Werner Herzog is the kind of man who could narrate a sunrise and make it feel like the final chapter of a doomed civilization. So when Wheel of Time opens with shots of thousands of Tibetan pilgrims crawling across sharp gravel to reach Bodh Gaya—the Buddhist equivalent of Mecca—it doesn’t feel like a moment of peace. It feels like Herzog’s version of Disneyland: spiritual agony, devotion through bloodied knees, and enough human suffering to fill a monastery full of therapists.
But here’s the kicker: Wheel of Time is the most peaceful thing Herzog’s ever filmed. There are no jungle uprisings, no loony actors threatening to kill each other, no monkeys stealing boats. Instead, we get monks meditating, chanting, and walking in slow, deliberate circles. And yet, somehow, the film is still very much a Herzog production. You can almost hear the man sharpening a philosophical knife in the background, waiting to cut into your soul.
The documentary follows two iterations of the Kalachakra Initiation, one in Bodh Gaya, India, and the other in Graz, Austria. That alone is hilarious—a Tibetan religious ceremony transplanted from a sacred tree under which the Buddha found enlightenment to a chilly European city that usually hosts Kraftwerk concerts. The spiritual meets the IKEA catalog. And yet, it works, because in Herzog’s eyes, everything is sacred and absurd.
In Bodh Gaya, the preparations for the ceremony are endless. Tens of thousands of pilgrims arrive, some having walked for months, prostrating themselves the entire way. Herzog, of course, fixates on the most painful detail. He films the calloused hands, the bleeding foreheads, the mud-caked clothes. It’s devotion, sure—but it’s also suffering. In another director’s hands, this might play as reverent. In Herzog’s, it’s an existential fever dream scored by throat singing and quiet despair.
The centerpiece of the ceremony is the creation of the sand mandala—a jaw-droppingly intricate artwork made grain by grain by orange-robed monks who probably haven’t raised their voices in 40 years. They work like brain surgeons on LSD, flicking colored sand into spiraling patterns that represent the universe. It takes days to complete. And then, in true Buddhist fashion, they destroy it. Poof. Gone. Because permanence is an illusion and attachment is a chain. Also, because life is a cruel, fleeting joke, and Werner Herzog is sitting in the back mumbling, “Everything must fall to dust.”
And then there’s the Dalai Lama. When he finally appears in the film, he’s everything you hope he’d be—wise, compassionate, serene. Even Herzog seems to soften in his presence, interviewing him with the wide-eyed reverence of a teenager meeting David Bowie. The Dalai Lama speaks about peace, suffering, and the need for inner freedom, and Herzog doesn’t undercut it with irony or cynicism. It’s one of the few moments in his entire filmography where you feel like he believes in something pure.
But don’t worry—he gets back to the darkness soon enough. In a brief but stunning interlude, Herzog visits a prisoner—a Buddhist monk who burned himself alive in protest of Chinese occupation but survived. The man’s face is a melted wax mask of what it once was, and his words are quiet, almost embarrassed. He doesn’t consider himself brave. Herzog doesn’t push him. He doesn’t need to. The image alone punches through your ribcage.
What makes Wheel of Time special isn’t just its subject matter—there are probably 50 other documentaries on Tibetan Buddhism, all narrated by soft-spoken Brits in sweaters. But this one? This one’s got Herzog. And that means we’re not here just to learn. We’re here to feel. To question. To wonder why a man would crawl for 3,000 miles to see a 68-year-old monk wave a stick over his head and call it liberation.
Herzog’s narration is restrained for once. He’s contemplative. Almost reverent. But every now and then, he slips in a classic Herzogism that reminds you this man once filmed a grizzly bear eating a camper and called it “inevitable.” He refers to the endless tide of pilgrims as “a human river of devotion,” and you can practically hear him thinking, or madness. It’s never clear where admiration ends and existential dread begins.
And that’s the magic of Wheel of Time. It’s a documentary about Buddhism, yes. But more than that, it’s a Herzog meditation on the human condition. These people are chasing enlightenment. Crawling toward it. Chanting themselves hoarse for it. And what do they get? A glimpse. A brief moment. A puff of sand and silence. And then they go home.
In a way, it’s the most honest film about religion ever made. There are no miracles. No promises. Just people trying—desperately—to find peace in a world that offers none. The Buddha may have found enlightenment under that tree, but everyone else is still out there crawling across gravel, hoping their knees hold up.
The visuals are stunning. Wide shots of monks circling temples, seas of saffron robes rolling like a tide through ancient streets. But Herzog doesn’t dwell on beauty for its own sake. Every shot is soaked in ambiguity. The devotion is real, but so is the absurdity. It’s like watching ants build a cathedral and knowing a boot could come down at any second.
And yet, there’s something genuinely moving here. By the end of the film, you feel something akin to grace—not the cheesy kind sold in self-help books, but a quiet acknowledgment that maybe, just maybe, there’s something noble in the crawl. In the chant. In the sand that disappears with a single breath.
Final Verdict:
Wheel of Time is Herzog in monk’s robes—less screaming, more silence, but the same haunted eyes. It’s a film that believes in devotion but questions the cost. A meditation that ends with a shrug. It’s beautiful, bleak, and weirdly uplifting in the way only Herzog can deliver.
Watch it if you’ve ever stared at a monk and thought, Is he closer to God? Or just better at ignoring the noise?
Either way, it’s one hell of a ride on the wheel. And in Herzog’s hands, even nirvana comes with a side of despair.
