- Culture
- 13 Dec 05
March Of The Penguins has a trump card. Fluffy baby chicks. No point arguing with those.
Having marched to box-office glory earlier this year in the US, the penguins look set to hit our shores with similar aplomb. Luc Jacquet’s unbearably adorable nature documentary, following the complicated, often life-endagering mating rituals of the emperor penguin, does everything the genre ought to in a shamelessly schmaltzy package.
Look at the birds shuffling along on the ice! They think they’re people, they do! Well, no actually, that’s just us. Of course, the preposterously god-like narration of Morgan Freeman, riddled with anthropomorphisms, does much to reinforce the idea. A female loses her chick to a harsh winter storm. “The pain is unbearable,” intones Freeman. Don’t think so mate. It’s a bird.
When not confusing instinct with melodrama, March Of The Penguins does achieve a certain majesty. The wastelands of the Antarctic provide an unremittingly harsh backdrop, hardly ideal conditions for any species to thrive or get it on, and as we’re repeatedly told on each stage of the convoluted mating cycle, “Many will not survive.” There’s a seductive Darwinian logic at play here, if we can ignore the slightly creationist tone taken by the filmmakers.
Still, March Of The Penguins has a trump card. Fluffy baby chicks. No point arguing with those.