My Best Fiend

My Best Fiend attempts the seemingly impossible: to understand Klaus Kinski. Herzog, our guide, speaks directly to the camera, his measured Bavarian tones a stark contrast to the volcanic eruptions of Kinski in archival footage. He revisits the Peruvian jungles where they shot Aguirre, the Wrath of God (1972) and Fitzcarraldo (1982), the sets of Nosferatu the Vampyre (1979), and the Munich boarding house where a young Herzog first encountered the whirlwind that was Kinski. There's no sensationalism in Herzog's narration, even when recounting Kinski's legendary tantrums – the screaming fits, the threats, the moments of near-total chaos. Instead, there's a sense of bewildered grappling, a director still trying to fathom the elemental force he somehow harnessed across five films.

Herzog doesn't shy away from the darkness. We hear the infamous story of Kinski threatening to abandon Aguirre mid-shoot in the remote jungle, prompting Herzog to calmly state he had a rifle and would put eight bullets into Kinski before turning the last on himself. Kinski, Herzog notes with characteristic deadpan, understood the seriousness of the threat and stayed. It’s a chilling anecdote, presented not as macho posturing, but as a stark illustration of the extreme measures required to simply keep Kinski working. We even hear from indigenous extras on Fitzcarraldo who, deeply disturbed by Kinski’s abusive behavior towards the crew, genuinely offered to kill the actor for Herzog – an offer the director politely declined. Far from gossipy tidbits, these stories illuminate the near-impossible conditions under which masterpieces were somehow forged.

Yet, My Best Fiend is far more nuanced than a simple catalogue of an actor's monstrous behavior. Herzog seems compelled to find the humanity buried beneath the fury. He shares footage of Kinski playing gently with a butterfly, a moment of quiet tenderness utterly at odds with his terrifying public persona. He interviews Claudia Cardinale, Kinski’s co-star in Fitzcarraldo, who speaks of a gentler side she occasionally witnessed. Herzog revisits Kinski's early years, painting a picture of a man capable of great sensitivity and charm when the mood struck him.

Was this sensitivity genuine, or just another facet of a complex performance? The film doesn't offer easy answers. Herzog acknowledges the profound difficulty, the emotional cost, and the sheer danger of working with Kinski. Yet, there's an undeniable undercurrent of respect, even love. Herzog seems to recognize that Kinski's untamed energy, the very quality that made him so impossible, was also the source of his electrifying screen presence. Could the controlled, almost somnambulistic intensity of Nosferatu or the megalomaniacal fire of Aguirre have been achieved by a more 'stable' actor? Herzog doubts it. He needed Kinski, his "best fiend," to realize his visions, even if it nearly broke him each time.

Watching this documentary decades after Kinski’s death in 1991 feels poignant. It’s a look back at a kind of filmmaking – perilous, ambitious, personality-driven – that feels increasingly rare. The practical challenges faced on films like Aguirre and Fitzcarraldo, filmed deep in unforgiving locations long before digital safety nets, are mind-boggling. My Best Fiend showcases not only Kinski's explosive talent but also Herzog's unwavering, almost obsessive dedication to his art. It wrestles with the uncomfortable question behind so much of their filmography: how much human cost can a finished masterpiece really justify?

Herzog doesn't flinch from these questions, nor does he provide comforting resolutions. The film exists in that uncomfortable space between admiration and revulsion, creative necessity and personal torment. It’s a portrait drawn with honesty, complexity, and a strange, lingering affection that feels utterly earned. I remember seeing clips of Kinski's infamous talk show meltdowns back in the day, thinking he was simply unhinged. Herzog’s film doesn’t excuse the behavior, but it contextualizes it within a symbiotic, albeit deeply dysfunctional, creative bond that produced some truly unforgettable cinema.

This rating reflects the film's power as a uniquely intimate and insightful documentary portrait. Herzog masterfully balances the shocking anecdotes with moments of surprising tenderness and profound reflection, offering an unparalleled look into a legendary, terrifying, and creatively vital partnership. It avoids simple hagiography or condemnation, instead presenting a complex, troubling, and utterly compelling human story that deepens our understanding of both men and the extraordinary films they made together.

My Best Fiend leaves you contemplating the ferocious, unpredictable nature of raw talent and the equally fierce determination required to capture it on film. What lingers most is the enigma of that bond – a relationship built on mutual need, profound frustration, and a shared, uncompromising artistic vision that somehow, against all odds, burned brightly enough to leave an indelible mark on cinematic history.

The terrifying mythology surrounding Kinski wasn't always strictly adversarial. In fact, Herzog secretly collaborated with Kinski to draft and refine the vicious insults directed at Herzog in Kinski's autobiography, All I Need Is Love (Kinski Uncut)—a stunt cooked up between the two to boost book sales. When Herzog revisited the 1950s Munich boarding house where he and Kinski first lived, he found it converted into an opulent residence. Ever the showman, Herzog brought a full camera crew inside and gave the resident Baron and Baroness an uninvited tour of their own home while gleefully recounting Kinski's legendary living-room outbursts.

To build the documentary, Herzog gathered footage from unexpected sources. He secured Les Blank's unused behind-the-scenes material from Fitzcarraldo, capturing Kinski's explosive tirade against producer Walter Saxer over the quality of the set's food. For interview scenes, Herzog hired actors to stand onscreen and translate foreign subjects' words in real time, turning subtitling into a live theatrical performance. Even the film's opening sequence—archival excerpts from Kinski's chaotic 1971 one-man stage show, Jesus Christus Erlöser—had a second life: the footage featured in My Best Fiend generated so much interest that it prompted a full restoration and eventual standalone release of the entire performance.