North Face (Nordwand)

Never one to engage in the futile, the remotely challenging or the physically taxing, I'm always hard pressed to see the allure of mountain climbing.

The existential mantra of "Because it is there" offered by George Mallory has, for me, always pertained more to the conquering of the Grey Goose bottle in my freezer than ascending an ice-caked escarpment of death.

It comes as little surprise then that Germans would embrace Alpinism and all its mock heroics like a... well... like Germans. Being as it is a humorless, cold, grim and self-defeating pursuit that involves very few Jews.

Which brings us to North Face (Nordwand); a suspenseful cliffhanger (if I may be pardoned the pun) based loosely on the true story of two vibrant, rosy-cheeked Teutonic youths - along with their Austrian competitors - and their doomed attempt to be the first team to scale the Eiger.

Mixed in with writer/direktor Philipp Stölzl's grand adventure are the usual themes of Nazism, emotional stiffness and stunted love so typical to the Germanic film character. The side stories reveal a manipulative editor for a Berlin paper pushing for a courageous story (with no regard for the safety of the climbers) before the upcoming Berlin Olympic Games of 1936. His camerawoman (and childhood friend of the climbers) becomes the love interest of the more stoic cragsman and acts as the moral compass of the film. Allusions to Leni Riefenstahl - herself a climbing enthusiast, a star of many Alpine film dramas and a visual chronicler of a more nefarious sort of heroism - are apparent but not overt.

The photography on the mountain is hauntingly beautiful and allows the daunting rock its own malicious anthropomorphism. The action sequences are stunningly filmed. So gripping and realistic, in fact, that the only response to the hubris of the mountaineers is, "Who in the living hell would attempt this fatal bullshit?!". Pitons pull out of the crumbling facade, avalanches are a constant threat, ice fields provide little footing, the freezing cold burns exposed flesh, the winds whip and the snow just falls and falls. As do the rocks from above. I truly believe you must be half mad to engage in such a practice.

And for what purpose? Glory? Acclaim? Self-worth? Chicks? Couch time with Oprah? Or, as she was known in Berlin at the time - Öprecht.

There is a telling moment midway through the film when the more reckless of the two climbers clears a nearly untraversable portion of the edifice with a difficult maneuver. His partner assures him his name will now be forever remembered by that move. They both are convinced they are making history.

And yet, somehow, I know Rip Taylor's name better than either of these guys. Better than any mountain climber, really, with the exception of Tenzing Norgay. And only then because I was reminded of him from a reference in the Coen Brothers' Intolerable Cruelty, as he had a rather cool and distinct moniker.

The only reason that explains this sort of behavior in any sane sense is man's continual need to prove something, anything, to himself, no matter how destructive or stupid it may be. The eternal question (one essentially born of ego and self-bullshitting) of "How tough am I?"

I think John Krakauer got it about right in Into Thin Air -  "But now that I was finally here, standing on the summit of Mount Everest, I just couldn't summon the energy to care."

No shit. Neither do we. Hope it was worth it. I, for one, am unimpressed.

Except for North Face. Definitely worth a look. Just hold your nose for the romantic side story.

Now, if you'll please excuse me, I've got some Grey Goose in the freezer to summit.

Someone fetch me my crampons.

****Good news. You can catch this film via "watch instantly" on Netflix and not fuck your queue.