The Man Who Killed Don Quixote review – should have stayed lost in La Mancha

During the recent press tour for The Man Who Killed Don Quixote, the long-awaited fantasy-adventure Terry Gilliam has been making, on and off, for more than two decades, the once visionary writer-director appeared dead set on alienating his audience in every possible way. Perhaps it was a last minute tactic adopted in order to put people off seeing what has emerged as a mostly calamitous and janky misfire – a film that should have probably stayed lost in La Mancha for good.

Rather than opting for a straight adaptation of the classic novel, Gilliam instead builds his story around a frustrated director named Toby, played by Adam Driver, who’s trying to get a Don Quixote adaptation made in the form of a soulless insurance commercial. Shooting on location in Spain, Toby is reminded of the student film he made there years ago, using locals as cast members, that brought the book to the screen with a more authentic air. Returning to the village where he filmed it, Toby is reunited with his former leading man, Javier (Jonathan Pryce), now convinced that he is actually Cervantes’ hero. So ensues a series of wacky misadventures after Javier mistakes Toby for Quixote’s loyal squire Pancho.

It’s a convoluted set-up that trips into outright incomprehensibility far too often and relies on frustrating, contrived twists to move itself forward. Though some of the set pieces are visually interesting, actually getting to them is a bit of a chore, whilst the rest of the film is stitched together so flimsily it’s hard to ever feel truly immersed in Gilliam’s world. It’s not a particularly nice world to spend time in, either, as Gilliam’s recent tirades against PC culture find their way into the film in uncomfortable ways. Spanish locals are depicted as bumbling, backwards grifters; women are shallow and horribly written. For what is the final realisation of one of Hollywood’s most infamous passion projects, The Man Who Killed Don Quixote‘s worldview is mighty sour. It’s also difficult to enjoy an ostensibly heroic adventure film when both of the leads are putting out powerful sex pest vibes.

It doesn’t help that after so much self-satisfied silliness Gilliam shoots for real emotion towards the end and falls entirely flat. Even Adam Driver can’t save The Man Who Killed Don Quixote from its own tonal whiplash (anyone who thought it was impossible for this actor to put in an uninteresting performance will find that’s exactly what’s happened here). Pryce, sporting a broad accent and revelling in delusional pomposity, fares somewhat better, but both actors seem at various points to be vaguely embarrassed to be involved.

The Man Who Killed Don Quixote is not entirely without its charms. Now and then we’re treated to a entertainingly chaotic dream sequence or an occasional flash of the surrealist brilliance Gilliam has mastered in the past. A shame, then, that we’re forced to trudge through so much self-indulgent nonsense to get to these moments. Of course, the story behind The Man Who Killed Don Quixote is so fascinating (flooded sets, injured actors, bitter legal battles) that the final film was never quite going to be able to live up to its reputation. That it’s fallen this far short of even being a good film, though, is a real surprise – one that will sow doubt in the minds of even the most ardent Gilliam fan.