Selma’s way… Karin Daughter of Ingmar (1920) Selma Lagerlöf Part I

“We Ingmar don’t have to beg from others, we only have to walk in the ways of God.”

Selma Lagerlöf's novels formed the basis for numerous Swedish films during the silent period with their mix of historical precision, sense of place, religion and humanism. Her books are complex and not only full of rich characters but also moral conundrums for which there are no easy answers. Her characters are often flawed; loving yet sometimes cruel, making the mistakes we all make before finding their solution and all against a backdrop of an imagined golden age of rural peace. As Sweden faced the new century, Selma looked back to show the ways forward and gripped the nation’s readers in ways that influenced views of social justice.

Not for nothing was she the first woman to be awarded the 1909 Nobel Prize for Literature, "in appreciation of the lofty idealism, vivid imagination and spiritual perception that characterize her writings". Her work provided the basis for Stiller’s Sir Arne’s Treasure (1919) from Herr Arnes penningar (1903), Sjöström’s The Phantom Carriage (1920) from Körkarlen (1912) and, of course, her debut, The Story of Gösta Berling (1898), was the basis of Mauritz Stiller’s recently restored 1924 epic starring Greta Garbo, Lars Hanson, Gerda Lundqvist and Jenny Hasselqvist.

Victor Sjöström in Karin Daughter of Ingmar

One story, published in two books, Jerusalem I (1901) and The Holy City: Jerusalem II (1902) provided the basis for no less than four films with three drawn from the first volume alone, of which the full title was Jerusalem : två berättelser. 1, I Dalarne (Jerusalem: two stories. 1, In Dalarne). Set in the traditional rural heartlands of Dalarna it develops into and story of religious mania as a group gains a new faith and emigrates to Jerusalem as happened in the parish of Nås in 1896. Taken overall it’s an examination of the impact of social/economic change on farming culture and, perhaps, the need to escape all that with a return to the very roots of a faith that is no longer enough to hold the communities together in the face of industrialisation and changing working practice.

Victor Sjöström made the first two films, The Sons of Ingmar (Ingmarssönerna) (1919) and followed that up with Karin Daughter of Ingmar (Karin Ingmarsdotter) (1920) which failed to repeat the success of the first film leaving the director to turn his attention elsewhere. Gustaf Molander picked up the project and completed the story with his brace, Ingmar's Inheritance (Ingmarsarvet) (1925) and Till österland (1926). The two directors had many differences in approach with Sjöström’s narrative much closer to Lagerlöf’s text and more focused on the interior life of her conflicted characters whilst Molander broadened the palate, taking more liberties and setting up more action.

Harriet Bosse and Victor Sjöström in The Sons of Ingmar

I saw a very rare screening of The Sons of Ingmar (1919) in Cambridge back in 2014 – written up here – and was surprised to see how little of the book is devoted to the story of Big Ingmar and his choice over whether or not to forgive the woman who kills their first child. It’s a bleak premise, but a rewarding film enlivened by the camerawork of Julius Jaenzon especially the famous scene, lauded by Ingmar Bergman, when Ingmar (Victor Sjöström) greets Brita (Harriet Bosse), on her release from prison, with both characters almost set alight by the glaring sun above them.

Ingmar’s sense of duty and fairness enables him to make the most difficult of decisions and to forgive then learn to love this woman who made such a mistake and committed such a crime after feeling she had no alternative. This is only the first of many impossible decisions Lagerlöf’s characters must make. Ingmar is guided by his ancestors in his decision, a literal of figurative device that is for the reader/viewer to decide as he climbs a ladder to discuss matters with his dead relatives. It’s a mark of how much his life is set by tradition and the collective common sense passed down by the family and now embodied in him as Big Ingmar.

Tora Teje - Karin Ingmarsdotter

In Karin Daughter of Ingmar (1920) the story has moved on decades, Ingmar is sixty, “the best man in the parish”, and Brita has recently passed leaving him with two children; twenty-something, Karin Ingmarsdotter (Tora Teje) and her much younger brother Lill-Ingmar (Bertil Malmstedt). The Ingmar farm is one of the finest in the region and the family are one of the most admired and naturally, the hand of Ingmar’s daughter is much in demand. She is courted by Halvor (Tor Weijden) who is a man of means, running the family store and is of seeming good character despite his father’s reputation as a drunkard.

Halfvor and Karin travel into town to make arrangements for their wedding and Halvor is slipped a few “Mickey Finns” by two friends leaving him drunk and passed out in a ditch. Karin is appalled and decides with her father’s blessing, to call off the wedding ignoring Halvor’s protestations. Instead, Karin marries Eljas Elof Ersson (Nils Lundell) who’s father is well-to-do and well respected all of which leaves Halvor crushed along with his reputation.

There follows one of those moments on which Lagerlöf's stories often turn as a flood sweeps through and Ingmar goes in search of children swept away by the torrent. Spotting a group of three hanging on to a raft he bravely wades into the river with a boat hook and manages to guide them to the river bank and safety but, just as they’re safe, a huge log slams into his side striking a mortal blow.

Karin hands her ring back to Halvor (Tor Weijden)

Ingmar dies surrounded by friends – including Strong Ingmar (Emil Fjellström) of whom we’ll hear a lot more – along with his five daughters and young son with the fate of the farm now resting with Karin and her new husband. Sadly, Eljas proves to be more than a disappointment and without the moral fibre or will to carry the responsibilities he now has, he has turned into the drunken waster Karin always feared.

"She soon perceived that he was like a blasted tree, doomed to wither and decay, and that she could not hope for either help or protection…”

Eljas turns Karin’s life into a misery and bullies her brother at one point getting him so drunk he passes out forcing Karin to send the boy to live with the school master, Storm (Paul Hallström), his wife and daughter Gertrude. Having avoided Karin to the best of his abilities, Halfvor meets her and young Ingmar when he visits Storm and it is here when we have another grand moment when the boy gives him the remains of his father’s watch following instructions after his fatal accident. Just when we thought Big Ingmar was out of the picture, he delivers a moment that not only signals his acceptance that he was wrong about Halfvor but lifts the man’s spirits.

From now on the shop keeper will play a major part in proceedings and without spoiling it, the story turns on that one gesture.

Karin protects young ingmar from the wastrel, Eljas

It’s difficult to compare Karin Daughter of Ingmar with it’s predecessor as I wasn’t able to watch a decent copy unlike the 35mm Sons of Ingmar, but it holds up in dramatic terms even if it lacks the set piece magic reality of the first film. In terms of its source material, we’re two films in and have covered only 105 pages with 600 to go; a lot of work for Gustaf Molander to cover five years later.

A word on translations: Selma Lagerlöf's books were translated by Velma Swanston Howard an American writer who ended up working closely with the author but whose approach – as with many translators – was governed by her own instincts. There’s a fascinating paper from Björn Sundmark arguing that Lagerlöf is well overdue re-translation in order to eradicate Howard’s authorial interventions and allow re-appraisal for the works from the English-reading public. His opinion is that: “… sadly, Howard’s ability as a translator was not as great as her commitment and sincerity to

the Lagerlöf cause in general.”

In one letter form the author to the translator, Selma gently tries to urge a lighter touch: “And so dear friend I have started to think that you really work too hard on your translations. One can correct and change things forever, and in the end, one returns to the first formulation. You understand, I am so grateful for your beautiful, artistic work, but I don’t want you to wear yourself out.”

So, whilst I enjoyed Howard’s translations of both books, they are as much an interpretation as the works of Sjöström and Molander… the search for intent and meaning continues.

You can find Sundmark's paper here at YorkSpace, York University's Institutional Repository.

A 1912 German translation... check out Abe Books!

Rich man, poor man… Bodakungen (1920)

The Tyranny of Hate is the English title for this film and that says much more about the theme of this film than the Swedish which means Boda King, referring to the dominant local landowner played by the larger than life Egil Eide.

Set in the early 1800s the film was typical of the rural dramas popular in Sweden at the time and could easily have been drawn from a Selma Lagerlöf novel as were so many of the films of Mauritz Stiller and Victor Sjöström in the silent era. Here Gustaf Molander, previously scriptwriter for Stiller on the Thomas Graal films and uncredited contributor to Sjöström’s A Man There Was, both wrote and directed. It was Molander’s first film as a director and he went on to enjoy a long career up to the sixties and including Ingmarsarvet (1925) itself based on a Selma Lagerlöf story and starring leading Euro-hunks Lars Hanson and Conrad Veidt as well as Sweden’s finest actress/ballerina, the legendary Jenny Hasselqvist.

Egil Eide looks down on August Palme & Wanda Rothgardt 

Bodakungen tells of the feud between two farmers one from Ödemo (Storden in the English titles) and the other from Rävgården (Hogarden). Sören Torbjörnsson, the "Bodakungen"/Boda King, is the most successful with a large farm and many hands whilst his family rival, Mårten (August Palme) is failing with just his young daughter, Gunnel (Wanda Rothgardt) to help him. Ten years ago his son Hans, was sent away to school and he has failed to compete without him to the point at which the Boda King is close to having him evicted, “this would never have happened had he stayed…”

Torbjörnsson is a boorish bully, revelling in his own success and intent on taking out the hated competition, ruling “with an iron hand and a cold heart.” The only thing that gives him pause is his daughter, Eli (Winifred Westover) of whom he is almost frightened of letting her down. His wife (Hilda Castegren) he is less concerned by and treats her little better than his employees and, like them she does whatever he wants her too.

Torbjörnsson buys Mårten’s debt from a debtor at twice the value just so that he can use it to turn him out lock, stock and barrel – have a mentioned what a git he is? In fairness both men cling onto their family hatreds but only one is going to win at this rate. This exchange takes place at the Boda Fair a lavish recreation of the fun of a rural fair with acrobats and a cheating weightlifter who gets roundly chastised for using fake weights after a dog picks them up and walks away…

It's good to be King, or is it?

After the fair, the two old men clash with Torbjörnsson beating his frail rival and then heading home to enjoy a feast and to bully all around him with his only shame being in response to Eli’s sad look at his behaviour. If only she were with him all the time he says, he is missing her judgement as much as her respect but he can’t control himself and the corrupting power he has.

The morning after he’s back in full effect, advising Mårten of the best place to commit suicide after he turfs him out of his ancestral home; “… the Wolfes Rock is steep and the rapids fast.” But Mårten has a warning of his own, saying that his crimes will find him out before trudging off homeless with his daughter.

The following day a “stranger” comes climbing up from the lake and for a second I think it’s Lars Hansen only to remember that it’s Uno Henning… Lars was undoubtedly busy filming Erotikon and nursing his wounds from the previous year’s rustic rough and tumble of A Dangerous Wooing (1919). He spies Eli and there’s an instant connection as he explains how he’s adventured all around the World and now he comes looking for his father… I know, if only he knew who he was talking to!?

Hilda is very impressed with Uno's Hans...

Hans, for it is he, the son of Mårten, though “little blue eyes” Eli little knows it, takes her hand and promises to tell her the name of her intended, who he says will appear to her before the sun goes down on Wolfes Rock. Little does he know it, but this is a dangerous wooing too.

 OK, so this romance is telegraphed in the long tradition of Montagues and Capulets but there’s still an obnoxiously stubborn old git to turn round and redemption to be obtained… and the film is satisfying in the delays it allows as the narrative is placed in ways that is neither melodramatic or mawkish. The “king” could easily allow more of Eli’s kindness into his business plan but he simply doesn’t want to until it is forced on him. This is a tale as true now as it ever was, just imagine if Papa Trump’s Ivanka was a decent person… she might even turn him round.

But a reckoning is coming as Mårten decides to turn back from his exile and spend one last night in his farm. He bids farewell to his daughter and sets fire to the barn only to be rescued by Hans who also intervenes victoriously when Torbjörnsson tries to beat his father. From that point the tables do turn as the locals have had enough of his cruelty and, worse, his daughter’s love for him has gone. This is all very socialistic but there’s only one way back for the greedy landowner and that’s love as it always needs to be.

A domineering dad and a disappointed daughter.

Bodakungen is a very enjoyable tale and Molander’s skills nearly rival the Big Two’s with drama, morality and some gorgeous backdrops captured by cameraman Adrian Bjurman; you really cannot go wrong with Swedish lakes and mountains.

It’s more evidence, if any were required, of the strength in depth of Swedish film at this point and there’s plenty more where this one came from!

Capitalism at work...

Sad songs mean so much… Tatjana (1923), with John Sweeney, Kennington Bioscope

Ivan, they want to murder Boris! For God’s sake help!

Michelle Facey introduced the film she had found in the BFI National Film Archive and explained how, literally, one, or in this case, two things, had led to another. Firstly, the Bioscope’s screening of Asta Nielsen’s first film Afgrunden (1910) also starred Robert Dinesen, who went on to direct and star in this film and also to direct Claire (1924) – screened at the KB in 2019. Secondly, Tatjana’s mesmerising star, Olga Tschechowa, who was to later become involved in a plot to kill Adolf Hitler, also featured in last year’s screening of Ewald André Dupont’s Moulin Rouge (1928). Looking for more of their work, Michelle came up with this film which not only still existed but lived not too far away deep in the stacks over in the BFI’s Berkhamsted repository.

There is virtually nothing about the film online and, indeed, Michelle’s initial reference came from an advert in Close Up magazine’s September 1928 issue for the Shaftesbury Pavilion, “The Home of International Film” which, along with screenings for all the latest continental hits, such as the recently restored but rarely screened, Saga of Gosta Berling included a feature entitled He Who Covets, the English title for Tajana.

Digging further, a copy of the Bioscope magazine was found in the Cinema Museum archive, which included a review of Tajana, a film, the reviewer felt, that would have a strong appeal at melodrama houses. And, here we were!

Olga Tschechowa in F W Murnau’s Schloß Vogelöd (1921).

Tajana is a skilfully made tale of love and obsession during the turbulence of the Russian Revolution. Its structure is unusual, starting off in the smart part of Copenhagen, with the death of a well-to-do man, Ivan Gorykin (Paul Hartmann) found slumped at his desk in the morning by one of his servants. His wife leaves a note which leads to a flashback as the whole tale is unravelled to catch up with this mysterious moment.

We’re back in Tsarist Russia and in the house of Count Schuwaloff (Leopold von Ledebur) and his daughter Tatjana (Tschechowa) who is engaged to Prince Boris Orloff (Dinesen). The intertitles are in English and so a lot of the pronouns have been anglicised for those checking IMDB…

Schuwaloff has lost his patience with the son of one of his loyal servants, Anna (Maria Peterson), Ivan, who is too distracted by revolutionary theory to apply himself to the kinds of study the Count feels is worthwhile. The old man is quite right to be concerned because not only is Ivan a revolutionary he is also dead set on winning Tajana’s heart, even when she makes it quite clear to him that she only has eyes for Boris. She pleads with her father to carry on funding Ivan but Boris steps in to pick up the tab only for Ivan to show his gratitude by pointlessly pleading undying love to the revulsed Tajana.

Robert Dinesen

The years pass, Tajana and Boris marry and have a child whilst Russia edges ever closer to revolution. Ivan is one of the leading lights and like any bad Bolshevik decides to use the upheaval to further his own romantic agenda. He devises a plan so self-serving and cunning that even the most selfish fox might reject it as too complex and, well, he appears not to have a thorough understanding of Marx’s political philosophy, so it looks like Tajana’s old man was right about the wasted education.

The day will soon be here when we force these nobles to their knees…

Ivan arranges for the local peasantry to be both drunk and deceived, arranging for them to attack Boris and Tajana’s home whilst at the same time using his mother to provide them with an escape route straight into his arms. He pretends to help both escape, leading Boris into a trap at the border and hoping to use his supposed bravery to finally win over his suddenly isolated and devastated wife.

As plans go it underestimates the human details but when he tells Tajana that Boris has been shot by border guards, he becomes her only refuge amidst the revolutionary anarchy. Her Boris is gone and will she never hear the Chanson Triste – possibly Tchaikovsky’s Chanson Triste (Op. 40 No. 2) from 1878 - that he used to play for her, ever again?

Carl Drews’s cinematography makes the most of some marvellous snow-scapes especially during the attempted escape and the print looked splendid considering it’s possibly not been screened since its original release.

Paul Hartmann looking like an instense revolutionary in a publicity shot for something else entirely

John Sweeney is, of course, very much your man for the Russians and wove splendid dramatic and romantic lines through the web of revolutionary intrigue. He hadn’t seen the film – who had? – but he was, of course, spot on when the chanson was called upon to be très, très triste!

John was on duty for the first half too and again showed his range of quality improvisations accompanying the compilation of colourised shorts mostly shown from film.

The first two were from Bob Geoghegan’s collection, Interesting Incidents from Here and There (1916) a travelogue sadly missing the first section in London but still fascinating, and then a mild romantic comedy Une mésaventure de François Premier (1912) in which the lusty monarch tries, and fails, to have his wicked way with the wife of one of his nobles all in lovely Pathe Colour. Royalty eh? They’re nothing but trouble, just ask Ivan.

Not so simple, Simon. Ernest Bourbons screen shot courtesy of Movies Silently

There was another splendid travelogue on 35mm this time from Tony Fletcher’s collection and covering Russia in around the same period as our main film, followed by another tinted print, a French comedy called Onésime vs. Onésime (1912) (Good Simon, Bad Simon). Here forgotten French clown Ernest Bourbon plays Good Simon who tries to rid himself of his bad double with plenty of laughs and smart camera trickery to follow. There’s a review on Fritzie Kramer’s peerless Movies Silently site and it includes One of the Greatest Puns in Blogging History so you must check it out!

Both Simons were courtesy of Christopher Bird’s collection and so he along with Bob and Tony prove the worth of private collections alongside institutions like the BFI, in preserving the almost lost corners of early film. Credit too to the Bioscope which continues to provide an opportunity to see these rare gems screened and accompanied as cinematic nature intended.

Too many tomorrows… Nights of Cabiria (1957), BFI Fellini Centenary

We’re going home but I don’t think we’ll get there…

So shouts a young reveller at the close of a film that still stuns the viewer with it’s brutal honesty, not everything can be sugar-coated in life and one of the positives of Federico Fellini making his wife Giulietta Masina the focus of his story is the knowledge that they remained married for fifty years until his death. But Nights of Cabiria is a very human story and Masina’s character, Cabiria, is personified by often unrealistic hope which, in the face of so much evidence to undermine its continued existence, is the very thing that keeps most of us going.

As Cabiria walks among the young part goers at the end she is astonishing, running a range of contradictory emotions like a combination of Clara and Charlie then looking directly into the eyes of the audience in a way that lifts your heart even as it breaks. It is an extraordinary performance and simply one of the greatest from the fifties and this period of Italian cinema; no wonder Chaplin said that "the actress who moved him most." She also inspired her husband who crafted this story based on her “humanity” and as a showcase its hard to beat.

As with its predecessor, La Strada (1954), the film won the Best Foreign Language Oscar and the director and his star were on top of their game. Le notti di Cabiria tells the story of a seemingly contradictory character; an innocent sex worker who, despite so much evidence to the contrary, still lives in hope.

In one of Fellini’s trademark stunning openings, we see Cabiria almost drowned as she is pushed into the Tiber by her boyfriend Giorgio, after he takes her bag. At first you think it’s a joke but it soon becomes clear that she can’t swim and with excruciating speed the men and boys on the riverbanks finally come to her aid. There’s an unsettling comic element as one guy worries about his suit and another saves her by holding her by her feet to let the water run from her lungs.

Recovered, Cabiria’s first thought is to find her ex-lover, still slightly in denial over what he has done. It’s a huge betrayal and one that would devastate surely but she’s not so meek; she has worked hard to achieve financial independence owning her humble home and saving as much as she can from her hard-working life. She keeps on keeping on but her grit is accompanied by a determined and, ill-founded, hope in the best of mankind. This film is regarded as the last of Fellini’s neo-realist films but it also sets the way forward to his more satirical work, and there’s something magically real about Cabiria’s resilience.

Amedeo Nazzari and Giulietta Masina

As with so much of his work, the film is episodic and after the first sequence she returns home crushed yet refusing to be consoled by her friend Wanda (Franca Marzi) as she decides to burn all trace of Georgio. Next, we see her at work on the tough streets of the Appian Way, her positivity allowing her to rise – mostly – above the taunts of fellow streetwalkers and their pimps, even if, sooner or later, she’s prepared to use her fists.

 Again, the humour is on show as she walks past two much taller women as they compete for customers and has the last laugh as she ends up with a film star, Alberto Lazzari (Amedeo Nazzari) after he has an altercation with his girlfriend. He takes her to a nigh club where she is looked down on by everyone from the guests to the staff but she is determined to extract every once of enjoyment from her chance encounter. Her takes her back to his opulent flat for dinner and her face, as it is throughout, is a picture as she takes in the richness of it all. The night ends in boredom and humiliation as the actor’s girlfriend returns and she has to hide all night in the bathroom. But, so it goes and at least she gets paid, Alberto has been fair which is more than can be said for almost every man she meets.

Back to Earth

The episode is rich with direct and indirect comment on the gulf between her world and that of the movie star as she ascends a sumptuous stairway to his apartment, bumps her head on the glass door trying to make her way out and then tramps along a driveway filled with statues either side; culture assigned to the roadside.

The next night she meets a man who is handing out food to the poor living in hovels on the outskirts of town. He gives her a lift home and she reveals that her real name is Maria Ceccarelli and that she’s had to fend for herself since her parents died when she was young; it’s the first time she’s trusted a man to reveal her name. Oddly, this section was cut from the original release by the censors which is even stranger when you consider the reaction to the treatment of prostitution and some of the language included by subject expert Pier Paolo Pasolini.

Having seen a church procession, Cabiria travels with her friends to the church the next day in the hope of being in the presence of the Madonna; many hope for redemption and a cure for their ills and there’s a desperation about the convoy of hopeful believers who cram into the sacred place and make their plea for a better life. As with the sequence in the later La Dolce Vita, there’s an ambivalence in the director’s treatment of Christianity and faith; no cripples are cured and the daylight reveals the mess of litter left by followers and, as the holy procession continues, Cabiria struggles with Wanda.

The parade passes by

Onto another form of magic as the next night, Cabiria finds her way into a show where a magician (Aldo Silvani) calls members of the audience up on stage and hypnotises them into doing and saying things they instantly forget. He calls Cabiria and asks her to describe her romantic ideal and his face starts to drop as she reveals too much. After the show though she is greeted by a man from the audience, Oscar (François Périer) who says he has been very affected by what she said. Oscar’s an accountant with quiet manner and, despite her initial wariness, Cabiria begins to trust him romantically…

Where this all leads is for every cinephile to discover with an ending New York Times critic Janet Maslin described as being worth more than "all the fire-breathing blockbusters Hollywood has to offer." It’s the perfect combination of Fellini, his musical partner Nino Rosa and the extraordinary emotional display of Giulietta Masina. Another highlight of theBFI’s Fellini Centenary celebrations and the restoration is currently doing the rounds nationwide. Not to be missed.

The restored version is out on Blu-ray on 6th April; it's going to look grand.

Is Oscar a keeper?

Two-for-one trivia sentence: the film was the inspiration for the musical Sweet Charity and the name Cabiria was taken from Giovanni Pastrone’s silent epic, Cabiria which provides a tenuous link with the majority of content on this (mostly silent) blog.