Ghosts of the Andes

If Werner Herzog’s ‘Aguirre, the Wrath of God’ (1972) is justly recognised as a staple of world cinema, Irving Lerner’s ‘The Royal Hunt of the Sun’ (1969) is the other serious conquistador picture that has unfortunately languished in near-total obscurity. Adapted from Peter Shaffer’s acclaimed 1964 play, the film unfortunately never found the audience it deserved.

It remains one of the best depictions of the age of expansion under Habsburg Spain (the Catholic Monarchy) and a striking meditation on hollow piety, fanaticism and power, anchored by two magnetic performances from Robert Shaw and Christopher Plummer leading a stalwart British cast.

The story dramatizes the Spanish conquest of Peru in 1532 CE and the fall of the Incas, focusing less on military triumph than on the uneasy bond between Pizarro - the hardened, illiterate commander of the conquistadors played with weary ferocity by Shaw - and Atahualpa, the Inca king mesmerizingly essayed by Plummer.

Shaw’s Pizarro is one of the great actor’s most complex roles. Unlike the swashbuckling adventurers often seen in mid-century historical films, his Pizarro is not inflated by triumph but diminished by doubt. Shaw plays him as scarred, cynical and half-broken even before he sets foot in Peru. Yet he remains undaunted in his quest for the elusive City of Gold. Shaw gives Pizarro a brooding gravity, playing him as an adventurer suspicious of religion but still yearning for transcendence. The tone of the film is set right from the start as Pizarro vainly seeks funding for yet another expedition from Emperor Charles V (played with steely restraint by character actor James Donald) but is instead saddled with two priests to help convert the Indians in his expedition.

If Shaw’s Pizarro is heavy with disillusionment, Plummer’s Atahualpa is the counterpoint: radiant, enigmatic and deeply unsettling. Replete with a strange accent that only a master actor like him could conjure, Plummer makes Atahualpa seem at once otherworldly and fully human, an emperor who accepts his fate with equanimity but who also toys with his captors. His voice, his bearing, his stillness conveys a man who is worshiped as a god yet trapped in the body of a mortal. It is one of Plummer’s finest and least celebrated turns.

Lerner, better known for his editing, directs with an economy that belies the grandeur of the subject. Instead of revelling in spectacle, he prefers stark contrasts: the barren landscapes of the Andes against the claustrophobic spaces of the Spanish camp; the rigid formalities of Inca ritual against the Spaniards’ disorderly greed. The effect is almost Brechtian. Unlike the lush pageantry of 1960s epics like ‘El Cid’ (1961), ‘The Royal Hunt of the Sun’ finds its power in stillness and dialogue, forcing viewers to confront the moral tensions head-on.

The Conquistadors ‘officially’ march under the banner of the Cross, but are plainly motivated by their lust for gold. When Atahualpa offers to fill a room with treasure in exchange for his freedom, Lerner’s camera lingers on the grotesque spectacle of objects piled high, reducing sacred Inca art to mere bullion. The Spaniards’ subsequent decision to execute Atahualpa exposes the bankruptcy of their Catholic piety.

What makes ‘The Royal Hunt of the Sun’ outstanding is its refusal to give easy answers. There is no triumph, no clean division between good and evil. Instead, Lerner presents conquest as tragedy, not only for the Incas but also for the Spaniards who lose their souls in the act of winning. The relationship between Pizarro and Atahualpa - part rivalry, part friendship, part spiritual courtship - embodies this tragic tension. More than historical fidelity, the film dramatizes the eternal questions: What does it mean to believe? What price are we willing to pay for power? Can one man truly dominate another without being diminished in the process?

Its deliberate pacing, psychological focus, and moral ambiguity anticipate later treatments of Spanish and Portuguese conquest like Herzog’s ‘Aguirre’ and Roland Joffé’s ‘The Mission’ (1986). If Lerner’s film lacks Herzog’s feverish surrealism or Joffé’s lush romanticism, it compensates with clarity, offering us a tragedy in the classical sense: the destruction of men by forces they half-understand.

More than 55 years on, Lerner’s film cries out for reappraisal. It is one of the rare works to take the conquest of the New World seriously, reminding viewers that conquest is never merely about territory or treasure but the corrosive bargains struck between belief and power.