The Captain Besley Expedition

In a sepia-toned fever dream of 1914, Captain Besley—part showman, part charlatan—unfurls a map inked with crocodiles and colonial guilt, coaxing a ragged flotilla of thrill-seekers down the Paraná’s arterial bends toward a rumored lost city where Jesuit gold weeps inside limestone walls. The expedition’s heartbeat is the cinematograph itself: hand-cranked cameras clatter like rosaries while Besley stages tableaux of conquest, forcing indigenous extras to reenact their own dispossession until the jungle, thick with jaguar-shadows, begins to push back—vines curling round the tripod legs, ants devouring the nitrate. Franklin B. Coates, eyes lacquered with morphine and manifest destiny, oscillates between Barnum bravado and Lear-on-the-heath delirium as malaria blooms across his skin like pomegranate rot. Mid-river, a mutinous cinematographer exposes the captain’s alchemy: turning suffering into spectacle, corpses into dissolves. The final reel combusts in solarized whites—Besley, arms outstretched, sinks beneath a cataract of gold leaf while the camera keeps grinding, devouring its own tail, birthing cinema’s first found-footage suicide note. What remains is a scarred negative, perforated by light, whispering that every empire is only ever a strip of images trying not to tear.