Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World (Peter Weir, 2003)
Plot wise, there is not a great deal to Peter Weir’s sailing picture Master & Commander: The Far Side of the World. During the Napoleonic Wars, the British vessel Surprise is alone at sea off the coast of South America with orders to intercept the French vessel Acheron. After an opening skirmish, Captain Jack Aubrey (Russell Crowe) plays a cat-and-mouse game with the French ship, which significantly outguns his own. Along the way he must deal with inexperienced officers, insubordinate and superstitious crewmembers, and particularly the doubts and war-weariness of the ships’ doctor Stephen Maturin (Paul Bettany).
As is expected from Weir, this is not Pirates of the Carribean, and the film’s strengths and weaknesses both have their basis in its contemplative style. The focus is not on the French ship – only fleetingly encountered before the climax – but instead on the relationship between the ship’s captain and his men. Crowe is pivotal: the film is, like Gladiator, a tribute to the leadership qualities of a charismatic military commander. Yet Crowe finds a distinct tone for Aubrey, who is an older and more thoughtful man than Gladiator’s Maximus. And unlike Ridley Scott’s film, there is here a voice of dissent in Bettany’s character, who makes valid criticisms of his friend’s decisions and motivation. The relationship between these two men never leads very far, in a dramatic sense, but it is well drawn by Bettany and Crowe.
Weir has always excelled at creating atmosphere and effective visuals, and the film looks as fabulous as you would expect. The film’s one overwhelming virtue is the sense it gives of actually being at sea in this era: while I can’t speak to the accuracy of what is shown here, it certainly feels right. The aura of realism makes the film more engrossing than it otherwise would be, and the opening battle in particular makes you realise how frightening it must have been to be on the receiving end of cannon fire. While the film does much to deglamorise seafaring of the period (emphasising the brutality of medical procedures, the infestation of food, and the frequency and arbitrariness of death), there are also moments of real exhilaration, as when Aubrey stands atop the ship’s mast. I’m sure that computer generated enhancements abound in the sailing scenes, but they’re invisible: the film is a shining example of the sensitive use of new technology.
So with all those positives, why didn’t I like it more? Ultimately, the film falls between two stools. It isn’t a rollicking swashbuckler, and doesn’t deliver much action (indeed, the confusing and shakily shot climactic battle is the film’s most disappointing sequence). Yet for all its art-film trappings, this is too pointless a voyage to qualify as a towering dramatic achievement. The original series of books, I gather, draw out the relationship between Aubrey and Maturin at great length, but since this is based upon only one of those novels, there is only so much character development that can occur. And while the arguments between the pair raise some interesting points about the conflict between militarism and more refined impulses, there isn’t a great deal of depth here. We are asked to believe that the dispute between the men as to whether to stop in the Galapagos islands threatens their friendship, but then the same unresolved conflict is papered over and used as a comic device in the film’s coda. And ultimately, the film never really puts much thought to the debate or any weight behind either man’s viewpoint. I’m not being facetious when I say that The Perfect Storm had as much insight into the dangers of blindly following a charismatic leader.