“Leviathan” is visceral. The 2012 film, directed by Lucien Castaing-Taylor and Véréna Paravel, tracks life aboard a commercial fishing vessel off the coast of New England, a 24-hour operation that disorients one’s sense of time. A boat plows through waves as seabirds squawk, water churns, machinery wails and mounds of fish flop on the deck. The cacophony is demonstrated in an extended but controlled manner, with scenes often remaining still for long periods.
Count the number of shots in “Leviathan”; It is under 50 for sure, which is rare in a feature-length film. When a particular image seems like it has run its course, something unexpected happens—a subtle gesture from the directors saying, “No, keep watching.” For instance, an extended wide shot below deck captures a crewmember watching television. As it continues into minutes two and three, the crewmember’s eyelids grow heavier and heavier, eventually shutting completely as he dozes off.
There is a quiet confidence in the directors’ approach to filmmaking, not only in the extended shot lengths, but that the entire film is shot on GoPros plastered across the boat, high on the bow, dangling in and out of the water, in a vat of fish heads. You are likely familiar with GoPros as a technology—tiny cameras ideal for capturing fluid adventure sports—and that might be where it ends. “In “Leviathan,” they are instead placed around the boat like surreal security cams.
Documentary filmmaking comes with many conventions: handheld cameras, carefully composed interviews, authoritative voiceover and maybe some clunky director-on-screen moments. “Leviathan” throws all of those conventions overboard, and rightfully so; A traditional approach to documentary on a commercial fishing boat would collapse in on itself given the chaos and danger of its daily activities. Instead of standard interviews, we hear gurgling sounds of workers shouting, produced by the GoPros’ water-logged mics.
This is not to say the lack of dialogue in the film makes it narratively barren. In the opening scene, we are offered a quote from the Bible, Job 41:31-32:
“He maketh the deep to boil like a pot: he maketh the sea like a pot of ointment.
He maketh a path to shine after him; one would think the deep to be hoary.
Upon earth there is not his like, who is made without fear.”
The Leviathan was a monstrous sea demon described in the Hebrew Bible, connotative of a formidable totality; this passage particularly emphasizes the creature’s immense might. Associatively, an immediate connection can be made between the scale of industrialized production and this bestial entity, establishing one angle by which the documentary may be absorbed.
This idea of a beast is furthered by the film’s cinematography. There is no establishing shot of this fishing vessel anywhere to be found in the film. You are thrown onto the deck from minute one. Throughout the film, you get a sense of the Leviathan’s various features, its many wires and nets and a few glimpses below deck, but never the entire ship. It is a foreboding monster of obvious power, but indeterminate in shape and structure.
Unsurprisingly, “Leviathan” is hardly complimentary of the commercial fishing industry, retaining a sense of grittiness presented by its up-close compositional techniques. “Leviathan” ardently adheres to the principle of showing rather than telling: Fish blood drips, marine life is dredged up by indifferent nets, rays are severed by hooks and clams are pried open before being kicked off board. Without any expository text or voiceover, daily violence is palpable.
For each of us, the aforementioned grotesque nature of the film largely relates to disgust with its content and the physicality of its technical assembly. Still, contrast is provided by minute interactions, including a ghostly vessel following the main ship in the night and a bird hopping around on the boat.
In spite of these evocative signifiers, “Leviathan” leaves itself open to some degree of interpretation. The boat is often isolated amidst a seemingly endless expanse of water, especially secluded when night falls upon the Atlantic. Is this a willing cog within a broader, destructive economic process, or are the fishermen simply cast out into solitary infinity? Are we listening to natural ambiance or an understated original soundtrack? All motivations and backgrounds of the crew are left undiscussed. Subverting documentary form, a sense of unreality permeates even the most grounded moments.
Towards the end of the film, the camera plunges in and out of the green-black water in chaotic fashion, complicating our sense of space above and below the surface. After this rhythm has set in, the camera is eventually suspended in the air, capturing a flock of white seabirds brightly lit by the ship’s guide lights within stark darkness. The shot is flooring, a perfect encapsulation of what makes “Leviathan” a moving experience.