The Virgin Spring

The Virgin Spring (aka Jungfrukällan) (Ingmar Bergman, 1960) The 1961 winner for the Best Foreign Film is one of the most stark in the filmography of Ingmar Bergman. Much criticized and censored in the U.S. when it was first released, it is a surprising gut-punch of a film that takes on the themes of violence, revenge, jealousy and guilt in a way that goes against the grain of Bergman's more esoteric films, and feels more like an exploitation film...with a conscience, sitting somewhere in the storytelling territory between myth and mysticism and the grim and the fairy-tale. With a dash of religious conflict as a chaser.   

I remember it as a film being offered for a showing at my local High School and being told—in no uncertain terms by my parents—that I would no way, no how be allowed to see that film. The Seven Samurai, sure, I could see that one. But, not The Virgin Spring.

Frankly, seeing it recently, I can't blame them all that much. Bergman's film would have knocked me for a loop. As it did so many. 

Based on a legend (and subsequent ballad "Töres döttrar i Wänge") of the building of the church in Kärna in medieval Sweden, and the reasons behind it, Bergman tells the story of Töre (Max von Sydow), a landed farmer in the 14th century. Proud, prosperous, Christian, but not so arrogant that you wouldn't find him also working with his servants in the field, he would seem to have it all: married to Märete (Birgitta Valberg), his second wife and their daughter Karin (Birgitta Pettersson) and foster daughter Ingeri (Gunnel Lindblom).

The two girls couldn't be more different ("as different as rose and thorn" Märete says)—Ingeri is dark and treated as a servant, and not much respected as she is quite pregnant, while the favored daughter, Karin, is blonde and pampered and indulged—perhaps too much. Great pride is taken in Karin, especially by Töre, while his wife's is measured by an adult parent's guarded judgement. It is a grand day for the Töre's; Karin is to take candles they have made to the church for the Virgin, and although Karin feigns sickness—to get out of going to church—she is only too happy to go proudly in her silken yellow shift (sewed by fifteen maidens!), Sunday skirt and blue cape (oh, and the white stocking and the blue shoes with the pearls!), like royalty.

Karin insists that Ingeri go with her (as she never gets off the farm) and the journey is a day's ride, but she doesn't know of her step-sister's animosity towards her and that Ingeri has secretly prayed to the god Odin to come to her aid—what that might entail isn't made explicit, but it's quite possible that he heard. Fording a river, they come across a mill attended by a wizened old man (Axel Slangus), answering to no name: "I hear what I want to hear and see what I want to see." he tells Ingeri while Karin travels onward towards the church. "I hear what men whisper in secret and see what they think no one sees." He has cures for Ingeri and he professes to hearing "three dead men riding north" and invites her to hear what he hears. As he has heard her.

Already superstitious, Ingeri flees from the old man, following—against her best instincts—Karin into the dark forest. But, what she sees freezes her in her tracks. Three goat-herders have prevailed upon the kind-hearted Karin to stop and she invites them to eat the meal packed for her journey, but by the time Ingeri has reached her, they've attacked her, raping and then bludgeoning her to death, stealing her fine raiments and escaping into the forest. The rock Ingeri had planned to throw at the villains to stop them falls uselessly from her hands.

This is brutal stuff. And the film will only get more brutal as it goes along, as the film delves into the revenge for the act, but it's not one that comes from the heavens unless one believes that there are no coincidences. If that were so, it could be God or Odin or Fate that propels the film darker into an abyss of revenge and murder, but those entities seem to merely listen to the one-sided conversations of the beings that enjoin them. They are mute for all the homage paid.

But, not entirely.

 

If the pagan god of Odin makes an appearance, the Christian god is given equal time, through iconography and one apparent miracle, although not one to affect  the actions of the characters or the outcomes of things in the tale. Those are entirely the responsibility on the human figures, influenced or not by any deity.

I'm not one for revenge stories, which, given the absence of any sort of divine retribution, The Virgin Spring is. I don't find triumph or even satisfaction in them. For one thing I don't buy the math. "Eye" doesn't always equal "Eye". And I think for any retribution there is always a cost, even an invisible one. At least, there should be. But, The Virgin Spring, for all its measured coolness, boasts some of the most visceral acts of revenge ever put on the screen, no matter how much slaughter one has seen in movies. In part this is due to von Sydow's performance, which usually is noteworthy for its stillness and its internal strength. But not here. Töre seems ready to erupt at any time, whether from boastful pride or his own horror at what he finds himself capable of.

Von Sydow's performances are always imbued with spine, but in this, with all of its violent actions, he seems, ironically, more vulnerable, more capable of shame, of guilt, and penitence. The lip quivers, the hands shake, as if the revenge itself has affected him as well as his victims. But, then guilt and shame are major emotions in The Virgin Spring where everybody seems to be a victim...by their own hands or the hands of others, even if its the hands of Fate.

Later in his life and career Bergman would look back on The Virgin Spring and call it "a wretched imitation of Kurosawa." Imitation in themes and technique, maybe...but as unique and devastating as the Master would have made it half a world away.

Ingmar Bergman—film fan—checking out "Bruce" the shark

on the set of Jaws.

The Magician (1958)

The Magician (aka Ansiktet or "The Face", Ingmar Bergman, 1958) It is a rough day of travel for Vogler's Magnetic Health Theater, a gypsy band of performers just out of Copenhagen and carriaging to Sweden. Their reputation precedes them, having been accused of fraud and blasphemy at various stages of Europe, and some time incarcerated, but still they have a following and luckily it doesn't involve torches and pitch-forks. The troupe moves purposely on demonstrating the awesome powers of animal magnetism and selling potions for the sick and the wantonly healthy. "Sensational marvels never seen before. Magical acts derived from the philosophies of the Orient. Health-giving magnets, and spine-tingling thrills for the senses." That's what the flyers say, anyway. Whether it is true or not, the head of the troupe, Albert Vogler (Max von Sydow) will neither confirm or deny; Mr. Vogler, you see, is mute. Better to neither confirm or deny, the less said the better, and nothing is best of all.

In their travel, they come across a sickly actor, Johan Spegel (Bengt Ekerot), who asks for some brandy as he's sure today will be the last day of his life. He is offered that and a ride, and he joins the troupe consisting of Vogler, the severes"Mr. Aman" (portrayed by Vogler's wife, Manda—portrayed by Ingrid Thulin), their assistant and spokes-person Tubal (Åke Fridell), the carriage driver Simson (Lars Ekborg) and "Granny" Vogler (Naima Wifstrand), who "may" be a witch but is skilled at potions.

The actor having a mute audience as benefactor, talks and talks, his health gradually declining, his life ebbing away with every word, knowing that Vogler will be fascinated to hear his account with death, but...just as he's about to reveal what death is like...he dies.

Against that backdrop, the troupe continues on to the first village on their way, and are invited by Counsel Egerman (Erland Josephson) and his wife (Gertrud Fridh), both of whom are believers in the supernatural and are fascinated by the claims of the visitors, to join a party held in their behalf. Also attending—with a bit more "official" interest in the theater troupe—are Police Superintendent Starbeck (Toivo Pawlo) and the Minister of Health, Dr. Vergerus (Gunnar Björnstrand). The officials decide to have an informal bet on whether Vogler's group and abilities are frauds.

Are they frauds? There's room for interpretation: Egerson and his wife—especially the wife—lean towards belief, but Vergerus is a man of science and is disinclined to buy into any sort of mumbo-jumbo, and Starbeck's fall-back is to believe the band—given their reputation—are fraudsters, looking to separate the populace from their Krona. And given the artifice displayed by the players of the theater—Albert and his wife are both heavily made up and not what they appear to be—there's more than enough reason to think that it's all an act, mere illusion and trickery than any sort of mystic power.

One is inclined to say that there's a battle of wits between the troupe and their hosts, but it's no battle, really, merely the troupe being true to their nature as imaginative outsiders and the officials being stuck in their ways of thinking. Even if members of the troupe protest that everything is smoke and mirrors, there will always be that little suspicion with evidence to the contrary that they might not be. The evidence will be equal parts what they see with their eyes and what they feel with their hearts, and even the most pessimistic of the lot can be made to doubt, especially if their beliefs are merely a way to prop up a reputation of confidence.

One line haunts, and feels more true these days than at the time of the film's creation: At one point, the ailing actor makes a point:

Ouch. That hits you right in your superstitions. Or is it maybe the one who tells the truth needs to be put down by all the deceivers, lest they be exposed as such. But, in a world of deceivers what difference would being exposed make, especially if it's status quo?

Bergman offers no answers, just possibilities. The troupe could be fraudsters, but that fallen actor at the beginning comes back to haunt Vogler, something that only he is privy to. That must be evidence, no? But, evidence of what? Who would it convince but only another believer?

 

The Magician leaves the stage making you want more. And its questions haunt long after that point.

Olde Review: Persona

This was part of a series of reviews of the ASUW Film series back in the '70's. Except for some punctuation, I haven't changed anything from the way it was presented, giving the kid I was back in the '70's a bit of a break. Any stray thoughts and updates I've included with the inevitable asterisked post-scripts.

This is a companion piece to The Fire Within

 

Persona (Ingmar Bergman, 1967) As opposed to the approach Malle takes with The Fire Within, Bergman takes a totally different tack--he lets you know right from the start that Persona is only a movie, not reality at all (and as an ex-projectionist, my sympathy to the fellow who has to show it Saturday night!*). It is another Bergman film dealing with the supernatural. But for Bergman the supernatural does not come from beyond, it exists within us, within our personalities.

An actress (Liv Ullmann) is admitted to a hospital when she falls silent, unwilling to speak. A nurse (Bibi Anderssonn) is put in charge of the actress' care. For therapy, the two women live at a house on the seaside, and it is at this point that the supernatural forces of the soul take over.

The two women--the nurse, talkative and light; the actress, silent and brooding--begin to resemble each other, to merge psychically, take on each other's characteristics...and I find that I really can't go on with a synopsis of the story. For at this point, what one sees in the film is almost totally subjective. You have to explain what goes on to yourself. I can't do it for you, even if I were to try.**

Bergman can be a light and breezy film-maker as is evident in The Magic Flute and his '50's comedies. But at other times, his films can be claustrophobic and suffocating almost beyond endurance (and I think Bergman realized this in Persona, for at one point he lets up, forgets the story just for a moment, and explodes the creen with fast, fleeting, and irrelevant images***--a filmic explosion to relieve this build-up in tension).

William Bayer in his book "The Great Movies"**** says this about Persona and its creator, Ingmar Bergman.

"It is not his obscurity that is so frightening about Bergman. It is his intensity. there is such tension in "Persona" that it comes at times to be an almost unbearable experience. One senses a man revealing his anguish at the furthest extremes of cold fire, compelling attention by the blazing sting of total chill. In "Persona," the faces of Liv Ullmann and Bibi Anderssonn are incandescent with this intensity. Their interchange is so intimate that at times we want to avert our eyes." "The Great Movies" (p. 190)

It is all very heavy stuff. And I'm not sure the majority of UW students will be able to understand,be able to deal, with "The Fire Within" and "Persona."

But they are there...as a challenge.

Broadcast on KCMU-FM October 29, 1975 

A little condescending there at the end, I think. Perhaps I should have said I HOPE the majority of UW students would be able to understand or deal with the movies. They're disturbing films, and they resonate more, the older one gets and the closer one gets to the Edge of the Abyss. Perhaps I should have said that. Who knew?

As for what happens in the film: is it an empathy, a Jungian merging of souls, a familial bond, a lesbian love, possession, a psychic experience? Is it like pet-owners resembling their dogs? Is it the two women influencing each other so much that it becomes impossible to tell where one begins and the other ends?

There's a line from the wonderful Tucker: The Man and his Dream. I've always loved the dialog where Abe Karatz (Martin Landau), Tucker's financier semi-explains why he stays with the visionary auto-maker despite the financial risks: his mother, in her poor English, tried to communicate that you shouldn't get too close to people "or you'll catch their dreams. She meant germs. But she said 'you'll catch their dreams.'"

Maybe it's as simple as that. 

The view from 2023: Well, good for "the kid." You can tell I'm dancing around it, dispensing possibilities—all that could be legitimate if you're going for metaphors—but, as someone who has "care-taken" since the writing of this, it's seems that Persona's talking about how one can lose oneself in one's charge. Empathy begats symptoms. There are support groups for those taking care of Alzheimer's patients who can succumb to depression. It happens. And then there's always "Student's disease" where you can read about symptoms and go "That sounds familiar..." and begin to think you have the same malady. 

We take on burdens and...and...there's nothing further to say...we "take them on." The concerns of the person we care for or about become our concerns...and we change accordingly. We sacrifice a bit of ourselves for what we care for.

Or...it could be possession. Your viewing is as good as mine.

* That joke's a little "inside"

** It sounds like a cop-out (in the language of that day), but it really isn't--Persona is such a personal film, that one's life-experiences, even one's fleeting subconscious thoughts, will influence what one sees in Persona: is it an empathy, a merging of souls, a familial bond, a lesbian love, a psychic experience? Quite literally, your guess is as good as mine. Bergman could have come out and said something preposterous like "this is based on the Norwegian folk-tale of the two sea-nymphs who become one with nature--of warring clans who find that they have more in common with what separates them, and when you attempt to care for a tyger, you become the tyger!," but what fun would that be? We all bring something unique to the table. Isn't that what a smorgasbord is all about?

*** Irrelevent? I actually doubt that, now. Film is edited together for a reason.

**** Sadly out of print, and not to be confused with Roger Ebert's series of collected essays. I can't even find it mentioned at Amazon.com.

Life Sucks for a Teen-Age Vampyre (In Love)

Written at the time of each film's release.... 

"Fangs for the Memories"

Bella Swan (Kristen Stewart) may be the palest student ever to transfer to Forks High School from Arizona. For some reason her inability to maintain a tan is given a pass by her class-mates (who all try a bit too hard acting like fun-loving "with-it" teens-in-the-woods), but the constant topic of conversation are the equally pale Cullen family.

The Cullens keep to their ruby-lipped, paler-than-pale selves. They don't mingle and are a clique unto themselves. When the weather is good (rare in Forks, Washington out there on the Olympic Peninsula) the Cullens don't show up for school, but instead "go camping," as the story goes. Bella, a natural klutz physically and socially, is drawn to the unattached Cullen, Edward (Robert Pattinson). And why wouldn't she be? Like the rest of the Cullens he always appears to be walking in an undercranked slo-mo dream state, the chiseled delicate face of a Orlando Bloom/Johnny Depp/Jude Law, stops careening vans like Superman, growls like Elvis, and has the hair, neuroses and doomed bad-boy presence of James Dean, and perfect skin that glows translucently in the sun-light like diamonds . He seems particularly drawn to her, too. He can't eat, can't sleep, and has a lean and hungry look all the time.

It might be love, but maybe it's the vampirism.

It must be nice to be Stephanie Meyer right now. She's making a ton of dough off of recycled ideas and the cross...uh, sorry...combining of similar genres to create the biggest literary sensation since....well, since "Harry Potter" claimed to be literary. The "Twilight" series mixes equal parts Gothic Romance, standard Romance novel tropes and vampires and comes up with "Dark Shadows." Except Dan Curtis came up with that idea in the 1960's, so toss in a healthy dose of Judy Blume, and you produce what 'tweenettes have been swooning over the past couple years.

Now, here comes Twilight, the movie, and like the "Harry Potter" films it distills the essence of the plot without communicating what makes both of those series fun reads in the first place. Instead, everything comes across just a bit cheesily dramatic: Edward is all lowered gaze and wolfish teeth, and Bella (the name clues you in that Meyer is being a bit playful with her writing) is all heaving commitment. Edward's self-loathing for his disease puts up a barrier that confuses and messes with Bella's head (the only mind that Edward can't read), and his affliction just attracts her all the more. Which is bad for Edward because he and the other Cullens subsist on only animal, not human, blood (which he says is like humans on a steady diet of tofu: sufficient, but not very satisfying--a nice touch, that), and Bella is a constant temptation. "You're like my form of heroin," he says to her. And for all the romantic hooey of "the lion falling in love with the lamb," it feels a bit more like falling in love with a T-bone steak.

Yeah, well, I love chocolate, but not enough to marry it.
Remember, back when I wrote about Dracula, and said that it was a metaphor for raw hetero-sexuality?** Here, it's spelled out in big block letters Barbara Cartland could read with her lowest level bejewelled spec's: a vampire's blood-lust is just lust with everybody's formal-wear on. And penetration is penetration. Edward is the good boy with manners enough not to soil his lady-love ("killing" her for real, not just her reputation), while Bella is the willing maid panting for "it" (Kristen Stewart basically fulfilled that same role in Into the Wild). In one particularly heaving bedroom scene, they kiss to test how far they can restrain themselves (him to chomp on her, she to have sex with him) and just when things get a little out of control, he heaves himself against the opposite wall--like he was spring-loaded, or something.

That scene, and a lot of others, boast some of the most poorly done practical effects work done since Clark Kent's "skimming" run in the original "Superman" movie. We're in the post CGI-realm, folks, things could look a lot better than the FX one would expect on "Smallville."

That's another issue: Director Catherine Hardwicke makes "Twilight" looks cheap. I've seen Billy Burke (Fracture) before, and Elizabeth Reaser (she was wonderful in Sweet Land), but they're the only recognizable faces in the film, and the movie seems to have a film of murk all over it. As they filmed it in the Northwest--Oregon substituting for Washington (nice work, again, Washington Film Board!)--it might be fog getting under the lens. These books are making ga-zillions of dollars, you'd think they'd throw some money at the adaptations.

It takes the film a bit to get going, because Bella has to do research to discover what vampires are--seemingly being out of touch with culture her entire life--but it does spring to life in a decidedly unexpected way: when the two kids have to meet the families. Edward turns a bit paler meeting Bella's cop-dad, and the joke about the Cullens having Bella over for dinner is nicely mined for uncomfortable laughs. "Bella, you're about to go to a house full of vampires, and the only thing you're worried about is making a good impression?" is the best line in the film. Then, it all goes completely south with a vampire baseball game (seriously) and a tedious version of "The Most Dangerous Game" with a trio of "bad" vampires, who are evidently playing for another team. At that point, everyone stops thinking and starts doing stupid things when there is so much at...stake.

................................................................................................................

But just when one thinks there's not enough blood in the genre that hasn't already been regurgitated along comes this modest film from half-a-world away that covers a lot of the same unconsecrated earth as "Twilight' but gives it a poignant spin.

Let the Right One In (aka "Låt den rätte komma in") introduces us to Oskar (Kåre Hedebrant), a child of divorced parents living in an apartment block in a Stockholm suburb in 1982. When first seen, one could mistake him for a Renfield-type, babbling to an unseen person to "squeal like a pig" while brandishing a knife. He watches from his window as a car pulls up in the middle of the night, and a man and a girl get out and move in to the apartment next door. Cardboard is put up in the windows and things go quiet.

Then, strange ritualistic murders begin happening around town, and Oskar's fellow students are warned to beware of strangers in the night walking home from school. Oskar has his own problems with an unholy trinity of bullies that regularly taunt him--they're the reasons for his revenge fantasies played out in the safety of his own home. 

About the same time, he makes the acquaintance of a pale girl named Eli (the excellent Lina Leandersson), who's about his age..."more or less," she says. When she learns of his bully troubles, her answer is simple: "Oskar, hit back. Hit them harder than you dare. Then they'll stop." Eli gives him the courage to do just that, and he begins to take weight-lifting classes.

Eli has her own problems: her benefactor and procurer has begun to make mistakes and the towns-people are getting suspicious, as the attacks become more random and more vicious. Eli and Oskar grow closer, deciding to go "steady," as events threaten to tear them apart.

Let the Right One In may sound sweet, but the savagery of the attacks is anything but—director Tomas Alfredson stages them swiftly and suddenly, and they can catch the audience by surprise. Plus, some of the happenings have a giddy violence that may produce uncomfortable giggles along with the chill up the spine (not unlike those of the excellent, though little seen, Exorcist III).

There is visceral, grisly horror in the story of the both supernatural and all-too-human varieties. The vampires of "Twilight" are ethereally pretty in the sunlight of the Northwest. In the similar light of Sweden, the results are decidedly different and more spontaneous. To say more would rob the film of its twisted charm, something that can't be said for the cob-webbed cliches of Twilight. That an American remake is in the works is news that can be regarded with its own brand of horror.

May it never see the light of day.

"Just So You Know, I Won't Be Your Friend"

Let Me In is an American remake of Let the Right One In, the terrifically creepy 2008 Swedish film. For those who hate sub-titles, this is probably a good thing. And what's good about the original is slavishly copied here, but director Matt Reeves (Cloverfield) does some good things (and a couple bad) to move the situations from frozen Sweden to a wintry Los Alamos, New Mexico.* The best thing is the acting.  Let Me In includes such great thesps as Richard Jenkins (a fine actor and more people will see him in this than any other film he's done) and Elias Koteas. But, it's the kids who are the best thing about it.  Anyone who's seen Kick-Ass already knows Chloe Moretz is terrific, but this is less of a joke-performance, and plumbs the depths of what she can do dramatically. Her waif, Abby ("I'm 12...more or less") starts out alarmingly strange, but as the movie progresses, the character turns more vulnerable and sympathetic—far more than Lina Leandersson in the original. 

But, the stand-out here is Kodi Smit-McPhee as the initially screwed-up Owen, a victim in danger of continuing in an unthinking cycle of violence. McPhee's Owen wears his heart on his sleeve—he just won't show it on his girlish face—but as the movie progresses, that face starts to beam (he is far more expressive than the Swedish version's Kåre Hedebrant, in fact, both kids in the first have a Teutonic reserve that is appropriate for that film's style, but would seem catatonic in this version) as he approaches his relationship with Abby with the same vulnerable hopefulness he just can't allow in his other interactions.

Reeves does manage to make some things his own, as well. He mostly discards the firsts glacial blue color palette for a neon orange that suffuses scenes, and he nicely captures a bit of the gender-bending feel of the first, though differently. Also, he very cleverly stages some of the violent sequences obliquely, thrusting them in the stage-rear of the frame while the main focus is going on in the foreground. The more human attacks are handled extremely well, surprisingly—alarmingly so, but the movie veers into goofiness whenever more occultish violence occurs. The director holds on the scenes too long, and even though a lot of it is done in back-lit cameo, the effects make it look like the perp is less a savage beast than a crazed monkey with a banana-buzz. 

Sure, there should be some giddy thrill involved in horror, but "giddy" shouldn't translate to guffaws. He also makes crystal-clear the true horror of the piece, something that only occurred to me, after a bit of time of contemplation—for some reason, I like my "OMG" moments to be outside the theater. And he gums up the last scene of the film with a too-nostalgic pop reference that negates its effectiveness.

Still, after having dismissed the idea of an American remake with "may it never see the light of day," I have to admit that this one doesn't suck badly.

* Yes, it DOES snow in Los Alamos, New Mexico, and it has nothing to do with a Nuclear Winter.

** No, you don't because it's being posted Friday, so consider this a teaser.