“We were wanÂderÂers on a preÂhisÂtoric earth,” says the narÂraÂtor MarÂlow in Joseph ConÂrad’s Heart of DarkÂness, “on an earth that wore the aspect of an unknown planÂet. We could have fanÂcied ourÂselves the first of men takÂing posÂsesÂsion of an accursed inherÂiÂtance, to be subÂdued at the cost of proÂfound anguish and of excesÂsive toil.”
The palÂpaÂble menÂace that perÂmeÂates ConÂrad’s clasÂsic novelÂla has been editÂed out of the narÂraÂtion in this short film, made for Tourism Malaysia by British filmÂmakÂer James W. GrifÂfiths. What remains is a poetÂic sense of wonÂder for a natÂurÂal world that is no longer frightÂenÂing, no longer in need of being subÂdued. In the origÂiÂnal, the twistÂing and turnÂing senÂtences are like a microÂcosm of a jourÂney up the windÂing ConÂgo RivÂer, into the metaphorÂiÂcal darkÂness that lies at the heart of all men. Out of the stillÂness of the page, ConÂrad’s imagÂiÂnaÂtion washÂes over us in a rolling wave of words:
The great wall of vegÂeÂtaÂtion, an exuÂberÂant and entanÂgled mass of trunks, branchÂes, leaves, boughs, fesÂtoons, motionÂless in the moonÂlight, was like a riotÂing invaÂsion of soundÂless life, a rolling wave of plants, piled up, crestÂed, ready to topÂple over the creek, to sweep every litÂtle man of us out of his litÂtle exisÂtence. And it moved not.
GrifÂfiths can perÂhaps be forÂgivÂen for defangÂing ConÂrad. We Were WanÂderÂers on a PreÂhisÂtoric Earth is a beauÂtiÂful litÂtle film, a quiÂet medÂiÂtaÂtion on the unspoiled rainÂforÂest of West Malaysia shot in NovemÂber by cinÂeÂmatogÂraÂphÂer ChristoÂpher Moon, who also colÂlabÂoÂratÂed with GrifÂfiths on last year’s award-winÂning Nokia cellÂphone film Splitscreen. The music is by Lennert Busch, the sound design is by MauriÂcio d’Orey, and ConÂrad’s words are spoÂken by TerÂry Burns.
ForÂgivÂen!? I wonÂder what ConÂrad would say if he were alive and conÂfrontÂed with a film using _some_ of his words, about a place on the othÂer side of the world from where those words were born? It’s not as if ConÂrad didÂn’t write eloÂquentÂly about the Malaysian archÂiÂpelÂago. Me? The best I can do to be charÂiÂtaÂble is sumÂmon up a huge sense of the irony here, along with a uneasy sense that there might be someÂthing else hidÂden behind the film conÂcernÂing its subÂject that _all_ of ConÂrad’s meanÂing would lay uncomÂfortÂably bare.