How Embrace of the Serpent tells the story of… | Little White Lies

How Embrace of the Ser­pent tells the sto­ry of West­ern imperialism

10 Jun 2016

Words by Caspar Salmon

Black and white photograph depicting a group of Indigenous people, including men, women, and children, sitting and standing in an outdoor setting with a dense forest background.
Black and white photograph depicting a group of Indigenous people, including men, women, and children, sitting and standing in an outdoor setting with a dense forest background.
Ciro Guerra’s film is a stark reminder of the destruc­tive nature of Euro­pean colonialism.

Ciro Guerra’s Embrace of the Ser­pent – a pic­to­r­i­al, sen­su­ous, tin­gling­ly tac­tile movie – is as valu­able and rev­e­la­to­ry for what it doesn’t show as for what it does. The film oper­ates on a meta­phys­i­cal lev­el along­side its rich phys­i­cal rep­re­sen­ta­tions, so that intan­gi­ble things like mem­o­ry, spir­i­tu­al­i­ty, dreams and col­lec­tive cul­ture feel as alive as the film’s flesh-and-blood char­ac­ters. And in offer­ing up this lev­el of inter­pre­ta­tion, it admon­ish­es West­ern cul­ture for its greed, mate­ri­al­ism and narrow-mindedness.

At the film’s out­set, we see how an Ama­zon­ian shaman, Kara­makate, in his ear­ly years and as an old man, is engaged to guide Theo and Evan, two West­ern explor­ers, down the riv­er in search of the leg­endary, sacred yakruna plant. Told across two dif­fer­ent time­lines, the film weaves con­nec­tions between its sto­ries based on time: Karamakate’s anger, regrets and sor­row loom over the lat­ter nar­ra­tive, colour­ing its events. Mean­while, Guer­ra uses per­spec­tive to allude to the incom­pat­i­bil­i­ty of West­ern cul­ture and eth­nic Ama­zon­ian tribespeople.

When we see the white explor­ers arrive, the cam­era is plant­ed firm­ly with Kara­makate: the out­siders, the intrud­ers, are the white men. This per­spec­tive is in oppo­si­tion to oth­er explo­ration works, like Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Dark­ness’ or Wern­er Herzog’s Fitz­car­ral­do’, in which natives are pre­sent­ed as oth­er and unknow­able. The film also ends with Kara­makate, show­ing the depth of his loss and the extent of his soli­tude – its focus on time and per­spec­tive con­verg­ing to sug­gest all of the ways in which his cul­ture has died out over the years.

Embrace of the Ser­pent also uses metaphor and imagery to con­jure intan­gi­ble con­cepts. The title may allude to the suf­fo­cat­ing, ven­omous clutch of West­ern cul­ture, con­strict­ing the life out of the indige­nous cul­tures it pur­ports to have dis­cov­ered” – but the epony­mous ser­pent might just as well stand for the Ama­zon, snaking its way through the dense rain­for­est giv­ing life to every­thing it touch­es. Kara­makate, as an old man, asks Evan how many sides the riv­er has: the white man answers that it has two sides, much to the shaman’s scorn. It’s clear through this exchange that white West­ern cul­ture is seen as rigid­ly, fatal­ly attached to phys­i­cal­i­ty and empiri­cism; it sim­ply can­not com­pre­hend the mys­ti­cism of oth­er cultures.

Both explor­ers are mar­ried to their phys­i­cal objects: a gun, a com­pass, a pho­to­graph; items that make no sense in the old world in which they find them­selves. So obsessed are they with mate­r­i­al pos­ses­sions that they are hin­dered in their mis­sion – lit­er­al­ly weighed down in their boat. The young Kara­makate laughs at Theo because he does not under­stand the riv­er as he pad­dles his canoe, splash­ing about like an idiot, hope­less­ly out of sync with its cur­rents, beats and motions. In turn, the film uses the riv­er as a visu­al metaphor for time, its ebb and flow feed­ing the rhythms of the dif­fer­ent time­lines, show­ing how nature is con­stant but civil­i­sa­tions are perishable.

The film also offers up a dichoto­my of spir­i­tu­al­i­ty and reli­gion, oppos­ing the fake and ego­ma­ni­a­cal rit­u­als of West­ern reli­gion to the more har­mo­nious spir­i­tu­al­i­ty of Kara­makate, which draws on his sur­round­ings. From the yakruna – a tree liv­ing off the same earth and water as him – he draws a psy­chotrop­ic essence that allows him to step out­side his own world. West­ern reli­gion, in the damn­ing rep­re­sen­ta­tions the film makes of it, oper­ates the oth­er way around: from the out­side in, with twist­ed preach­ers and mis­sion­ar­ies har­ness­ing false pow­er in order to fos­ter a cult in their own image.

Only when you engage with the film on a meta­phys­i­cal lev­el – through its allu­sions to the death of cul­ture, to the spir­i­tu­al and even the super­nat­ur­al, to Karamakate’s unseen life – does its sheer phys­i­cal­i­ty hit you. Only then does it smack you in the face: we are only able to learn about these fad­ing cul­tures because of the painstak­ing phys­i­cal record­ing of them by the very peo­ple who destroyed them. While Kara­makate is able to live in his world – to exist in the moment – it is the car­tog­ra­phers and plun­der­ers of this world who are best posi­tioned to depict it, even though they can nev­er ful­ly under­stand it. The film’s absolute under­stand­ing of its envi­ron­ment, the way it records the gen­tle wash of the riv­er on a bank, the greasy slurp of a frog, the stark white body of a sin­gle stand­ing tree, is some­thing that can no longer be remem­bered or grasped.

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