This is the first film on which Ingmar Bergman was both sole writer and director and thus had what would later be celebrated as ‘authorial control’. It’s therefore a film which Bergman’s auteurist fans see as the earliest authentic expression of Bergman’s major themes and ideas. The Swedish website devoted to Bergman’s work has some useful material on Prison. It was a rare opportunity for the still young Bergman to get a free hand to make a film. Producer Lorens Marmstedt gave him the chance to make a very low budget film in just 18 days of shooting. Marmstedt had his own production company Terrafilm which also distributed the film in Sweden. Marmstedt also managed to secure Hasse Ekman, Bergman’s rival as a ‘hot director’, to play a director in the film and also Ekman’s wife Eva Henning as a leading player. Prison is a film of its time and from the Swedish film industry of its time. I find it a little difficult to grasp how the Swedish industry worked in the late 1940s so I must try to work on what I recognise in the film and try to relate it to global cinema in the late 1940s – and in some ways that is quite productive.
Prison opens with a long shot of an elderly man walking quickly in an odd jerky fashion down a hill and into a group of buildings on the edge of town. His gait and the long shot composition immediately suggest a fantasy of some kind. I thought of the 1920s German Expressionist films Nosferatu or The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari. But the man finally enters what turns out to be a film studio and the man approaches a director (Hasse Ekman) in order to tell him a story idea about “Hell – on earth”. The director later tells a pair of young writers (a young couple who live together) about the incident and Thomas (Birger Malmsten), the young man becomes excited and tells the director about a teenage prostitute he has interviewed who could be the subject of such a film. So far, so conventional. At this point, 10 minutes in, we might realise that there haven’t been any credits. Now we are offered a long moving camera shot following a curving narrow street in the central shopping district of Stockholm and a voiceover reads the film’s credits to us. The camera stops moving when it captures the teenage prostitute Birgitta Carolina Söderberg (Doris Svedlund) staggering in a doorway. She is about to have a baby. Does this mean that we are about to follow a melodrama narrative? Yes and no. Some of the familiar elements from Port of Call (Sweden 1948) are certainly present but Bergman gives free rein to representations of dreams and nightmares and offers us a commentary on filmmaking.
The remainder of the narrative sees Birgitta being investigated for her activity as a prostitute after her baby is taken from her by her boyfriend and her older sister. She will again meet Thomas who is on his own downward spiral caused by his excessive drinking. Perhaps these events signify that ‘Hell’ is what Birgitta and Thomas experience. The dream nightmare sequences reminded me of Michael Powell’s expressionist ‘visions’ as experienced by Sammy Rice (David Farrar) with the effects of pills and abstention from alcohol in The Small Back Room (UK 1949) and also the kinds of fantasy conjured up by Jean Cocteau around this time. At one point I was reminded of the representation of ‘Heaven’ in the musical Carousel (US 1956) with Gordon MacRae up a ladder hanging stars in the sky. Bergman’s Hell is much darker of course! Expressionist lighting and set design is a feature of film noir and melodrama in the 1940s so in that sense the film is familiar.
While Thomas and Birgitta are in Hell, Thomas’s partner Sofi (Eva Henning) is visting the studio where we experience the artificiality of a love scene set on a small boat bobbing about with back projection. This is Bergman commenting on the conventions of mainstream cinema. He also inserts a different kind of commentary by having Thomas and Birgitta find an old film projector and a film which turns out to be a silent slapstick comedy – a film made by Bergman with an Italian comedy troupe who create a contest with Death and the Devil attacking a hapless sleeper. A burglar/assassin and policeman also appear. Finally, in the mix, Bergman offers us the kind of melodrama we saw in Port of Call, with a story about another young couple worried by yet another pregnancy. The film ends with the re-appearance of the old teacher at the film studio where the lights are being switched off after another day’s shooting.
What can be said about this odd mixture of approaches to cinema? It certainly does ask questions about what we expect from mainstream cinema. It’s difficult to judge just how ‘innovative’ a film like this was in 1949, though as I’ve indicated some of the ideas were being explored elsewhere and it’s very difficult to really find something ‘new’ in cinema – so much was done in the first few decades of filmmaking. The constraints imposed by the budget are evident but praise must go to cinematographer Göran Strindberg, art director P.A. Lundgren and the whole crew as well as Bergman and his actors. As to what it all might mean, the existential angst and the religious and philosophical themes do seem to presage Bergman’s later concerns. He made seven very different films in the four years from 1946-47. It’s interesting that each title seems to have supporters and detractors and several, including this title are claimed as the first breakthrough/success. There are more available to watch so I’ll hang fire for the moment on which worked best for me.
Prison did have a few struggles with censors in Sweden, but emerged unscathed as a 78 minute feature. It seems to have been widely distributed outside Sweden, reaching the UK (like Port of Call) only in 1960, uncut but classified as an X film with the title The Devil’s Unwanton, which seems a rather damning term for either Thomas or Birgitta.
This early Ingmar Bergman film is one of a group of titles that form part of MUBI’s long-running season on ‘The Inner Demons of Ingmar Bergman’. Port of Call has now left the UK MUBI stream but there are two more currently on stream. I prefer the early to the late Bergman so I am intrigued by these titles. As well as the director learning his craft, these films offer us a sense of Swedish cinema in the context of a global industry in the late 1940s. The focus is more on genre and less on Bergman as a distinctive ‘authorial voice’.
The ‘port of call’ is not, I think, named (I’m remembering my viewing from a few weeks back) but it was shot in Göteborg. The film title translates simply as ‘port city’. The narrative begins with the arrival of a ship in port and at around the same time a young woman leaps from the dock into the sea. She is rescued and later she will meet a sailor from the ship at a local dance. He is Gösta (Bengt Eklund) and she is Berit (Nine-Christine Jönsson). This is a familiar social melodrama or perhaps what in the UK in the 1950s and 1960s might have been called a ‘social problem picture’. Berit is a young woman at odds with her conservative mother after her father decided to spend as much time as possible at sea. She rebels by spending her time at dancehalls and ‘going with’ a variety of men. Eventually she falls foul of the Swedish police and welfare services because of her behaviour and she is sent to reform school. She is eventually released and found a job in a factory – but she must live with her mother again. Jumping into the harbour seems like a way out to her. But will meeting Gösta mean things take a turn for the better?
In this and the next few films we see Bergman moving between noirish studio sets and shooting on the streets in a style akin to the neo-realism which was becoming widely-known at the time with the release of Italian films around the world. The whole port area is shown through Gunnar Fischer’s wonderful cinematography. Gösta decides not to return to sea but to join the dock labour gangs. These seem to operate much as the British dock-workers of the period and Fischer shows us the hiring room and the quayside work as well as the factory floor where Berit works on a lathe. The factory scenes are reminiscent of British war-time propaganda films such as Millions Like Us (1943), though Berit is much less enthusiastic about the work and she complains about the damage to her fingers.
Inevitably, Berit’s mother will find out about her daughter’s new relationship and this will invoke emotional scenes within the household, but these will ultimately be less important perhaps than Berit’s chance encounter with a girl she first met in Reform School. The script, which Bergman developed from a story by Olle Länsberg, seems much more sociologically structured than in Bergman’s later films. Länsberg was a writer local to Göteborg and young, being born in 1922. I can’t find any corroboration of the suggestion that Port of Call was actually a novel before it became a film, but it is certainly the case that the film is longer than the other Bergman films of the period at around 100 minutes – suggesting a literary source perhaps. There is a form of triangular structure in the narrative in that both Berit and Gösta have belonged to groups, he to the male group of sailors and then dock-workers and she to the young women of the reformatory. The long-term relationship that the young people want (Gösta is not yet 30, Berit is 17/18) is to some extent threatened by their past in these groups. They must also cope with Berit’s mother and her desire for a strong family unit bolstered by her Lutheran values (and her own broken relationship with her absent husband). In one scene Bertil is all dressed up, waiting to go out with Gösta (who has accepted some overtime at the docks) and reading a magazine story which the subtitles translate as ‘The Road to Happiness’. Berit’s mother arrives home, guesses what is happening and taunts her daughter. As the scene develops it becomes a classic melodrama with mirror scenes of mother and daughter in different frames and ultimately turns into a flashback in which Berit remembers her childhood and the violent rows between her parents. Eventually she goes out, runs into Gösta by chance and the evening is saved.
The narrative enigma is whether Berit and Gösta, who are clearly attracted to each other, can make it together when the society around them and in Berit’s case her past history, conspire to push them apart. The latter part of the film sees Berit involved in helping a friend who must seek an illegal abortion. This narrative device of the unwanted pregnancy occurs in another of these early Bergmans, many of which feature young women struggling against the constraints of a conservative society. The involvement of the police (abortion is illegal) and the probation/welfare services are for me the pointers towards a UK-style ‘problem picture’. In 1948 a similar British picture might be one of the ‘sensationalist’ melodramas such as The Goodtime Girl with Jean Kent as the young tearaway. The ‘problem’ is more the underworld crime milieu that the character is drawn to rather than her moral behaviour. The welfare services and the concept of ‘juvenile delinquency’ come more to the fore in the 1950s British films. This Swedish film seems both more ‘realist’ and more humanist than both British and American films of the period. Perhaps the realism of the sexual relationships is why it took several years for these early Bergman films to reach the UK. Port of Call was first released in the UK in 1959 as an ‘X’ film.
The narrative resolution works in two ways and I won’t spoil the outcome except to say that in one sense things come together and in another the future is uncertain but promising. I enjoyed Port of Call more than most other Bergman films partly because social realist melodramas are among my favourite genres. It’s also good to see Bergman’s (and Fischer’s) talent applied to working-class stories. Most of the reviews of the film seem to focus on looking for signs of Bergman’s authorial ‘vision’. I think I’ve taken the opposite tack and looked for the film’s generic roots. Apart from the cinematography and the direction I feel I should also commend the performances of the two leads. The only weakness I could find in the film is the way in which flashbacks are used. These are all about Berit – we learn little about Gösta’s back story. The flashbacks themselves are fine but they seem to be awkwardly introduced. At least, I sometimes found them difficult to sort out in terms of a linear plotline. In the clip below, we see the moment when Gösta first sees Berit at a dance.
The early Bergman films are included in Criterion’s Eclipse series of DVDs. Some are also available on streaming services.
Apparently writer-director Johannes Nyholm asked journalists not to reveal the plot in their coverage of the film however it is very difficult to write about the film without giving away details so go and see the film (though it’s not due to be released in the UK until February) before you read this as spoilers abound.
This is the second film I’ve seen recently that deals with parental grief at the loss of a child; the other was The Broken Circle Breakdown (Belgium-Netherlands, 2012). The latter dealt with the trauma in a realist fashion using melodrama to articulate the emotional pain. The milieux of that film, a country band, gave plenty of opportunity for music, which was superbly done. Koko-di Koko-da uses horror as a vehicle to articulate grief; early in the film a character references Freddie from The Nightmare on Elm Street series as a clue to understand the recurring (apparently) dream narratives the protagonists suffer. There’s also an element of Run Lola Run (Lola rennt, Germany 1998) in the repeating narrative; whilst Lola relived her trauma three times, the six experienced here felt excessive until the denouement. Koko-di uses an arthouse narrative technique where the end of the film throws into focus what’s gone before and there’s an epiphany. I won’t spoil what that is.
The ghouls are Grimm fairy tale type characters that are truly unsettling; they appear to be products of Nyholm’s imagination but have a convincing ‘collective consciousness’ quality to them. They are brilliant bogeymen. Of course, these tales are primarily aimed at children but the context here is entirely adult as the nightmare of a child’s death is brilliantly staged at the start. The bulk of the film is three years later when the couple are camping and end up in the woods. The cyclical nature, the vicious circle, of grief is brilliantly articulated by the repetition of their nightmare. In The Broken Circle Breakdown the narrative is a spiral down and expresses anger at the American ban of gene cell therapy, which may have saved the child. Hence, the American music context of the film: Johan Heldenbergh’s Didier loves the country but rails against Bush’s relgious convictions that prevent research.
Koko-di isn’t situated in a particular time and place, though the Nordic woods are particularly spooky with the bleached-out light, and is more effective for it. The pain has a universal quality that intensifies the nightmare and it’s clear that suffering the death of a child is likely to get you waking up screaming.
Border offers all kinds of challenges to the average film fan. It also challenges anyone who wants to write about it without spoilers. On this basis I’ll just offer clues without being explicit. The original idea is taken from a short story by John Ajvide Lindqvist, the Swedish fantasy author who became an international name with the publication of his novel Let the Right One in 2004 and its subsequent adaptation as both a Swedish film in 2008 (and then a US film) and an English-language stage production in 2013. The story, Gräns, was first published in Sweden in 2006 and the final script for the film was written by director Ali Abbasi, and Isabella Eklöf (whose new film as director is released in the UK soon). Fans of Lindqvist’s stories will know what to expect from Border, though I understand there are some additions to the literary narrative. Ali Abbasi is an Iranian who has lived in Sweden and now Denmark. His previous film, Shelley (Denmark 2017) suggests he might have pushed Lindqvist’s script in specific directions. The fact that he is a migrant may also be significant.
Tina (Eva Malender) is a customs official – a ‘border guard’ – at the ferry port of Kapellskär on the Baltic coast, north of Stockholm. Ferries come from Åland, Finland and Estonia. Tina has an unusual ability to ‘sniff out’ contraband. She may also have other unusual abilities to go with her appearance. These include a close affinity with wild animals and with the whole ecology of her forest home. Rather than me describing Tina, just look at her image and make up your own mind what her life might have been like up until now. She lives with a man who trains and ‘shows’ dogs, but her relationship seems not to be physical. Her only other contact is with her father who is in a care home. Work is the only part of her life which gives her satisfaction, partly because her special talent is appreciated by co-workers. One day she stops a man and discovers something which starts a criminal investigation in which she takes an active role. On another occasion she stops a man who turns out to share some of her own characteristics. She won’t be able to stop herself finding out more about Vore (Eero Milinoff). I won’t say any more except that the script manages to bring together three potential narratives. Tina and Vore must discover each other, Tina must discover herself (who or what is she?) and the criminal investigation must be resolved. Any understanding of her actions must also contend with Nordic folk tales.
Border manages to resolve all three narrative questions for me. I don’t want to make direct comparisons with Let the Right One In because that film seemed to me a unique film from a precise moment. Border does something slightly different and ‘fits’ another moment when film culture generally is focused on both gender and ecology as well as questions about migrants moving across physical ‘borders’. The acting performances of Eval Malender and Eero Milinoff are very good, especially given the make-up/prostheses they have to wear. I’ve seen Melander in other films but of course she was unrecognisable as Tina. Tina’s father is an interesting character. His role, as in many Swedish films, references the care system. He also represents a man from an earlier generation with a grown-up daughter – an important figure in different ways in the novels and film adaptations of Henning Mankell and Stieg Larsson. Border seems to me a Nordic narrative with strong metaphorical references. It seems to have worked well with audiences and suggests that Nordic cinema still has much to offer. I watched the film on MUBI. I believe it is now available on other VOD services in the UK.
The short UK trailer:
Crisis was the first feature by Ingmar Bergman as director after he worked as a scriptwriter and assistant director to Alf Sjöberg on Torment in 1944. It has just left MUBI’s streaming offer in the UK and is otherwise available from Criterion. Adapted by Bergman himself from a play by the Danish writer Leck Fischer this is a first film with several clear influences and as one critic noted, Bergman was still very much a ‘theatre director’ at this stage. I’m not a fan of Bergman’s later films in the 1960s and beyond, the ones that are usually most acclaimed, but I have enjoyed the handful of his earlier films that I’ve seen and in particular Summer Interlude (1951) and Summer With Monika (1953). I tried to approach Crisis with an open mind.
The plot outline of the film is very familiar and a staple of popular entertainment. The setting is a remote small country town by a lake in which Nelly (Inga Landgré), a beautiful young girl of 18, lives with her foster-mother Ingeborg (Dagny Lind) and a lodger, Ulf or ‘Uffe’ (Allan Bohlin), a dull veterinarian in his 30s. No sooner has the town been introduced via a voiceover narration than the ‘inciting incident’ occurs. Nelly’s mother, Jenny (Marianne Löfgren), returns from Stockholm to entice her daughter to join her in the city. That night at a local dance, Jenny will meet Jack (Stig Olin), a smooth-talking, street-smart young man who has followed Jenny from Stockholm. Is he Jenny’s ‘toy-boy’? Unaware, Nelly agrees to go to Stockholm. The country mouse goes to town and Ingeborg and Uffe are bereft.
If there is a ‘crisis’ in the narrative, it is most likely a ‘crisis of conscience’ as this is essentially a moral tale. Having said that, there is a dramatic climax in Stockholm which eventually leads to a conventional resolution back in the country town. I take the film to be a melodrama and apart from admiring the beauty and vitality of Nelly, I felt most strongly for Ingeborg. The interest in the film is for me in the mixture of stylistic devices. I’ve already mentioned the narration which begins and ends the film. There is also the use of some very loud and dramatic music at moments of drama and music is also a crucial factor in the crude distinction between generations at the dance when a recital in one part of the building is interrupted by the dance band next door – this is the moment when Nelly and Jack first get together. There are similar symbolic moments elsewhere using expressionist lighting and simple effects such as the criss-crossing of railway tracks in a dream. Trains feature heavily in the narrative and at first I thought it was an almost Ozu-like obsession. But the trains are used functionally as night trains transporting the characters between the city and the country town and also simply as dramatic mise en scène with clouds of steam, whistles and other sound effects.
The cinematography is by Gösta Roosling who had experience of four or five features. How much of what we see might be down to Bergman’s ideas? The overall visual style appears to be an amalgam of German Expressionist ideas and French poetic realism alongside some deep-focus outdoor material with long shots that is more reminiscent of neo-realism (which at this time had barely been exported from Italy). Some scenes are nicely composed in depth and the melodrama use of mirrors and windows is noticeable, especially in Stockholm where Jenny runs a beauty parlour. The dramatic climax takes place on what I assume is a studio set with lighting that cries out film noir. Perhaps there is no clear defining style, but the film is always interesting to look at. One long shot shows Nelly in bed suddenly forced to rise when the door is opened (see above). We see her naked from the rear clutching the sheet to her chest. The inference is clear but I do wonder how such a shot would have been received by censors in the UK or US in 1946. I don’t think Bergman’s films came to the UK before the 1950s when they were sometimes cut for dialogue.
Given that this was a first feature, Bergman must already have built a reputation since there seem to be several official press pack photos from Svensk Filmindustri (SF) in circulation suggesting that there was expected to be considerable interest in the film. This joins the other early works by Bergman that I have enjoyed.
In the YouTube clip below you can see the scene including the image at the head of this post.It begins with the local dance before Jack and Nelly sneak off. I think it is supposed to be a ‘day for night’ sequence. The music at this point is more for the possible romance than the impending melodrama (indicated by the dialogue?). Nelly is wearing the dress Jenny brought her from Stockholm. (It’s worth watching the extract to the end.)
My first film at this year’s Leeds International Film Festival was a fascinating documentary retelling an anthropological experiment organised by Santiago Genoves in 1973. In what would now be a fatuous ‘reality TV’ format, Genoves placed a multinational group of ten five men and five women, along with himself, on a raft that drifted across the Atlantic in over three months. He’d chosen the participants because he thought their differences would lead to violence; no books were allowed so boredom would ensue. He used questionnaires to test the psychological well-being of the participants. Director Marcus Lindeen reassembled the surviving members (above) to discuss their memories on a replica raft in a studio. 16mm footage from the voyage intersperses their dialogue.
Presumably because no British people were on board, I don’t think this ‘sexperiment’, as some newspapers salaciously covered the story, impinged upon the UK at the time (at lease I don’t remember it). The experiment now appears to be a horrendous abuse as the participants were at great risk.
Everyone survived the expedition but only six have out-lived death and Lindeen’s coup is to show the narrative of ‘the raft’ via their memories and actuality footage. The reformatting of the 16mm for the widescreen leaves the image extremely grainy; a perfect metaphor for memory. Genoves is represented via the voiceover narration based on his writings: so he is another teller of the tale. Hence the documentary is as much about ‘telling tales’ as it is about the raft. In many ways The Raft is an ‘observational documentary’ as Lindeen ‘shows’ rather than ‘tells’; the voiceover, although telling, is clearly showing one person’s perspective.
It appears that the audience is left to make their own mind up about what happened whereas, of course, Lindeen – particularly through editing – is the master narrator. As someone who knew nothing of what happened it was interesting to see the documentary, at its conclusion, come to the same view as mine. Except, of course it’s the other way around; which is not to say it is not the truth.
Spoilers:Genoves failed to find the violence he was looking for so he sought to stir it up. He’d placed Maria Bjornstam as skipper of the crew thinking the men would be resentful. He usurped her place when she said they should shelter from a hurricane. When threatened by a cargo ship he panicked but Maria’s calm expertise saved them; she took back control. We see, ultimately, the Genoves’ experiment tells us much about the type of man he was: full of self-regard, controlling and determined to be successful. His crew get along great amongst themeselves. In a short post-raft TV interview, shown during the end credits, Genoves admits he discovered much about himself but he doesn’t say what he learned. I suspect he blamed others for the expedition’s ‘failure’ whereas it was a great success in that they all survived and the people got along great.
Many of the memories of the survivors are, unsurprisingly, vague and they contradict one another. The abstract reconstruction of the raft, it’s full-sized but not equipped, brightly lit in the blackness of a studio gives a dream-like feel to the mise en scene
African-American Fé Seymour movingly tells of how she hallucinated that drowned slaves appeared to her as she realised they were tracing the route of the slave ships. Japanese photographer, Yamaki Eisuke, shyly relates who he’d fancied on the voyage. These human touches stand in contrast to Genoves’ hubris; but Lindeen is right to give him the voiceover as it was his experiment and he damns himself with his words.