Review - The Phantom Carriage

February 14, 2019

The Phantom Carriage – Sweden, 1921

I confess to being a skeptic whenever someone professes love for a character who has clearly not earned it. So, imagine my reaction when a young social worker, referred to as Sister Edit, erupts with proclamations of love for one David Holm. Such a confession is even more egregious seeing as how, by this time in the film, we’ve seen nothing to endear Mr. Holm to anyone. Oh, we’ve seen him drink himself into a debilitating stupor, castigate social workers for advocating sobriety, and ridicule loved ones for showing concern over his possibly life-threatening influence on his children’s health. What we haven’t seen is any exhibition of empathy or humanity… or kindness or camaraderie or romantic nature. I could go on, but why belabor the point?

David Holm is the central focus of Victor Sjostrom’s otherwise impressive 1921 drama, The Phantom Carriage, and concentrating the film around Holm is a fascinating choice. I say that because the film’s opening moments hint at a different lead, Sister Edit herself. In those opening scenes, we learn that Sister Edit (Astrid Holm) is near death, her condition so without hope that doctors sent her home to be in the presence of loved ones when the end finally comes. In a moment of clarity, she proclaims her desire to see Mr. Holm and entreats those around her to summon him, a request that they set out to oblige.

Movies that begin in this way often then flash back to earlier, happier days, but The Phantom Carriage soon cuts to a scene of three gentlemen getting drunker by the moment. The character that the film later identifies as Mr. Holm, played by Sjostrom himself, shares a story about an old man who was jovial every day of the year other than New Year’s Eve. On that day, he would sit motionless, paralyzed with fear, monitoring the action around him for signs of hazards and counting the minutes until January 1 and another year of relative safety. According to him, the last person to die on New Year’s Eve is cursed to drive Death’s carriage for a year. It’s not difficult to predict just who will be burdened with that responsibility next.

And yet even this does not go exactly where the audience expects, for we never see Mr. Holm take the reins. Instead, his predecessor leads him on a stroll down memory lane, forcing him to relive his greatest insults and poorest choices. In many of these moments, Sjostrom creates an eerie dual reality by superimposing the world of the dead over the world of the living, crafting breathtaking visuals in which the living and the departed pass through each other, utterly oblivious of the other’s presence. Sjostrom also manipulates light and darkness to create powerful impressions of innocence and evil. Rooms look dusty and unkempt, contrasting nicely with the elegant pristine look of those advocating a more moral world.

Films like The Phantom Carriage are probably a product of their time. Modern films rarely embrace religion as successfully as this one does and are much less likely to come out so strongly against drinking. In the wrong hands, films that attempt such feats often are deemed to be sermonizing or endorsing a lifestyle that is too far removed from reality. However, knowing when the film was made, just one years after the beginning of Prohibition in the United States and two years after Sweden, as well as the United States, passed suffrage laws, can help viewers understand the circumstances these characters are facing and perhaps accept some themes that they might otherwise have struggled with.

In truth, films were more religious in the past, and Hollywood films often ended with sudden conversions and last-minute reprieves after the delivery of a long-delayed potent prayer. Such endings can occasionally feel rushed, yet here there is a powerful beauty to it, partly because of the performances Sjostrom gives and gets from the rest of his cast. Particularly strong is Hilda Borgstrom, who plays Mrs. Holm. In one particular scene, Sjostrom spotlights her face during a moment of decision, and we see her expression run through a gambit of emotions before arriving at one that indicates settlement, but not satisfaction. She has embraced desperation, and from her expression we can tell she is well aware of the heartache and instability that is soon to follow.

The Phantom Carriage succeeds because we want better days for Mrs. Holm, we don’t want Sister Edit’s devotion and faith to be all for naught, and we see just enough in Mr. Holm’s eyes for us to know that there is a better man someone beneath the pain, anger, and alcohol. And we see just enough of what it is like to drive Death’s carriage that we would not wish that upon anyone, even a man who causes as much hurt as Mr. Holm. I felt for these characters. I wanted Sister Edit to succeed, for Mrs. Holm to find happiness, for their children to find safety. And yes, I even rooted for Mr. Holm to rediscover God.

Which brings me back to that pronouncement of love. Simply put, the film would be stronger without it, for it calls into question Sister Edit’s motivation, and that is a shame. In flashbacks, we come to know her as a character with a strong will and a deep devotion to charity, religion, and health. Hearing her call Mr. Holm the love of her life – and knowing that none of their interactions explain why she would have such strong feelings for him – weakens her character slightly. After all, sometimes a good person does the right thing because it is in her nature to do so. It is a reality I wish more movies would take to heart. (on DVD and Blu-ray from the Criterion Collection)

3 and a half stars

Review - A Man Called Ove

February 23, 2017

Man Called Ove, A – Sweden, 2015

If there’s any justice in the world, Nicholas Sparks will seek out A Man Called Ove and realize just what screen adaptations of his novels have been missing. I say this because A Man Called Ove is one of the greatest love stories I’ve ever seen, as well as a particularly fascinating character study.

I don’t how else to describe it, so I’ll put it as plainly as I can. The opening scene in Hannes Holm’s Oscar-nominated film, A Man Called Ove, is nothing short of masterful. Now I have seen many films like A Man Called Ove (As Good As It Gets and Nobody’s Fool come to mind right away), yet I have never seen one that so perfectly establishes a character as this one does right off the bat. In the opening scene, an elderly man named Ove (Rolf Lassgard) is shown squabbling over the price of a small bouquet of flowers with a store clerk who couldn’t care less about the man in front of her. Such, you might say, are the times in which we live, but as the film progresses, you realize that much more is going on. This is not the first time for either of them. The man has raised a ruckus before, and a store employee, perhaps the same one, has reacted dispassionately to complaints that stem from a dissatisfaction that has very little to do with the clerk. What we are witnessing in the scene is one of Ove’s daily routines, similar to the rounds that we see him go on in his suburban neighborhood despite no longer officially being in charge of security, and the job he has held for 43 years. Sometimes our routines are the only things keeping us here.

In the film’s early scenes, Ove seems to be going out of his way to be as off-putting as he can. Watching the way he relates to his neighbors and turns down what should be a simple request for assistance, I could tell he was mentally cursing mankind and all that it had become. Being approached with termination later on only confirms his most hardened views of the upper class – “white-shirts,” he calls them – and in retrospect his resignation may be the moment he officially gives up on the world. Soon he’s staring at a rope hanging from his living room ceiling and talking about being with his deceased wife. It’s chaos without you, he speaks aloud to her at one point. There’s only one problem – people kept needing his assistance, and he is always bothered enough by imperfections to put his death on hold and offer angry, condescending aid to the sorry sap in need of it.

Films like this one that feature elderly hotheads as lead characters tend to follow a familiar pattern. Eventually someone will enter the picture and pierce through their thick skin, thereby enabling their true self to shine through. In a film with a young character, this often leads to romance. With an older one, it leads to self-reflection and clarity. Too many of these movies simply can’t resist the temptation to turn the disgruntled lead into a repentant gentlemen by the end of the film. In many ways, A Man Called Ove is no different. Parvaneh (Bahar Pars), a new tenant of Iranian descent, comes into his life and slowly begins pulling him out of his shell. There’s also the presence of a stray cat that is about as cliché as they come and the apparently requisite neighborhood children whom he’s at first cold to, but who we sense he come around to in the end.

In truth, we’ve seen a lot of these things before. What sets A Man Called Ove apart are the film’s multiple timelines and its depth and emotional resonance. The characters and the scenarios they find themselves in reverberate, from Ove’s reticent widowed father to his awkward relationship with the world around him. He becomes a heroic individual almost out of necessity and never completely loses his social awkwardness. In a sense, most of his best tendencies are the result of his having found someone capable of bringing them out of him. When he hesitates, it is his late wife, Sonja, (played in flashbacks by Ida Ebgvoll) that either takes the initiative or finds a way to push him in the right direction. Even in death, she hangs over him in the form of people she helped who finds themselves with only Ove to turn to. It’s hard to know what he would have become without her. She enables him to be the man he wants to be, one she likely sensed he was from the very beginning.

It is a testament to the creators of A Man Called Ove that the film is funny without ever making Ove himself the target of cheap jokes and sweet without ever straining credibility. It also features strong performances, two of which are given in service of the same role. Only in two scenes does the film do itself a disservice. The first one unsuccessfully endeavors to find humor in different preferences for cars, and the second asks you to believe that someone engaging in morally questionable antics would not have googled himself at least once. These are more than just minor quibbles, for they are given a good amount of screen time, and they take the film out of reality and into Wes Anderson territory. This is not necessarily a bad thing in a Wes Anderson film, but here, it is distracting and somewhat lazy artistically.

Sadly, I have not had time to see many of the films up for the Academy Awards this year. It looks as if the Best Foreign Language film is coming down to Toni Erdmann and The Salesman, and from what I have read, these films are both deserving in their own right. Still, I hope that people seek out A Man Called Ove. It takes a conventional plot and upends all expectations of it. Faults notwithstanding, it is the standard bearer by which all films like it should now be judged, and even that feels like an understatement. Really. When it's good, it is that good. (on DVD and Blu-ray)

3 and a half stars

*A Man Called Ove is in Swedish with English subtitles. 

Review – Fanny and Alexander (theatrical version)

December 27, 2008

Fanny and Alexander – Sweden, 1983

I am not a believer in ghosts. That said, I can accept the existence of ghosts in films as long as it makes sense in the context of the film. There are several ways in which ghosts are used in films. First, there are films such as The Sixth Sense and Ghost in which ghosts can be seen by only a select few people. In these films, there’s a reason that the ghosts are still lingering in this world and reasons for their invisibility to the general public. Then there are films in which everyone accepts that ghosts are a reality, and therefore their existence is never questioned. Many movies from Asia, films such as Nong Nak and Rouge, use this approach. Last, there are movies in which ghosts have a symbolic meaning, perhaps reflecting a character’s inner turmoil or inability to let go of the past. Films that use ghosts for this purpose risk confusing or alienating viewers who may simply not get what a director is trying to do, and I suspect that some people may lump Ingmar Bergman's Fanny and Alexander into this latter category.

Fanny and Alexander begins with what to outsiders must appear to be a perfect family Christmas. Smiles and laughter abound, and there’s food aplenty. So why is Mrs. Helena Ekdahl (Gunn Wallgren) fighting back tears? Why is Uncle Carl (Borje Ahlstedt) drowning himself in alcohol before the feast even begins? And why does a woman think it’s “cute” that her husband Gustav (Jarl Kulle) is hitting on Maj (Pernilla August), a maid his daughter’s age? But perhaps the most puzzling behavior is that of Mr. Oscar Ekdahl (Allen Edwall), an actor and director. After a Christmas performance that receives rapturous applause, he delivers a long, somber speech in which he expresses his fondness for what he calls “the little world” that the theater inhabits. He sounds like a man who recognizes his own vulnerability and the transitory nature of his place in the world around him. Just two months later, what he seemed to sense unfortunately comes true.

Before his death, his children’s life had been one of laughter and magic. His son Alexander (Bertil Guve) used to sit in the audience watching his father rehearse. A family maid would chase him around the house playfully and he, his sister, and their relatives would engage in pillow fights that – in true movie fashion – would end with feathers flying everywhere. After Oscar’s death, Alexander is filled with an understandable fear of further abandonment. Perhaps it is as a result of this fear that he tells other children that his mother has sold him to the circus, a lie that causes him to be subjected to a lecture on the difference between a lie and the truth by Bishop Edvard (Jan Malmsjo). After this lecture, Alexander’s mother Emilie (Ewa Frowling) drops a bombshell on her children: The Bishop has asked her to marry him, and she has accepted his proposal. It is hard to describe the joy that is in Emilie’s voice and expression as she tells her children this, yet her life with the Bishop will be one devoid of the laughter and bliss that had once filled her home.

Fanny and Alexander would be a rather accessible film if it were not for the presence of Oscar’s ghost. The ghost plays the piano, walks the halls of his mother’s house, and has conversations with his son and mother. In addition, the latter half of the film introduces a character who seems to be able to perform magic, seems to see what is happening in the Bishop’s house even though they are not there, and has to be locked up for the safety of others. I suppose the purpose of the former could be to lend credibility to a story that Alexander tells Fanny and Justina (Harriet Andersson), one of the Bishop’s maids, but the film is purposefully vague as to the veracity of Alexander’s story. Furthermore, I cannot fathom the purpose of the odd, psychic character, or the eerie implication that what happens in the Bishop’s house is somehow what Alexander wishes would happen.

Fanny and Alexander ends with many questions left unanswered, and yet life seems to have taken a turn for the better. Laughter has returned to the children’s lives, and characters are beginning to exert a control over their lives that they had not previously had. I find myself conflicted about the film. While I enjoyed the story, the characters, and the impressive performances, I could not completely make sense of the film’s use of ghosts and the supernatural. Some reviewers have called Fanny and Alexander a masterpiece. While I would not go that far, the film is certainly fascinating and well-worth watching. If only I could figure out how a ghost could knock someone down but not be visible to everyone. (on DVD from Criterion Collection)

3 and a half stars

*Fanny and Alexander is in Swedish with English subtitles.

Review – Cries and Whispers

August 3, 2008

Cries and Whispers – Sweden, 1972

Ingmar Bergman’s Cries and Whispers begins with images of a silent but beautiful morning, yet Agnes (Harriet Andersson) cannot enjoy it. She wakes up and is instantaneously in physical pain, appearing as if on the verge of sobbing. She struggles to get up, and when she is finally able to, she peers out the window and stares out at the bright, impressive sunset outside. It does not bring a smile to her face. It seems only the sight of her sister Maria (Liv Ullman) asleep on a chair can accomplish that. The house begins to stir. Agnes’ other sister Karin (Ingrid Thulin) enters, and she, Maria, and Anna (Kari Sylwan), the maid of the manor, check up on Agnes. Later, a doctor arrives and delivers the news that her siblings have been both dreading and expecting: It won’t be long now.

What unfold next reveals an estrangement and callousness that is as shocking as it is heartbreaking. As Agnes’s condition worsens, Maria and Karin seem to be somewhat indifferent to Agnes' suffering and are therefore unable or unwilling to lift a finger to help her. Through Agnes, we learn about their mother (also played by Ullman), a woman who could be joyful one moment and angry the next, who seemed to Agnes to carry with her a depression that resembles Agnes’ own. Through flashbacks, we see what may be the effects of such a person on her children. I say may because we only see who Karin and Maria are as adults, not how they interacted with their mother throughout their lives.

Maria has become a person dependent upon physical touch and verbal intimacy. She feels the need to touch and kiss the faces of those surrounding her. It is possible that her tactile needs extends even to physical contact, for some time earlier, she had an affair with the doctor treating Agnes, an experience that exposed Maria to a psychological assault on her character. Perhaps the best evidence of just how deep Maria’s dependency goes is her husband’s action. In addition, the best example of Maria’s capacity for cruelty is her response to her husband’s plea for help. Karin is Maria’s polar opposite, fearing physical contact to such an extent that she has engaged in at least one example of self-mutilation. One half of a loveless marriage, married to a man she seems distant from, she seems to be on the verge of an emotional outburst, one that if released would likely expose those around her to a verbal assault, not gentle words of unspoken love and appreciation. And then there’s Anna, who may be the most reliable and caring person surrounding Agnes. Therefore, it is Anna that Agnes calls out for and Anna who can help Agnes fall asleep despite the fact that she is in agonizing pain. Why she chooses to do this with half of her chest exposed is never explained.

Two aspects of the film are of particular interest. The first is Bergman’s decision to use red in fade-outs and fade-ins. This creates for the audience the sense that death and the act of bleeding, both mentally and physically, are ever present in this house and in this family. The second involves an odd dream sequence in which Agnes’ ghost calls for people to hold her and stay with her. By this point in the film, its revelation that only Anna is willing to is no surprise, as the personalities of Maria, Karin, and Anna have already been well established. If a dream sequence only discloses information that the audience is already aware of, what’s the point of the scene?

Cries and Whispers is a difficult film to watch. Tragedy and cruelty are everywhere, and most of its characters appear to have no appreciation for loyalty, kindness, or friendship. In the end, it is Anna who is left with nothing, and yet can you blame her for wanting nothing from the manor itself or from Agnes’ sisters and brothers-in-law? To Anna, she has lost something more than just an employer or a job. She has lost something that trinkets or memorabilia cannot replace, something that Agnes' sisters are clearly unaware of. (on DVD from Criterion Collection)

4 stars

*Cries and Whispers is in Swedish with English subtitles.

Review – Wild Strawberries

June 20, 2008

Wild Strawberries – Sweden, 1957

In 2002, Alexander Payne’s film About Schmidt told the story of a man who struggles to find meaning at the end of his life. The job he had for years did not distinguished him, his marriage was not as happy as he thought it was, and he struggles to find activities to occupy his days. In fact, the only impact he appears to have had is on his daughter, and it’s hard to see that impact as positive. Forty-five years earlier, Ingmar Bergman told a similar story in his much heralded film Wild Strawberries. However unlike Payne’s Warren Schmidt, the lead character in Bergman’s film could hardly be said to be invisible to society. Professor Isac Borg (impressively played by Victor Sjöström) is a retired doctor who is both celebrated and loved, so much so that a prestigious university sees fit to give him an honorary degree. The day of the ceremony should be a glorious day for him, the culmination of a life full of distinction, yet the beginning of the film finds Borg explaining his recent decision to withdraw from most of his relations, a move that seems odd coming from a man with as many accolades as Isac Borg. What unfolds throughout the film is the fascinating journey - both physically and psychologically – that preceded Isac’s decision.

On the day before he is to receive his degree, Professor Borg chooses to drive to his son’s house. Accompanying him on this journey is his daughter-in-law Marianne, who calls her father-in-law Uncle Borg, perhaps as a way of making the distance that exists between them apparent to all in earshot of the two of them. To Marianne and Borg’s son Evald, Borg is anything but the life saver that others see him as. To them, he is the cause of their marital woes, having loaned Evald money to go to college and then demanded repayment, not an unreasonable demand, but one that Marianne credits for her husband’s tendency to work excessively, a habit that has increased the distance that exists between them. Marianne even says that Evald hates his father, for while being nice on the ouside, he is hard on the inside, a characterization that doesn’t match what the viewer has seen so far of the professor’s personality.

Much of Wild Strawberries focuses on this apparent contradiction, the esteemed figure of the doctor, a man of medicine, and the figure that inspires resentment and accusations of callousness. Evidence of the latter comes from Marianne, who reminds him of a recent conversation he had with her in which he said things that if true are certainly harsh, and yet we have no reason to doubt Marianne’s version of events. This creates a paradox for viewers. Is the gentle man they see before them a façade, a role played by a man needing to be seen in a positive light? It is a question that Professor Borg himself is wrestling with and which his dreams are increasingly shedding light on. The answers he finds are not the ones he was hoping for.

As the journey progresses, others on their own personal escapades join them. One of them, a young woman named Sara, is torn between the two men that are accompanying her, Anders and Viktor, who each represent a side of human reasoning; mainly, religion and modernity. The five of them also have the unfortunate opportunity to meet a mutually abusive couple, one who belittles the other verbally, the other who attacks her husband physically. It is more than Marianne can bear, perhaps for more than just the shock and discomfort the sight of their verbal barrage is causing Sara, Anders, and Viktor.

With Wild Strawberries, Bergman has presented a picture of a man whose “cruelty” does not come in easily recognizable forms, for Borg’s faults are not temperament or a tendency for violence. It comes from his strict adherence to principle, his avoidance of conflict, his tendency to understand and not point fingers; in short, his desire to be the good guy. This propensity has given him a life without pain, without feelings of anger or hurt. In addition, it has given him, like it has his mother and son, a life of emotional loneliness, for which perhaps there is no cure. (on DVD from Criterion Collection)

4 stars

*Wild Strawberries is in Swedish with white, English subtitles. The film was ranked the seventh best film of all time by John Koble.