The Man Who Killed Don Quixote (2019) - Movie Review

For as rare as this kind of film ultimately is, where a production that languished in purgatory for decades finally sees completion, there is always the same feeling that follows it: The overwhelming weight of its own hype. This is especially true for those who have had the patience to follow the heavily tumultuous production here, captured in part by the classic documentary Lost In La Mancha, as the active want to will this almost-cursed film into existence runs the risk of setting one’s own expectations to such a high that it would take a literal miracle to match them. And while this may not completely live up to its legendary status as a non-film, it feels like a production where its own history adds to its merits.

Even without getting into the Murphy’s Production behind the scenes, this still has a level of attentiveness that only comes out of filmmakers labouring over the same idea for a long, long time. There’s a lot that springs out from this pseudo-retelling of the classic Spanish novel, from the notion of a filmmaker imposing his own will on reality (shown through Adam Driver’s Toby occasionally breaking the fourth wall in rather bizarre ways) to the layered surreality surrounding the film-within-a-film and the fantasies involved, right down to how the notion of a modern retelling of Don Quixote manifests itself through Terry Gilliam’s characteristically weird storytelling.

Jonathan Pryce as the shoemaker who thinks he’s Don Quixote could have very easily fallen into Al Bundy territory, retreating into his singular 15 minutes of fame to escape reality, but what we actually get is far more tragic. Not just that, but it’s a kind of tragic that manages to keep in-step with the original story, even with the modern perspective. Said perspective enters into areas of exploitation of the mentally unwell for the sake of surface-level spectacle, and even some Christopher Nolan-isms in how a compelling lie is more attractive than a heart-breaking truth.

And it’s not just Quixote who experiences this, as Toby the film director turns the narrative’s metatextual aspirations into something kind of scary. Shown as a creative whose greatest downfall is his own ego, his own selfishness, the effects of his first attempt to film the story of Don Quixote wound up having far greater implications than he ever would have guessed in his idealistic youth. Up to and including nudging Pryce’s Quixote into his current delusion.

It’s hard to look at this, along with the frequent depictions of Catholic self-flagellation and penance, and not think that the time this took to create really did a number on Gilliam. He created a lurching behemoth of an urban legend through his efforts, and for as daunting the task of completing it alone wound up being, completing it after all this time served as its own challenge. Like most audiences, Gilliam himself wondered if all that work was going to worth it in the end, whether this whole thing should have just stayed a fantasy. Even as a fantasy that he dragged others into, and wound up damaging in the process.

But that’s the thing about fantasies: Their facticity becomes irrelevant in the face of just how much power they can have over people. Gilliam is no stranger to this, whether that fantasy is the American Dream (Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas), the destruction of capitalist bureaucracy (Brazil), a misunderstanding of the world through a child’s eyes (Tideland), or even just the assumption that a film needs resolution (Monty Python And The Holy Grail). And in Quixote, he found the poster child for embracing the freedom of fantasy against the coldness of reality; the knight-errant who turned his life into a grand story to relive what he believed to be the good old days. To revive a time when sheer heart and bravery, not perpetual failure, is what made men into legend.

Much like The Other Side Of The Wind (which is fitting, given Welles’ own efforts to craft a Don Quixote film), this is a film that needed to see completion, if for no other reason than to show that the director’s efforts weren’t for naught. While some directors are able to turn that artistic frustration into its own form of art, like Dan Gilroy did with Velvet Buzzsaw, Terry Gilliam isn’t that kind of director. This is a man who would pioneer genetic engineering just so his version of Lord Of The Rings would have real orcs in it. And as a showing of what raw ambition looks like, as a multi-layered depiction of men clutching at their own dreams for dear life, it is an incredibly affecting piece of cinema. I only hope that its completion has given its tireless director some well-earned peace of mind.