the globe, as well as the disastrous consequences of missionary megalomania. Upon the narrative scaffolding of a classical and literal hero’s journey, the Philippine director erects a mesmerizing reconstruction of colonialist wreckage and the silencing of the conquered. This silencing is explored and overcome in the impressive opening scene which shows a Philippine woman fishing. 

Suddenly, she transfixes her gaze at the camera in terror, running away and telling her sister she has seen “a white man”. Her eyes are directed at a presumably majorly white film audience (Magellan premiered earlier this year at Cannes), forced to accept itself as the intruder, the aggressor, the monstrous stranger. His advance with an army, advanced weapons, devastating diseases, and overall an insatiable greed leaves death and destruction on both sides. Oscillating between a near-apocalyptic presence after a lost battle in the Philippines and a past moving forward with an unforgiving fatalism, Magellan appears as a brilliant nautical navigator with ardent ambitions which lead him into Spanish service. 

As his voyage to South Asia progresses towards the Philippines, his determination decays into a draconian dictatorship on board. Denying his audience the grandeur, heroics, and spectacle of conventional adventure films, Diaz frames the minimalist action in long, contemplative shots. Stillness and silence weigh heavy upon the minimal action, which juxtaposes Magellan’s haughty talk with the voice of the Malaysian servant Enrique (Amado Arjay Babon). As a composed chorus figure, Enrique represents the moral conscience of the story while the main character gradually loses his human compassion. Still, the pondering plot refuses to turn Magellan into a simple villain. He always remains a complicated personality who truly believes what he does is necessary and just. 

Thus, the unflinching chronicle shows how humanitarian catastrophes and crimes don’t spring from evil intentions but rather perverted principles. At the same time, it is a thoughtful critique of historic myths which Diaz extends to his own native country by suggesting the Philippine hero Lapulapu may be an invented figure. At just under three hours, Magellan is short by Diaz standards. While more concise, it is still far from cinematic convention. Where battles occur, Diaz shows only the brutal aftermath, whereas scenes of intimate aggression such as executions break off before things get bloody. Artur Tort‘s cinematography places the human figure as a speck in the vast sea or the broad horizon. His images become a visual metaphor for the insignificance of the individual in the unrelenting torrent of history. Less a biography than a cinematic dissection of conquest, Magellan exposes the cruel prize of suprematism as well as the corrosive nature of power.