I hate to admit to being underwhelmed by anything Herzog, but Of Walking In Ice just didn’t do it for me. In 1974, Herzog walks from Munich to Paris, presumably because he feels that if he does so, he can help keep alive esteemed German film critic Lotte Eisner, who has fallen ill in France. In and of itself that’s great. Plus the weather sucks. That adds drama. Along the way he keeps a journal. It is a diaristic ramble, to be sure. He breaks into houses along the way to sleep. That’s kind of cool in a 70s way. There are definitely some prime Herzogian philosophical nuggets, but for me, it was pretty darned unfocused. What kept me going was the scant page count. I know I will be hated and hunted down by the lovers of cinema for this review. But I’ll take my chances.