Film Review: Black Robe (1991)

Certain films are destined for greatness from conception, judged by the potency of their theme, the calibre of talent involved, and the ultimate quality of the cinematic achievement. Yet, through a cruel twist of fate, often mere poor timing, they recede into obscurity, overshadowed by louder, more palatable contemporaries. A prime exemplar of this phenomenon is the 1991 period adventure Black Robe, a film of unflinching rigour and bleak poetry that was buried by its unfortunate release in the wake of two Oscar-anointed giants with which it superficially shared DNA: Roland Joffé’s The Mission (1986) and Kevin Costner’s Dances with Wolves (1990). To encounter Bruce Beresford’s film now is to discover a masterwork that eschews the romanticism of its predecessors, offering instead a harsh, historically credible, and profoundly unsettling meditation on the collision of worlds.

The film is a faithful adaptation of the eponymous 1985 novel by Northern Irish author Brian Moore, who also wrote the screenplay. It transports us to New France in 1634, to the fledgling, precarious settlement that would become Quebec City. Under the governorship of the historical Samuel de Champlain (Jean Brosseau), French policy hinges not on mass settlement like their English and Dutch rivals, but on the fur trade, a commercial endeavour inextricably linked with a spiritual crusade: the conversion of the indigenous tribes to Christianity. This dual mandate falls upon the shoulders of the young, austere Jesuit priest, Father Paul LaForgue (Lothaire Bluteau). His mission is to trek to a distant Huron village to relieve, or perhaps discover the fate of, two priests who have fallen silent. His guides are a group of Algonquin, led by the weary, dream-haunted Chomina (August Schellenberg). They are joined by Daniel (Aden Young), a young French colonist whose motivation is less divine than carnal: his infatuation with Chomina’s daughter, Annuka (Sandrine Holt).

The journey that unfolds is less a heroic odyssey than a slow-motion descent into a heart of darkness. The core conflict is not primarily one of physical survival, though the film is brutally frank about the exigencies of 17th-century wilderness travel, but of profound and irreconcilable spiritual alienation. The Algonquin refer to LaForgue derisively as “Black Robe,” a man whose tales of a single, omnipotent god and a paradise beyond death are met with bafflement and disdain. Their world is governed by the immediate, the tangible, and the capricious interpretations of dreams and omens. This mistrust curdles into outright hostility when they encounter a dwarf Montagnais shaman (played by Yvan Labelle) who declares LaForgue a demon, leading to his abandonment. Though Chomina, guided by his own moral code and dreams, comes back to rescue him, their party is soon ambushed by a Mohawk war band. What follows is a sequence of almost unwatchable brutality: torture, murder, and the slaughter of women and children. Escape is achieved through Annuka’s calculated seduction of a guard, a moment of pragmatic survival that highlights the film’s rejection of purist “noble savage” tropes.

Mortally wounded and guided by visions, Chomina, in his final act, compels LaForgue to complete his journey alone. When the priest finally staggers into the Huron mission, he finds a community devastated by European disease—a “strange fever.” In a scene of devastating irony, the Huron, their culture shattered, their healers useless, prostrate themselves before LaForgue, begging for the baptism they believe might save their lives. He administers the sacrament, but his face is a mask of hollow triumph. The closing titles deliver the final, historical coup de grâce: fifteen years later, the Huron were defeated by the Iroquois, and the Jesuit mission was abandoned. It is an ending of profound nihilism, rendering the entire harrowing journey and the priest’s personal sacrifices utterly moot.

The path to the screen was itself a long pilgrimage. Secured by Canadian Alliance studio, the project languished in development hell until Bruce Beresford, riding high on the Oscar success of Driving Miss Daisy, brought it to fruition. The resulting film stands as a landmark in Australian-Canadian co-production. While the superficial similarities with The Mission (Jesuit priests in the New World) and Dances with Wolves (cultural clash on the frontier) are undeniable, Black Robe is a deliberate and stark antithesis to both. Beresford presents a world where European power is tenuous, reduced to a few pathetic outposts. Their technological advantage is marginal: an arquebus that is slow and barely superior to the bow, metal trinkets for trade, and mechanical clocks that fascinate but do not intimidate. The natives are not victims of an overwhelming imperial machine, but the undisputed masters of a vast, unforgiving landscape.

Moreover, the film vigorously rejects the romanticisation inherent in its predecessors. The indigenous characters here are not angelic children of nature. They are, by European standards of the time and by the film’s unwavering gaze, savages: governed by superstition, capable of shocking cruelty, driven by lust (a particularly vivid scenes would appall the celibate LaForgue), and locked in their own cycles of genocidal violence. This unsentimental, historically-grounded portrayal, which scholar Ward Churchill would later attack as “racist,” flew directly in the face of the emerging 1990s ethos of political correctness and revisionist sentimentality. Dances with Wolves offered a bowdlerised, noble vision that audiences and awards bodies could comfortably applaud; Black Robe forced them to confront a far more complex, uncomfortable, and arguably more authentic truth. This, coupled with its relentless bleakness and downbeat conclusion, condemned it to commercial obscurity outside of its native Canada, where it found resonance and Genie Award success.

Yet, to focus solely on its harsh themes is to neglect its formidable artistry. Beresford directs with a superb, cold elegance, framing human depravity and frailty against the majestic, indifferent beauty of the Canadian wilderness, breathtakingly captured by cinematographer Peter James. The score by the legendary French compoier Georges Delerue is subtle, atmospheric, and haunting, a perfect acoustic companion to the visual and narrative austerity. The performances are uniformly exceptional, with Bluteau’s fanatical conviction and Schellenberg’s tragic dignity leaving a lasting impression.

Black Robe is a film lost to time not through any deficiency, but through its own uncompromising integrity. It is a colder, harder, and more intellectually honest film than either of its more famous thematic cousins. It denies its audience the catharsis of a noble sacrifice or a redemptive cultural bridge. Instead, it offers a stark vision of mutual incomprehension, historical irony, and the tragic, bloody birth of a new world. A brilliant, punishing, and essential work, it remains one of cinema’s most powerful and overlooked explorations of the colonial encounter, a dark gem waiting to be rediscovered by those willing to brave its challenging, unforgiving terrain.

RATING: 8/10 (+++)

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