You recently said of yourself, “I’m a curious person. That’s the key to everything.” Given that you could have made a film about anything at this point in your career, why volcanoes?
Werner Herzog: There’s a long prehistory. In 1976 I made a film on La Soufrière, the volcano in the Caribbean that was about to explode. At that time I was not so interested in the volcano itself but in the attitude of one single poor farmer who had refused to be evacuated. Seventy-five thousand people were evacuated but he stayed behind. He was somehow defiant and had a different attitude toward death. And then the second part of the prehistory is the film I made ten years ago, Encounters at the End of the World. I was in Antarctica and up on Mount Erebus and that’s where I ran into Clive Oppenheimer, and we became friends and kept talking that we should do a film about volcanoes. And also what pushed it a little bit was his book Eruptions That Shook the World. So it was step by step into this film.
What was the most interesting thing about volcanoes that you learned as you were making Into the Inferno?
WH: Scientifically, that the atmosphere that we are breathing was created by volcanoes. As far as I understand, the earth’s atmosphere was methane and it changed into what we are breathing today because of volcanic activity.
The most surprising thing about volcanoes?
WH: That they’re more unpredictable then I would admit. We were in some danger in a volcano in Indonesia, which exploded only a few days after we were filming there, and seven farmers were killed pretty much where we had had our camera.
How did you feel when you heard that that had happened just a week after you’d been there?
WH: What can I say? I just knew we were lucky. When you are working with the camera you believe you are safe, as if the camera is a perfect shield against all sorts of mishaps.
And what happens when you’re reminded that that’s an illusion?
WH: Well, you just move on and do your next day of shooting. There is no alternative when you are doing a film.
Into the Inferno is deeply interested in the human relationship to volcanoes. What drew you to want to explore that part of the story?
WH: It somehow came automatically. Since I’m not a scientist I always saw the human side to it. How do you live under a volcano? What are your belief systems in such a case? From ancient times until today, we’ve had belief systems. Demons, ghosts, new gods. That became more and more clear as I was doing the film.
You yourself, though, say that volcanoes “could not care less what we are doing up here.” If that’s true, what is it about volcanoes that compels people to create narratives and myths around them?
WH: When I say “could not care less,” it’s a little bit of anthropomorphizing. But it’s very clearly a statement about nature, the inner earth in this case—heated liquid, molten rock that can be extruded at any time—and of course it does not care about what human beings or animals are doing up here on this thin crust that we call continents or sea beds. So it was a more general statement about the indifference of nature. Within that, for human beings, volcanoes are a significant force that has become visible. People who live under volcanoes have a very clear understanding about the instability of human endeavor, the instability of family and communal life, the instability of belief systems, the instability of science and art. They know that what’s happening under our feet is very dynamic. They have a daily experience that differs from the experience of living, let’s say, in New York City.
Into the Inferno features some spectacular archival footage of volcanic eruptions, including footage by the French volcanologists Katia and Maurice Krafft, who ultimately lost their lives documenting a volcanic eruption. Why do you think they took such risks?
WH: I can’t really talk about the Kraffts because I did not know them. It’s a very tragic story, and Clive and I would talk about that and evaluate: Should we go in close? Should we return tomorrow? Should we lower ourselves down to the boiling magma or should we stay at a safe distance? But I mean, there is no safe distance when you’re close to the crater of a volcano.
What was it like to co-create a film with Clive?
WH: It was very pleasant because our roles were always clear. I would direct and write the film, and he would take us through the various landscapes and volcanic events and conduct the conversations on camera. And of course it’s a good thing to see a film originating out of friendship.
What was it about Clive that inspired your friendship and inspired you to want to make a film with him?
WH: That’s hard to explain. Of course, he’s one of the greatest volcanologists. He’s a great raconteur. He’s very good at explaining complicated things to an audience. He’s a very, very good presenter. So those are the practical qualities. But otherwise, how do you become friends with someone? There is some… texture and part of it is curiosity and part of it is a general worldview and much of it is inexplicable.
In the course of making Into the Inferno you visited the Mount Paektu volcano in North Korea and, given North Korea’s fervent embrace of that volcano as a symbol of nationalism and the revolution, you included a lot of footage of the modern North Korean state. What was it like to film in the country?
WH: For me it was fairly easy because I had a very quick rapport with the North Korean side. Part of that is the fact that I grew up in a country that was destroyed by bombs and I grew up in poverty. In fact, I didn’t have enough to eat as a child. And part of that—really the most important part—is the fact that I come from a country that was divided, Germany. It was a very deep quest of mine to see Germany reunited, something that was beyond politics, beyond ideology. I told the North Koreans, “You are still a divided country and reunification is what your quest seems to be,” and they were very, very deeply moved. And I do believe that the very deepest thing in their hearts is the quest for reunification. So all of a sudden, I had some sort of a deeper understanding with them.
Having actually been there, what do you think is the likelihood of reunification?
WH: Well, everything is different there as you can see in the film. But how can I say? It’s also a question of establishing trust. Filming there, I filmed once something that I shouldn’t have and I was immediately asked to stop, which I did. And I was asked to erase this short moment of footage. But we couldn’t manage that because our data management was highly complex and we didn’t have the right tools to delete things. So I said to them, “I’m not going to use this and I can give you a guarantee.” And they said, “What kind of guarantee, what do you mean? Do you mean some sort of a written statement or contract? We do not accept such things.” I said, “Just look at me. I offer you three guarantees. My honor, my faith and my handshake.” And they said, “Okay.” And of course obviously I have not used this footage.
You film at such extreme places in general, and in this film in particular —the hottest desert on earth in Ethiopia, remote areas of Vanuatu. What is it that compels you to such extraordinary travel in your filmmaking?
WH: In this case, it’s very simple. Where are the volcanoes? Normally, they are pretty far out. Although I must say that I’m in California right now and there are some very significant volcanoes in California. But they’re not active. In Into the Inferno, it was simply the distribution of volcanoes on this planet. We had to do some travel, of course.
You’re also known for exploring extremes in the human realm, whether it’s violence in Into the Abyss or our relationship with nature in Grizzly Man or the Internet in Lo and Behold. How do you locate Into the Inferno within that body of work?
WH: I can’t really describe it but I do think that this film is a part of the family. This film is something that you would immediately recognize that it must have been from me. If you were a spectator in Argentina, for example, or in Bangladesh, who knew my work, you would somehow figure out it must have been me. This film is embedded in what I’m doing. There’s a worldview that’s more important than any other characteristic.
Do you have a favorite volcano?
WH: Yes, there is one but I have never been there. It is in the central Sahara in the country of Chad and it is Emi Koussi. I didn’t go there for the film because it’s not active. But early on in my life when I crossed the Sahara I always dreamt of making a detour and going to the Tibesti Mountains— Emi Koussi is part of the Tibesti Mountains—which are very beautiful, strange mountains in the central Sahara that do not seem to be from our planet. At the time I wanted to go there, there was tribal strife and hostage-taking so I couldn’t go. There was always some reason that I couldn’t go. It’s probably an idea that’s always going to remain in my desires and fantasies and dreams.