CRIMSON WING

Remember those Disney nature movies? Like the one in which Walt Disney famously, disappointingly, did not actually chase those lemmings off a cliff? Well, they’re back. Disney Nature, a brand spanking new imprint from the House of Mouse, promises to put big, luscious wildlife photography back on the silver screen where it belongs.
To that end, Crimson Wing, the boutique studio’s opening gambit, is as grandiose as you like. An extraordinary tale of sex and death among Africa’s flamingo population, this is no pinked up March of the Penguins. Huge orchestral swells punctuate and propel every scene. Mariella Frostrup’s portentous narration from an overwritten script strives for maximum gravitas.
Never mind the caveats. The main event is the knockout lensing. The word vibrant seems too lacklustre to convey the shocks of Barbie feathers and glittering azure horizons co-directors Matthew Aeberhard and Leander Ward have deftly worked into every frame. This might be the natural world but the E-number palette and the improbable mating habits of the headlining birds seem awfully unlikely.
Every year, approximately two million flamingos – about 75% of the world’s girliest egg-layers – make their merry way toward Tanzania’s Lake Natron to writhe against each other in orgiastic groups and select a mate. In the summer sun, the sulphur spilling out of Gelai Volcano and toxic levels of sodium in the water combine and harden into a vast island of salt, a platform for the birds to chase tail feathers, lay eggs and raise chicks.
It’s not as easy as it sounds. Like salmon, these day-glo swingers have to find their way back to Natron, where they themselves were all born. Marabou storks, the creepy Dickensian villains of the piece, conduct dawn raids, wolfing down thousands of eggs and hatchlings with each attack. The odd mongoose helps himself to a bedtime snack. The salt hardens around the chicks’ legs, often creating shackles from which they will never escape. All told, Crimson Wing boasts a body count that might be favourably compared with Inglourious Basterds.
Commendably, Messrs. Aeberhard and Ward avoid anthropomorphising their subjects or battering the audience over the head with eco-placards. The film’s environmental concerns are left until the final credits and there are, thankfully, few concessions to barmy Young Earth Creationists.
Ms. Frostrup smoulderably competes with a dramatic erupting volcano, but the all-ages Cert PG narrative, with its repeated references to ‘storybook witches’ and the Circle of Life could be considerably less pompous. We can live with that. The dazzling footage is more than enough compensation for nature-lovers, kids and soft drug users.
Move over, penguins. Disney Nature’s overture may be the best flamingo movie since Divine ate dogshit for our amusement.