NEW YORK — Les Blank — whose sly, sensuous, and lyrical documentaries about regional music and a host of other idiosyncratic subjects, including Mardi Gras, gaptoothed women, garlic and the filmmaker Werner Herzog, were widely admired by critics and other filmmakers, if not widely known by moviegoers — died March 30 at his home in Berkeley, Calif. He was 77.
The cause was bladder cancer, said his son Harrod.
Mr. Blank, who received lifetime achievement awards from the American Film Institute and the International Documentary Association, did not think of himself as a documentarian, his former wife Chris Simon said, but rather as a filmmaker whose work happened to be about real people.
His films are hardly standard documentary fare, dominated by archival footage and interviews with talking heads, nor are they of the Frederick Wiseman-D.A. Pennebaker fly-on-the-wall expose school. Rather, the films, most of them less than an hour long, are ‘‘brilliantly sympathetic, well-crafted essays,’’ as John Rockwell wrote in The New York Times in 1979, rife with deftly framed portraiture, cunningly observed social scenes, beautiful nature photography, and the poetic juxtaposition of imagery and sound.
‘‘I think he’s a national treasure,’’ the director Taylor Hackford said in a phone interview. ‘‘Although his films are not well known at the moment, they’ll take their place. Films are great when they live a long time, and I think Les’s will live.’’
Mr. Blank trolled for subject matter on the American periphery, in cultural pockets where the tradition is long but the exposure limited. His films often have a geographic, as well as cultural, specificity, and food and music are often the featured elements. His musical subjects included norteno bands of the Rio Grande Valley in Texas, Cajun fiddlers of Louisiana, and polka enthusiasts from across the country.
‘‘You could call him an ethnographer; you could call him an ethnomusicologist or an anthropologist,’’ Hackford said. ‘‘He was interested in certain cultures that Americans are unaware of. He shot what he wanted, captured it beautifully, and those subjects are now gone. The homogenization of American culture has obliterated it.’’
A shy, quiet man, Mr. Blank achieved a kind of intimacy in his work — his subjects often seem almost impossibly at ease — that suggested the camera had been unobtrusive, or perhaps a welcome guest. Mr. Blank sometimes lived among the people he was filming for weeks at a time.
‘‘I try not to make a big deal about the camera, to let it get between me and them,’’ Mr. Blank said in 1979. ‘‘I’ve seen a lot of cameramen go in and treat the subjects like so many guinea pigs. I think the people pick up on my very protective feelings toward them, and they aren’t self-conscious about what they do or say, and they try to show the inner light about themselves that I find so attractive.’’
Perhaps his best-known films concern Herzog, the German director of films like ‘‘Aguirre, the Wrath of God’’ and ‘‘Stroszek.’’ To encourage his student and friend Errol Morris to finish his long-talked-about film about pet cemeteries, Herzog had said that when it was done he would eat his shoes. The impetus worked: Morris finished the film (“Gates of Heaven”) in 1978, and Herzog kept his promise, boiling his leather desert boots in duck fat (and stuffing them with garlic) at Chez Panisse, the celebrated restaurant in Berkeley and consuming them — partly, anyway — onstage at a local theater. Mr. Blank turned it into a comic, and rather touching, 20-minute film about what artists do for the sake of art, titled ‘‘Werner Herzog Eats His Shoe’’ (1979).
Leslie Harrod Blank Jr. was born
in Tampa. He went to Phillips Academy in Andover, Mass., and Tulane University in New Orleans, where he majored in English and aspired to be a writer. He briefly attended graduate school at the University of California, Berkeley, and flirted with the idea of becoming a Navy pilot before he saw the Ingmar Bergman film ‘‘The Seventh Seal,’’ which piqued his interest in making movies. He formed a production company, Flower Films, in 1967.