"Encounters at the End of the World": Human warmth in a bitter-cold place

So, what kind of people go to Antarctica to live and work? People who jump off the margins of the map, says one: "We all meet here, where the lines converge." Another, pondering the question, says, "You take everyone who's not tied down, and they fall to the bottom of the planet."

Such are the loners and dreamers who populate Werner Herzog's strange yet lovely documentary, "Encounters at the End of the World." Herzog, the wild-man German chronicler of human obsession ("Aguirre: The Wrath of God," "Fitzcarraldo," "Grizzly Man"), traveled to McMurdo Station in Antarctica, the base community for U.S. scientific research at the South Pole. About 1,000 people live there during the astral spring and summer (October-February), which Herzog in his typically charismatic voice-over describes as "five months of no night."

Invited to visit and make a film, Herzog (who promised that "I would not come up with another film about penguins") lets us see the community through his unique lens. McMurdo is a muddy and unlovely place, resembling an in-progress strip mall in the middle of nowhere. The settlement includes, Herzog tells us, a bowling alley, an ATM, "such abominations as aerobic studios and yoga classes," and an all-important Frosty-Boy "ice cream" machine. (Its operator cheerfully tells us of widespread crises "when Frosty-Boy goes down.")

Though Herzog touches on some of the scientific research going on there, he's much more interested in the people themselves and how they came to McMurdo — where, he says, "behind every door, there's someone with a special story to tell." The bus driver is a genial former banker; a forklift driver identifies himself as a philosopher; a computer specialist tells of her travels "from Ecuador to Lima, Peru, in a sewer pipe." (That same chatty traveler, at McMurdo's talent night, demonstrates her specialty: She fits inside a very small suitcase.)

Throughout, Herzog's narration continually transforms what we're watching: a group of divers getting ready to submerge strike Herzog as like "priests preparing for Mass." And the film's images, shot by Peter Zeitlinger, perpetually fascinate. Churchlike choral music swells, as if to fill a magnificent quietness, as we see an explorer moving through a glittering cave, like the inside of an ice stomach. Spidery starfish slow-dance on the ocean floor; a lacy jellyfish, looking like a long-tressed lady with a parasol, floats by serenely.

And, despite Herzog's promise, there is a penguin: a renegade solo bird, marching determinedly to his death with flippers upraised. ("Is there such a thing as insanity among penguins?" Herzog muses aloud.) The sky is relentlessly blue, the sun bright even in the thick of night. In this odd and unforgettable place, Herzog has made his own poetry.

Moira Macdonald: 206-464-2725

or mmacdonald@seattletimes.com