| Numerous murders, suicides and otherwise unseemly deaths form a telling, if morbid, portion of the historical record for the town of Black River Falls, Wisconsin, between the years of 1890 and 1900.
Over the years, interest in this violent period of American frontier history has been sustained by Michael Lesy’s infamous 1973 book Wisconsin Death Trip, a compelling litany of fatalities assembled from newspaper clippings, documentary photographs by Charles Van Schaick, and other literature from the time. Five years ago, Lesy’s book was adapted for the screen by filmmaker James Marsh, who has maintained the tome’s obituary approach by incorporating segments of the text, narrated by British thespian Ian Holm, with dramatic reconstructions of Van Schaick’s most striking images.
Unfortunately, what works on the page doesn’t always succeed on celluloid, and Wisconsin Death Trip (U.S., 1999) suffers for its faithfulness to Lesy’s manuscript. Following the changing of the seasons from one winter to the next, the film’s account of mortality and insanity among European immigrants on the frontier lacks structure. This secret history of the hinterland is fascinating in its own right, but might seem less monotonous if a stronger cinematic framework were in place to hold the various stories and eccentric characters together.
Certainly, the visual style of Wisconsin Death Trip is cohesive, with the dramatic reconstructions artfully shot in high-contrast black and white. But in tandem with musical selections from Debussy, Bach and other classical composers, these scenes are invested with a severity that at times verges on pomposity. The filmmakers also attempt to link the past to the present by incorporating full-colour sequences of contemporary life in Black River Falls. But the film’s argument becomes a bit forced when it’s suggested that two of the 20th century’s most famous serial killers – Ed Gein and Jeffrey Dahmer – may have had a geographical and historical kinship with the people and events set down in Lesy’s book. Both of those men were from Wisconsin, but their crimes were clearly the products of much different times.
Despite these criticisms, Wisconsin Death Trip remains a fascinating viewing experience, at least for the first half of its 76-minute running time. Its slightly experimental approach to documentary form is commendable, as is its revisionist slant on American history. Anyone whose interest is sustained throughout its resolutely morbid and amorphous narrative will be pleased to know that the DVD includes deleted scenes, a commentary track by director Marsh and cinematographer Eigil Bryld, and an essay by the pope of Americana, Greil Marcus, that is much more celebratory than this review. |
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