Why Do Some People Have All The Luck While Others Are Miserable? Summer With Monika (1953)

I am currently working my way through the fascinating set of episodes entitled The Story of Film: An Odyssey which are currently available on Netflix Watch Instantly, I might look into writing a brief blog about them when finishing.  The expertly crafted documentary has served as a refresher course on some of my favorite moments in film, while also reminding me that there are a ton of films, both globally and genre wise that I have yet to see, or am even aware of for that matter.  While I knew about Summer With Monika due to its relatively recent Criterion release, I had sat it aside as something I might get around to watching, an action that seems far to frequent when concerning the works of Bergman.  However, when the episode of European New Wave film came about a brief scene from Summer With Monika popped up and I was instantly captivated and pushed aside who knows what film in order to assure that it would be included at some point on this month of women oriented posts.  I am glad I did so because, in a uniquely Bergman way, the film manages to weave together an existential reflection on suffering and satisfaction, while also being a multi-narrative coming of age tale set against a working class Swedish landscape so bare and disparaging that it makes Bergman's most critically well received film, a personal favorite of mine, The Seventh Seal look optimistic.  Many seem content to claim Orson Welles as the master of black and white filmmaking and while I would never question his relevance or magnitude as a director, I think the magical minimalism one receives from the work of Bergman rivals, and at times surpasses, Welles on multiple levels, not to mention, Bergman's deceptively innocent narrative, which begin optimistic and carefree only to come clashing into the bitter truths of reality.  Upon my initial viewing of Moonrise Kingdom, I suggested that it was quite a great film, and I do still think it better than a lot of things that were released last year, however, when I realize that the quirky beach romance scene is heavily lifted from a far more sobering scene in Summer With Monika, I am reminded that the "borrowing" Wes Anderson often does places him in a category far similar to that of Tarantino than as an indie god that he seems intent on maintaining.

Summer With Monika, focuses, as the title suggests on a summer spent with a girl named Monika (Harriet Andersson), but the narrative does not solely focus on Monika, but, instead; her relationship with a young man named Harry (Lars Ekborg) whom she takes a liking to after bumming a match off of him at a restaurant.  The two instantly fall head-over-heels for one another spending countless days and nights together, so much so that both eventually quit their jobs in order to assure plenty of time together, yet, what starts off as innocent dates to cheesy American movies evolves into a very serious and intimate relationship that is not wholly embraced by their friends and family, particularly considering that Monika appears to have romantic pasts with multiple men in the town whose jealousy is often directed in a physical manner upon Harry.  After one to many instances of frustration and condemnation the two commandeer a family members boat and take a trip to a secluded beach.  It is there that they set up a small pseudo-life together eating what they can acquire off the land and sharing in a very physical relationship.  Yet, when Monika discovers that she is pregnancy their faux-adulthood comes crashing into reality and every action and though its predicated upon assuring the safety of the unborn child, including Monika's desire for real meat, which leads to them stealing from a rich household, only to get caught in the process.  Eventually realizing that they can no longer survive in the wild the two return to their town where they are faced with needing jobs, Harry goes to school to be an engineer while also helping Monika raise a child.  Monika grows discontent quickly without being able to spend frivolously and engage in a carefree lifestyle.  She eventually leaves Harry out of frustration at their lack and is shown talking with men at bars, at which point Monika breaks the fourth wall in a defiant reaction to viewers condemnation.  Harry is shown taking care of the child on his own and the film ends rather abruptly, no hope for the reunion, because in reality young love rarely works out perfectly.

It would be easy for a viewer to call this movie depressing and, as a result, not very watchable.  It would also be simple to dismiss Monika as a vindictive and ignorant character and thus not likable.  However, both situations absolutely betray the complexities present within Bergman's beautiful film.  A certain portion of people go to movies to escape the woes of reality and hope to be shown something that affirms a higher good in the world.  Those persons are not who Bergman made films for, particularly considering that he was highly personal with the imagery and narratives he created, whether it be their scathing inquiries into the existence of God, or perplexing reflections on the possibility of romantic ideals in an abrasive modernist society.  For Bergman, and for Monika in this film, normalcy and expectation are far from comforting and, in fact, betray any sense of progress of self-affirmation.  Monika is not a vengeful character as so many reviewers seem to suggest, I would argue that she is a victim of modernity, in that she seeks answers to her own existence, one she hopes to detach from the suffering and woes of her working class parents, as well as the consuming longing of every male she seems to encounter.  It appears for much of the narrative that she has achieved this sort of free floating state of escapism with Harry, which is beautifully made into a metaphor with the boat, yet, when that constantly moving separation from the tragedies of reality is destroyed, out of what seems to be ungrounded malice that reality returns and no amount of assurance or hard work by Harry can help Monika deny her chains of working class oppression.  As such she begins her quest again, although her recent experiences seem to have darkened her prospects of escape, literally so in the scene when she breaks the fourth wall.  Instead, Monika, Harry and one could say the viewers are left to embrace the fleeting memories of touches, sounds and dances only to know that it is these infrequent moments of happiness that allow for the misery of everyday life to be bearable.

Key Scene:  Monika and Harry dancing on the pier will break your heart and it is at a point in the film when you still have hope for their relationships survival, but it is executed with such symmetrical, minimalist detachment that it clearly serves to distance this ideal moment form the aforementioned tragedies of reality.

This is a masterful film, but one should expect nothing less from the great Swedish director.  I watched this on Hulu and it looked fantastic, however, I intend to get the bluray and suggest you do the same.

I Pray My Soul Comes To Maturity, Before It Is Reaped: The Phantom Carriage: 1921

When bringing up early silent cinema most discussion either lead to acknowledging the technical revolutions of Georges Melies, or the innovative narrative abilities of D.W. Griffith, and in most instances to the oneiric qualities of German Expressionist filmmaking.  Few, however, bring up Sweden's involvement in the movement, particularly Victor Sjöström and his horror drama The Phantom Carriage.  As technically unique as Melies and as narratively grandiose as Griffith, The Phantom Carriage is a thing of exceptional beauty and grace that manages to both astound general audiences and art house fanatics alike.  Not only is the film composed brilliantly and written with a astute understanding of human nature, but it has proved to be one of the most influential films to emerge from the silent era, something that has directly and indirectly influenced Ingmar Bergman and Stanley Kubrick amongst others.  The Phantom Carriage in a mere hour and forty minutes manages to take a deep look into human sacrifice and the nature of forgiveness with such meticulous care that it makes you wonder why this film is only beginning to reemerge as a silent classic, because it is equal to its contemporaries, if not a notch better.

The Phantom Carriage takes place on New Year's Eve in a small Swedish town.  Tragic news has emerged that a Salvation Army nurse named Edit (Astrid Holm) is in the through of death.  Meanwhile, at the local graveyard a drunkard named David, played by the director, spews out a story to his fellow drunks about the curse of the first person to die in the New Year taking over the job of the grim reaper's chauffeur.  After telling this tale, David is approached by an old friend named Gustafson (Tor Weijdan) who informs him of Edit's sickness and attempts to convince the inebriated David to return to her before she dies.  Confused and enraged a fight breaks out between David and the other drunks, which leads to David accidentally being killed right before the clock strikes midnight.  As a result, David's eerie tale becomes a reality as he is visited by death and is informed of his new duty for the coming year.   Death, however, turns out to be David's former friend from the story he told named Georges (Tore Svennberg) who realizes that he is in an unusual circumstance and takes David on a journey through his past before taking him to reap the soul of Edit.  In a series of flashbacks, it is revealed that David led a considerably bitter life, particularly following his bout with tuberculosis, which he spreads cynically to those around him.  He, in fact, is responsible for giving tuberculosis to Edit and desires greatly to receive her forgiveness before she dies.  In a bit of magnificently composed paranormal communication David is finally able to mend things with Edit and display his regret.  As such, Edit dies in peace and David is spared the job as the driver of the phantom carriage.  He is also allowed another shot at life, which he takes to the fullest, making sure to save his wife who was on the cusp of suicide.  The film closes with David and his wife embracing, as the previously cynical man now celebrates the fleeting moments that represent his life.

The Phantom Carriage is incredibly fixated on notions of sacrifice and forgiveness and the film focuses on these themes with a method that is both subtle and direct.  In the tradition of silent film styling, many of the title cards are composed with words like "forgiveness," "sorry" and "my fault," and are often followed by gestures of grand acting in which each performer depicts a hyper-sorrow, which ensures that viewers understand the characters guilt.  More subtly, the narrative approaches how one comes to deal with guilt and earn forgiveness.  In Sjöström's film one is not granted the comfort of forgiveness until they have gone through a Buddhistesque trial of loss, in which they learn the value of gaining.  It is not until David has assumed that he has lost everything, including his life, Edit's and that of his family that he realizes the true meaning of nothingness.  Prior to this he assumed that simply being sick was the worst thing God could do to him and that in rebellion against such an unfair treatment that spreading his disease was justifiable.  At this point his soul was not able to sacrifice for others and, thus, not able to receive forgiveness.  It is not until he can see the sacrificial actions of Georges, or the saintly patience of Edit that he comes to understand the nature of a truly loving soul.  Ultimately, the film reminds viewers that to sacrifice, means to accept ones own fortunes as well as ones own faults and that, in order to be forgiven, one must truly accept responsibility for their wrongdoings.  It is at this point that a soul can then be reaped.

The Phantom Carriage is yet another masterful release by Criterion.  The bluray is most excellent and comes with multiple scores to listen to while viewing the film, which is extraordinary and wholly captivating.

You Have To Compare All The Time: My Life as a Dog (1985)

Swedish cinema has an uncanny knack for sentimentality.  Lasse Halstrom's My Life as aDog certainly exemplifies this argument.  In his coming of age tale Halstrom successfully captures the beauty, tragedy, and at times absurdity of growing up.  The film exists as a series of memories and as such, flows quite nostalgically often relying on heavy lighting and slow dialogue to drive home the experience.  Furthermore, like any good memory film it requires certain forms of repetition, which center around specific moments, particularly repeated playings of the song "What A Lovely Bunch of Coconuts" which serves as the focal point for the past for a young boy.

The young boy mentioned is Ingemar (Anton Glanzeilus), who through reflective narrative recalls the times up to and briefly after his mothers death.  It is apparent that his life is quite tragic, in that he has no constant father figure, a sick mother and indifferent relatives.  Fortunately, for Ingemar he has family friends in rural Sweden who agree to take care of the wandering child.  These people belong to a village of eccentric persons, which include a androgynous girl, a boy with green hair and a voluptuous woman who takes a particular liking to the young Ingemar.  It is with this bizarre cast of characters that Ingemar finds a home, because they like him are unconventional in their existence.  The film ends with Ingemar's fond memories of the past using his time spent with these relatives as a high point in his life, especially in relation to the space dog Laika who the Russians left to starve in the great unknown.

The beauty of this film exists in its simplicity.  The film is undeniably intended to be seen through the eyes of Ingemar who is indifferent to female sexuality, assumes his mothers sickness to be fleeting and fails to understand that his father will never return.  As such the film often focuses solely on eye-line shots of Ingemar as he overlooks a young girls nudity as nothing more than helping a friend, or as he reads lingerie adds to an ailing and perverse elderly man.  Even the films humor exists in a realm of childishness, often using acts of absurdism as comedy, whether it be toilet humor or crazy old men swimming in rivers the film is meant for the mind of a child.  Despite this, it exists as a very adult film.  The problems shown represent those emerging in the world of the eighties, particularly single parent households and an increasing gap between the poor and the rich.  Halstrom's ability to expertly navigate between the dueling worlds of youthful innocence and worldly experience is an obvious explanation for the unwavering praise the film received upon released.  It exists in its own realm and remains steadfastly a work of affection remembrance and achingly blissful disenchantment.

The best version of this film is the Criterion release of course, and while I have not made it through the supplements I imagine they are quite good and look forward to the essays which are included.