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pagination.frontmatterContents = '<div id="booktitle">Framed Horizons:</div><div id="booksubtitle">Student Writing on Nordic Cinema</div><div id="bookeditors">eds. Marita Fraser, Melissa Powell, Rose-Anne Ross,<br>Anna V. Strauss, C. Claire Thomson</div><div id="bookpress">Norvik Press<br>2012</div><div class="pagebreak"></div><div id="copyrightpage">© Linda Blank, Martin Butcher, Pei Sze Chow, Kitty Clark, Daniel Fredriksson, Clare Glenister, Lauren Godfrey, Elisa Jochum, Ville-Matti Kervinen, Colin Leventhal, Melissa Powell, Rose-Anne Ross, Rebecca Spaven, Anna V. Strauss, C. Claire Thomson, Essi Viitanen, 2012.<br><br>Norvik Press Series C: Student Writing, no. 1 <br><br>A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.<br><br>ISBN: 978-1-909408-00-5<br><br><br>Norvik Press gratefully acknowledges the generous support of UCL Enterprise Knowledge Transfer Champions scheme towards the publication of this book.<br><br><br>Norvik Press <br>Department of Scandinavian Studies <br>University College London <br>Gower Street London <br>WC1E 6BT <br>United Kingdom <br>Website: www.norvikpress.com <br>E-mail address: norvik.press@ucl.ac.uk <br>Managing editors: Sarah Death, Helena Forsås-Scott, Janet Garton, C. Claire Thomson. <br><br><br>Cover illustration: Cecilia Larsson/imagebank.sweden.se<br>Cover design: Marita Fraser<br>Layout: Marita Fraser<br><br><br>This book was produced using Booktype from Sourcefabric.<br>Special thanks to Adam Hyde and Johannes Wilm from Sourcefabric for their generous support and assistance.<br><br>‎Printed in the UK by Lightning Source UK Ltd.</div><div class="pagebreak"></div>';

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<div id="section-1" Class="objavi-subsection"><div Class="objavi-subsection-heading">Introduction</div><div Class="objavi-chapter"><strong Class="initial">1.</strong> Introduction: ‘I wish I had written that!’ Reflections on Student Scholarship and Publishing Possibilities,  C. Claire Thomson</div></div><h1 id="ReFzjuCOVS_0" class="first-heading"><strong Class="initial">1.</strong> <span class="title">Introduction: ‘I wish I had written that!’<span class="subtitle"> Reflections on Student Scholarship and Publishing Possibilities</span><span class="comma">, </span><span class="author"> C. Claire Thomson</span></span></h1>
<p>Earlier this year, a meme took hold amongst academics on Twitter. The exhortation to ‘Tweet Your PhD’  circulated for a few days, challenging researchers to sum up their project in 140 characters. It quickly transpired that it was indeed possible to encapsulate 100,000 words and three or four years of work in a tweet - but the task demanded absolute clarity on the part of the author as to what his or her project was about. Since that mass experiment, I’ve found that asking students to describe their essay projects in a tweet can be a useful exercise in forcing them to distill their ideas in terms of coherence and scope. And yet, the notion of assessing learning by Tweet sounds faintly ridiculous. Those 140 characters are just the beginning of a journey of 2000, 5000 or even 10,000 words. In the course of that journey, the student is expected to demonstrate not just what has been learnt during a course, but also that s/he has mastered the skills central to an education in the Arts and Humanities:
marshaling, synthesising and critically engaging with a range of sources, constructing a sound argument in response to a question or statement, substantiating claims with evidence, drawing well-founded conclusions, expressing ideas clearly and accurately. It is obvious that many students devote a great deal of time and energy to mastering these skills and to researching their essays. A very few of them are awarded an elusive mark of 80 or above, reserved, in the peculiar marking scheme of Arts and Humanities in the UK, for work that is of publishable quality. And yet, in an era when untold millions of words are spewed daily into the blogosphere, the accepted fate of high quality student essays is to languish in a filing cabinet, rarely emerging even to function as successful exemplars from which student peers can learn.</p>
<p>This book celebrates the good old-fashioned Arts and Humanities essay, both as a tool for developing key skills, and as a form of narrative whose strengths and weaknesses are suddenly thrown into sharp relief in an era of proliferating communication platforms. The present book represents a pilot project which we intend to develop further within the School of European Languages, Culture and Society at UCL. Running over the academic year, the project will provide students with experience in proof-editing, peer review, graphic design, collaborative working, marketing, and training in emerging publishing technologies. It is one of these emerging technologies that has made <em>Framed Horizons</em> possible: SourceFabric’s online publishing platform BookType enables groups of writers and editors to work together on a text in real time, and to publish it both as print-on-demand and e-book. Ultimately, the aim is to integrate practical skills in the use of new technology into the tried-and-tested pedagogical
process of essay-writing, so as to equip students in flexible ways to function in the communication environment into which they will graduate.</p>
<p>The essays in this book were all written over the last six years by students who have taken my BA- or MA-level courses in Nordic Cinema, or who are now studying with me as PhD students but wanted to return to MA work on Nordic cinema they had written elsewhere. The essays thus span the gamut of coursework types: they include first-year BA projects, short essays testing second-year students’ grasp of film analysis, year abroad projects, and MA essays by Film Studies students. Some authors are specialists in Scandinavian language and culture; others have no background in Scandinavian Studies (and thus no access to the original language dialogue) but are studying film or fine art. Around twenty former students who had achieved a mark at least in the high upper second range were invited to contribute; the selection published here is by those who chose to do so. The chapters are therefore, inevitably, on a fairly random range of topics within the area of Nordic Cinema, are of different lengths, and display
different levels of scholarly maturity. Thus, it must be made absolutely clear that these essays are not presented here as academic research. Most of them have been revised for publication on the basis of my feedback and additional comments from a team of student peer reviewers, but we make no claims that they have all attained a standard of scholarship typical of an academic peer-reviewed journal. Apart from some minor revisions for clarity and accuracy, the style of individual authors -- several of them writing quite beautifully in English as a second or third language -- has been allowed to breathe.</p>
<p>In the commentaries written by the authors, they reflect on the context in which each essay was produced, and what they might have done differently in hindsight. These commentaries have been included as a reminder to the reader that this book is not a standard academic source. I would, in fact, suggest that it can usefully be used not just as a collection of interesting perspectives on Nordic cinema, but also as a set of exemplars of what a BA or MA essay can be. Students -- as well as, I would venture, more advanced scholars -- can learn a great deal by pondering the strengths and weaknesses of the writing of others. Moreover, evaluation of sources, and their judicious use, is one of the most important skills a student can develop, in an era in which communication platforms are proliferating at bewildering speed. Assessing the status of these essays could be compared as an exercise to puzzling out how and when to cite a newspaper article as a source, or Wikipedia, or a blog, or, for that matter, an
article in a peer-reviewed journal. A grasp of the implications of the material and media instantiation of any source is essential, as well as the ability to discern a robust argument or sniff out a dubious statistic.</p>
<p>I would maintain that there is something to be learnt from all of these essays: a distinctive approach to an aspect of film theory adopted by a student approaching cinema from the perspective of another discipline, for example; tenacious use of fast-developing Scandinavian language skills to research a filmmaker ignored by anglophone scholarship; sparky insights gleaned from the unlikely juxtaposition of disparate filmmakers or films. To varying degrees, they all feature attentive and original readings of films, imaginative approaches to the subject matter, and engagement with different types of resources.  All of them, for one reason or another, have caused me to stop, think, and exclaim: ‘I wish I had written that!’ -- one of the greatest pleasures of academic life.</p><div id="section-2" Class="objavi-subsection"><div Class="objavi-subsection-heading">Place and Space</div><div Class="objavi-chapter"><strong Class="initial">2.</strong> Tracking Nordic Cinema: The Films of Carl Th. Dreyer and Ingmar
Bergman, Colin Leventhal</div><div Class="objavi-chapter"><strong Class="initial">3.</strong> Bergman's Fårö:  Inhabitation Remote from Modern Society?,  Elisa Jochum</div><div Class="objavi-chapter"><strong Class="initial">4.</strong> Aki Kaurismäki's Postcards,  Kitty Clark</div><div Class="objavi-chapter"><strong Class="initial">5.</strong> Bourgeois Space and the Post-Ideological Cinema of Dogme 95 and Desplechin,  Ville-Matti Kervinen</div></div><h1 id="ReFzjuCOVS_2"><strong Class="initial">2.</strong> <span class="title">Tracking Nordic Cinema<span class="punctuation">: </span><span class="subtitle">The Films of Carl Th. Dreyer and Ingmar Bergman</span><span class="comma">, </span><span class="author">Colin Leventhal</span></span></h1>
<p>Carl Th. Dreyer (1889-1968) and Ingmar Bergman (1918-2007), the two great auteur filmmakers of Nordic cinema, are, arguably, better known for close-ups of human faces than for tracking shots. However, in this essay I argue that the use of camera movement, particularly tracking shots, to explore interior and exterior spaces, objects and characters, plays a distinctive function in the construction of narrative and representational meaning in their films. I analyse and discuss this use in two late films directed by Carl Th. Dreyer, <em>Vredens Dag</em> (Day of Wrath) (1943) and <em>Ordet </em>(The Word, 1955), with a critical comparison to two key films directed by Bergman, <em>Sommaren med Monika</em> (Summer With Monika) (1953)<em> </em>and<em> Persona </em>(1966)<em>. </em></p>
<div Class="objavi-no-page-break"><h2>An Introduction To Camera Movement and Tracking Shots</h2>
<p>Since the early days of cinema, filmmakers have used movement to represent the world visually in a way that differentiates the medium of film from other media such as still photography or the live theatre. Camera movement helps to construct the meaning of a film by providing information about the spaces in which images are being filmed and the people and objects in those spaces. Raymond Carney (1989:120 footnote) has suggested that by using camera movement ‘Dreyer creates a heightened spatial and temporal awareness</p>
</div><p><img src="static/tracking2.jpg" alt="" width="400" height="136"><span class="imagecaption">The camera tracks Monika as she delights in her freedom on the island. <em>Sommaren med Monika</em>, Ingmar Bergman, Sweden, 1953.</span><img src="static/tracking1.jpg" alt="" width="400" height="136"><span class="imagecaption">Anne moves through the cloisters, and the tracking camera turns to reveal the space behind her.<br><em>Vredens Dag</em>, Carl Th. Dreyer, Denmark, 1943.</span></p>
<div class="pagebreakbefore">
<p>in the viewer. The moving camera communicates the fact that meaning is enacted, worked, performed into existence within the particularities of specific spaces and times’.</p>
</div>
<p>The impact of a moving image is greater where the framing is not stationary, as the image can focus on or highlight particular people and objects, and also provide greater appearance of three-dimensionality, which draws the audience into the visual experience. Corrigan and White (2009: 116) add that ‘when the film frame begins to move, a film shot recreates a quality of vision that has always been part of the human experience’.</p>
<p>A frame or several frames of an image, recorded on film, shot by a camera moving backwards, forwards, sideways, circularly or in any direction along the ground, is known as a tracking shot. The title derives from the movement of the camera which was originally mounted on a platform with wheels to run on parallel tracks like a train. Subsequently, specially made, very manoeuvrable camera vehicles with rubber wheels, called dollies, were developed. Tracking shots are also referred to as dolly shots or travelling or trucking shots.</p>
<p>Tracking shots may be combined with other camera movements such as tilts or pans (in which the camera, stationary on a single vertical axis, moves up or down, left to right or right to left) or crane shots (in which the stationary camera moves above the ground on a mechanical arm or crane) to achieve complex sequences which have appealed to many creative filmmakers including Dreyer and Bergman. Since the 1970s, it has also been possible to attach the camera to the operator using a balancing camera mount patented as the Steadicam. This enables the operator to walk with the camera with fluid, even movements, thereby marrying the use of handheld camera techniques to conventional tracking shots.</p>
<p>Tracking shots are used to change the framing of an image of an object or character, or explore space. To do so, the camera moves towards or away from one person or more, moves in parallel to or between them, moves in front of them, or follows behind them. For example, in the iconic final scene of <em>Les 400 Coups</em> (The 400 Blows, Francois Truffaut, France, 1959), the camera films the protagonist, Antoine Doinel, as he escapes from the reformatory, following him, tracking parallel to him and finally zooming to close-up on him on the beach.</p>
<p>Tracking shots explore space by altering the way the image is framed. By moving the camera in relation to the mise-en-scène, the scale, size, shape and depth of the on-screen image is changed and redefined. This is exemplified in <em>Cabiria</em> (Giovanni Pastrone, Italy, 1914), which is regarded as the first use of a tracking shot in a major popular film. The film uses slow, long, diagonal tracking shots, moving the camera both forwards and backwards from mid-shot to extreme long shot, to show the size and scale of its huge sets, including the marketplace at Carthage, the Temple of Moloch and Hasdrubal’s Palace. Nowell-Smith (1997:127) comments, ‘the tracking shots of <em>Cabiria</em> perform a crucial narrative and descriptive function, and were filmed on a sophisticated system of tracks which allowed for remarkably complex camera movements’.</p>
<p><em>Cabiria</em> influenced the work of many early directors including, famously, D.W. Griffith and F.W. Murnau, and early tracking shots were called ‘Cabiria movements’ (Salt 2009:138).  <em>Sunrise</em> (F.W. Murnau, US, 1927) was particularly lauded for its use of the ‘unbound’ moving camera in scenes in both the country and the city.  An example of this takes place in the country where the Man leaves the family home to meet the City Woman at night, with the camera following him in long shot and then moving parallel to him before moving forward through bushes to settle on the City Woman playing with a spring flower in her hand.</p>
<p>The introduction of sound inhibited the moving camera (as they were positioned in cumbersome soundboxes) until the development of more lightweight cameras in the 1940s. Since then,<em> </em>filmmakers have increasingly demonstrated their cinematic virtuosity with combination tracking shots in a wide range of films. It seems that every cineaste has their favourite tracking shots and my own nominations include the party scene in <em>Notorious</em> (Alfred Hitchcock, USA, 1946) (where the camera tracks down from the top of the stairs to find the cellar keys in Ingrid Bergman’s hands) to the opening scene in <em>Touch of Evil</em> (Orson Welles, USA, 1958), (which starts with an bomb planted under a car and ends with its explosion) to <em>Boogie Nights</em> (Paul Thomas Anderson, USA, 1997) (where the opening shot picks up the movie title outside a cinema and then tracks down a street following a car to a nightclub which Burt Reynolds and Julianne Moore enter, introduces several characters including a
waitress on rollerskates before ending in a mid-shot on the protagonist).</p>
<p>Each of these scenes heightens the visual experience of the viewer by showing that movement is not just an integral part of the narrative but also a compelling and distinctive quality of the medium of film; not only is film a moving medium (that is, a succession of moving images) but what is shown on the images is itself moving.</p>
<div Class="objavi-no-page-break"><h2>Carl Th. Dreyer</h2>
<p>Dreyer’s own interest in camera movement was summarized by him as follows: </p>
</div><h5>The eye absorbs horizontal lines rapidly and easily but repels vertical lines. The eye is involuntarily attracted by objects in motion but remains passive over stationary things. This is the explanation why the eye, with pleasure, follows gliding camera movements, preferably when they are soft and rhythmic. As a principal rule, one can say that one shall try to keep a continuous, flowing, horizontally gliding motion in the film. If one then suddenly introduces vertical lines, one can by this reach an instantly dramatic effect – as, for instance, in the pictures of the vertical ladder just before it is thrown into the fire in <em>Vredens Dag </em>(Dreyer, in Skoller, 1973:129).</h5>
<p>I have chosen the following examples of Dreyer’s use of  ‘continuous, flowing, horizontally gliding motion’ from three sequences in <em>Vredens Dag</em> (1943), which tells the story of Anne, the young and beautiful wife of an older pastor, Absalon, who falls in love with her stepson, Martin, with disastrous consequences. Against a background of village life in seventeenth century Denmark, the elders use the fear of witchcraft and its religious condemnation to maintain their male power over the moral and ethical behaviour  of women.  </p>
<p>First, early in the film, Anne enters the village church through a door on the left of the screen, and in a parallel tracking medium long shot from left to right, walks and then runs through a colonnade to a double row of steps up to the sacristy. The camera tracks round to face her as she looks about her to check that nobody is there, before walking up the steps to open the door. She appears youthful in her hurry, compared to the sombre, slow-moving environment in the previous scene in her house with Absalon and Merete where Herlof’s Marte is found hiding. Anne has come to overhear, through the open door, Absalon questioning Herlof’s Marte to obtain a confession that she is a witch. In response, Herlof’s Marte asks for his help to spare her life as he did for Anne’s mother, who was a witch. Herlof’s Marte has already told Anne that her mother was spared because of her so this comes as confirmation of Absalon’s involvement. She knows that Absalon could save Herlof’s Marte’s life but he does not, and she
is taken away for torture.</p>
<p>The second example takes place on a stormy night with Anne consumed by her love for Martin. Absalon is away administering to a congregant who is dying, and Merete has just told Martin that she regrets the day that Absalon brought Anne to live in their house. Again, Anne enters the main living room of the house from the left of the scene. She has an almost seductive look on her face and her hair is flowing and uncovered in contrast with the first example, in which her hair is tightly covered by a mobcap. She walks from left to right in a flowing parallel tracking shot, passing behind the chair in which Martin is sitting, across the room to the door on the right of the screen which she locks with a hook before the camera moves with her walking back towards Martin. She does not take her eyes off Martin throughout this movement, drawing the viewer’s attention to the intense sexual and emotional passion she feels for Martin. She no longer hides her feelings for him, and by locking the door to what is
presumably her mother-in-law’s room, she indicates that she wishes to make love or share physical intimacy with Martin.</p>
<p>The third example is taken from the famous last scene of the film where a ceremony is taking place in the sacristy of the church to honour the death of Absalon, who lies in his coffin. It is the same location in which Anne saw Absalon questioning Herlof's Marte in my first example and it is here that Anne will be forced to confront her own fate as a consequence of her relationship with Martin. In this complex scene, the camera moves in a swinging action between Anne and Martin on the left of the coffin and Merete on the right and ends with Martin and Merete on the right, with Anne isolated on the left, finally sitting next to the coffin. This swinging camera action is intercut with still close-up shots of Anne responding visually with her eyes and facial expression to her denunciation as a witch by Merete and to the consequent request by an elder that she deny the charge. Dreyer (in Skoller 1973:132-3) describes the rhythm of the camera movement in this scene as follows:</p>
<h5>Instead of using short, quick, moving pictures, I introduced what I call long, gliding close ups that follow the players in a rhythmic way, feeling their way from one player to another just as the action is taking place with one then the other. In spite of – or perhaps, more correctly, I should say because of – this almost wave-formed rhythm, the scene with the two young people by Absalom’s coffin is one of the parts that touches the public most strongly.</h5>
<p>Anne ‘confesses’ to the murder of Absalon and the seduction of Martin whilst under the influence of the devil, ‘the evil one’. She says of Absalon ‘you have your revenge, after all’. So the camera movement indicates Martin’s desertion of Anne to the ‘side’ of Merete, leaving her isolated and her passion for Martin destroyed. Her confession suggests that her life is no longer worth living. Her passion, and adultery, is a threat to the social order of village life and she sacrifices her life by admitting to Merete’s accusations. Camera movement serves to explore and open up the tight confines of the sacristy, showing not just the change of allegiances but also the wider significance of the issues of life and death dealt with in the film. </p>
<p>Dreyer’s<em> Ordet</em> (1955) is concerned with the life, death and subsequent resurrection of Inger Borgen, the loving wife of Mikkel and mother of young Maren. The first tracking shot in the film introduces us to the Borgen family who live together in Borgensgaard farm. The patriarch of the family, old Morten Borgen, has three sons, Mikkel, Anders and Johannes, who has gone insane. The camera starts with a long shot on Anders waking in the bedroom he shares with Johannes, and pans right to show his parallel empty bed. Anders gets up, looks out the window, lifting a blind, with a cut to Johannes walking up to the top of the dunes outside the house. The camera cuts back to a point of view long shot from the main living room of the house, showing Anders getting dressed in his bedroom and then walking through the bedroom door back into the main living room. The camera tracks in front of him as he moves left towards and into his father’s bedroom, where he wakes him to tell him that Johannes is missing again.
 The camera tracks further left to show Anders going through a door to the outside of the house and then with nobody in vision continues to track left to discover Inger in her nightgown coming out of her bedroom to find out what is going on. She then goes back into her bedroom where he wakes her husband, Mikkel. So with minimal cutting, Dreyer has introduced us to the Borgen family and shown the family together, focusing on the disappearance of Johannes out onto the dunes again in the middle of the night. It is a scene of family intimacy with its members in their nightwear, but it also explores the interior of the house, showing us that although sparsely furnished it is elegant, sizeable, well laid out and belonging to a well-to-do family of farmers.</p>
<p>In the next example from the film, Inger seeks the support of Morten Borgen for the marriage of his youngest son, Anders, to Anne, the daughter of a tailor who belongs to a different religious group. The sequence takes place in a large, well-furnished, almost elegant, living room and has a duration of nine minutes, with only two very short cuts: a jump cut to Johannes entering and leaving the room, and a point of view shot of the new vicar walking into the church outside the window of the living room. For the rest of the sequence, the camera glides around the living room, following the movements of Inger and Morten as they walk about, sit down and stand up whilst discussing family activities, love, the proposed marriage, and how Anders is asking for Anne’s hand in marriage without consulting Morten. At the end of the sequence, Morten still refuses to consent to the marriage despite being offered a bribe by Inger of fried eel for dinner on Sunday, and a son as her next child.</p>
<p>This is a gentle scene of family intimacy between a loving daughter-in-law and the head of the family, with the simple activities of drinking coffee, smoking a pipe and winding wool serving as precursors to a discussion of a key family issue. The appearance of Johannes reminds us that life is far from perfect in the Borgen family despite the apparent affluence of their lives and the impending birth of a new sibling for Inger’s daughter, young Maren. The camera movement in this scene is slow and rhythmic, emphasizing the dance-like dialogue between the two characters, delicately skirting around and then directly discussing an issue that has been dividing the family.</p>
<p>In my last example from <em>Ordet,</em> the centrality of Johannes in the film’s narrative is underlined in a 360 degree tracking shot which focuses on Johannes and Inger’s daughter young Maren. The scene begins with the child entering the room, with Johannes sitting on a chair in the middle holding a reed rod, and asking him whether Inger will die soon (Inger is having a difficult labour).  Johannes asks her whether she wants her mother to die and she replies that she does so that Johannes will raise her from the dead. Maren stands by Johannes’ side as the camera tracks in a mid-shot in a slow circle around them whilst they talk about her mother, Inger’s possible death, and her going to heaven rather than staying on earth. Maren asks him again to raise her from the dead and she kisses him on the cheek. Johannes then picks her up to take her to bed, she kisses him on the cheek again and he walks right, out of frame. The sustained tension of this tracking shot heightens the contrast between the naïve faith
of the child and the irrational faith of the unbalanced religious believer. </p>
<p>Edvin Kau (2011) describes Dreyer’s camera style thus:</p>
<h5>In Dreyer’s work, the camera moves freely in all dimensions of space – around people, back and forth between them, and everywhere in the scenery, and in this way, that which is recorded from all these angles and positions is located in relation to the picture surface.</h5>
<h5>The totality of the experience is mainly achieved through the free, mobile camera, which is not a camera that continually tracks, pans, shakes or tilts (although these movements are naturally present) but rather one that is weightless, privileged to take up any position and present its image from the chosen viewpoint – and in the next moment, an entirely different side of this.</h5>
<p class="ListParagraph">For Dreyer, the moving, ‘weightless’ camera was central to his filmmaking, and in these examples, the use of combination tracking shots was at the core of his narrative and representational storytelling.</p>
<div Class="objavi-no-page-break"><h2>Ingmar Bergman</h2>
<p>Ingmar Bergman, regarded by many as one of the greatest film directors of all time, towered over Nordic and world cinema during his lifetime. The films he made in the 1950s and 60s established his worldwide reputation and made his name synonymous with Swedish cinema. Philip Kemp (1997: 572-3) perceptively comments that 'the austere beauty of  Bergman’s images seemed to match his high seriousness of purpose – qualities for which, when fashions changed, he would be mocked and parodied as the prime purveyor of Nordic gloom'.  </p>
</div><p>It is not known whether Bergman and Dreyer talked or discussed filmmaking but it would be surprising if Bergman had not seen Dreyer’s films. It would be interesting to speculate on the influence which Dreyer’s work may have had on Bergman’s films particularly those early films dealing with metaphysical issues such as <em><span class="st"><em>Det sjunde inseglet</em> </span></em>(The Seventh Seal, 1957). Contrasting with the exploration of interior space and characters in <em>Day of Wrath</em> and<em> Ordet</em>, Bergman uses tracking shots to focus or highlight exterior space in the Swedish summers featured in <em>Sommaren med Monika </em>(1953) and<em> Persona </em>(1966<em>)</em>.</p>
<p>Jean-Luc Godard (1972), perhaps overexuberantly but with reason, described <em>Sommaren Med Monika </em>as</p>
<h5>The most original film of the most original of directors. It is to the cinema today [1958] what <em>Birth of A Nation</em> is to the classical cinema. Just as Griffith influenced Eisenstein, Gance and Lang, so <em>Sommaren Med Monika</em>, five years before its time, brought to a peak that renaissance in modern cinema whose high priests were Fellini in Italy, Aldrich in Hollywood and (so we believed, wrongly perhaps) Vadim in France.</h5>
<p>It may be that Godard overstates the importance of Bergman’s film but it is nevertheless an extraordinary depiction of teenage angst and sexuality. I would disagree with Robin Wood (1969: 39) who downplays the film’s significance in the context of Bergman’s earlier films, saying:</p>
<h5>It is a less personal work than <em>Sommarlek</em>, and relatively minor; it never achieves the generalizing significance of the earlier film, being in a more restrictive way a study of character and of a particular relationship.</h5>
<p>The relationship featured in the film is between Monika, a young, troubled, delinquent teenager, and Harry, a conservative young man by comparison, with whom Monika escapes from their dreary lives and jobs in Stockholm to spend the summer on an island in the archipelago. As in several Bergman films of this period, their relationship, which starts at the beginning of summer, disintegrates as summer gives way to autumn. Bergman introduced us in this film to Harriet Andersson who plays Monika with animal vitality, powerful sensuality, and a real sexual allure; Melvyn Bragg once told me (and repeats the anecodote in his 1993 book on <em>The Seventh Seal</em>) that he remembers her even today as the first woman with whom he fell in love. In an iconic and much discussed sequence late in the film, just before the couple break up, Monika sits in a café with another man and stares out at the camera in a way which has been variously described as ‘contemptuous’ (Mosley in Hubner 2007: 45), ‘ashamed and defiant’ (
Wood 1969: 42) and ‘the saddest shot in the history of the cinema’ (Godard 1971). This ambivalence and ambiguity is described by Laura Hubner (2007: 45) as ‘an anticipation of elements in Bergman’s later, more reflexive films such as <em>Persona'</em>. She adds that it ‘also signifies a defiant female response to the heterosexual male gaze long before Mulvey’s influential article on the subject' (45).</p>
<p>In my first example, Monika and Harry on their first date walk, arm in arm, along the street in Stockholm at night in a parallel tracking mid-shot after their visit to the cinema. Monika articulates the sort of good life she would like to lead, with kind friends, a nice house, going to clubs and dances in motorcars, in effect identifying with the actress in the movie they have just seen. The couple stop to admire a blouse in a shop window.</p>
<p>This seems to be a very different girl to the sensual, young woman, in my second example, who stretches her full-bodied frame on the roof of the boat in which Monika and Harry have sailed the day before from Stockholm to the island in the archipelago. Its their first morning on the island and Monika wakes early at ten past five in marked contrast to her life in her family’s slum tenement in the city. After stretching in the warmth of the early morning sun in shorts and skimpy top, she jumps off the boat and walks along the seashore with primus stove and kettle in hand, tracked by the camera in a parallel long shot. The water sparkles and the viewer can almost smell the freshness of the sea and coastline as Monika settles on a rock to boil some water. Laura Hubner (2007:42) describes this sequence which starts with Monika waking as ‘voyeuristic, almost predatory’. She adds that ‘the felt authorial presence of the camera hints at Bergman’s relationship as lover with Harriet Andersson’ (42) but in my view,
the viewer is privileged to see Monika’s real excitement on her own for the first time in a natural habitat.</p>
<p>In my third example, at the end of the summer, the couple have run out of food and go foraging at a summer house on the island for something substantial to eat. Monika is caught by the couple who own the house but is offered food by the wife whilst the husband telephones the police. She sits at the dining room table looking disheveled, dirty and angry next to the well-dressed daughter of the house who regards her with snobbish disdain.  Monika responds by stealing a joint of meat prepared for the family dinner and runs out of the house. In a tracking shot, she crawls through the undergrowth near the house with the meat in her hand tearing bits off it with her teeth. She is tracked by the camera in close-up resembling a feral animal fighting for survival, the niceties of bourgeois life epitomized by the family in the summer house far behind her. In this sequence, Laura Hubner (2007:43) says, ‘Monika seems to represent a repressed rawness’.</p>
<p>These three sequences from <em>Sommaren Med Monika </em>show different aspects of her character and personality i.e. wanting a better life, enjoying the freedom of outdoor life and fighting for survival in tracking shots which draw the viewer into her experiences with greater intensity than if shot by a stationary camera. The tracking shots contribute to the narrative continuity which leads to Monika, now pregnant, returning with Harry to Stockholm, their marriage, the birth of their child and their subsequent breakup.</p>
<p>Marilyn Johns Blackwell (1997: 133) refers to <em>Persona</em> as ‘occupying a singular position in film history, long acknowledged as one of the "great" films of the Western tradition.  She adds:</p>
<h5>Bergman creates a film that opposes dominant cinematic convention and seeks a new form of representation that is attuned to complexity and difference and is more open to a meaning that is not structured by the male symbolic order and that argues the simultaneous impossibility and necessity of discourse. (134)</h5>
<p>To the 60s generation, it was Bergman’s most avant-garde and influential film, shot in black and white, although in my view its reputation today may have become diminished through parody, plagiarism and postmodern experimentation. In the film (which nevertheless remains a remarkable tour de force about womanhood and identity seen through the relationship between two women) Bergman articulates, using a wide range of stylistic devices, the story of an actress, Elisabet Vogler, who loses the ability to speak, as a reaction to her perceived role in the world around her; her alienation is characterized by a rejection of the desire to communicate. She is treated in hospital at the beginning of the film but her doctor suggests that she goes with her nurse, Alma, to the doctor’s summer cottage on an island in the Swedish archipelago to convalesce.</p>
<p>In the first sequence on the island, Elisabet and Alma walk in a parallel long tracking shot behind a wall and trees near the summerhouse collecting mushrooms. It is a beautiful, idyllic, warm summer’s day, and for the first time in the film Elisabet seems happy and engaged in activity. It is an exterior shot showing the countryside at its welcoming best, fecund and felicitous, but the wall and trees serve to hide the protagonists from public gaze as they bend down to pick mushrooms. Elisabet smiles as Alma talks away, but we do not hear what she says as the voiceover tells us that the move to the country is good for Elisabet. They look at the different mushrooms in their bags before the action cuts to the two sitting outside at a table trying to identify the mushrooms with the help of a book.  Patient and nurse develop a relationship in which the nurse would like to be the actress; Bergman has underlined this motif, the convergence of the two protagonists’ personalities, by casting actresses who look
like each other, and with whom he was involved, one before and the other during and after the making of the film.</p>
<p>Alma reveals intimate details of her emotional and sexual life which she has never told anybody before, seeking to create an even closer bond with Elisabet. Elisabet puts her down in a letter to her doctor which she leaves open, perhaps deliberately, for Alma to read, by revealing some of those details and also suggesting that Alma is attracted to her. Alma reacts to this seeming rejection by accusing Elisabet of using her, and of abusing her friendship. The film seems to rupture at this point to emphasize the change in the protagonists’ relationship and when the narrative resumes, the mise-en-scène has changed, with both protagonists dressed in black. A fight ensues, Elisabet slaps Alma, whose nose begins to bleed, and Alma threatens to throw a pan of boiling water at Elisabet. Finally, Alma’s insults cause Elisabet to rush out of the cottage.</p>
<p>The second sequence is a long parallel tracking shot from left to right, which begins with the camera following Alma running along the seashore after Elisabet, who is not immediately in shot.  The sky is dark with clouds and the summer seems to be coming to an end. Alma is calling for Elisabet to forgive her as she catches up with her, now in shot, walking quickly along the rocky beach. Both are dressed in black, with Elisabeth in trousers and Alma in a dress. The camera is moving quickly to keep up with the protagonists. It moves in parallel with bushes between it and the sea. They walk through an unseen gap in a low brick wall running down to the sea, with the camera now moving ahead of the women walking. Alma is trying to explain to Elisabet why she felt so let down by her. Taller bushes and some trees occasionally hide the women from the camera as they walk. Elisabet walks more slowly as the camera slows and comes to a halt, with Elisabet turning around to face or confront Alma.</p>
<p>In both films, Bergman shows the relationships starting optimistically at the beginning of summer and deteriorating as the summer changes into autumn, the mood of the characters reflecting the growing gloom of the season as the happiness of the early summer changes to despair and desperation. He uses tracking shots in both films to trace the shoreline of the islands of the archipelago, the sea and the surrounding rocks and vegetation. The focus is on the protagonists’ relationship with this natural environment and its effect on their feelings towards each other.</p>
<div Class="objavi-no-page-break"><h2 class="ListParagraph">Conclusions</h2>
<p>I would draw the following conclusions from this analysis of tracking shots in these four films of Dreyer and Bergman, perhaps cornerstones of their work, which deal predominantly with female protagonists and their relationships with family, lovers and the world around them:</p>
</div><p>First, Dreyer is more deeply concerned with metaphysical issues in his films (the nature of existence, life, death and resurrection, good and evil) than Bergman, for whom they are intrinsically tied to the human experience. Bergman moves from metaphysics in his earlier films to give greater focus in <em>Sommaren Med Monika</em> and <em>Persona</em> to the psychology of human relationships, with tracking shots being one feature in the bag of cinematic tricks he uses to explore the complexities of those relationships. Dreyer (in Skoller 1973: 127) believes that ‘the soul is shown through the style, which is the artist’s way of giving expression to his perception of the material’. His style is the so-called ‘weightless’ camera involving the use of combination tracking shots as an essential or overriding element.</p>
<p>Second, as I mentioned at the beginning of this essay, both auteurs are perhaps better known in their film style for close-ups of human faces, which they use to complement, and to contrast with, their use of the moving camera. I refer in particular to Dreyer’s use of multi-angled close-ups of Marie Falconetti in <em>La Passion de Jeanne D’Arc</em> (The Passion of Joan of Arc, France, 1928) which were later featured by his great admirer, Jean-Luc Godard, in <em>Vivre Sa Vie</em> (My Life to Live, France, 1962), and similarly Bergman’s use of close-ups in <em>Persona</em> imbued that film with an extraordinary intensity, which stands in marked contrast to the long shots, including tracking shots, in the film.</p>
<p>Third, both directors subvert conventional classical Hollywood continuity methods by using tracking shots to draw the audience into the spaces they have constructed. With Dreyer, interiors predominate, perhaps reflecting the greater torment of the characters in the narrative. Dreyer in particular uses tracking shots to slow the rhythm of the film in a way which serves no specific narrative purpose. Bordwell (1981:142) describes this ‘as a process which we perceive in its own right'. Whilst we certainly perceive camera movement as a process which makes the viewer more aware of the visual medium of film, in Bergman, the use of tracking shots in exterior scenes opens the narrative to the outside natural world but also supports the narrative by enhancing the emotionality of the particular sequence.  </p>
<p>Fourth, Dreyer’s tracking shots, as well as following characters, are used most effectively to film conversations or dialogue between people. The camera moves between them creating continuity whereas classical Hollywood continuity would favour the shot/reverse shot technique which Bergman often uses. Bergman is stylistically more complex than Dreyer, using many more devices than camera movement to serve his narrative. For example, with his background of work in the live theatre, Bergman also favours a richer, less minimalist mise-en-scène than Dreyer. Dreyer seeks, on the other hand, to simplify and ‘abstract’ his mise-en-scène to create an increased awareness in the viewer.</p>
<p> </p>
<div Class="objavi-no-page-break"><h2>Author's Comment</h2>
<p>I am a first year PhD research student in Film Studies in the Centre for Intercultural Studies at UCL. My research explores how the practices of conflict imagery have changed the way that recent wars from Vietnam to Afghanistan have been constructed and represented in film, television and photography.</p>
</div><p>I have been a great fan of Ingmar Bergman films since I first saw <em>The Seventh Seal</em> as a teenager. His engagement with and passion for metaphysical issues, since rather derided and parodied, chimed with my own interest in philosophy which I studied as an undergraduate at King’s College, London in the mid-60s. </p>
<p>After working for many years as a entertainment lawyer at the BBC and later at Channel 4 Television, I decided to resume my academic studies with an MA in Film Studies at UCL. The module on Nordic Cinema taught by Claire Thomson introduced me to the marvellous films of Carl Th. Dreyer as well as more recent auteurs such as Lars Von Trier and Aki Kaurismäki whose films I had previously watched with a relatively uncritical eye.</p>
<p>My essay on 'Tracking Nordic Cinema' was written at the beginning of the second year of my part-time MA. Reconsidering it today, I realize that my ability to construct and put forward academic argument has improved considerably in the intervening eighteen months. More analysis and argument,  fewer descriptive and illustrative passages would have benefited my basis thesis about how camera movement, and tracking shots in particular, serve to give meaning and focus to film.</p>
<p> </p>
<div class="pagebreakbefore">
<h2>References</h2>
</div>
<p><em>Boogie Nights</em> (Paul Thomas Anderson, USA, 1997)</p>
<p><em>Cabiria</em> (Giovanni Pastrone, Italy, 1914)</p>
<p><em>Vredens Dag </em>(Day of Wrath, Carl Th. Dreyer, Denmark<em>, </em>1943)</p>
<p><em>Notorious</em> (Alfred Hitchcock, USA, 1946)</p>
<p><em>Ordet (</em>The Word, Carl Th. Dreyer, Denmark, 1955)</p>
<p><em>La Passion de Jeanne D’Arc</em> (The Passion of Joan of Arc, Carl Th. Dreyer, France, 1928)</p>
<p><em>Persona </em>(Ingmar Bergman, Sweden, 1966)</p>
<p><em>Les 400 Coups</em> (The 400 Blows, Francois Truffaut, France, 1959)</p>
<p><em>Det sjunde inseglet</em> (The Seventh Seal, Ingmar Bergman, Sweden, 1957)</p>
<p><em>Sommaren med Monika </em>(Summer With Monika, Ingmar Bergman, Sweden, 1953)<em> </em></p>
<p><em>Sunrise</em> (F.W. Murnau, USA, 1927)</p>
<p><em>Touch of Evil</em> (Orson Welles, USA, 1958)</p>
<p><em>Vivre Sa Vie</em> (My Life to Live, Jean-Luc Godard, France, 1962)</p>
<p>Bergman, Ingmar (1973). <em>Bergman on Bergman:Interviews by Stig Bjorkman, Torsten Manns and Jonas Sima.</em> Tr. Paul Britten Austin. London: Secker &amp; Warburg.</p>
<p>Blackwell, Marilyn Johns (1997). <em>Gender and Representation in the Films of Ingmar Bergman. </em>Columbia, SC: Camden House.</p>
<p>Bordwell, David (1981). <em>The Films of Carl Theodor Dreyer. </em>Berkeley and Los Angeles, California: University of California Press.</p>
<p>Bordwell, David (1997). <em>On the History of Film Style. </em>London: Harvard University Press.</p>
<p>Bordwell, David, and Thompson, Kristin (2008). <em>Film Art: An Introduction, 8<sup>th</sup> ed</em>. New York: McGraw-Hill.</p>
<p>Bragg, Melvyn (1993). <em>The Seventh Seal</em>. BFI Film Classics. London: BFI.</p>
<p>Carney, Raymond (1989). <em>Speaking the Language of Desire. </em>Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.</p>
<p>Corrigan Timothy &amp; White, Patricia (2009). <em>The Film Experience. </em>Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s.</p>
<p>Dreyer, Carl Th. (1973). ‘A Little On Film Style’, <em>in Dreyer in Double Reflection</em>: <em><span id="btAsinTitle">Translation of Carl Th. Dreyer's Writings About the Film (Om Filmen)</span>, </em>edited with essays and annotations by Donald Skoller. New York: Dutton.</p>
<p>Godard, Jean-Luc (1972).  ‘Summer With Monika’. Originally published in French in <em>Arts 680</em>, 30 July 1958: 6, and published in English in Milne, Tom (ed.) (1972): <em>Godard on Godard</em>, London: Secker &amp; Warburg. <a href="http://www.bergmanorama.com/films/summer_with_monika_godard.htm">http://www.bergmanorama.com<br>/film/summer_with_monika_godard.htm</a>. Accessed 3rd January, 2011.</p>
<p>Henderson, Brian (1970): ‘Towards A Non-Bourgeois Camera Style’. <em>Film Quarterly</em> 24:2, 2-14.</p>
<p>Hubner, Laura (2007).<em> The Films of Ingmar Bergman: Illusions of Light and Darkness. </em>London: Palgrave Macmillan.</p>
<p>Katz, Steven D. (1991). <em>Film Directing Shot by Shot: Visualising from Concept to Screen. </em>California: Michael Wiese Productions.</p>
<p>Kau, Edvin (2010). ‘Cinema and Space’. <em>Carl Th. Dreyer: The Man and His Work</em>. Danish Film Institute. <a href="http://english.carlthdreyer.dk/AboutDreyer/Visual-style/Camera-and-Space.aspx">http://english.carlthdreyer.dk/<br>AboutDreyer/Visual-style/Camera-and-Space.aspx</a>. Accessed 3<sup>rd</sup> January, 2011</p>
<p>Mosley, Philip (1981). <em>Ingmar Bergman: The Cinema as Mistress. </em>London: Marion Boyars.</p>
<p>Nowell-Smith, Geoffrey (1997). <em>The Oxford History of World Cinema. </em>Oxford: Oxford University Press.</p>
<p>Salt, Barry (2009). <em>Film Style and Technology: History and Analysis</em>. London: Starword.</p>
<p>Singer, Irving (2007).  <em>Ingmar Bergman, Cinematic Philosopher: Reflections on His Creativity. </em>Cambridge MA: MIT Press.</p>
<p>Wood, Robin (1969). <em>Ingmar Berman</em>. London: Studio Vista.</p><h1 id="ReFzjuCOVS_4"><strong Class="initial">3.</strong> <span class="title">Bergman's Fårö<span class="punctuation">: </span> <span class="subtitle">Inhabitation Remote from Modern Society?</span><span class="comma">, </span> <span class="author">Elisa Jochum</span></span></h1>
<h5>Few filmmakers have been, along with their work, so closely associated with a certain geographic location. The barren landscape with its wind-torn trees, meadows and sand and shingle beaches, and its harsh, white light are synonymous with a world class filmography. (Bergman Center)</h5>
<p>The relationship described above is that between Swedish director Ingmar Bergman and the island of Fårö. Since his initial visit in 1960, searching for a setting for <em>Såsom i en spegel</em> (Through a Glass Darkly, 1960) (Bergman 1989: 207-8), Fårö has served as the location for five fictional films and two documentaries. Besides <em>Såsom i en spegel</em>, the fictional accounts encompass <em>Persona</em> (1966), <em>Skammen </em>(Shame, 1968), <em>En Passion</em> (The Passion of Anna, 1969) and <em>Scener ur ett äktenskap</em> (Scenes From a Marriage<span id="InsertNoteID_1_marker1" class="InsertNoteMarker"><sup><a href="#bergmans-faro-inhabitation-remote-from-modern-society-e-jochum_InsertNoteID_1">1</a></sup></span>, 1973). <em>Fårö-Dokument</em> (1969) and its sequel <em>Fårö-Dokument 79 </em>(1979) are the documentaries.<span id="InsertNoteID_2_marker2" class="InsertNoteMarker"><sup><a href="#bergmans-faro-inhabitation-remote-from-modern-society-e-jochum_InsertNoteID_2">2</a></sup></span> Also on
Fårö, Liv Ullmann filmed part of the feature film <em>Trolösa</em> (Faithless, 2003) whose script Bergman wrote (Pizzello 2001: 28). As to his private life, Bergman constructed a house on the island in 1966 and 1967 and it remained his home till he died in 2007 (Bergman 1989: 208; Bergman Center). This extraordinary connection has received much attention in the scholarly discourse about the director. Yet, there is no analysis that compactly and exclusively inspects the island, the Fårö films and Bergman’s biographical link. I intend to throw some light on this field – this, however, from a specific point of view and the concession given that <em>Fårö-Dokument 79</em> is currently unavailable. I shall approach the topic from the perspective that Bergman, the real people captured in his documentary, the fictional characters and even the actors playing them have something in common: the perspective of inhabitation and the relationship between human and space. Therefore, the argument of this essay is that
Bergman’s Fårö represents a territory that actual persons and imaginary film characters strive to interact with and live in. A central aspect of these relationships is the ambivalent role of modernity and (Swedish) society. In order to demonstrate this phenomenon, to begin with, I shall introduce facts about the island and define the terms ‘territory’ and ‘modernity’. On this basis, I shall illustrate, first, that the factual Fårö inhabitants relish a harmonious attachment with the natural, unmodernised Fårö environment while, at the same time, certain modernisations by the Swedish welfare state have been necessary. Second, the actors in the fictional accounts interacted with the real island while performing their part on location or even constantly inhabited Fårö during the shooting periods. As a consequence, they themselves experienced the often barely modern conditions surrounding their characters. Since these circumstances had stressful effects while also increasing authenticity of experience, the issue
of (absent) modernity again causes ambivalence. Third, many of the fictional characters hope to find refuge on the remote territories – partly from social and modern constraints – but fail to do so. As six fiction films are involved, this is not an universal statement equally valid for each of them. However, a tendency is traceable. While the films, in their problematization of modern society, tend to present a negative outlook, once more a contradiction appears when they are opposed, as hinted at by Birgitta Steene (2005: 40), to Bergman's own impressions of the island. Contrary to the characters in the films, Fårö provided the director with a satisfying and life-long home where he could withdraw from some aspects of modernity and society, whilst successfully incorporating others.</p>
<p>Erik Hedling’s essay on post-utopian landscapes (2008) must be mentioned as a crucial inspiration for this essay. Hedling introduces the idea that Bergman, commencing with his 1960s fiction films, adopts a critical viewpoint towards Sweden’s modern welfare society. The director does so, <em>inter alia</em>, by portraying landscapes that contradict the (in Hedling's opinion) ‘chauvinist’ Swedish ideal of their modern nation’s idyllic natural environment (2008: 180-5). Hedling provides the expression of the ‘profoundly anti-modern experience of the Fårö landscape’ (2008: 186). The prefix ‘anti’ can either mean ‘the opposite of’ modernity, i.e. unmodern, or ‘against’ it (Wehmeier 2005: 56). Hedling implies both. His conclusions substantiate aspects of this essay. I will, however, put more emphasis on the ambivalent nature – instead of his purely negative outlook – of the relationships between people, space and modern society. I acknowledge in consensus with Hedling that Bergman has hitherto mostly been
examined as a phenomenon detached from a wider social framework (Hedling 2008: 180-91). All the more reason to, as Hedling puts it, explore ‘the dark corners of the history of Bergman country’ (2008: 191).</p>
<div Class="objavi-no-page-break"><h2>Facts and Terminology</h2>
<p>The small Swedish island of Fårö – with a length of 18 miles and a width that does not exceed 9 miles – is situated in the Baltic Sea and can be reached by ferry from the neighbouring and larger island of Gotland, meaning there is no non-stop link from the Swedish mainland. The island has the status of a nature reserve (Cowie 1992: 250; Steene 2005: 418; Ingmar Bergman Foundation). The official Bergman Center established on Fårö is one of many voices to declare the island to be ‘one of Sweden’s most distinctive landscapes.’ Most notable is the occurrence of enormous <em>raukar</em>, which are limestone formations. Further, the island is often connoted with barrenness, crooked vegetation – trees and shrubs – shingle-covered shores, foggy weather and low, ‘inhospitable’ (Cowie 1992: 248) winter temperatures.<span id="InsertNoteID_3_marker3" class="InsertNoteMarker"><sup><a href="#bergmans-faro-inhabitation-remote-from-modern-society-e-jochum_InsertNoteID_3">3</a></sup></span> Susanne Kippenberger (2011)
concludes: ‘Schroff und kalt und mitten im Nichts’ (Craggy and cold and in the middle of nowhere). In the fiction films, the territory is never explicitly named Fårö, but the remote or even insular nature of the setting is, for the most part, orally stressed and the distinctive appearance of Fårö is always audio-visually perceivable (see, e.g., the description by Cowie 1992: 330).</p>
</div><p>Having denoted Fårö as a 'territory', this term needs definition. According to Martin Lefebvre, ‘territory is space seen from the “inside”, a subjective and lived space’ (2006: 53). As a premise, this life within an environment comprises ownership of land. It further includes the inhabitation, the sense of ‘identity’, i.e. of ‘belonging’ to a location<span id="InsertNoteID_4_marker4" class="InsertNoteMarker"><sup><a href="#bergmans-faro-inhabitation-remote-from-modern-society-e-jochum_InsertNoteID_4">4</a></sup></span> as well as human beings’ labour on a ground, such as agriculture (Lefebvre 2006: 52-3). Lefebvre sees these characteristics concentrated in geographer Claude Raffestin's understanding as ‘the “sum” [in the sense of totality] of the relations maintained by a subject [or a collectivity] with <em>their</em> environment’ (Raffestin 1980: 145, n. 27, cited and translated in Lefebvre 2006: 53, Lefebvre's emphasis).<span id="InsertNoteID_5_marker5" class="InsertNoteMarker"><sup><a href="#
bergmans-faro-inhabitation-remote-from-modern-society-e-jochum_InsertNoteID_5">5</a></sup></span></p>
<p>We can reconcile the term 'landscape' in the Scandinavian languages with Lefebvre's concept: the term ‘landscape’ traditionally describes a territorial province, a ‘landskap’ disposing of its own administration. Nowadays, a large part of the population still refers to these historical territories instead of the contemporary broader regional divisions when asked for their spatial attachment. Even when used in a second sense, that of ‘scenery’, ‘landscape’ is thought of as the observable product of the interrelations between man and his surroundings (Olwig and Jones 2008: xiv-ix; Germundsson 2008: 161-2; Sporrong 2008: 146). In this sense, I go beyond Lefebvre's strictly binary distinction between ownership/territory and non-ownership/non-territorial space. Even if people do not materially own the land, they can attempt to inhabit or interact with it. Complementarily, I adopt Harri Kilpi’s definition of nature (2007) which ‘excludes everything man-made that is inorganic (e.g. buildings, cars, roads)’.</p>
<p>The second key term is 'modernity'. Don Hubert and Kenneth Thompson define it as ‘a cluster of trends and institutions emerging from the Middle Ages’ with the post-World War II era as its apex (1996: 231). According to John Tomlinson (2003), the task of these institutions is to formally and comprehensively organise processes that were earlier dealt with locally. Combining Tomlinson’s examples with traits of modern societies given by Stuart Hall (1996), modern institutions encompass capitalism and the development of industrialised economies. Further, they comprise ‘policing of social territory’ in form of urbanisation and the secularly governed nation-state. Modernity implies the decay of the historical structures of society. Materialism and rational thinking replace religion’s dominance. Tomlinson argues further that the relevance of local places has declined as mass media and communication devices such as telephones help to bridge spatial distances (Hall 1996: 3-8; Tomlinson 2003: 272-3).</p>
<p>Most of the stated features of modernity apply to Twentieth-Century Sweden. A fast-paced industrialisation process was accompanied by increasing urban agglomerations while rural regions faced huge losses of inhabitants. This trend intensified after 1945. Throughout the 1950s and 1960s, the nation-state was governed by Social Democrats and elaborated one of the globe’s leading welfare states. Additionally, urbanisation in Sweden has made rural areas popular for tourism as city residents are attracted by the outdoor opportunities in natural surroundings (Jones and Hansen 2008: 558-9; Sporrong 2008: 152-4; Tortella 2005: 21-7/42).</p>
<div Class="objavi-no-page-break"><h2>Real Inhabitants of Real Fårö</h2>
<p>In the following section, Bergman’s <em>Fårö-Dokument</em> constitutes the film-textual basis. The documentary about life on the island was shot on location in spring 1969 (Steene 2005: 418).<span id="InsertNoteID_6_marker6" class="InsertNoteMarker"><sup><a href="#bergmans-faro-inhabitation-remote-from-modern-society-e-jochum_InsertNoteID_6">6</a></sup></span> I will demonstrate that, on the one hand, Fårö is not a modern area and the inhabitants live in harmony with their unmodern environment. On the other hand, the island is modern, but representing the other side of the coin of what is usually associated with modernity. In this context, Bergman and the islanders see themselves in need of more beneficial aspects of modernisation (see similarly Cowie 1992: 267).</p>
</div><p>The categorisation as unmodern applies to conditions that have not changed, which means conditions that have not been modernised. To begin with, it is depicted in the film that nature-related – as opposed to industrial – labour still plays an important role, for example small-scale farming and fishing. Second, these professions are at least in part not conducted with modern – meaning up-to-date – equipment. For instance, Bergman interviews farmer Ingrid against the backdrop of her farmstead which is characterised by old wooden barns as well as manually and animal-operated tools. Remoteness of human settlements is seen as emblematic in the history of the Nordic countries due to natural barriers such as fjords (Jones and Hansen 2008: 545). Hence, the visible spatial distance between houses on the island can be interpreted as a traditional feature. It parallels the ‘insularity’ of Fårö with respect to Gotland and the mainland, demonstrated on the maps at the beginning of the film.</p>
<p>Despite, or thanks to, these unmodern aspects, the all-year-round inhabitants – the actual owners of territorial stretches – live in harmony with ‘their’ island and manifest regional identity. According to Peter Cowie, ‘[t]he island yields a certain type of human being; and the inhabitants of Fårö dwell in a remarkable, inexplicable symbiosis with their environment. It is hard to imagine the place without the people’ (1992: 329). The man-nature symbiosis is even conveyed when, amidst nature, a sheep is slaughtered by the farmer’s bare hands, which allows him to have an immediate relation to his nutrition, a connection usually not sustained by city-dwellers anymore. Additionally, instead of feeling isolated in the anti-urban area, most  of the residents interviewed enjoy loneliness, life within a small community and a sense of freedom, mirrored by the wide open spaces Bergman repeatedly captures in his frames. One islander points out: ’But if I weren’t at sea or near it, then I just don’t know […]. In a
city or large community, you’re done. […]. But freedom, that’s what man is made for.’ This declaration demonstrates a rejection of emblematic modernity, i.e. city life. Similarly, interviewees qualify tourism as a menace to the intact environment.</p>
<p>However, not all features of the island are entirely ‘unmodern’. Rather, they do represent facets of modern times that are not likely to be connected to modernity. Peter S. Soppelsa clarifies:</p>
<h5>While Europe underwent fundamental social, spatial and technological changes (urbanization, industrialization and globalization), so the familiar story goes, European ways of life became more civilized, rationalized, standard, advanced, efficient, democratic, humane, or even universal. (Soppelsa 2009: 1)</h5>
<p>Hedling also stresses this kind of ambivalent praise of modern processes in Sweden (2008: 182). Thus, when speaking of urbanisation as characteristic of modern times, low population density or depopulation is often assumed to be the contrary, whereas it constitutes just the other side of the same coin. Fårö, for instance, has always been sparsely inhabited, as Bergman’s voice-over statements suggest. It is however, he continues, menaced by further depopulation. Among Fårö’s youth, the intention to move away prevails. </p>
<p>Moreover, Bergman presents the island as threatened by certain actions of the modern welfare state as well as by its inaction in other domains. The actions mainly entail centralisation processes. An interviewed official explains that the formerly individual municipality of Fårö has merged with others. Institutions like schools and post offices face impending closure. Cowie thus reads Bergman’s approach as an urgent 'political' appeal to make the islanders ‘escape the leaden hand of central government’ (1992: 266). The term ‘political’ puts emphasis on the fact that Fårö is treated as a territory in the original Scandinavian sense. On the other hand, the inactivity of the modern state, for instance the disregard for infrastructural maintenance, is criticised (Bergman Center). The interviewees unanimously advocate that a bridge – in other words, a technical modernisation – should be built which would simplify their connection to the ‘outside world’. Bergman’s voice-over advocates that, in ‘this era of
industrialised prosperity’, the modern phenomenon of ‘democracy’ be applied to Fårö as much as it is to urban areas.</p>
<p>In conclusion, the island Bergman depicts is in Steene’s words an ‘outpost in a modern welfare state’ (2005: 40) - geographically as well as with respect to (beneficial) aspects of modernity. Cowie describes the situation as a ‘tension between past and future’ (1992: 267). His words and his additional explanations can be paraphrased as ambivalence between cherished ‘anti-modernity’ and demand for modernisation.</p>
<div Class="objavi-no-page-break"><h2>‘Performative Inhabitation’</h2>
<p>When shooting his fictional Fårö films, Bergman’s actors interacted with the island as a territory. These inhabitations again entail an ambivalent relationship to modernity. While the fictional stories will be touched upon in the following section, it shall be stressed here, that they set the characters – partly or entirely – in remote, anti-urban territory.</p>
</div><p>The basis is provided by the concept of ‘performative inhabitation’ or ‘performative attachment’, discussed by Mark B. Sandberg in the context of Carl Theodor Dreyer’s creative approach to sets (2006: 24). Sandberg suggests that Dreyer sought to provide credible sets in which the actors were potentially able to feel ‘at home’. Dreyer aimed at integrating them personally and physically into the stories’ spaces, a process described by Sandberg as <em>‘mise-en-milieu’</em> (2006: 23-7). Dreyer used this method in constructed and pre-existing spaces, i.e. ‘found locations’. Sandberg especially juxtaposes found locations that dispose of discernible traces of former inhabitation with three-walled spaces in the studio that appear artificial (2006: 26-9). Without arguing that Bergman was explicitly engaging in performance-space explorations comparable to Dreyer’s, elements of Sandberg’s concept are applicable to Bergman’s and Ullmann’s filmmaking process on Fårö.</p>
<p>Sandberg’s notion is reconcilable with the term ‘territory’. The actors temporarily ‘lived’ or, at least, ‘performed’ living on location, to experience the environment from the 'inside'. Without reference to Sandberg or Lefebvre, Wheeler Winston Dixon tackles the concept of performative and personal inhabitation when discussing <em>Persona</em>: ‘In short, only by embracing the domestic sphere of his own habitation with Liv Ullmann was Bergman able to capture the spiritual essence of the conflict between the two women in <em>Persona' </em>(2000: 53).<span id="InsertNoteID_7_marker7" class="InsertNoteMarker"><sup><a href="#bergmans-faro-inhabitation-remote-from-modern-society-e-jochum_InsertNoteID_7">7</a></sup></span> Yet, he is mistaken in his claim <em>Persona </em>came into existence in Bergman’s and Ullmann’s shared home. The domicile was erected on a nearby spot only after the production. Likewise, the relationship between director and actor apparently started during, not before, shooting (Bergman
1989: 208; <em>Bergman Island </em>2004). Thus, Dixon takes the idea too far, too early. Still, his approach proves useful and can be expanded to the totality of the Fårö films: <em>Såsom i en spegel</em>, <em>Persona</em> and <em>Skammen</em> were partly made on Fårö. Each time, a complete house was constructed. The shipwreck, rocky coast and garden in <em>Såsom i en spegel</em> constituted ‘found locations’ exactly matching Bergman’s ideas (Bergman 1989: 207-8; <em>Bergman Island</em> 2004; Cowie 1992: 250; Siemens 2011: 2; Steene 2005: 249-83). The acted inhabitation of real locations might have allowed the actors to literally put themselves in the environmental position of their characters. This notion is supported by Dixon. He recognises in the following quotation from Bergman that the attachment to Fårö had inspiring potential for the production of <em>Persona</em>: ‘The filming [in Stockholm] dragged on, and the results were miserable. But when we went out to Fårö things went fine' (Björkman, Manns
and Sima 1973: 202-3, cited in Dixon 2000: 53). Besides, <em>En Passion</em> was completely shot on Fårö and Max von Sydow and Ullmann played their lead roles within the stage house that had been built for <em>Skammen</em> – the film they also had acted the major parts in (Cowie 1992: 250; Steene 2005: 290). This ‘re-inhabitation’ potentially reinforced intimacy. Furthermore, the exterior shots in <em>Trolösa</em> stem from the actual island. For the passages inside the protagonist’s house, Bergman’s own study was rebuilt in a television studio (Pizzello 2001: 26). It can be assumed that director Ullmann felt a bond with the replica of her former home. Also, as the crew was often invited to Bergman’s domicile (Cowie 1992: 260-1), lead actor Erland Josephson, already starring in previous Fårö films, might have been personally connected to Bergman’s house. <em>Scener ur ett äktenskap</em>, partly filmed on Fårö, constitutes a borderline case as a barn was turned into a film studio. It served as the setting for
many interior scenes (Ingmar Bergman Foundation; Siemens 2011: 2; Steene 2005: 304). As an overall result, the productions on Fårö bear the potential of ‘performative inhabitation’ of various degrees of intensity.</p>
<p>In addition to general opportunities for ‘performative attachment’, the Fårö settings can be explicitly seen in the light of modernity. Instead of performing in a studio, that is to say in industrialised working conditions<span id="InsertNoteID_8_marker8" class="InsertNoteMarker"><sup><a href="#bergmans-faro-inhabitation-remote-from-modern-society-e-jochum_InsertNoteID_8">8</a></sup></span>, the actors were able to live out the ‘anti-modern experience of the Fårö landscape’ (Hedling 2008: 186). Indoor scenes placed them in the same natural silence and window views. Outdoor scenes put them in the same conditions of climate, vegetation and spatial isolation as the characters they embodied. This might have enhanced their familiarity with the characters’ space. However, Britt Hamdi’s account of the shooting of <em>Skammen</em> also demonstrates the extent to which missing trappings of modernity hampered shooting, as harsh weather and temperature caused considerable strain (2007: 53-4).</p>
<p>It must also be taken into account that the inhabitation experience did not stop when the camera was switched off, since the cast and crew often spent the entire shooting period on Fårö. Thus the ‘performative inhabitation’ was extended to a real, similarly unmodern, inhabitation. Hamdi describes the living conditions during shooting <em>Skammen</em>: ‘For the crew of forty, this means three months of hard work and almost uninterrupted isolation on Fårö' (2007: 53). For the crew’s stay while producing <em>En Passion</em>, Cowie illustrates the restricted possibilities on the remote territory: ‘in their free time they could play ping-pong, bathe in the icy sea, drink wine and eat cheese’ (1992: 261). In particular, von Sydow may have achieved a profound understanding of how isolated and remote they – and their characters – were. While <em>En Passion</em> was being shot, he constantly had to make the wearisome ferry journey back and forth in order to meet his simultaneous obligations at the theatre in
Stockholm.</p>
<p>In conclusion, the performative and real inhabitation of Fårö by actors involves a conflicting relationship to modern facilities. Shooting in this unmodern location posed climatic, logistical and organisational obstacles. At the same time, exactly because of this lack of modernity, the actors potentially gained greater access to their characters’ ‘island experience’.</p>
<div Class="objavi-no-page-break"><h2>Inhabitation by Fictional Characters</h2>
<p>According to Steene, ‘Fårö quickly became both a real and a symbolic place to Ingmar Bergman’ (2005: 40). ‘Symbolic’ is the attribute she assigns to his fictional films summarised as ‘island films’ (2005: 40).<span id="InsertNoteID_9_marker9" class="InsertNoteMarker"><sup><a href="#bergmans-faro-inhabitation-remote-from-modern-society-e-jochum_InsertNoteID_9">9</a></sup></span> On the textual bases of the fictional Fårö films, I shall illustrate the relationships between the island and the characters it accommodates – including the role of modernity and society. In each paragraph, I will examine the more demonstrative examples of <em>Persona</em>, <em>Skammen</em> and <em>En Passion</em>, complemented by glances at <em>Såsom i en spegel</em>, <em>Scener ur ett äktenskap</em> and <em>Trolösa</em> yielding restricted evidence.</p>
</div><p>Applying the term 'territory', the characters attempt to make themselves at home or at ease in the settings provided by Fårö. In <em>Persona</em>, the actress Elisabeth Vogler, having renounced speaking, is sent with Nurse Alma to the doctor’s house by the sea as temporary visitors for a therapeutic inhabitation: 'La nature comme [...] thérapie' (Nature as therapy) (Daudelin 2009: 20). In <em>Skammen</em>, the married couple Eva and Jan Rosenberg have settled in a farm on an island engaging in agriculture (Steene 2005: 281). Andreas Winkelmann in <em>En Passion</em> physically works at his new home on a Baltic island, to keep it inhabitable. In <em>Såsom i en spegel</em>, Karin, her brother and her husband live in a house by the sea where her much-travelled father returns for holidays. In <em>Scener ur ett äktenskap</em>, glimpses of Fårö are only granted in a handful of shots constituting the environment of a holiday home that is visited twice by the owners, the couple Marianne and Johan. In
<em>Trolösa</em>, an aged writer is the solitary inhabitant of a house in a deserted coastal environment, leaving only for occasional walks in the landscape.</p>
<p>At the outset, the fictional territory mostly serves the purpose of a refuge – partly from modern and social threats. In <em>Persona</em>, Elisabeth is at the seaside to recover. One possible diagnosis why she needs recovery is the impact of modernity: Hedling refers to Leif Zern who contrasts the prevailing idea of the modern – materialistic, secular, confident, and healthy – Swedish citizen with the emotionally unstable Bergman characters who cannot come to terms with these aspects of modernity (Zern 1993: 25, cited in Hedling 2008: 183). The inner turmoil of Elisabeth – and Alma who is frequently interpreted as schizophrenic (e.g. Mosley 2010: 126) – is traced back by Hedling to ‘a rationalist society gone berserk, or on the verge of a breakdown’ (2008: 187). At the beginning of <em>Persona</em>, this modern world is represented by technology and sterile hospitals. The television horrifies Elisabeth with a display of modern warfare in Vietnam before their departure for the summer house.</p>
<p>The Rosenbergs in <em>Skammen</em> have escaped from war on the mainland (Steene 2005: 281). Although, as Leonard Quart points out, this war is not linked to concrete history (2004: 34), in my opinion, the bombs, parachutists etc. are an industrial form of warfare that according to Anthony McGrew has introduced unseen devastation (1996: 252). Cowie, initially stating Bergman refrains from addressing questions of society, concludes: ‘Perhaps, despite his detractors, he was more shaken than many of his fellow countrymen by the impact of the Vietnam conflict’ (1992: 255).</p>
<p>As far as <em>En Passion</em> is concerned, the protagonist Andreas has retreated from the world, a prison sentence and a broken marriage (Cowie 1992: 261; Quart 2004: 34). This might more generally be an escape from a failed attempt to live within a social context (whose framework, however, is modern Sweden). More clearly, for a very short moment, when modern television which links Andreas to the world outside displays cruel images of the Vietnam War, the living room on the silent island seems like a safe place beyond modernity.</p>
<p>Looking at schizophrenic Karin in <em>Såsom i en spegel</em>, there is no hint that Fårö is a chosen refuge from modernity. Yet, with reference to Zern’s and Hedling’s description of the modern Swede, she is not integrated in modern life and thinking, struggling with religious questions.</p>
<p>In <em>Scener ur ett äktenskap</em>, the married city-dwellers initially consider their lives devoid of complications, by which they in a very modern way mean the non-existence of 'material concerns' as well as professional contentment and good health. Marianne only complains about their entirely predefined everyday life. Their first sojourn to their holiday home can therefore (only) be qualified as a retreat from modern life to the same extent as many Swedish city inhabitants flock to the naturally preserved countryside for a counterbalance to urban life.<span id="InsertNoteID_10_marker10" class="InsertNoteMarker"><sup><a href="#bergmans-faro-inhabitation-remote-from-modern-society-e-jochum_InsertNoteID_10">10</a></sup></span> When they visit their summer place for the second time, the then divorced couple hides, not from modernity but generally from anyone who could betray their ongoing affair.<span id="InsertNoteID_11_marker11" class="InsertNoteMarker"><sup><a href="#bergmans-faro-inhabitation-remote-
from-modern-society-e-jochum_InsertNoteID_11">11</a></sup></span></p>
<p>Moreover, the withdrawn writer of <em>Trolösa</em> is plagued by distressing fantasies set in urban Sweden. One can only speculate whether he has specifically chosen the isolated natural territory as a refuge. But his thoughts are, according to Hedling, connected to a modernity exemplified by the unsympathetic social worker symbolising ‘the absence of moral values’ (2008: 189).<span id="InsertNoteID_12_marker12" class="InsertNoteMarker"><sup><a href="#bergmans-faro-inhabitation-remote-from-modern-society-e-jochum_InsertNoteID_12">12</a></sup></span></p>
<p>Yet, the different efforts to find an inhabitable refuge described above predominantly fail. As for <em>Persona</em>, Dixon writes of ‘domesticity gone awry' (2000: 53). In accordance with James Norton’s claim that ‘[i]slands […] encourage introspection' (2007: 24), Dixon sees emotional turmoil kept under the surface while Elisabeth and Alma are situated ‘in the world’ (2000: 56). He claims: ‘Only in the zone of domestic intimacy will these long-suppressed emotions erupt with unexpected ferocity precisely because of the safety offered by the idyllic location’ (Dixon 2000: 56). The emptiness of Fårö is opposed to the women’s habitual ‘social existence’, reinforced by the absence of radio, television etc. (Dixon 2000: 56) – in other words, of modern technology. As a result, the setting becomes a catalyst of crisis.</p>
<p>When the isolated island of <em>Skammen</em> is invaded, modern destruction catches up with the Rosenbergs. Cowie mentions that the uncontrollable ringing of the phone – again a modern device – anticipates these events (1992: 251-2). Their house is physically destroyed. The island is not offering security but is ‘as unfriendly and uncaring as a lunar landscape’ (Cowie 1992: 255). Moreover, Jan, ‘the artist as fugitive’ (Cowie 1992: 242) does not use his violin. With reference to Cowie, this might indicate he does not feel sheltered enough to develop his creativity (1992: 242-52).</p>
<p>Similarly, in <em>En Passion</em>, Andreas’ peaceful domesticity does not last either. Quart points out that, instead of a war, more subliminal dangers now threaten the territory (2004: 34), and, I would add, its hospitality. The menace from the outer (modern) world does not surmount the television screen, but violent attacks are due to an animal torturer running amok on the island (Cowie 1992: 261-3). This implies a distorted man-nature relationship and troubles the local community. The territorially rooted Johan, conducting nature-related labour throughout the film and stating to have no other place to go, is accused and tormented into suicide.</p>
<p>As Robert Daudelin puts it, the landscape presented in <em>Såsom i en spegel</em> poses a threat (2009: 20). In fact, Karin incorporates her surroundings – shipwreck and wallpaper – into her madness expressed by incestuous approaches towards her brother and hallucinations about God. Ironically, mentally trapped in her illness (Quart 2004: 30) and spatially trapped on the remote territory bordered by the sea, it is a modern means of transport, a helicopter, that needs to help her escape this prison.</p>
<p>Concerning <em>Scener ur ett äktenskap</em>, Johan announces his elopement with another woman in the summer house. The processes triggered by his confession are modern phenomena such as Marianne’s female self-discovery<span id="InsertNoteID_13_marker13" class="InsertNoteMarker"><sup><a href="#bergmans-faro-inhabitation-remote-from-modern-society-e-jochum_InsertNoteID_13">13</a></sup></span> and their eventual divorce. Hence, their summer territory is no retreat from modern social problems; rather, these problems are exposed and debated there. When Marianne and Johan return decades later, too much suffering is connected to the summer place rendering it uninhabitable for them. Yet, they do find interpersonal and spatial harmony in a friend’s unmodern cottage with a paraffin lamp and open fire. Jesse Kalin writes: ‘They go away for a weekend to a friend’s cabin, where for the first time they honestly talk’ (2003: 154).</p>
<p>Such a slightly positive note also accompanies the ending of <em>Trolösa</em>. When succumbing to his thoughts, the writer is seen several times amidst the grey and gloomy Fårö landscape that seems incapable of pacifying inner turmoil. However, the writer comes to terms with his thoughts as he closes this chapter with an affectionate farewell from his imaginary character Marianne. In fact, <em>Trolösa</em> leads over to Bergman’s own inhabitation. The film incorporates many (auto)biographical threads; the anonymous writer even bears the name ‘Bergman’ in the film script (Pizzello 2001: 24).</p>
<p>Before looking into Bergman’s biography, it should be mentioned that, instead of representing a refuge <em>from</em> modern society, Hedling interprets Fårö as ‘the perfect spatial metaphor for the condition of man <em>in</em> the modern Swedish welfare state’ (2008: 186, my emphasis). He sees desolate territory as an emblem of a malfunctioning Swedish society. In other words, unmodern Fårö with its distorted plant life, drabness and physical remoteness is, in the end, not used to show an inhabitable alternative apart from modernity. It becomes the inhospitable materialisation of many characters’ inner or social disorder, emptiness or isolation which is – as has been shown above – partly connected to modernity (Bergman Foundation; Hedling 2008: 183-7).</p>
<p>In conclusion, the settings based on ‘unmodern’ Fårö largely fall short of offering a rescue from the struggles and complexities that are often, though not always, linked to modern society. The notion of modernity here is negative. An ambivalence is not inherent in the films themselves but can be established when comparing the characters to Bergman’s life, as Steene notices: ‘Fårö, while becoming Bergman’s personal retreat and his "<em>smultronställe</em>" in life, also inspires, through its isolation, both the stark form and stern vision of Bergman’s film work in the Sixties’ (2005: 40). <em>Scener ur ett äktenskap</em> and <em>Trolösa</em>, the most recent Fårö films, however, assume a more positive outlook. This brings us to the next section of my essay.</p>
<div Class="objavi-no-page-break"><h2>Bergman’s Inhabitation of Fårö</h2>
<p>The ambivalence between Bergman’s own and his characters’ experiences can be illustrated by several aspects of Bergman’s Fårö life. First, the term 'territory' is quite literally applicable here. Bergman owned the house he had had erected in the Sixties. He inhabited it as intensely as his profession permitted him to – except for his six-year stay abroad discussed below. Bergman further extended his buildings and plot of land. He sold his other residences in 2003 and was eventually buried in the soil of Fårö (Ingmar Bergman Foundation; Siemens 2011: 2-3; Steene 2005: 418). He betrayed a profound attachment to the island when he stated ‘I had found my landscape, my real home’ (Bergman 1989: 208). Furthermore, while local communities are rare and unhealthy in the feature films, Bergman’s symbiosis included his harmonious relationship with the remaining islanders. They saw Ullmann during her years on Fårö as ‘astumor’, i.e. ‘neighbour’s wife’ in their dialect (Hamdi 2007: 56). Bergman spoke of them as his ‘
seven hundred neighbours’ (Cowie 1992: 266). He developed a regional identity and felt ‘genuinely anchored’ (Hamdi 2007: 56) in this territory.</p>
</div><p>Furthermore, Fårö also proved to be a genuine ‘refuge’ from the implications of modern life. Daudelin uses the term to express that Bergman, on Fårö, successfully withdrew from the busy capital and hearsay about him (2009: 20). In this sense, Fårö was, first, an escape from a city emblematic of urbanisation as Bergman never felt comfortable in urban areas. Second, it was an escape from the pressure put on him when accused of tax evasion – the tax system being one pillar of the modern welfare state (Cowie 1992: 248; Steene 2005: 45; Tortella 2005: 27). At the time, Berman became aware ‘that anyone in this country could be assailed and degraded by a special kind of bureaucracy that grows like a galloping cancer’ (1989: 101). Within Sweden, he felt bereaved of his sense of ‘security’ (Bergman 1989: 100). Although he left the country in 1976, Fårö did not cease to offer him shelter; when he got ‘homesick’, as he put it, it was Fårö he travelled to. He fully returned in 1982 (Cowie 1992: 329; Bergman and
Donner 1998: 184; Steene 2005: 418). Further, the phenomenon of tourists has been shown to be connected to modern developments. On the distant and hardly accessible Fårö, Bergman managed, even though not completely, to avoid their visits (Cowie 1992: 247; Hamdi 2007: 56).</p>
<p>Moreover, whereas the landscape cannot offer relief or, instead, even stimulates the inner suffering the characters experience, Bergman emphatically stressed how his contact – more precisely, his walks in the open, barren Fårö environment – helped him ease his inner turmoil: ‘The demons don’t like fresh air. What they like best is if you stay in bed with cold feet’ (Bergman Island 2004). (Maybe a similar feeling is achieved by the writer in <em>Trolösa</em>.) Thereby, as far as Bergman himself is concerned, the isolation bound to this refuge does not become a negative metaphor for an inner state. Instead, in conversation with Hamdi, he expressed his appreciation of it (Hamdi 2007: 60).</p>
<p>Although he appreciated the lack of modernity, Bergman positively integrated emblems of modernity to the island world. Indeed, as Hedling illustrates, the non-existence of completely modern equipment was deeply cherished by Bergman. Hedling points to a statement from the director’s autobiography where the latter romanticised the dependence on ‘fires, paraffin stoves and battery radio’ (Bergman 1989: 95; Hedling 2008: 186-7). But Bergman was able to reconcile this inclination to non-modernised nature with the benefits of devices such as television. Whereas, in <em>Persona</em> and <em>En Passion</em>, it is negatively connoted as bringing the menacing world closer, Bergman was, in his own words, ‘incredibly excited at the thought that here, on this little island, in the middle of this great ocean, we had the whole world within our reach’ (Hamdi 2007: 58). The phone, hostile in <em>Skammen</em>, was, according to Marie Nyreröd (2009), the aged Bergman’s ‘contact with the world’.</p>
<p>Lastly, one might argue Bergman felt such homeliness on Fårö that his creativity could flourish, in contrast to Jan in <em>Skammen</em>. The fact that Bergman was inspired to direct seven films on the island, and to productively keep amending his oeuvre during his residency, allows to call it ‘his artistic base’ (Bergman Center). This creative or productive inhabitation has not come to a halt with Bergman’s death. The Bergman estate on Fårö invites artists to stay and create on the island, i.e. to inhabit and be imbued by ‘the same environment that inspired Ingmar Bergman in his own artistic pursuits through forty years’ (The Bergman Estate on Fårö). Kippenberger (2007) concludes: ‘Fårö ist insofern eine mehr als ungewöhnliche Bergman-Geschichte: Sie hat ein Happy End’ (Fårö is thus a more than unusual Bergman story: it has a happy ending).</p>
<p>Fårö functioned as a home and retreat from modern society while Bergman simultaneously managed to integrate advantageous modern elements. His success in this regard contrasts with most of his Fårö characters. As the title of Nyreröd’s documentary puts it, Fårö is ‘Bergman Island’.</p>
<div Class="objavi-no-page-break"><h2>Conclusion</h2>
<p>To sum up, in this essay, I intended to examine Bergman’s Fårö from the point of view of inhabitation and man-nature interactions. During Bergman’s life and work, the Fårö islanders, Bergman’s actors, the characters they played and Bergman himself attempted to live on the Fårö territory. With its unmodern features, as well as the particular relationships between people and (natural) space, the island is imbued with a certain ambivalence towards modernity. The real inhabitants in <em>Fårö-Dokument</em> live in harmony with their traditional surroundings, but request certain modernisations by the state. Bergman’s actors, performatively or really inhabiting the island for some time, were hampered by a lack of modern transport and facilities. However, experiencing these same conditions their characters have to cope with, the performances might have felt more authentic. Though it is not equally applicable to all fiction films made on the island, one can interpret some of the characters as fleeing to the island
for refuge from modernity and society. However, with the exception of the later films, <em>Scener ur ett äktenskap</em> and <em>Trolösa</em>, the characters’ efforts fail. Thus, their Fårö experience conflicts with that of Bergman as a person: to him, the island was home and refuge. It protected him from unpleasant facets of modernity, but he successfully integrated others. I leave the final words to the director himself who summarises: ‘This is your landscape, Bergman’ (1989: 208).</p>
</div><p> </p>
<div Class="objavi-no-page-break"><h2>Author's Comment</h2>
<p>I read Communication Research/Media Studies and Film Studies at the Johannes Gutenberg-Universität Mainz, Germany (2008-2011) and am currently completing the MA Film Studies at UCL (2011-2012), where I took Nordic Cinema in my first semester. Prior to studying, I undertook placements in the media and film industries of Sydney and Paris, going on to work as an online film critic during my undergraduate degree. The Nordic Cinema course was a chance to enjoy the primary promise of cinema – the promise to take you places. The films and discussions allowed me to explore intriguing cultures and their cinematic heritage and approaches. When you think about Nordic cinema, you cannot bypass Ingmar Bergman. Countless works examine his life and large body of films. Yet, fascination has no expiry date, and the vivacity of a conversation lives in the ongoing expression of comments, new ideas and changes of perspective. In this essay, I hope I have shared my fascination with space in cinema and with Bergman’s films,
and to spark more thoughts, contributing to the liveliness of these discourses. If I were to write the essay again, I would like to shed some more light on the actual aesthetics of the films, on how the territory is captured and conveyed to us.</p>
</div><p> </p>
<ol id="InsertNote_NoteList"><li id="bergmans-faro-inhabitation-remote-from-modern-society-e-jochum_InsertNoteID_1">The feature film is a compact version of Bergman’s homonymous 1972 TV series comprising six episodes of 50 minutes each (Steene 2005: 302/424). </li>
<li id="bergmans-faro-inhabitation-remote-from-modern-society-e-jochum_InsertNoteID_2">Information stems from the Bergman Center. The original titles are taken from Steene (2005). </li>
<li id="bergmans-faro-inhabitation-remote-from-modern-society-e-jochum_InsertNoteID_3">The information about the island can be found in: Bergman Center; Cowie 1992: 248; Ingmar Bergman Foundation; Steene 2005: 46. </li>
<li id="bergmans-faro-inhabitation-remote-from-modern-society-e-jochum_InsertNoteID_4">For further elaborations on ’place identity’, see Olwig and Jones (2008: xi). </li>
<li id="bergmans-faro-inhabitation-remote-from-modern-society-e-jochum_InsertNoteID_5">Lefebvre has italicised ‘their’ to emphasise that ownership is a premise for a location to be seen as a territory. He does not provide the original quotation in French (2006: 53-9, n. 52). </li>
<li id="bergmans-faro-inhabitation-remote-from-modern-society-e-jochum_InsertNoteID_6">It needs to be kept in mind that, in contrast to a representative survey, the ‘real’ inhabitants and conditions presented here are mediated through Bergman’s lens and look at them. </li>
<li id="bergmans-faro-inhabitation-remote-from-modern-society-e-jochum_InsertNoteID_7">Dixon later partly contradicts himself when praising the quality of Fårö as an ‘uninhabited space’, but then clarifies he thereby means a location free from ‘ordinary social commerce’ in the studio environment (2000: 56). It seems he is thus referring to the high rate of social interactions and conventions bound to the studio rather than to the question of home. </li>
<li id="bergmans-faro-inhabitation-remote-from-modern-society-e-jochum_InsertNoteID_8">Dixon equals ‘in the studio’ to ‘in the world’ (2000: 56). Besides, here, it becomes evident that <em>Scener ur ett äktenskap</em> is a problematic case in between studio and real location. </li>
<li id="bergmans-faro-inhabitation-remote-from-modern-society-e-jochum_InsertNoteID_9">In this category, Steene also includes <em>Vargtimmen</em> (The Hour of the Wolf, 1967) and <em>Beröringen</em> (The Touch, 1970). The first is set on an island, the latter is partly filmed on Gotland, but none is made on Fårö. On the other hand, she excludes <em>Scener ur ett äktenskap</em> and <em>Trolösa</em> from the ‘island films’ (2005: 40/276/293). </li>
<li id="bergmans-faro-inhabitation-remote-from-modern-society-e-jochum_InsertNoteID_10">Note, that Marianne, in an outburst of fury, declares holidays to be even more pre-structured. </li>
<li id="bergmans-faro-inhabitation-remote-from-modern-society-e-jochum_InsertNoteID_11">Kalin, speaking about the television version of <em>Scener ur ett äktenskap</em>, notes the interview on the outset is a report about modern couples, an information stressing the contextualisation of the film as modern, but not given in the feature film itself (Kalin 2003: 152). </li>
<li id="bergmans-faro-inhabitation-remote-from-modern-society-e-jochum_InsertNoteID_12">A further ambiguity is very well expressed in Hedling’s description of <em>Persona</em> as ‘anti-modern, yet modernist’ (2008: 187). Artistically, this film and Bergman’s other films in the Sixties manifest an utterly modern approach. <em>Inter alia</em>, he reduced his aesthetics to the crucial. Fårö being a void landscape, the ambiguity stated in the first sentence seems less harsh (Dixon 2000: 44-52; Steene 1970: 25; Steene 2005: 142/291). </li>
<li id="bergmans-faro-inhabitation-remote-from-modern-society-e-jochum_InsertNoteID_13">Kalin states that Marianne’s ‘growing sense of having to be someone else (and a new awareness of her own sexuality)’ mirror ‘concerns of the times’, i.e. modernity and feminism (2003: 152-3). </li>
</ol><p>  </p>
<div class="pagebreakbefore">
<h2>References</h2>
</div>
<p><em>Bergman Island: A Documentary by Marie Nyreröd </em>(2004 [on DVD])</p>
<p><em><em><em>En </em>Passion</em> </em>(The Passion of Anna, Ingmar Bergman, 1969)</p>
<p><em>Fårö-Dokument</em> (Ingmar Bergman, 1969)</p>
<p><em><em></em>Persona </em>(Ingmar Bergman, 1966)</p>
<p><em><em>Såsom i en spegel</em></em> (Through a Glass Darkly, Ingmar Bergman, 1960)</p>
<p><em><em>Scener ur ett </em>äktenskap</em> (<em></em>Scenes From a Marriage, Ingmar Bergman, 1973).</p>
<p><em><em>Skammen</em></em> (Shame<em>, </em>Ingmar Bergman, 1968)</p>
<p><em><em><em>Trolösa</em></em></em> (<em></em>Faithless, Liv Ullmann, 2003)</p>
<p>Bergman Center http://bergmancenter.se/en/. Accessed 9 January 2012.</p>
<p>The Bergman Estate on Fårö http://www.bergmangardarna.se/en/. Accessed 9 January 2012.</p>
<p>Bergman, Ingmar (1989). <em>The Magic Lantern: An Autobiography</em>. Translated from the Swedish by Joan Tate. New York: Penguin.</p>
<p>Bergman, Ingmar and Jörn Donner (1998): ‘Demons and Childhood Secrets: An Interview’. Translated from the Swedish by Joan Tate. <em>Grand Street</em> [n.vol.]:66, Secrets, 180-92.</p>
<p>Björkman, Stig, Torsten Manns, and Jonas Sima (1973). <em>Bergman on Bergman</em>. Translated from the Swedish by Paul Britten Austin. New York: Simon &amp; Schuster.</p>
<p>Cowie, Peter (1992). <em>Ingmar Bergman: A Critical Biography</em>. London: André Deutsch.</p>
<p>Daudelin, Robert (2009). ‘Entre la mer et le coin aux fraises: la nature chez Ingmar Bergman’. <em>24 Images</em> [n.vol.]:144, 20-2.</p>
<p>Dixon, Wheeler Winston (2000). ‘<em>Persona</em> and the 1960s Art Cinema.’ In Michaels, Lloyd (ed.): <em>Ingmar Bergman’s Persona</em>. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.</p>
<p>Germundsson, Thomas (2008). ‘The South of the North: Images of an (Un)Swedish Landscape.’ In Jones, Michael and Kenneth R. Olwig (eds): <em>Nordic Landscapes: Belonging on the Northern Edge of Europe</em>. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.</p>
<p>Hamdi, Britt (2007). ‘Ingmar Bergman Is Making a Film on Fårö again.’ In Shargel, Raphael (ed.): <em>Ingmar Bergman: Interviews</em>. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi.</p>
<p>Hall, Stuart (1996). ‘Introduction [of Part I: Formations of Modernity].’ In Hall, Stuart et al. (eds): <em>Modernity: An Introduction to Modern Societies</em>. Malden: The Open University.</p>
<p>Hedling, Erik (2008). ‘The Welfare State Depicted: Post-Utopian Landscapes in Ingmar Bergman’s Films.’ In Koskinen, Maaret (ed.): <em>Ingmar Bergman Revisited: Performance, Cinema and the Arts</em>. London: Wallflower Press.</p>
<p>Hubert, Don and Kenneth Thompson (1996). ‘Introduction [of Part II: Structures and Processes of Modernity].’ In Hall, Stuart et al. (eds): <em>Modernity: An Introduction to Modern Societies</em>. Malden: The Open University.</p>
<p>Ingmar Bergman Foundation. <em>Ingmar Bergman Face to Face</em> http://www.ingmarbergman.se/. Accessed 9 January 2012.</p>
<p>Jones, Michael and Jens Christian Hansen (2008). ‘The Nordic Countries: A Geographical Overview.’ In Jones, Michael and Kenneth R. Olwig (eds): <em>Nordic Landscapes: Belonging on the Northern Edge of Europe</em>. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.</p>
<p>Kalin, Jesse (2003). <em>The Films of Ingmar Bergman</em>. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.</p>
<p>Kilpi, Harri (2007). ‘Green Frames: Exploring Cinema Ecocritically’. <em>Wider Screen </em>[n.vol.]:1 www.widerscreen.fi/<br>2007/1/green_frames-exploring_cinema_ecocritically.htm. Accessed 9 January 2012.</p>
<p>Kippenberger, Susanne (2011). ‘Ingmar Bergman: Gestrandet auf Fårö.’ <em>Der Tagesspiegel</em> 17 April http://www.tagesspiegel.de/<br>kultur/ingmar-bergman-gestrandet-auf-froe/4066826.html. Accessed 9 January 2012.</p>
<p>Lefebvre, Martin (2006). ‘Between Setting and Landscape in the Cinema.’ In Lefebvre, Martin (ed.): <em>Landscape and Film</em>. New York: Routledge.</p>
<p>McGrew, Anthony (1996). ‘The State in Advanced Capitalist Societies.’ In Hall, Stuart et al. (eds): <em>Modernity: An Introduction to Modern Societies</em>. Malden: The Open University.</p>
<p>Mosley, Philip (2010). <em>Ingmar Bergman: The Cinema as Mistress</em>. London: Marion Boyars.</p>
<p>Nyreröd, Marie (2009). ‘Bergman and I’. Booklet (Criterion Collection) accompanying <em>Bergman Island: A Documentary by Marie Nyreröd </em>(2004 [on DVD]).</p>
<p>Norton, James (2007): ‘Mortalities: Antonioni and Bergman’. <em>Vertigo</em> 3:7,<em> </em>23-4.</p>
<p>Olwig, Kenneth R. and Michael Jones (2008). ‘Introduction: Thinking Landscape and Regional Belonging on the Northern Edge of Europe.’ In Jones, Michael and Kenneth R. Olwig (eds): <em>Nordic Landscapes: Region and Belonging on the Northern Edge of Europe. </em>Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.</p>
<p>Oxford Dictionaries <em>http://oxforddictionaries.com/<br>definition/modern?q=modern. </em>Accessed 9 January 2012.</p>
<p>Pizzello, Stephen (2001): ‘Through a Glass Darkly: Ullmann Analyzes Bergman’. <em>American Cinematographer</em> 82:1, 24-8.</p>
<p>Quart, Leonard (2004): ‘Ingmar Bergman: The Maestro of Angst’. <em>Cineaste</em> 29:4, 30-5.</p>
<p>Raffestin, Claude (1980). <em>Pour une géographie du pouvoir</em>. Paris: Librairie technique.</p>
<p>Sandberg, Mark (2006). ‘Mastering the House: Performative Inhabitation on Carl Th. Dreyer’s <em>The Parson’s Widow</em>.’ In C. Claire Thomson (ed.) : <em>Northern Constellations: New Readings in Nordic Cinema</em>. Norwich: Norvik Press.</p>
<p>Siemens, Christof (2011). ‘Ingmar Bergman: Insel der Dämonen.’ <em>Zeit Online</em> 14 February http://www.zeit.de/<br>2011/07/Berlinale-Bergman-Faroe/seite-1, 1-3. Accessed 9 January 2012.</p>
<p>Soppelsa, Peter S. (2009). ‘The Fragility of Modernity: Infrastructure and Everyday Life in Paris, 1870-1914’. Doctoral thesis. University of Michigan.</p>
<p>Sporrong, Ulf (2008). ‘The Swedish Landscape: The Regional Identity of Historical Sweden.’ In Jones, Michael and Kenneth R. Olwig (eds): <em>Nordic Landscapes: Belonging on the Northern Edge of Europe</em>. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.</p>
<p>Steene, Birgitta (1970). ‘Images and Words in Ingmar Bergman’s Films’. <em>Cinema Journal</em> 10:1, 23-33.</p>
<p>Steene, Birgitta (2005). <em>Ingmar Bergman: A Reference Guide</em>. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press.</p>
<p>Tomlinson, John (2003). ‘Globalization and Cultural Identity.’ In Held, David and Anthony McGrew (eds): <em>The Global Transformations Reader</em>. Cambridge and Oxford: Polity Press and Blackwell.</p>
<p>Tortella, Gabriel (2005). ‘Sweden and Spain – Different Paths towards Modernity?’ In Jerneck, Magnus et al. (eds): <em>Different Paths to Modernity: A Nordic and Spanish Perspective</em>. Lund: Nordic Academic Press.</p>
<p>Zern, Leif (1993). <em>Se Bergman.</em> Stockholm: Norstedts.</p><h1 id="ReFzjuCOVS_5"><strong Class="initial">4.</strong> <span class="title">Aki Kaurismäki's Postcards<span class="comma">, </span> <span class="author">Kitty Clark</span></span></h1>
<p>The world of Aki Kaurismäki is loaded with a kind of mysterious liminality, continuously wavering on the edge of many contradictions. Helsinki is the core location, but not Helsinki as we know it. Transformed by a carefully constructed mise-en-scène bursting with nostalgia and artifice, it becomes a so-called 'Kaurismäkisinki' (Louvish 2002: 25). Temporally confused, melancholic yet absurdly droll, within this ambiguous space between reality and fantasy Kaurismäki is able to create a vision of his culture that is both seductively evocative and critically engaged.</p>
<p>This recurrent theme of nostalgia, of melancholic longing for a lost era that is incredibly apparent throughout Aki Kaurismäki's <em>Ariel </em>(1988) and <em><em>Mies vailla menneisyyttä</em> </em>(The Man without a Past, 2002) seems to be important in understanding why these films have resonated so strongly with global audiences. Why does Kaurismäki imbue his films, set in a supposedly contemporary Finland, with such a loaded 1950s Americana aesthetic? Perhaps the saturated, evocative visuals of these films are not just visually similar to the aesthetic qualities of nostalgic ephemera of vintage photographs, films, and postcards, but the films themselves act as transnational postcards to a global audience. In the same way that a typical souvenir-shop postcard uses exaggerated, condensed and loaded imagery to communicate a message between nations, Kaurismäki’s films send out a highly stylised understanding of his own nation to the world, with his message against modernisation and consumer-driven culture.
</p>
<p>Despite the countless traumas and depressions his characters face, it could be argued that Kaurismäki’s nostalgic depiction of Finland is actually fairly idealised and romantic, clinging on to the remnants of an era in the face of modernisation. It is behind the preservation of an ideal that a futile, perhaps even regressive attitude lingers, and perhaps in this futility lies the melancholy. In several interviews Kaurismäki openly admits his dissatisfaction with the modernisation of Finland, mourning the loss of his favourite bars and cafés across Helsinki. By setting <em>Ariel</em> and <em><em><em>Mies vailla menneisyyttä</em></em></em> in and amongst the remnants of his preferred old-fashioned locations he is memorialising these places on film. As Satu Kyösola (2004: 50) suggests, this desire to preserve is a kind of urgent archive, and Kaurismäki is quoted lamenting, 'Not very many good places remain because the modern world is everywhere. I showed each bar I loved. I poked my camera into every nook in
Helsinki.' The filmmaker uses nostalgia to preserve his own perfect vision of Finland, and by condensing and filtering the history and culture through this method of nostalgia, the films become perfectly suited to a international rather than domestic audience, who can absorb the richness of loaded visuals, characters and narrative without the understandably critical eye of a native Finn. By closely examining formal elements in <em>Ariel </em>and <em><em><em><em>Mies vailla menneisyyttä</em></em></em></em> it is possible to recognise Kaurismäki’s skill in utilising nostalgia in order to portray an idealised Finland in a global context.</p>
<p>Kaurismäki’s use of colour is incredibly stylised, with a small palette of colours that dominate visually in almost every scene. Typically, an eggshell blue, a pale tan brown, and a strong blood red are composed like paint across the screen, with vivid strength of colour. The lighting he implements accentuates the palette, bringing in subtle, yet brilliant whites and expanses of blackness, allowing the colours to burn through the darkness like neon lights. In an article on contemporary Scandinavian cinema Anders Marklund (2008: 54) discusses the use of such warm and bright colours, and highlights Sirpa Tani’s suggestion that ‘This glow transforms ugliness into beauty, elevates everyday life, and brings marginal life into the center’. Tani appropriately brings to light one of Kaurismäki’s most prominent talents, his ability to transform what could be seen as the everyday gloom and mundanity of 'real-life' into a beautiful and poetic depiction of humanity, simply in his carefully composed visual elements.
According to Kaurismäki these vivid glowing colours are attempts to revive the evocative colours found in the golden age of American cinema: ‘I am in love with colours that remind me of Hollywood films of the 50s. But Technicolor has disappeared, so I cannot make the same thing anymore.' (Cardullo 2006: 7) Often associated with classic musical films such as <em>The Wizard of Oz</em>, Technicolor’s luminous hues can certainly be found in Kaurismäki’s films. While the content of the two films couldn't be more dissimilar, perhaps some of Kaurismäki’s more romantic moments are also influenced by the optimistic fantasy in <em>The Wizard of Oz</em>. The end sequence of <em>Ariel</em> suggests this might be the case, as the most famous song from the film, <em>Somewhere Over the Rainbow</em>, plays out as Taiso and his loved ones sail off into the metaphorical sunset, but perhaps most significantly, the song is sung in the Finnish language. This clever device recalls the glory of Technicolor and Hollywood of the
1950s, while remaining culturally removed and re-contextualized.</p>
<p>The vivid Technicolor hues throughout the film also constantly recall the primary colour schemes of comic books and vintage postcards, and this comic book reference seems to be reflected also in the narrative content and characters of the film. In the opening sequence of <em></em><em><em><em><em>Mies vailla menneisyyttä</em></em></em></em> the protagonist ‘M’ is badly beaten by thugs and left for dead. A close up of M’s hand as he walks through the recognisable location of Helsinki Station on the verge of collapse reveals a gruesome amount of blood, yet the image seems somehow artificial and cartoon-like. The blood is thick and opaque, and the colour is an unrealistically exaggerated red, bearing a striking resemblance to the iconic paint-like blood used in Italian film maker Dario Argento’s expressionist horror films. Like Argento, Kaurismäki’s blood is intensified and exaggerated to become a horrific yet striking image, purely in its vivid colour. The violence itself, however brutal, is basic and
immediate, much like a simplified comic-book version of reality.  This caricatured depiction of blood could perhaps suggest that the strongly saturated colours in the shot replicate the low-resolution printing techniques in the comic books and vintage ephemera already mentioned. The simple, 'baddie' and 'goodie' characters in the films also recall the exaggerated stereotypes of old-fashioned adventure books and B-movie plotlines, yet in <em>Scandinavian Cinema</em> Peter Cowie (1990: 76) suggests that both Aki and filmmaking brother Mika ‘must relinquish their childish jocularity and improve on their comic-book characterisations.’ Though Cowie might be making a surprisingly blunt yet constructive criticism, this so-called 'childish jocularity' seems to be one of the most essential aspects of understanding Kaurismäki’s oeuvre, not something that needs improvement. Instead, this exaggeration and nostalgic reference contributes to the films as a stylistic whole, and reiterates the idea of creating a fantasy
version of Finland.</p>
<p>If Kaurismäki’s aim is to preserve and almost museologically display the old style, pre-modernised Helsinki in his films, could his chosen colour palette reflect this intention more literally? The repeated use of bright blues and whites in close composition create an image of flag-waving nationalism, and while this could be seen as a quite oversimplified assumption, a sequence in <em>Mies vailla menneisyyttä</em> suggests this flag-like image quite plainly. By the waterfront in the community of shipping containers, a washing line has been strung across a balcony to dry some clothes, and a man plays a cheery melody on his accordion. It is a straightforward establishing shot that depicts the community as a simple, domestic place, run down but pleasant enough. It is the clothes on the washing line that seem so carefully constructed, alternating neatly in colour between white and blue in turn. Shot from a low angle, nothing but a blue sky can be seen behind the washing line, other than perfect white clouds.
The image is only fleeting, but stands out significantly for its clearly precise choice of colour, which is echoed more subtly throughout the rest of the film. Perhaps the use of nationalistic colours is a mere coincidence, but the obviously constructed set up of the clothing seems intentional, as not only do the colours of blue and white stand out as representative of the Finnish flag, but the clothes flap on the washing line like a string of flags in the wind. In <em>Ariel</em> a similarly incidental shot of ice in the water around the docks also shows an uninterrupted blue and white colour scheme. Alternatively, instead of intentionally using these colours in a reference to a prescribed national palette, Kaurismäki is just reflecting the colours that occur naturally in the city and landscape that surrounds his characters, bringing a level of reality and authenticity back into the otherwise increasingly fantastical environment he creates.</p>
<p>A sequence in <em>Ariel</em> that neatly depicts this spanning of reality and fantasy through a distinctive use of colour occurs after the lead character Taiso loses his job and resorts to selling his car. Mourning his losses, Taiso sits in a café bar attempting to smoke a discarded cigarette butt in an ashtray. The bar is awash with red, a colour that seems to crop up in places of retreat or comfort, not in domestic places, but the various bars and clubs that offer refuge in the city to the nomadic loner-stereotypes that Kaurismäki repeatedly focuses on. Taiso sits looking out of the window, and notices the man who first robbed him when he arrived in the city. Chasing him, Taiso leaves the warmth of the café until once again the screen is awash with blues and greys in the station underground. Here the lighting takes a significant role in dressing the scene in cold, repetitive shadows from a metal gate. The shadowed patterning of bars could perhaps pre-empt Taiso’s imminent arrest as he beats the thief in
revenge, and with the almost monochromatic colour scheme the whole scene is reminiscent of a 1950s <em>film noir</em>. It is then in stark contrast that the next shot in the courtroom appears in absolutely plain colour. No rich reds and yellows, blues or whites; suddenly the viewer is transported into what could be assumed is the 'real world'. The judge sits plainly in the centre of the shot, surrounded by law books and dreary purple-coloured chairs. There are no harmonious pastels or moody lighting, just natural light on plain walls. The contrast of these two shots wholly emphasises the extremely stylised qualities of scenes in the hostel rooms and bars of previous sequences, not allowing the viewer to become fully immersed in the dreamlike nostalgia. Kaurismäki notably said of himself ‘I am a realist, but you have to be successful in making colours become surreal, or non-realistic. So I guess you could say I try to use colour poetically' (Cardullo 2006: 7). By suddenly introducing the stark, bare,
characterless courtroom the filmmaker thrusts the audience into an uncomfortable reality, intentionally void of poetry, that perhaps represents the modernised Helsinki that Kaurismäki finds so hard to bear. From the second Taiso is sentenced to jail, we know there will be no more lingering in moodily lit bars or cruising around in a 1950s convertible. The joy associated with the nostalgic, timeless activities of freedom is cut short by cruel reality, marked clearly by the disparity of colour and atmosphere in the courtroom.</p>
<p>In her book <em>A Kinder, Gentler America: Melancholia and the Mythical 1950s</em> Mary Caputi (2005: 43) suggests that longing for past eras, most specifically the so-called 'Mythical’ 1950s, is the result of dissatisfaction with modern life. This certainly could be said of Kaurismäki who maintains 'I must be a species of monster that was born too late. That is why I want to have everything from my old world around me. What happens outside horrifies me’ (Kyösola 2004: 46). Such an idealistic, regressive attitude is perhaps dangerous, as we see in Taiso’s story, as sometimes the horrific outside reality will find a way in. According to Caputi (2005: 43), such dissatisfaction with the modern world and melancholia go hand in hand: '[o]ne specific reading of modernity… argues that the more modern life offers a preponderance of material goods, the more immanent reality appears bereft of intrinsic, imbedded value’. This analysis certainly agrees with the characters’ experience in Kaurismäki’s films, but also
seems very close to a potential reading of Kaurismäki’s own psyche. The idea of material goods of the modern world also stands out as a significant factor when reading <em>Ariel </em>and <em>Mies vailla menneisyyttä</em>, as the carefully chosen objects that surround the characters are sparse, and defiantly out of touch with the modern world. Perhaps Kaurismäki’s inherent interest in the working classes and down-and-outs of Finland is because their world is so far away from the materialistic, consumer driven lifestyle that has powered the economic changes in Finland towards modernisation. This could certainly be said of both <em>Ariel </em>and <em>Mies vailla menneisyyttä, </em>where the communities of the shipping containers and Salvation Army have no choice but to survive on the very minimum. While this might not be by choice, there is an admirable quality to the happiness the characters find in such minimal circumstances that makes the lifestyle seem quite surprisingly attractive and utopian. The few
items that the characters do own become incredibly significant objects, as shown in a sequence in <em>Mies vailla menneisyyttä</em>, where M begins to furnish his new home. Driving in the electrician's van they stop where a number of pieces of furniture have been discarded on the roadside, a table, stool, fridge and jukebox. What would appear to be rubbish to most is treasure to M, who with the help of the electrician gets the jukebox working back in the shipping container home. The three men sit around the salvaged fridge, which has now become a table, making a picture of cosy domesticity with the jukebox glowing brightly in the background. Like cowboys around a campfire, the men share a meal cooked on M’s small gas stove as a bluegrass record plays away on the jukebox behind them. By using these settings seemingly caught in a temporal bubble, Kaurismäki surrounds his characters, as he wishes to do to himself, with the trappings of an old fashioned era, dissolving the harsh reality of their circumstances
with a warm nostalgia. The minimal aesthetic draws our attention to the fact that these people, whether they want for more or not, have everything they need in life. In later scenes this idea is reinforced: when Irma comes around to M’s for dinner all that is needed is a stove, a chair and a jukebox to create an ideal romantic evening. Kaurismäki seems to be able to use this kind of minimalism to strip back the films to their core fascination of humanity. He believes in ‘[n]o ornamentation; the basis for all art is reduction, simplicity’ (Cardullo 2006: 7). It is, then, the introduction of such heavily referential props, settings and costumes against the minimal, simplistic scenarios that creates such a stylised and evocative atmosphere.</p>
<p>Throughout <em>Mies vailla menneisyyttä</em> and <em>Ariel</em> there are certain objects that have a huge nostalgic significance, and upon which explicit importance is placed. Two icons of 1950s design, Taiso’s convertible Cadilliac and M’s jukebox, are clearly outstanding as objects that carry a great deal of importance within the films, and while they function as regular objects in the films’ narratives, they are clearly carefully chosen for their vintage aesthetic. This is perhaps most true of Taiso’s car, and as <em>Ariel</em> could be seen as a road movie, it makes sense for the car to be significant. However, it isn’t just a vehicle for transport; the car itself is a striking image in the Finnish landscape as Taiso drives to Helsinki. Repeated shots of the car from every conceivable angle fetishise its design, showing close ups of the various dials and devices around the steering wheel. It is clear that Kaurismäki finds the car itself aesthetically pleasing. After visiting the bank, Taiso attempts
to close the hood of the convertible, stopped by the roadside in front of a sign sponsored by Coca-Cola. The shot is composed very neatly, so the white car with its red interior sits in front of the infamous logo matching perfectly. The two iconic American designs agree with each other, but the contrasting snow-covered Finnish landscape behind creates a bizarre juxtaposition of imagery. Pietari Kääpä (2008: 211) describes this awkward setting as a 'space of transition', where traditional culture meets the new. This image sums up the way Kaurismäki designs his mise-en-scène, carefully arranging dominant stylistic elements against a backdrop of Finland that creates and beautiful, yet somehow uneasy and awkward setting, which articulates the uncomfortable, melancholic point at which Kaurismäki’s dream-like idealised Finland is cross-cut with a modern reality.</p>
<p>The jukebox in <em>Mies vailla menneisyyttä</em> also represents a quintessentially American design, yet performs a secondary function that contributes much to the nostalgia in the film, as it neatly provides a soundtrack throughout. In both films the characters have radios that also provide the same function, but the jukebox with its records stuck in the past contributes greatly to the antiquated mood of the film. M’s radio provides a powerful and emotive diegetic soundtrack as the thugs are beating him up at the beginning of the film. However, the music from the jukebox seems to be most significant; while a radio picks up music that is being transmitted in the present day, the jukebox’s records are trapped in a bygone era. The soundtrack throughout the film is almost entirely music from the 1950s and 1960s, and is one of the most effective factors in creating the nostalgic atmosphere. The use of music is one of the aspects of the film that most successfully encapsulates Kaurismäki’s vision of the past.
A totally clichéd, yet wholly seductive longing for the past is evoked in the swelling melodies from the jukebox at moments such as when M and Irma kiss for the first time in <em>Mies vailla menneisyyttä</em>. One criticism of the soundtrack could be that while it is so successful in creating a nostalgic atmosphere, it is somehow more removed from the idea of Kaurismäki’s national vision. Unlike the depiction of the Cadillac car that is so noticeably American driven through the Finnish landscape, the soundtrack is quite dominant and overwhelming, without providing such an eloquent transnational dialogue.  Kaurismäki seems to be at his best when he’s traversing the many contradictions he plays with, between reality and fantasy, the local and the exotic, traditionalism and modernity. Perhaps within the soundtrack there is a danger that his use of nostalgia can become less about condensing and exaggerating his characters to create an impression of his idealised culture and more about boasting a stylish taste in
records.</p>
<p>A moment in <em>Ariel</em> balances out the soundtrack and context very successfully, as Taiso first drives into the city to stop for a hamburger. This sequence also introduces another aspect of Kaurismäki’s carefully constructed rendering of Helsinki, in his use of cartoon-like character archetypes. From an extremely high angled long shot we see Taiso’s distinctive Cadillac pulling into the car park of a roadside diner. While it is unclear whether the sound is coming from Taiso’s car radio or the café itself, the speaker in the foreground of this opening shot makes a reference to the loud rock-n-roll music blaring out of the scene, perhaps implying that the menacing music in this sequence is a signifier of the trouble to come. The camera glides down, pulling in closer to the car and following it around the building in a smooth tracking shot, revealing two suspicious looking men talking together and noticing Taiso. As he pays for his food, the camera zooms into a close-up of his wad of money, a cartoon-
like movement that evokes the image of the thieves’ eyes out on stalks. The music continues to play; now the rhythm has even more of an ominous threat, as the viewer is already sure of what is about to happen. Totally unaware, Taiso chats innocently to the men, who once they have his back turned smash a bottle over his head and steal his money. The sound stops instantly, indicating Taiso's loss of consciousness and playing with the tension between diegetic and non-diegetic music. The music, in combination with the cool, calculated physical presence of the thieves, is evocative of a stereotypical 1950s gang of street thugs in a children’s cartoon, entirely over-exaggerated but absolutely threatening. A similar situation in <em>Mies vailla menneisyyttä</em> also sees the protagonist beaten by thugs, yet this time they are even more caricatured, all dressed in black leather jackets and turned up denim jeans. This sequence is very evocative of an imagined yesteryear, but unlike the various bars and cafés that
Kaurismäki films in as a preservation of an ideal Helsinki, it veers too far away from reality, and feels a little clichéd, perhaps just a little too accurately representing stereotyped 1950s America, rather than a flavour of an influence. The scene is perhaps somewhat alienating; as Anu Koivunen (2006: 134) suggests, ‘the comic, ironic and violent tones of the narration create a distance, blocking or hindering rather than encouraging national sentiments and nostalgic pleasures’. Could it just be nostalgia for the sake of nostalgia? Here again Kaurismäki remains in the in-between, somehow able to exist in the liminal space between genuine adoration of the old fashioned and almost parodic use of exaggeration. According to Koivunen (2006: 134), Kaurismäki ‘fuses sentimentality with irony and resentment with melancholia’ in <em>Mies vailla menneisyyttä</em>, creating an experience for the viewer that in all of its confusion and ambiguity is actually accurately emotional in its irrationality. Kaurismäki’s
repeated use of temporal dislocation and sometimes heavy-handed retro-reference do contribute to a strong feeling of alienation for the viewer rooted in the 'real', modernised world, but perhaps this is wholly intentional, as Kaurismäki transforms the viewer into one of his own marginalised, disconnected characters.</p>
<p>This feeling of transition, and the intentional uprooting of any sure sense of place and belonging that is evident in his films, is represented by the repeated references to journeys and transport within both <em>Ariel</em> and <em>Mies vailla menneisyyttä</em>. Perhaps the various modes of transport that are repeatedly depicted in both films - trains, cars and boats - go further beyond their natural narrative function by reflecting on the disconnected instability of their lives, as well as adding a self-reflexive nod towards the transnational mode of the films. <em>Mies vailla menneisyyttä</em> is clearly framed at the beginning and end of the film by such images. M arrives into the city by train in the opening sequence, and as Irma and M walk into the distance together in the final scene their image is interrupted in the foreground by a passing cargo freight train. In <em>Ariel</em> the film is established as a car-focussed road movie from the opening sequences in which Taiso sets out on his journey in
the distinctive Cadillac, framed in stereotypically grand landscape and tracking shots that could be seen as essential to the road movie genre. In his essay 'Aki Kaurismäki’s Crossroads: National Cinema and the Road Movie', Nestingen (2005: 286) suggests that as a genre, the road movie can ‘be defined as a series of conflicts between fixity and mobility, belonging and marginality, attachment and emancipation’, which seems to accurately describe the liminal status that Kaurismäki applies to the characters in the films and the transitional culture he creates around them.</p>
<p>When asked what he thinks of Finnish culture in general, Kaurismäki states that it is 'the most beautiful culture in the world. Its problem though, is the same as that of European culture in general: American culture, which remains the most important one in Europe, on the surface – meaning that it smothers, or tramples everything that exists at a deeper level’ (Cardullo 2006: 7). Kaurismäki’s references to American culture in his films certainly don’t give off this negative impression, yet in other interviews he clearly states that his American obsession is with the times of Roosevelt’s New Deal (Romney 1997: 14), not contemporary American culture. Perhaps even the golden age of American culture that Kaurismäki prefers to recall still has the power to trample on the deeper levels of his own films. Once again it seems as if Kaurismäki is most successful, in a holistic sense, when he is engaging the timelessness of nostalgia alongside a critical examination of Finnish culture.</p>
<p>As a non-Finnish viewer I can only experience Kaurismäki’s films from the perspective of an outsider to the country. It is well documented that films such as <em>Mies vailla menneisyyttä</em> have been very successful on an international level, while receiving a much less glorious reception in their native Finland (Sundholm 2005: 215). Perhaps Kaurismäki’s style of filmmaking will always be more successful internationally because the way he condenses Finnish culture into an over-exaggerated representation can only be appreciated by an outsider to that culture. Is Kaurismäki an outsider in his own country? Like the marginalised outsiders that epitomise Kaurismäki’s films, perhaps the filmmaker himself is speaking from a point of view that is different from most in his native land. Aspects of the film such as Kaurismäki’s unconventionally formal use of the Finnish language may be deemed unnecessary and potentially irritating by a Finnish audience, yet to a non-Finnish speaking audience such choices
translate differently and appear to be charming and idiosyncratic. Andrew Nestingen discusses this use of language, suggesting indeed that Kaurismäki 'seeks to create a space for himself as a dissatisfied outsider' (Nestingen 2007). Perhaps, then, Kaurismäki always intends for his films to be seen by a transnational audience from the beginning. John Sundholm articulates this idea as ‘national content and international form’ (2005: 215), which seems to support the analogy of Kaurismäki’s films as 'postcards' from his version of Finland. They act as condensed, caricatured reflections of a nation, designed to resonate outside of the country itself. Kaurismäki’s role as a representative of Finland provides an interesting contradiction to examine: his films are very distinctly marked and marketed as his own, and much of their content is derived from his personal experience and beliefs. Due to his singular success, Kaurismäki, however unwillingly, has had to take on the role of representing Finland in cinema
throughout the world. It would make sense, then, that the domestic audience would be unhappy with any unrealistic portrayal perpetuating a simplistic stereotype of a stern, cold people, though Kaurismäki himself maintains contentiously that ‘the country is full of them’ (Cardullo 2006: 7). Nestingen (2004: 96) argues that Kaurismäki’s films may offer the Finnish people what he terms a form of ‘neo-kansankuvaus’ (self-portraiture), with which the Finns may understandably uncomfortable, as it is an entirely unsolicited depiction. In this extreme self-portraiture Kaurismäki’s films create an understanding of the Finnish culture through one man's vision that both caricatures the Finnish psyche and captures what he considers to be the ideal lost elements of their culture, creating a rich and condensed depiction of a country to be delivered to the rest of the world.</p>
<p> </p>
<div Class="objavi-no-page-break"><h2>Author's Comment</h2>
<p>It was while I was studying at the Slade School of Fine Art that the opportunity came up to take on a subsidiary subject for a term from elsewhere in the University. I was immediately drawn to Nordic Cinema, and after seeing a Kaurismäki film for the first time I was hooked and knew I wanted to study his work in more detail. It seemed fitting to try and make the most of my background in history and theory of art by making a formal visual analysis of his films for my final essay, and his distinct aesthetic seemed very suited to this approach. One aspect of the essay that particularly reflects my studies in Fine Art is the comment on Kaurismäki's use of colour in reference to printed matter such as comic books and postcards; a large part of the artwork I was making at the time involved printmaking, particularly screen printing. The appeal of screen printing to my own work seems to have parallels with some of the ideas I discuss in the essay, as a form of image making that simplifies and condenses ideas into
a saturated and immediate visual matter.</p>
</div><p> </p>
<div class="pagebreakbefore">
<h2>References</h2>
</div>
<p>Caputi, Mary (2005).<em> A Kinder, Gentler America: Melancholia and the Mythical 1950s.</em> Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.</p>
<p>Cardullo, Bert (2006). ‘Finnish Character: An Interview With Aki Kaurismäki'. <em>Film Quarterly </em>59:4, 7.</p>
<p>Cowie, Peter (1990). <em>Scandinavian Cinema</em>. London: Tantivy Press.</p>
<p>Kääpä, Pietari (2008). <em>The National and Beyond: The Globalisation of Finnish Cinema in the Films of Aki and Mika Kaurismäki</em>. Unpublished doctoral thesis, University of East Anglia.</p>
<p>Kemp, Phillip (2003). ‘The Man Without a Past’. <em>Sight and Sound, </em>13:2.</p>
<p>Kaurismäki, Aki (2007). ‘On Bresson’. <em>Sight and Sound,</em> 17:11.</p>
<p>Kyösola, Satu (2004). ‘’The Archivist’s Nostalgia’. <em>Journal of Finnish Studies, </em>8:2, 50.</p>
<p>Louvish, Simon (2002). ‘A Tale of Two Memories’. <em>Sight and Sound</em>, 12:12, 25.</p>
<p>Marklund, Anders (2008). ‘Can Anyone Help These Men? A Portrait of Men in Successful Contemporary Scandinavian Cinema’. <em>Film International, </em>6:5.</p>
<p>Nestingen, Andrew (ed.) (2004). <em>In Search of Aki Kaurismäki: Aesthetics and Contexts</em>, Ontario: Aspasia Books.</p>
<p>Nestingen, Andrew (2007). ‘Aki Kaurismäki and Nation: The Contrarian Cinema’, <em>Wider Screen, </em>http://www.widerscreen.fi/<br>2007/2/aki_kaurismaki_and_nation.htm Accessed 10<sup>th</sup> April 2009.</p>
<p>Nestingen, Andrew and Trevor G. Elkington (eds) (2005). <em>Transnational Cinema in a Global North: Nordic Cinema in Transition</em>. Detroit: Wayne State University Press.</p>
<p>Romney, Johnathan (1997). ‘The Kaurismäki Effect’. <em>Sight and Sound, </em>7:6, 14.</p>
<p>Soila, Tytti, Astrid Söderbergh Widding &amp; Gunnar Iverson (1998). <em>Nordic National Cinemas</em>, London: Routledge.</p>
<p>Soila, Tytti (ed.) (2005). <em>The Cinema of Scandinavia</em>:<em> 24 Frames.</em> London: Wallflower Press.</p>
<p>Thomson, C. Claire (ed.) (2006). <em>Northern Constellations: New Readings in Nordic Cinema</em>, Norwich: Norvik Press.</p>
<p>Vincendeau, Ginette (2007). ‘Lights in the Dusk’. <em>Sight and Sound</em>, 17:4, April 2007.</p>
<p>Von Bagh, Peter (1999). <em>Drifting Shadows: A Guide to the Finnish Cinema</em>, Helsinki: Otava Publishing Company Ltd. </p><h1 id="ReFzjuCOVS_6"><strong Class="initial">5.</strong> <span class="title">Bourgeois Space and the Post-Ideological Cinema of Dogme 95 and Desplechin<span class="comma">, </span> <span class="author">Ville-Matti Kervinen</span></span></h1>
<p>At a superficial level Arnaud Desplechin’s feature film <em>La Vie des morts</em> (The Life of the Dead, 1991) and Thomas Vinterberg’s Dogme 95 classic <em>Festen</em> (Dogme#1: The Celebration, 1998) seem to have a lot in a common: a splendid bourgeois house as the setting, a big family reunion as the initiator of events, and a suicide or a suicide attempt of a close family member as the lurking threat in the background, these taking the abstract but semi-spatial forms of ghost and death. These similarities offer a fruitful starting point to a more profound study of space in the films. ‘My supreme goal is to force the truth out of my characters and settings’ declare Vinterberg and Lars von Trier in their Vow of Chastity (Vinterberg and von Trier 1995: 7). I interpret this line, in which settings have been placed on a level with characters, as a demonstration of the immense importance of location, surroundings, set and space to the Dogme 95 filmmakers, and I choose to read the quotation as establishing a
symbiosis between Vinterberg’s characters and space. Desplechin is also renowned for his thoughtful use of space: ‘space is an equally important signifying element in his work, all the more powerful for being virtually inseparable from the images themselves’ (Warehime 2002: 62). In <em>La Vie des morts</em> and <em>Festen</em> the space that we are concerned with is remarkably bourgeois: both films depict well-to-do families surrounded by material wealth, all their problems stemming from personal relationships rather than socio-economic issues. Desplechin and Vinterberg take slightly different attitudes towards the bourgeois culture, but they both draw inspiration and influence from the (at least) initially anti-bourgeois French New Wave. In this essay I will explore space in the two films and the ways it has been represented, concentrating on how strikingly bourgeois the space seems to be, both in physical and ideological terms. Desplechin and Vinterberg appear to be adopting similar attitudes towards the
bourgeois space, depicting the negative impact it can have on people’s lives. However, I will start by mapping where the films stand ideologically.</p>
<p>Both Desplechin and Vinterberg are post-ideological filmmakers mainly representing bourgeois values, whether or not this was what they wanted. Ginette Vincendeau argues that <em>Le jeune cinéma français</em>, to which Desplechin is often said to belong, is political in a new way; not ‘depicting organised, future-orientated action or being informed by well-defined ideology’ (Vincendeau 2005: 35). Instead it concentrates on ‘the local struggles of small groups or individuals’ without the ‘political language to name the wrongs done to them’ (O’Shaughnessy 2005: 77), hence it is post-ideological. This is partly true for <em>La vie des morts</em> which shares with <em>Le jeune cinéma</em><strong> </strong>the interest in the regional identity in the less glamorous provinces of France, and also stylistically shows the way to the boom of hand-held cameras and raw naturalism of the later 1990s. But rather than having a ‘socially-conscious syntax’ (Austin 2008: 222) like many of the films of the movement,
Desplechin explores ‘narcissistic personal relationships in bourgeois milieux’ (Vincendeau: 34), a much criticized feature of the French auteur cinema. Desplechin’s interests stem from the grand auteurs of the French New Wave, especially François Truffaut (Zagha 2005: 21), but the fetish to form, which is present in his ‘postmodern attachment to intertextuality’ (Powrie 1999: 15), has been criticized. So, while sharing many of the values of the emerging <em>Le jeune cinéma</em>, <em>La Vie des morts</em> is still very much a bourgeois auteur film, this being seemingly exactly the kind of filmmaking that the Dogme 95 movement tried to rebel against.</p>
<h5>The new wave proved to be a ripple that washed ashore and turned to muck . . . The anti-bourgeois cinema itself became bourgeois, because the foundations upon which its theories were based was the bourgeois perception of art. The auteur concept was bourgeois romanticism from the very start and thereby… false! (Vinterberg and von Trier 1995: 6)</h5>
<p>Despite the harsh tone of these accusations in the Dogme 95 manifesto, Vinterberg and von Trier approve of what the French New Wave directors were aiming for; the influence of the likes of Truffaut and Jean-Luc Godard on Dogme 95 is undeniable. Vinterberg and von Trier claim that the reason why New Wave failed was the treating of the artist as a concept (Schepelern 2005: 82). Instead, they offer discipline and truth as solutions, but, according to Ellen Rees, even though Dogme 95 stylistically seems radical, it ‘reveals what might perhaps best be described as a reactionary ideological core’ (Rees 2004: 165). The only political exhortation seems to be the denunciation of the bourgeois form of cinema (MacKenzie 2000: 164), at the same time forgetting the content, thus demonstrating the post-ideology of the movement. Also, as Peter Schepelern points out, the core objective of Dogme 95 - the stripping down of all the superficial elements - in the context of the filmmakers having access to better equipment and
more funds, seems to be ‘a typical symptom of Western culture’ (Schepelern 2005: 84). This leaves us with a bourgeois filmmaker depicting the life of the bourgeois in an anti-bourgeois style, which actually might be bourgeois as well.</p>
<p>After having mapped the auteurs and their films as post-ideological, it is logical to proceed inside the films, and examine the locus in which the events take place. Roubaix, the setting of <em>La vie des morts</em>, gained prosperity in the 19th century thanks to the textile industry, but after the factories closed in the 1970s, it became notorious as one of the decaying Northern cities (Plummer 2007). Roubaix, as portrayed in the film, is dead, empty and isolated. The only signs of life are a few industrial machines working outside of the family house, but not even the people using the machines are seen, arousing feelings of unease in the spectator. It is hard to locate and mentally map the house in which the Mac Gillis live because it is always seen in isolation from its environment, the camera only revealing the immediate surroundings. Most of the film takes place inside or just outside of the house, emphasizing the dominating role of the building. One of the only times the domestic space is exited is
the sequence of the boys playing football in the end of the film, which on many levels works as a breath of fresh air in comparison to the oppressive atmosphere of the house. When the cousins first arrive, the family is seen waiting for them in the darkness in the porch with the only light coming through the open door, suggesting the depression present inside the house. But it soon becomes evident that the light symbolized a false hope. The front garden is as lifeless as the house; there is not even any grass growing. Desplechin seems to be suggesting that the reason for the family living as if they were already dead is the environment that surrounds them: the closing factories and the decaying economy have led to the realization of one’s mortality and resulted in desolation and apathy. This is also the most political Desplechin gets, here representing the themes of <em>Le jeune cinéma</em>.</p>
<p>In <em>Festen</em> the villa is clearly Danish, yet is ‘never visually connected to any mappable locus, and remains emotionally and topographically adrift’ (Rees 2004: 168). This is an interesting paradox since the unity of the Danes is emphasized throughout the film: from the first shots of the house with the gallantly flying Danish flags to the traditional racist songs which everyone knows the lyrics to. Still, the house itself is disconnected from the surrounding Denmark. Rees goes as far as calling the space ‘a magical transgressive realm separate from the realities of the physical geography of Denmark in the 1990s’ (166). In this magical space, Denmark is a conservative patriarchy at whose expense Vinterberg makes fun. The opening sequence of Christian walking on the road in his 'fatherland' and then being picked up by his brother, who drives 'little' Mette and the children out of the car since there is no room for women in this space, is surprisingly aggressive, but also humorous. Another
characteristic of the patriarchy is highlighted by how the ruler, Helge, wants to keep his family together in the same space, in the luxurious villa, just like in a bourgeois idyll. Therefore, after the transgression has been made public, Helge’s punishment accordingly is the dispersal of the family when Michael declares that Helge will never see his grandchildren again. The illusory unity of the Danish space is broken by the unveiling of the transgression, which has taken place in a private space and results in the demolition of the patriarchy.</p>
<p>The living space has to be shared by the whole family, and this causes problems in both of the films. Especially in <em>La Vie des morts</em> the difficulty of living under the same roof arises as one of the major themes. The family Mac Gillis is a microcosm consisting of small groups - the mothers, the fathers, the boys and the girls - who each have their own space. The youth occupies the upstairs space, whereas the mothers are often seen in the kitchen and the fathers in the living room. Desplechin depicts the groups as entities between which there is little, if any, communication. In particular, the inter-generational communication has failed. A striking example of this is when Yvan’s mother calls him from downstairs but he does not answer, despite hearing the call and being just above her at the top of the stairs. Every member of the family, but most clearly the children, feel trapped in the house and in the family. The daughters are afraid of becoming like their mothers, the mothers are guilty about
the suicide of the children, and everyone is paralysed by mortality, hence mourning their own death. Being trapped in the family space becomes concrete when Yvan lies on the ground in the backyard and the camera takes his point of view, gazing at the surroundings, but all he is able to see is a massive repressive brick-wall and rotting garbage.</p>
<p>The villa of <em>Festen</em> is a hotel, carrying ‘a tension between private family memory and the public economy’ (Rees: 168), but simultaneously offering a range of different public and private spaces for Vinterberg to investigate. It seems like there are very few real private spaces on the premises because in the hotel the rooms are impersonal and transitory, and the</p>
<p><br><br><br><img src="static/Kervinen1_BW.jpg" alt="" width="400" height="290" border="0"></p>
<p><span class="imagecaption">Helene and Lars inspect the bathroom where Linda killed herself. <em>Festen</em>, Thomas Vinerberg, Denmark, 1998.</span></p>
<div class="pagebreakbefore">
<p>guests carry their privacy in their luggage. However, the most obvious private space is the father’s place, separate as it is from the hotel building, and thus marking a clear division between the public and the private. In the world of <em>Festen</em> the private space is dark, dangerous and locked so that it is inaccessible to others; a space where transgression takes place. It was in Helge’s locked and darkened study where the twins were abused, and now again when Christian goes to visit him, a danger can be sensed: there is little light, the atmosphere is oppressive and the discussion feels like an interrogation. Also, bathrooms are private spaces because they are usually occupied by only one person, providing ultimate privacy. Here they function as places where the characters are able to show real and raw emotions as opposed to the roles they play in public: Michael becomes violent, Helene has a breakdown, not to forget that Linda killed herself in a bathroom.</p>
</div>
<p>The space in the hotel can be divided into the servants’ and the masters’ spaces, revealing the social inequality between the family and the staff. The straightforward division into downstairs and upstairs is further strengthened by the way the guests treat the staff. For example Michael shows arrogance towards the receptionist, and later hits Michelle in order to dispose of their old affair. Unlike Michael, Christian is sympathetic with the staff, who join ‘the children of privilege in battle against a common enemy’ (Rees 2004: 171). The unity of the working class is emphasized through editing, which ties together all the individual actions in the hiding of the keys sequence, creating an image of a group working together for common good. The ending of the battle is celebrated in the piano room by the servants, siblings and Gbatokai all dancing together. They cheerily hug each other in a group, forming a unity, while surrounded by the grandeur and emptiness of the huge room, creating a metaphor of
solidarity in the bourgeois space. However, the next morning it seems like the old attitudes clinging to the class differences have returned as even despite Christian asking Pia to move with him to Paris, immediately afterwards he asks her to continue serving, accompanied by Michael’s jokes. It also becomes evident that the public spaces are the only sphere where the servants can operate, whereas the family occupies the private spaces. Only the owners of the property have a right to their rooms, to their privacy, whereas the working class has to perform on a public stage – emphasizing the bourgeoisness of the space of the villa.</p>
<p>In <em>La Vie des morts</em><em><span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">,</span></em> Desplechin contrasts crowded and unoccupied spaces. Throughout the film, autonomous shots of rooms of the house are shown in no relation to the preceding or following sequences accompanied by menacing music. These dislocated entities show static rooms with absolutely no life in them, almost emitting coldness. The only movement comes from the hand-held camera, which in this way reminds the viewer of its presence. The room shots emphasize the role of the house in the misery of the people living in it, adding some responsibility and characteristics to the space, and possibly even suggesting a 'curse' associated with the space. The total opposite to the dead space are the sequences where the house and the frame are crowded. ‘Desplechin also uses space to define the relationships among his characters. . . in the literal amount of space they occupy within a frame’ (Warehime 2002: 73), an example of which
is the sequence in which the youth smoke cannabis upstairs and the frame is always filled with torsos and heads. Also, the camera moves constantly, to the extent that, in addition to the walking and crawling people, it becomes comical. But it also has a serious meaning in that all the characters compete for the same space and there is no air to breathe; the family is suffocating itself.</p>
<p>The shaky camera imitating a home video style is everywhere in <em>Festen</em>,<em> </em>depicting the celebration from the most inventive angles. In the birthday conga sequence alone the camera is under a table, inside a fireplace, in the ceiling and in the middle of the conga line as a participant. The unoccupied rooms with curtains blowing in the wind and the feel of camera often hiding from the guests have been interpreted as the point of view belonging to Linda’s ghost (Laursen 2000: 81). But I would like to take this interpretation further and suggest that the perspective is that of the haunted house, and thus explaining the presence of the camera in the most ridiculous places. Ellen Rees points out that ‘the space itself influences the characters and their actions’, and also notes that the sexual abuse started after having moved into the house (Rees 2004: 168-169), leading to the conclusion that the villa has a similar 'curse' as the house in <em>La Vie des morts</em>, affecting negatively the
lives and actions of its inhabitants. The culpability of the house could be seen affirmed in one of the final shots where Christian looks at his father, who lies beaten on the ground and in surrender, while the house lurks in the background, soon again mirrored in the lake, singled out as the culprit. In obedience to the Dogme 95 rules Vinterberg searches the truth out of his settings and finds it: a corrupting bourgeois space.</p>
<p>How can the curse then be broken? In <em>La Vie des morts</em><em><span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">,</span></em> the only solution appears to be to escape and leave the family space in order to save oneself from suffocation. The escape can take many forms: Patrick has been driven to commit suicide, death functioning as the ultimate liberating act; one of Patrick’s brothers lost his memory; another escaped to Lyon without ever contacting the family again; and, as Laurence comments: 'It’s funny to have a priest in the family', suggesting that Uncle Lucien chose the church over the family. Whatever the means, the family space has to be left behind either physically or mentally. However, in <em>Festen</em> escape is not an answer. Christian has been escaping home for years, but in order to solve the matter the only answer is to bring the transgression from the private space to the public realm, as he does in his speech in the dining room (Rees 2004: 170). Eventually, after the
truth has been revealed and accepted, Michael in his aggression takes it as far as trying to destroy the whole private sphere by breaking the windows of the father’s building, demanding that he come out and leave the private space. Another more subtle way to fight the common enemy seems to be the solidarity between different classes and nationalities in the surrounding hostile space, but as mentioned before, this comes to a questionable end in the final sequence of the film.</p>
<p>Whereas Vinterberg namely holds a hostile attitude towards the bourgeoisie, Desplechin concentrates on depicting their life in a more neutral way. Despite the different approaches, they both discover a highly problematic bourgeois space, which seems to cast some sort of curse over its inhabitants. In <em>La Vie des morts</em> the death and depression come from the dying city, from the deep-frozen house and from the suffocating family. It enters the body (Pascale’s ghost pregnancy) and the mind, poisoning them. In <em>Festen,</em> the villa functions as a ‘safety net for the transgressions’ of the family Klingenberg-Hansen (Rees 2004: 167), possibly even more as the corrupting bourgeois space can be seen as the initiator of the transgression, the rotten bourgeois values and ideals having caused the tragedy. However, in Vinterberg’s case, the renouncing of bourgeois values is ambiguous because in the film ‘the underlying message is elitist and troublingly disconnected from the real world’ (Rees 2004: 180).
Despite criticism of the bourgeoisie, it is difficult to identify any ideologies in these two films; the world-views offered are too ambiguous. Thus <em>La Vie des morts</em> and <em>Festen</em> must be seen to represent post-ideological filmmaking, concentrating on depicting life as it is, and, at the same time, challenging the spectators to make their own interpretations. One of the most interesting aspects of Vinterberg and Desplechin as filmmakers is how their films turn to space, rather than time or history as their organizing logic, and understandably so, after the struggles and achievements of those who have come before have lost their meaning to the masses of the post-ideological era.</p>
<p> </p>
<div Class="objavi-no-page-break"><h2>Author’s Comment</h2>
<p>This essay was my first-year project as a student of Scandinavian Studies with Film Studies. It was one of the first film essays I had ever written and I enjoyed the process tremendously, mainly because I had the complete freedom to choose any topic that interested me, something that I was not used to in high school. I ended up choosing two very different kind of films that I greatly admired and found to be dealing with similar themes, but which now in hindsight seems like the biggest weakness of the essay, since they are a bit of a strange and forced combination. However, I do think that I managed to justify my choice of films to a certain extent and I am still quite happy with the final result. Looking back on the essay, I would like to develop the concept of post-ideology further, and link those ideas more strongly to the bourgeois values, and especially, to the concept of space as means of organization and communication in film. I would also concentrate more on actual physical/cinematographic spaces
in the films, rather than mainly talk about space in ideological terms. At the moment I am very much looking forward to seeing both of the directors’ new efforts, namely Vinterberg’s Cannes nominee <em>Jagten</em> and Desplechin’s mystery project <em>AKA Jimmy Picard</em>.</p>
</div><p> </p>
<div class="pagebreakbefore">
<h2>References</h2>
</div>
<p>Austin, Guy (2008). <em>Contemporary French Cinema: An introduction</em>. Manchester: Manchester University Press.</p>
<p>Laursen, Thomas Lind (2000). ‘The Agitated Camera: A diagnosis of Anthony Dod Mantle’s camera work in <em>The Celebration</em>.’ <em>p.o.v.</em> 10, 77-87. http://pov.imv.au.dk/<br>Issue_10/section_3/artc2A.html. Accessed 10 April 2011.</p>
<p>MacKenzie, Scott (2000). ‘Direct Dogma: Film Manifestos and the <em>fin de siècle</em>.’ <em>p.o.v.</em> 10, 159-170. http://pov.imv.au.dk/<br>Issue_10/section_4/artc6A.html. Accessed 10 April 2011.</p>
<p>O’Shaughnessy, Martin (2005). ‘Eloquent Fragments – French Fiction Film and Globalization.’ <em>French Politics, Culture &amp; Society</em> 23:3, 75-88.</p>
<p>Plummer, Robert (2007). ‘French town finds life after industry.’ <em>BBC News</em>, May 2. http://news.bbc.co.uk/<br>1/hi/business/6582681.stm. Accessed 20 April 2011.</p>
<p>Powrie, Phil (1999). ‘Heritage, History, and "New Realism": French Cinema in the 1990s.’ In Powrie, Phil (ed.): <em>French Cinema in the 1990s: Continuity and Difference</em>. Oxford: Oxford University Press.</p>
<p>Rees, Ellen (2004). ‘In My Father’s House Are Many Mansions: Transgressive Space in Three Dogme 95 Films’. <em>Scandinavica</em> 43:2, 165-182.</p>
<p>Schepelern, Peter (2005). ‘Film according to Dogma: Ground Rules, Obstacles, and Liberations.’ Translated by Rune Christensen. In Nestingen, Andrew and Elkington, Trevor G. (eds): <em>Transnational Cinema in a Global North: Nordic Cinema in Transition</em>. Detroit: Wayne State University Press.</p>
<p>Vincendeau, Ginette (2005). <em>La Haine</em>. London: I.B. Tauris &amp; Co. Ltd.</p>
<p>Vinterberg, Thomas, and Lars von Trier. 1995. ‘Dogma 95.’ <em>p.o.v.</em> 10, 6-7. http://pov.imv.au.dk/Issue_10/section_1/<br>artc1A.html. Accessed 10 April 2011.</p>
<p>Warehime, Marja (2002). ‘Politics, Sex, And French Cinema in the 1990s: The Place of Arnaud Desplechin.’ <em>French Studies</em> 56:1, 61-78.</p>
<p>Zagha, Muriel (2005). ‘In the Name of the Father.’ <em>Sight &amp; Sound</em> 15:6, 18-21. http://vnweb.hwwilsonweb.com/<br>hww/results/external_link_maincontentframe.jhtml? _DARGS=/hww/results/results_common.jhtml.44. Accessed 4 April 2011.</p><div id="section-3" Class="objavi-subsection"><div Class="objavi-subsection-heading">Looking and Touching</div><div Class="objavi-chapter"><strong Class="initial">6.</strong> Sensuality and Gesture in Sjöström's Körkarlen,  Daniel Fredriksson</div><div Class="objavi-chapter"><strong Class="initial">7.</strong> Gazing at the Gaze:  Scopophilia in Ingmar Bergman’s Sommaren med Monika and Persona, Melissa Powell</div><div Class="objavi-chapter"><strong Class="initial">8.</strong> Hands as Icon and Symbol of Touch,  Lauren Godfrey</div><div Class="objavi-chapter"><strong Class="initial">9.</strong> INNI: Embodied Spectatorship,  Rose-Anne Ross</div></div><h1 id="ReFzjuCOVS_7"><strong Class="initial">6.</strong> <span class="title">Sensuality and Gesture in Sjöström's
<em>Körkarlen</em><span class="comma">, </span> <span class="author">Daniel Fredriksson</span></span></h1>
<p>Victor Sjöström’s <em>K</em><em>örkarlen </em>(The Phantom Carriage, 1921), a screen adaptation of a Selma Lagerlöf novella which bears the same name, is a film which has achieved canonical status. In an essay entitled 'Victor Sjöström and the Golden Age', Bo Florin writes that both 'historians and critics are fairly unanimous that <em>K</em><em>örkarlen </em>represents the apex of the Golden Age of Swedish Film' (Florin 2010: 83). Furthermore, the film has been linked to notable figures in the history of cinema such as Ingmar Bergman, who counted it as one of his all-time favourite films (Bergman 2007), and Stanley Kubrick, who is said to have been inspired by one of its scenes (<em>Den svenska filmens Guldålder</em>).</p>
<p>It could be argued that the film is also notable for the close resemblance it has to the novella on which it is based. Even elements such as lighting seem to have been formulated with close reference to the original text. Arguably the most notable example of this is the scene where David Holm takes Syster Edit to task for having mended his jacket. At this point in the novel Syster Edit is at first shocked but then she quickly recovers and her eyes are described as lighting up: 'men sedan lågade det opp ett klart ljus i hennes ögon' (but then a bright light burnt in her eyes) (Lagerlöf 1997). At the same point in the film’s narrative, Astrid Holm’s face is lit in such a way that her eyes actually shine (Sjöström 2007). Such attention to detail is certainly remarkable but it does not, I would argue, account for the film’s enduring success. Florin credits 'the ability to reproduce the mood of Lagerlöf’s tale' as one of the factors which has contributed to the film’s prestige (Florin 2010: 83). The film
definitely has a dark and gritty feel which does justice to the original novel, a ghost story with elements of social critique. However, although the film has a similar atmosphere to the novel, it does not, indeed, cannot, employ the same techniques to create that atmosphere. I would argue that in order to truly understand the innovative character of <em>K</em><em>örkarlen</em> one must focus on the ways in which the text has been subtly transmuted by the process of adaptation; that is, those moments where the same mood is achieved as in the novel, but the means by which that mood is created are different due to the logistic problems of adapting from novel to film. Over the course of this essay I will examine some examples of this transition from novel to film.</p>
<p>One could argue that the very act of adapting the novel into a film has given the text a whole new layer of meaning. Bjarne Thorup Thomsen points to this in his essay 'Ibsen, Lagerlöf, Sjöström and <em>Terje Vigen</em>: (Inter)nationalism, (Inter)subjectivity and the Interface between Swedish Silent Cinema and Scandinavian Literature'. Commenting on the work of Sjöström, he writes that Sjöström is 'true to the concerns of silent cinema' in the sense that 'his work displays a recurring, sometimes self-referential interest in the phenomenon of visual perception' (Thomsen 2006: 199). He goes on to maintain that <em>Körkarlen </em>is a particular case in point as it 'celebrates the existential implications of showing and seeing and could be understood as a tribute to cinema itself' (Thomsen 2006: 199). The filmatisation of Lagerlöf’s tale allows it to take on another meaning.<span id="InsertNoteID_1_marker1" class="InsertNoteMarker"><span> In the novel, David Holm is compelled to change his life on the basis
of conversations he overhears as a spirit. The living characters in the novella talk freely when he is in the same room because they are not aware of his presence. As a ghost he is invisible to them. He is therefore able to observe without being observed. In the film version of the story, the act of observation takes on a new significance. Not only does it act as a device by which Holm learns the error of his ways, but it also serves as a comment on the act of looking itself.</span></span></p>
<p>An added layer of meaning is not the only consequence of the novella's filmatisation. In his book <em>Novel to Film: An Introduction to the Theory of Adaptation</em>, Brian McFarlane maintains that a distinction should be made between 'what may be transferred from one narrative medium to another and what necessarily requires adaptation proper' (McFarlane 1996: 13). To address this issue McFarlane offers up his own working definitions of the words ‘transfer’ and ‘adaptation’:</p>
<h5>Throughout the rest of this study ‘transfer’ will be used to denote the process whereby certain narrative elements of novels are revealed as amenable to display in film, whereas the widely used term ‘adaptation’ will refer to the processes by which other novelistic elements must find quite different equivalences in the film medium, when such equivalences are sought or are available at all. (McFarlane 1996: 13)</h5>
<p>McFarlane’s definitions have important implications for this essay. It is implicit from McFarlane’s definitions of these terms that certain novelistic elements are more amenable to transfer than others. In the case of <em>K</em><em>örkarlen</em>, it is safe to assume that aspects of the mise-en-scène such as set design, props and costumes could have been drawn directly from Lagerlöf’s novel without any major logistic problems. This is because the novella was published only nine years before the film was made. McFarlane notes how filmmakers adapting novels by authors such as Dickens and Austen are often distracted trying to recreate the spirit of the time in which the novel is set (McFarlane 1996: 9). He writes that what was 'a contemporary work for the author, who could take a good deal relating to time and place for granted, as requiring little or no scene-setting for his readers, has become a period piece for the film-maker' (9). As the film was roughly contemporary with Lagerlöf's novella, the
filmmakers would not have encountered any major problems trying to set the scene. This would presumably have given the film a sense of immediacy, adding weight to its elements of social critique. Other aspects of the text would have proved more difficult to realise on film. In <em>How to Read a Film: Movies, Media and Beyond</em>, James Monaco writes that 'language systems may be much better equipped to deal with the nonconcrete world of ideas and abstractions (...) but they are not nearly so capable of conveying precise information about physical realities' (Monaco 2009: 179). Herein lay the challenge which would have been posed by the task of adapting <em>K</em><em>örkarlen </em>from novella to film. Lagerlöf’s novel provides the reader with an insight into the psychological torment faced by someone who is starting to realise the full extent of the pain and suffering their actions have caused. The novel is arguably a format better equipped than film to evoke this sense of torment which belongs much more to
the 'nonconcrete world of ideas and abstractions'. Psychological information relating to characters belongs to the category which McFarlane, borrowing a term from Roland Barthes, refers to as ‘indices’ (McFarlane 1996: 13). According to Barthes, indices denote a 'more or less diffuse concept which is nevertheless necessary to the meaning of the story' (Barthes 1977: 89). Barthes further subdivides this category into ‘indices proper’ and ‘informants’ (96). McFarlane explains how the first category refers to more diffuse concepts such as character and atmosphere, while the second category refers to what Barthes calls 'ready-made knowledge' e.g. the names, ages and professions of characters. McFarlane notes that only the latter category can be directly transferred, whereas indices proper are more open to adaptation (McFarlane 1996: 14). A film which has been adapted from a novel must therefore invent strategies by which it can convey information which belongs within the category indices proper.</p>
<p>Some examples of these strategies can be found early on in the film, during the scene in which David Holm has died and he is about to lay eyes on the phantom carriage for the very first time. In the novella a whole chapter (albeit a rather short one) is dedicated to this episode, which also includes David’s first encounter with the spirit of Georges. The first part of this chapter deals with David’s attempts to try to come to terms with his seeming paralysis; he is dead, therefore he can neither move nor cry out for help nor experience cold (Lagerlöf 1997: 26-29). He tries to deny the reality of what has happened to him, reasoning that he cannot be dead because he can both see and hear (27). This section also deals with the unsettling effect which the creaking noise of the approaching carriage has on David Holm. It is referred to as 'det förskräckliga gnisslet' (the terrible screeching) and is said to be scaring him out of his senses; a real feeling of suspense is created in this part of the novel; as
Holm is fixed in one position, he does not</p>
<p><br><br><br><img src="static/Fredrikson1.jpg" alt="" width="400" height="298"><br><br><span class="imagecaption">David Holm covers his ears at the arrival of the phantom carriage. <em>Körkarlen</em>, Victor Sjöström, Sweden, 1921</span></p>
<div class="pagebreakbefore">
<p>immediately see the phantom carriage in its entirety. Rather, it slowly enters into his field of vision, bit by bit (29). At this point in the film’s narrative, no attempt is made to convey the sensation of being trapped within a dead body. This is presumably because such a sensation would have been almost impossible to present visually. However, the film does manage to convey the traumatic effect which the sound of the approaching carriage has on David Holm. As it draws nearer, Holm claps his hands over his ears as if to try and drown out the sound. When the carriage draws to a halt, Holm lowers his hands from his head. This gesture clearly signifies that it is the sound of the carriage as it moves which has so distressed him. It could be argued that the arrival of the carriage does not create quite the same feeling of suspense as it does in the text, where it gradually appears before Holm’s eyes.</p>
</div>
<p>However, the on-screen version of this episode is not somehow inferior purely because it does not seek to replicate the novella exactly. As McFarlane argues: 'There are many kinds of relations which may exist between film and literature, and fidelity is only one – and rarely the most exciting' (McFarlane 1996: 11). Indeed, it is a much more rewarding exercise to look at the ways in which the text has been enriched by the process of adaptation from one medium to another. While the scene in which the carriage arrives may lack the carefully constructed suspense which this episode has in the novel, this lack of suspense is masterfully counterbalanced by the sheer spectacle of the carriage realised on screen. The carriage and the spirits are not only eerie in a way which evokes the atmosphere of Lagerlöf’s text, but they are also visually stunning and technically brilliant; they thus represent a feat which, for obvious reasons, cannot be achieved in literature. Commenting on the double exposures used to create
the ghostly apparitions, Florin writes: '[t]he double exposures, often identified as the stylistic device most conductive to the magic of the film, are still stunning by virtue of their effectiveness and brilliant execution' (Florin 2010: 83).</p>
<p>Equally innovative is the way in which the film endeavours to engage the senses of the viewer through the use of simple gestures. An important example of this strategy can be found in the above-mentioned episode where a hand gesture is used to create the impression that Holm is unsettled by a disturbing noise. This represents an elegant solution to the problem of how to convey the idea of sound prior to the advent of sound films. The film obviously cannot stimulate the viewer’s sense of hearing like an audiovisual film can, but it makes a heartening attempt to communicate the notion of sound <em>via</em> the visual. An author who has written widely on the role which the senses play in cinema is Laura Marks. In her book <em>Touch: Sensuous Theory and Multisensory Media</em>, Marks offers up a definition of the term ‘haptic cinema’:</p>
<h5>Haptic cinema appeals to a viewer who perceives with all the senses. It involves thinking with your skin, or giving as much significance to the physical presence of an other as to the mental operations of symbolization. This is not a call to wilful regression but to recognizing the intelligence of the perceiving body. (Marks 2002: 18)</h5>
<p>Marks refers to more recent works in her survey of haptic cinema. She does, however, include a brief discussion of the early years of cinema. She notes that 'in its early years cinema appealed to the emerging fascination with the instability of vision, to embodied vision and the viewer’s physiological responses' (Marks 2002: 7). She goes on to maintain that the 'early-cinema phenomenon of a "cinema of attractions" describes an embodied response, in which the illusion that permits distanced identification with the action onscreen gives way to an immediate bodily response to the screen' (Marks 2002: 7). Marks concludes her discussion of early haptic cinema with the assertion that as 'the language of cinema became standardized, cinema appealed more to narrative identification than to body identification' (Marks 2002: 7). Although <em>K</em><em>örkarlen</em> belongs more to the realm of narrative cinema, it is important to note, as Tom Gunning does, that the cinema of attractions did not simply disappear with
the advent of narrative cinema; rather, it found its place within that paradigm (Gunning 2004: 43). As Gunning points out, 'the desire to display may interact with the desire to tell a story' (Gunning 2004: 43). <em>K</em><em>örkarlen </em>certainly does not go to the same lengths to elicit a bodily response from the viewer as films which belong within the cinema of attractions. Nor does the film’s imagery 'have the effect of overwhelming and spilling into other sense perceptions' (Marks 2002: 133). What the film does do, however, is invite the viewer to imagine with the senses. It does this through the use of visual cues which, when properly decoded, intensify the viewer’s understanding of the film’s narrative. These visual cues not only transmit information pertaining to sensory perception, but they simultaneously convey information which belongs within the category of indices proper. The above-mentioned scene where Holm claps his hands over his ears is a particular case in point due to the fact that it
communicates the fact that Holm is hearing a noise at the same time as it tells the viewer that he is experiencing anxiety. This gesture thus represents one of the strategies by which the film attempts to adapt that which cannot be simply transferred from the novel onto the screen.</p>
<p>Another instance of this strategy occurs later on in the film during a flashback sequence which reveals how Syster Edit came to fall in love with David Holm. It occurs in the scene where Holm arrives at the newly founded Salvation Army centre hoping to find a bed for the night. Holm quickly passes out in the room which houses the beds and Syster Maria goes to turn out the light, but with a simple hand motion Edit gestures for her to stop. At first it is difficult to understand what is meant by this gesture; surely Edit who is portrayed as being so caring would want the light to be turned off so that Holm could sleep in peace without it disturbing him. However, this gesture takes on a different significance if one considers the possibility that this could have been a gas lamp. Gas lamps produce an incredible amount of heat when they are left on in a room and they are for that reason invaluable during winter time. This action is therefore intended to signify that Edit wants to protect Holm by ensuring that
the room where he is sleeping is as warm and comfortable as possible. The intertitles explicitly state that the room where Edit goes to sleep is dangerously cold. They do not however give the viewer any clue as to how warm Holm’s room would have been by comparison. The ability to decode this visual cue is not vital to an audience’s understanding of the film. Nevertheless, when it is decoded successfully, this cue intensifies the viewer’s understanding of the story. Not only does it contain information relating to the senses but it also enhances the characterisation of Edit as charitable and selfless.</p>
<p>In <em>K</em><em>örkarlen</em> the desire to evoke certain memories and sensations is not at the forefront as it is in the films examined by Marks, but rather it is integrated more discreetly into the narrative. To adapt a phrase by Gunning, the desire to engage the body interacts with the desire to tell a story. Sensory perception nevertheless provides an exciting new angle by which one can analyse this classic film. <em>K</em><em>örkarlen </em>is fondly remembered by critics for its spectacular special effects and technical innovation. Such reverence for the film’s special effects is undoubtedly justified. The text has also been enriched by its filmatisation in the sense that it has gained a whole new layer of meaning. I would argue, however, that the most innovative aspect of the film is the way in which it seeks to convey the non-visual elements of the original novel through the use of sensuality and gesture. Therein lays the true power of the film.</p>
<p> </p>
<div Class="objavi-no-page-break"><h2>Author's Comment</h2>
<p>I wrote this essay as my final piece of coursework for Nordic Cinema. I recall that it was with a great sense of excitement that I started writing this project in the last four to five days of the Christmas holidays; the rest of my holiday had been taken up with writing an essay for a history module (a task which had proven to be much more onerous than expected as history is not one of my strong points). I was eager to do a good job, not only because the marks for the essay would make up a large percentage of my final grade for Nordic Cinema, but also because I had enjoyed the course immensely and I wanted my enthusiasm for the subject to be reflected in my essay.  <br><br> Looking back on this essay over six months later, I would have to say that I am fairly content with how it turned out. However, there is one thing which I would do differently if I were to rewrite it; namely, I would provide more examples of ways in which the film seeks to convey information belonging within the category ‘indices
proper’. The reason I did not do this is because I mistakenly believed that the maximum word count for the project was 3000 rather than 5000 words.  Had I written more, I’m sure the finished piece would have been far more engaging. Nevertheless, I am proud that I managed to fit so much into an incredibly small space. Working with a smaller word count than necessary was a good exercise in learning how to be succinct and use clear, precise language.</p>
</div><p> </p>
<div class="pagebreakbefore">
<h2>References</h2>
</div>
<p>Barthes, Roland (1977). 'Introduction to the Structural Analysis of Narratives'. In Roland Barthes, <em>Image-Music-Text</em> (trans. S. Heath). Glasgow: Fontana/Collins.</p>
<p>Bergman, Ingmar (2007, July 31). <em>Ingmar Bergmans utlåtanden om svenska filmer</em>. Retrieved January 5, 2011, from www.aftonbladet.se: http://www.aftonbladet.se/kultur/article558995.ab</p>
<p><em>Den svenska filmens Guldålder</em> (n.d.). Retrieved January 5, 2011, from http://www.thorellifilm.com/sidaMedia/<br>filmartiklar2_guldalder.htm</p>
<p>Florin, Bo (2010). 'Victor Sjöström and the Golden Age'. In Mariah Larsson, &amp; Anders Marklund (eds): <em>Swedish Film: An Introduction and Reader.</em> Lund: Nordic Academic Press.</p>
<p>Gunning, Tom (2004). '"Now You See It, Now You Don't": The Temporality of the Cinema of Attractions'. In Lee Grieveson &amp; Peter Krämer (eds): <em>The Silent Cinema Reader.</em> London: Routledge.</p>
<p>Lagerlöf, Selma (1997). <em>Körkarlen &amp; Herr Arnes penningar.</em> Bra Böcker.</p>
<p>Marks, Laura U. (2002). 'Video Haptics and Erotics.' In Laura U. Marks: <em>Touch: Sensuous Theory and Multisensory Media.</em> Minnesota: University of Minnesota Press.</p>
<p>McFarlane, Brian (1996). <em>Novel to Film: An Introduction to the Theory of Adaptation.</em> Oxford: Clarendon Press.</p>
<p>Monaco, James (2009). <em>How to Read a Film: Movies, Media and Beyond</em> (4th Edition). Oxford: Oxford University Press.</p>
<p>Sjöström, Victor (Director). (2007). <em>The Phantom Carriage KTL Edition</em> [Motion Picture]. Tartan Video.</p>
<p>Thomsen, Bjarne Thorup (2006). 'Ibsen, Lagerlöf, Sjöström and Terje Vigen: (Inter)nationalism, (Inter)subjectivity and the Interface between Swedish Silent Cinema and Scandinavian Literature'. In C. Claire Thomson (ed.): <em>Northern Constellations: New Readings in Nordic Cinema.</em> Norwich: Norvik Press.</p><h1 id="ReFzjuCOVS_9"><strong Class="initial">7.</strong> <span class="title">Gazing at the Gaze<span class="punctuation">: </span> <span class="subtitle">Scopophilia in Ingmar Bergman’s <em>Sommaren med Monika</em> and <em>Persona</em></span><span class="comma">, </span><span class="author">Melissa Powell</span></span></h1>
<p>Where do we locate the filmic gaze? The question is more problematic than it first appears; one might assume that the viewer simply gazes at the film, but this is reductive. As Metz argues, 'there are several kinds of exhibitionism, and correspondingly several kinds of voyeurism'; the dynamic relationships between viewer and performer are far from as simplistic as this (Metz 1983: 58). When a spectator views a film, he gazes at the characters, the actors, and, according to Mulvey’s argument that 'cinema satisfies a primordial wish for pleasurable looking, but it also goes further, developing scopophilia in its narcissistic aspect', he gazes at his self-image (Mulvey 2009: 17). The on-screen bodies, too, gaze at each other, and at themselves. Furthermore, as the notion of the film having a 'skin', and being therefore capable of a mutually responsive relationship with its viewer, has been enthusiastically adopted in recent scholarship, we might concede that the film can look back at the spectator. The
plural manifestations of scopophilia (or, the love of looking) in film are complex, potentially troubling, but essential to the nature of cinema.</p>
<p>The filmic gaze has been defined as erotic, unsettling, mimetic, and 'crazy' (Mulvey 2009: 14; Barthes 2000: 13, 113; Bazin 2009: 8; Metz 1983: 66). But whether we want to understand the film as a screen, window, mirror, 'skin', or even a piece of life (or death), the gaze is paramount (Mulvey 2006: 16-17). Though it is often associated with early cinema, we have never got away from the 'cinema of attractions' (Gunning 2004: 42). Nor are we ever likely to tire of the bewitching pull of the film’s ability to <em>show</em>. Cinema is a scopophilic medium, obsessed with the image, and with itself as bearer of the image.</p>
<p>In this essay, I intend to analyse two films by Ingmar Bergman in which I consider the obsession with looking, or 'scopic drive' to be central (Metz 1983: 58). I shall begin with a discussion of <em>Sommaren med Monika</em>, isolating three types of looking: looking <em>in</em> the film, <em>at</em> the film, and <em>out of</em> the film. Taking as a point of departure Mulvey’s influential essay 'Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema'<em>,</em> I shall explore how the film variously exemplifies and problematises her theory of 'woman as image, man as bearer of the look' in cinema (Mulvey 2009: 19). Subsequently, I shall discuss <em>Persona</em>, in which the issue of scopophilia becomes the driving force behind what is shown (I hesitate to use the term 'plot', as the film consistently resists narrative coherence). I shall explore how the film subverts convention, uses defamiliarising techniques and takes a decentralising approach to narrative in order to present itself as a film about film. It uses its two
central <em>personae</em> (no word could be more appropriate – we cannot refer to them either as characters or actors with full authority) to explore the possibilities existent between the film and the viewer. Through this discussion, I hope to show that we cannot consider the cinematic gaze as monolithic; it is a profoundly complex phenomenon, and difficult to locate. This consideration is manifest in my chosen films; Bergman’s exploration of the scopophilic impulse is thoughtful, pluralistic, and integral to the ontology of his work.</p>
<p>Monika has become an icon of European cinema; she was a 'new type of woman', both celebrated and infamous (Bragg 2008: 17). Her iconic status is seemingly inaugurated by her erotic appeal; she has even been called 'eroticism incarnate' (Cowie 1992: 102). However, is her appeal inextricably bound to her position as fetishised object of the look? After all, instrumental to Monika’s allure is that she subverts stereotyped Hollywood 'womanliness'. In fact, Monika’s relationship to the gaze is intriguing; she is object and subject, viewer and viewed; she is looked at, but she looks back. We would hardly call Monika a powerless object of the scopophilic impulse, yet we cannot remove her from her objectified appeal. Ultimately, Monika’s approach to the look is 'challengingly ambivalent' (Hubner 2007:30).</p>
<p>I shall first discuss looking <em>in</em> the film. We instantly recognise Monika as an object of male desire in the film; we see from the scene at her workplace that men behave suggestively, even predatorily, towards her. Almost every time she is on screen, the camera is centred on her. This seemingly agrees with Mulvey’s theory that 'pleasure in looking has been split between active/male and passive/female; [...women] connote <em>to-be-looked-at-ness</em>' (Mulvey 2009: 19, original emphasis). However, we might suggest that Monika enjoys being an object of the gaze; she is an exhibitionist. After all, Mulvey also argues that 'looking itself is a source of pleasure, just as, [...] there is pleasure in being looked at' (Mulvey 2009: 16-17). If we perceive Monika as aware of her potential identity as object, and as exploiting this potential, then we understand her as 'performing' her gender role, and her self-consciousness allows her to an extent to control her own image. And the image that Monika wants to
convey is inspired by cinema. As Hubner argues, '[h]er identification with the female star suggests an absorption in the illusion of what she might be and that her role as a woman is constructed' (Hubner 2007: 41).</p>
<p>We understand from the scene of Harry and Monika in the cinema how deeply affected Monika is by the on-screen couple, and how she admires their glamorous lifestyle; her attraction to Harry also derives from the fact that she imagines him as a film character. When Monika wishes to seem appealing, her behaviour, dress and speech suggest glamorous Hollywood stars. This mimicry has a meta-cinematic dimension; when Monika is most obviously 'performing', she seems to present herself well to the camera. When the couple kiss in Harry’s home, for instance, the shot is initially poorly composed; Harry is in the foreground, and Monika obscured behind him. Monika reorders the shot so that she, the scopophilic object, replaces Harry in the foreground, and appears pleasingly to the camera. Furthermore, in such moments the aesthetics of the film alter remarkably; as Monika 'performs' womanliness, or female stardom, the background often fades to black, and she is lit intensely, creating an artificial and glamorised
effect, reminiscent of the heavily contrived Hollywood movie seen earlier (a perfect example of this is the couple’s first kiss, in which Monika even directly quotes the film). It is also in Monika’s most fetishised moments that the film is more likely to employ fades and other devices that draw attention to the constructed nature of the otherwise fairly aesthetically realistic film. Expanding on Hubner’s argument that the film</p>
<p><br><br><br><img src="static/Powell_BW.jpg" alt="" width="400" height="300"><br><br><span class="imagecaption"><em>Sommaren med Monika</em> (Summer with Monika), Ingmar Bergman, Sweden, 1953</span></p>
<div class="pagebreakbefore">
<p>aligns us with Monika’s dreams of escape rather than Harry’s, and remembering Monika’s fascination with the escapism of cinema, in these scenes that seem deliberate nods to Hollywood, we are perhaps aesthetically entering Monika’s fantasy, problematising Mulvey’s paradigm of passive female object and male point of identification (Hubner 2007: p 42).</p>
</div>
<p>Mulvey’s theory is further challenged by the fact that Monika can adopt the 'active' role. Mulvey argues that it is traditionally 'the man’s role as the active one of advancing the story', but, despite Monika’s exhibitionism and her aspirations to archetypal femininity, she often grows impatient of Harry’s hesitancy (Mulvey 2009: 20). It is Monika who instigates the 'escape' from the city, ends the physical fight with Lelle, and breaks into the wealthy property to steal food whilst Harry lingers passively. Paradoxically, she is an active object.</p>
<p>Furthermore, Monika is far from the typical helpless object of the gaze. Male voyeurism often takes an aggressive turn – she is almost assaulted at work – but she proves herself able to overcome this, and thus capable of resisting the gaze (Hubner 2007: 33). In fact, she code-switches between male and female roles. This is even echoed in her appearance; when Monika is playing the passive 'female', she is well-dressed, well made-up, softly lit and glamorous, but when she becomes the active 'male', she appears quite differently: 'The unwashed hair, the mouth perpetually at work on gum, the proud, unboosted bosom: these built a new idiom into movie language' (Cowie 1992: 102). The enduring image of Monika is the heroine who undermined the 'strapped and laced eighteen or nineteen of the virgin woman in embryo we were all used to on the Big Screen' (Bragg 2008: 17); she attracts not through submission to the gaze, but through toying with it.</p>
<p class="Body">Finally, Monika problematises the gender of looking <em>in</em> the film by the fact that she is herself a voyeur. She is fascinated by dreams of glamour and Hollywood, and as desperate to look as to perform. Her voyeurism also extends to her own image; mirrors in the film become identified with Monika, from the first shot in which she appears, continuing through numerous instances in the film. Even in moments of distress, whenever she sees a mirror, she will pause to arrange her clothes, hair and make-up. The gaze, then, becomes intriguingly self-reflexive; she is at once looking and looked at. Her exhibitionism is not exclusively for a male subject, but for herself. In the world of the gendered gaze, Monika is challengingly androgynous.</p>
<p>Monika’s scopophilic appeal extends far beyond the diegetic frame. Film viewing is a reciprocal experience, creating an apparent subject-object hierarchy between the spectator and the screen. It is not only the onscreen bodies, but also the audience who are engaged in a voyeuristic dynamic with Monika. It is to this I refer when I use the term 'looking <em>at</em> the film'. According to Mulvey, this manifestation of the gaze is also gendered; the female body is to be looked at, the male to be identified with (Mulvey 2009: 20). She is the image, he the viewer’s self-image. It is through cinema that the voyeuristic gaze is legitimised: 'what is necessary in this fiction for the establishment of potency and desire is presumed to be sufficiently guaranteed by the physical presence of the object: "Since it is there, it must like it"'. The on-screen look is self-consciously a surface on which the spectator can superimpose his own scopophilic fantasy in a manner unauthorised by ordinary life (Metz 1983: 62).
This perspective coheres with <em>Sommaren med Monika</em>. Describing his experiences of the film, Bragg articulates the condition of most of its audience: it 'tapped itself into the real root of what I knew I had in some measure or would in some measure or wanted in some measure to experience. The bait was Harriet Andersson' (Bragg 2008: 17). He describes how Monika provided a bold counter-figure to traditional Hollywood heroines, who 'were not so much brought to us on the screen as separated from us by the screen' (Bragg 2008: 17). Expanding this idea, we could suggest that Monika managed to break through the 'separating' screen; her sensuality, more tangible than that of Hollywood, reached out almost physically to the audience, and they reached back.</p>
<p>According to Mulvey’s theory, however, the primary point of identification for the viewer is the male protagonist. 'By means of identification with him [...] the spectator can indirectly possess her too' (Mulvey 2009: 22). This often obtains; even when he is the only figure in shot, we are rarely looking at Harry, but looking at him looking at Monika, and shots of her are frequently aligned with his legitimately voyeuristic gaze. He is allowed to possess her image within the narrative; therefore we (his anti-diegetic other by proxy of camera angle) are allowed to possess her too. Perhaps the most articulated example of this paradigm is the sequence in which the film shows Monika removing her clothes, cuts to Harry watching her (filmed from a low angle, to emphasise his privileged 'male' vantage point), and cuts back to Monika running naked across the rocks, from an angle that 'creat[es] a sense of voyeurism, closely aligned with Harry’s gaze' (Hubner 2007: 31).This scene is returned to later in the film,
as a memory, cross-cut with shots of his face in a mirror. The fact that the male is obviously filmed in the act of 'gazing' on both occasions 'foreground[s] the act of looking and male voyeurism, making clear links between Harry’s gaze [...] and the spectator watching the film' (Hubner 2007: 31).</p>
<p>As previously mentioned, the lighting and composition of the shots indicate Monika as the object of the gaze. In her moments of exhibitionism, Harry is politely marginalised within the shot. As Monika lies decadently sprawled across the top of the boat, for example, in an intensely fetishised pose, she is clearly the visual draw, whilst Harry, facing away from the camera, is almost hidden by the boat as he literally 'drives' the action, but as a 'male figure [he] cannot bear the burden of sexual objectification' (Mulvey 2009: 20). Harry’s physical presence is of no aesthetic interest; he is a euphemistic device moderating the pure, voyeuristic 'perversion' of unmediated looking (Metz 1983: 93).</p>
<p>However, we are not always reliant on the male protagonist to validate our gaze. The spectator is sometimes offered a privileged view of Monika, for example, in the sequence in which we watch her scurry about in her underwear before Harry wakes. Deprived of its diegetic mediator, however, the voyeuristic camera initially seems almost embarrassed; at first, we watch Monika from a distance, our view partially obscured by the long grass. Subsequently, the camera becomes increasingly confident, drawing closer to Monika with each shot, finally almost touching her as it follows her legs over the rocks. The view of the independent spectator becomes increasingly close and fetishised. Marks claims the spectator may 'touch' the film - and therefore the objects of desire – independently of the authorisation of onscreen bodies (Marks 2000: 162). Techniques such as 'a smoothly tracking camera movement [and] soft-focus cinematography, or an editing style dominated by lap dissolves', which Barker claims are used by the
film to 'caress', are employed in conjunction with Monika (Barker 2009: 32). The 'tactility' and sensuality of <em>Sommaren med Monika</em> invites its spectators into an experience where 'the viewer’s skin extends beyond his or her own body; it reaches toward the film as the film reaches toward it', long before Marks and Barker suggested their theories (Barker 2009: 33).</p>
<p>The gaze <em>at</em> the film is a powerful phenomenon in <em>Sommaren med Monika</em>. Monika’s scopophilic pull is addressed not only to her diegetic spectators but also, constantly, to her 'real' audience; it is not only Harry’s but everybody’s summer with Monika.</p>
<p>Concerning the look <em>out of</em> the film, I refer mainly to perhaps the most discussed scene of <em>Sommaren med Monika</em>: the moment in which Harriet Andersson infamously shatters cinematic convention and stares directly down the lens. This shot is Monika’s most definitive reaction to the scopophilic gaze. It is well-documented that such a mimesis-breaking action was 'forbidden' in cinema (Barthes 2000: 111); the film is 'not precisely something that hides, rather something that lets itself be seen without presenting itself to be seen, [...].This is the origin in particular of that ‘recipe’ of the classical cinema which said that the actor should never look directly at the audience (= the camera)' (Metz 1983: 63). Breaking this rule, then, Monika is 'presenting' herself, rather than 'letting' herself be seen. This makes her active; her stare back at the audience - out of the film - problematises the female as subject of the gaze, but also the film as subject of the gaze. It is an aggressive, meta-
cinematic parody of the scopophilic impulse.</p>
<p>Bergman claims that this look was the first of its kind: 'here is suddenly established, for the first time in the history of film, shameless, direct contact with the viewer' (Bergman 1995: 296). This has since been contested, but it nonetheless made a powerful impression (Livingston 2009: 79). For Bragg, it was the most powerful and erotic image of the film: it 'made me hate her and lust after her in equal and unbearable conflict' (Bragg 2008: 17-18).This look is a popular source of critical debate. Many have interpreted it as a wanton stare, and the subsequent sequence of bright neon lights as indicative of Monika’s doom; Cowie claims: 'this last passage suggests a return to the bleak, sordid life of the early Bergman films', whilst Wood is certain that 'we are in no doubts as to the life into which Monika is being sucked' (Cowie 1992: 104; Wood 1969: 41). This view seems suspiciously close to Mulvey’s theory of the 'male' compulsion to subjugate the inherently 'guilty' female party (guilty as erotic
object or perpetuator of 'castration anxiety') through either saving or punishing her (Mulvey 2009: 22). Certainly, the gaze of the object back at the subject, usurping its privilege, <em>is</em> threatening. It is hardly surprising that some viewers feel compelled to neutralise it through straightforward condemnation.</p>
<p>Hubner’s interpretation is more convincing; she suggests this may be 'the moment when Monika becomes the movie star', reading the images that follow as indicative of Monika’s achieved dreams of glamour (Hubner 2007: 45-46). This idea gains force considering the aesthetics of the shot; Monika is smoking, her hair and make-up near perfect, the lighting is striking and contrived, and the background effaced to black, all recalling the glamorous artificiality of Hollywood. Hubner’s best point, however, is that the look is simply unreadable: a 'challenging, active and defiantly illegible gaze at the camera' (Hubner 2007: 46). Elements such as the <em>chiaroscuro</em> contribute to this ambivalence, but we might argue that the gaze <em>out of</em> the film is simply so challenging, so unsettling, and so unusual that the spectator cannot know what to make of it. It brings us to the surface of our own scopophilic impulse.</p>
<p>Monika’s stare back at the camera is a perfect example of the threat that cinema can look back at us. We recall earlier instances in which Monika seems to place herself pleasurably before the camera – this 'defiant' stare shows that the scopophilic object is capable of change. It is a knowing, unsettling and aggressive stare. It reminds us of the multiplicity of film’s touch; the image needn’t be soft, pliant and pleasing (Barker 2009: 36). It can also pierce us. The film can invade our space, just as we can enter its space.</p>
<p><em>Sommaren med Monika</em> both demonstrates and undermines the scopic drive in cinema. In <em>Persona</em>, that drive is brought absolutely to the centre; a 'film of a film from first image to last', it is a meta-cinematic exploration of its medium, foregrounding the gaze and the relationship between viewer and cinema (Vierling 1974: 49). Both are films in which the gaze is vital, almost agonisingly present, but the distinguishing element of <em>Persona</em> is that it no longer embeds these concerns in a coherent narrative. As Bergman himself writes: 'the gospel according to which one must be comprehensible at all costs [...] could finally go to hell' (Bergman 1995: 64-65).</p>
<p>The aim of traditional narrative cinema is to make its processes invisible; to 'eliminate intrusive camera presence and prevent a distancing awareness in the audience. Without these two absences [...] fictional drama cannot achieve reality, obviousness and truth' (Mulvey 2009: 26). The idea that this invisibility ensures 'reality' or 'truth' is absurd; what is truer than the fact that a film is a film? Conversely, <em>Persona</em> is profoundly aware of its own lie; by including shots of carbons, film stock, projectors, and even Bergman and Nykvist themselves (though all only as 'real-seeming artifice'), it draws attention to itself as constructed (Blackwell 1997: 136). Such process-exposing devices were hallmarks of the avant-garde, but Bergman differentiates himself by allowing <em>Persona</em> the vestiges of narrative convention (Mulvey 2006: 67). We can still conceivably speak of character, dialogue, development and occasional moments of narrative lucidity in the film, and its length, format and
marketing are analogous to narrative cinema rather than avant-garde films. In its form, <em>Persona</em> often resembles traditional narrative, but in fact, any 'attempts to extract a coherent meaning from <em>Persona</em>' in a traditional sense are misguided (Hubner 2007: 76). <em>Persona</em> does not present us with a plot but a plot-shaped hole.</p>
<p><em>Persona</em> exploits and subverts narrative convention in order to underscore the artifice of narrative itself. It uses several recognisable 'framing' devices; the flashback to Elisabet in costume at the start of her silence, Alma’s monologue which directly addresses the camera, and Bergman’s voiceover at the summerhouse. Repetition of such techniques would make them seamless, but as each is used only a single time (except the flashback, though it is repeated only once), they strike the viewer as unsettlingly incongruous, shattering any mimetic flow. In the opening scenes at the hospital, furthermore, the mis-en-scène is exaggeratedly minimal, recalling a theatre set more than a film, and certainly not suggesting any kind of 'reality'. These techniques are defamiliarising; by constantly reorganising the laws of its diegetic world, <em>Persona</em> prevents us from being convinced by its fiction, ensuring that we think of it as <em>film</em>.</p>
<p>Perhaps <em>Persona</em>’s most renowned 'defamiliarising' - and meta-cinematic - sequences are the beginning, ending, and 'breaking' of the film. These have been subject to extensive critical debate; Blackwell suggests that the images may be nods to Bergman’s earlier films, whilst Vierling’s view is that they exemplify how cinema can confront us on 'emotional' rather than 'intellective' level (Blackwell 1997: 137; Vierling 1974: 51). Expanding on this latter perspective, we can argue that the often 'haptic' images, and the range of sensory responses elicited, demonstrate cinema’s heterogeneous 'touch'; by presenting us with a series of images that resist narrativization, but evoke a pre-intellectual reaction, the film forces us to recognise our own gaze (Marks 2000: 129).</p>
<p>These elements point to the fact that <em>Persona</em> is a film, but not a 'story'. By largely eschewing narrative, it makes us sensitive to the film-viewing experience and film-making processes, and the most important of these is the impulse to look. The presence of the scopophilic drive is felt overwhelmingly throughout; by acknowledging the impossibility of narrative truth, we are left with the only 'truth' cinema can plausibly lay claim to: the active/passive involvement of the viewer. And it is to this that any graspable 'narrative' of the film pertains. How do we describe what 'happens' in <em>Persona</em>? It is problematic to answer definitively, but we might simply suggest: 'two women meet. They look at one another.'</p>
<p>Insofar as there is any notion of narrative in <em>Persona</em>, it is the narrative of viewing a film. In a diegetic sense, we can read the relationship of the two women as an allegory of 'looking' in the cinema; their interactions reflect the various, complicated dynamics between spectator and 'spectrum' (Barthes 2000: 9). The allegory persists in plural manifestations.</p>
<p>In its most straightforward form, the dynamic of subject and object of the gaze is established in the roles of the two women. Elisabet is an actress, a 'sexual icon, a body on which male culture inscribes its narrative' and a patient, instantly the object of the gaze and authority of the nurse, Alma (Blackwell 1997: 144). In their early scenes together, Alma’s role corresponds to a simplistic idea of the cinema viewer: whilst pleasurably in awe of her glamorous object, she is authoritative, and able to master the gaze. As actress and patient, Elisabet - subjugated, docile and pleasing – is literally there for Alma to observe. Her gentleness and silence initially connote her as incapable of intrusive or troubling response. In this manifestation, Alma represents the spectator’s imagination of herself at a 'masterable' distance from the scopophilic object.</p>
<p>Pleasure derived from the privileged gaze is the basic manifestation of scopophilia. Mulvey has also highlighted the second nature of this drive, which 'comes from identification with the image seen' (Mulvey 2009: 18). Accordingly, in <em>Persona</em>, Alma views Elisabet not simply as image, but as self-image. She begins to dress, smoke, even move, like the actress; she even expresses the phenomenon directly, describing watching one of Elisabet’s films, and thinking 'vi liknar' ('we are alike'). Initially, the act of self-recognition in the filmic other is a triumphant one: the spectator is impressed with her likeness. Alma enjoys looking at Elisabet, but does not immediately consider her position as unilaterally authoritative subject problematised; she considers herself the spectator.</p>
<p>The relationship of the two women represents that of spectator and on-screen body, but also that of spectator and film. It is pleasurable and dangerous; the cinema is 'one lawful activity [which provides] a <em>loophole</em> opening on to something slightly more crazy, slightly less approved than what one does the rest of the time'; a space for  the 'projection of the [spectator’s] repressed desire onto the performer' (Metz 1983: 66 original emphasis; Mulvey 2009: 17). Certainly, Alma’s seemingly personal relationship with Elisabet introduces her to possibilities more bizarre, more carnal, and both more and less 'real' than those of her 'approved' life. Alma and Elisabet are filmed at an increasingly intimate proximity; Alma, as 'spectator', becomes increasingly, physically involved in Elisabet as 'film'. They caress and stroke one another; their relationship, as Barker says of that of film and view, is 'fundamentally erotic' (Barker 2009: 34).This is the authorised pleasure of the gaze. In allowing
ourselves to gaze at the image, we 'come to the surface of ourselves' (Barker 2009: 35). This is part of Alma’s experience; it is the 'slightly crazy' capacity of the scopophilic impulse that means that the process of looking gives license to her repressed side ('the <em>hurter</em> alongside the <em>healer</em>, the lesbian alongside the heterosexual'), allowing her to express her most 'unapproved' secrets (the orgy on the beach and her abortion, amongst others) (Vierling 1974: 50, original emphasis). In coming to her own 'surface', however, Alma’s 'spectator' position as one of unambiguous mastery becomes problematic. She touches the image, but the image touches her back.</p>
<p>The notion that image and spectator 'create' one another is established; 'it animates me, and I animate it' (Barthes 2000: 20). This idea seems pertinent; the women <em>almost</em> 'become' one another. Bergman wanted to show two women who '<em>exchange personalities</em> [...one experiences] the condition of the other woman’s soul' (Bergman 1995: 60). Cinema and spectator are incapable of such a literal 'mergence', but what occurs in <em>Persona</em> is a profound problematisation of the established hierarchy between the two (Blackwell 1997: 133). They do not 'merge', but the boundaries blur. Considering the idea that cinema resembles 'an erotic embrace, in which we sometimes cannot tell where one body ends and the other begins', the sequence in which Elisabet enters Alma’s room becomes a visual metaphor for film-viewing (Marks in Barker 2009: 35). At first, they look at each other; then Elisabet sweeps back Alma’s fringe, demonstrating their 'alike-ness', enacting 'scopophilia in its narcissistic aspect'
 (Mulvey 2009: 17). Finally, they intertwine, and the lighting fades, obscuring bodily boundaries. It is erotic and expository; they look, they resemble, they touch, they (almost) merge.</p>
<p>This is emblematic of <em>Persona</em>’s challenging of the spectator/subject and image/object. It is their closeness, and the 'notion of viewers’ and films’ bodies as surfaces in contact [that] problematizes the strict division between subject and object in the cinematic experience, suggesting instead a more mutual experience of engagement' (Barker 2009: 34). The privileged gaze of the spectator is undermined consistently. Though Alma is initially suggested as bearer of the gaze, she is also the object of Elisabet’s scopophilic impulse. As Alma recounts the orgy, for example, Elisabet becomes a voyeur; the scene 'foregrounds Elisabet’s response' (Hubner 2007: 83). Some shots focus entirely on Elisabet; we recognise her gaze as voyeuristic and predatory. Bergman was fascinated by Liv Ullmann’s face during this scene, claiming it actually 'swells' (Bergman in Blackwell 1997: 144). As Alma continues her story, she is filmed lying next to Elisabet, but her face is barely visible; Elisabet dominates the shot.
The lighting is focussed on her, filmed in close-up, and we naturally concentrate on her intense <em>looking</em> at Alma. The scopophilic impulse, therefore, can go both ways. As Alma realises her lack of mastery, the nature of the gaze transforms. After discovering Elisabet’s letter, she feels invaded; she has experienced the terrifying power of the object to become the subject.</p>
<p>Their relationship demonstrates the pluralistic ways in which film and spectator might 'touch' one another. As discussed by Marks, the bodies of film and viewer are capable of mutual, often tactile interaction (Marks 2000). However, this 'touch' is not always pleasant: 'films can pierce, pummel, push, palpate, and strike us; they also slide, puff, flutter, flay, and cascade along our skin' (Barker 2009: 36). Alma and Elisabet experience various 'touches', some comforting, some erotic, some violent. When her position as spectator was unchallenged, Alma’s gaze was pleasurable; as she became aware of her own inadequate subjectivity, it became violent and critical (the gaze might '[examine] the film for weak sports, errors', as when Alma scrutinises the sleeping Elisabet, describing her flaws) (Barker 2009: 37). As Bergman explains, 'they insult, they torment, they hurt one another, they laugh and play' (Bergman 1995: 60-61). This may be a more literal 'touch' than implied by Marks and Barker, but their
relationship demonstrates some of the tactile and emotional possibilities of film. That the experience is mutual shows how the traditional subject/object paradigm of cinema might be ambiguous.</p>
<p>However, though spectator and film may touch each other, affect each other, be both subject and object, they do not unite absolutely. There is ultimately an incommensurable distance between spectator and filmic other. The idea of 'mergence' between Alma and Elisabet is a fallacy; they blur, but do not 'become' one another. Alma finds this position deeply unsettling; 'flesh [of the viewer and film] resolutely refuses the possibility of either absolute distance or absolute proximity', and she does not know where to position herself between the two (Barker 2009: 27). At this point, all binaries are shattered; it is impossible to say definitively who is looking at whom, who is talking, and through whom, who is imagining and who is acting. Unable to perceive the film entirely at a mastering distance, or a comprehending closeness, the position of the spectator becomes troublingly ambiguous.</p>
<p>The symbolic relationship of Alma and Elisabet imitates the viewing experience. Through this, the 'de-narrativizing' of the film, and other techniques, however, we are also brought to the surface of ourselves, made uncomfortably aware of our voyeuristic tendencies. We find further expression of our scopophilic drive in Alma’s recount of the orgy. Initially, this example recalls Mulvey’s theory of male voyeur and female exhibitionist, but this is problematic. Firstly, as I have mentioned, Elisabet becomes a female voyeur, erotically involved in Alma’s story; secondly, within the story, the gaze becomes reciprocal, and thirdly, we feel the women gain sexual pleasure from looking at each other. Several critics have tried to apply Mulvey’s paradigm to Persona by calling <em>all</em> voyeurs 'male', and <em>all</em> scopophilic objects 'female' – Blackwell, for instance, attributes the 'male' gaze to Elisabet, sometimes simply because she is literally 'wearing the trousers' – but this is misguided; the near
absence of men from <em>Persona</em> de-genders the gaze (Blackwell 1997: 81). 'The "orgy" of <em>Persona</em> is the orgy of merged spectatorship and participation'; it explores the complex gaze between subject and object, between film and self, but to make it about the gaze between men and women limits its meaning (Rugg 2004: 244).</p>
<p>In fact, Alma’s story is significant because it imposes itself as a metaphor for <em>our</em> viewing experience; <em>our</em> gaze, and the gaze back. Throughout the majority of the shots in <em>Persona</em>, we are looking or looked at from one of the perspectives exemplified in the story. Often, we are looking from the viewpoint of the boys, either at uncomfortable, fascinated proximity, or abashed, voyeuristic distance. The use of close-ups and extreme close-ups are marked; we often view the actresses’ faces at an unbearably intimate, almost intrusive closeness. Other times, we watch the characters at a distance, whilst the camera is obscured by objects; the scene, filmed at a distance, hidden amongst trees, in which Alma sits outside – even in swimsuit and straw hat – aligns us almost directly with the boys of the story. Elsewhere, we become the object, like the women at the beginning of the story; again there is an almost direct example, in which the camera sits on the beach, whilst we see Elisabet
in a long shot, peering from the rocks. The look out of the film, so bold and shocking in <em>Sommaren med Monika</em>, is used profusely throughout <em>Persona</em>; at one point, Elisabet even appears 'from nowhere, seeming to take our picture', directly challenging our position as unambiguous spectator (Vierling 1974: 49). <em>Persona</em> is almost gratuitous in its audacious subjugating of the audience. We are not simply watching the possibility of heterogeneous subjectivity, we are actively involved. Most of the shots are uncomfortable and unnatural; the use of medium shots is notably limited, and we are most often either <em>too</em> close or <em>too</em> distant from the actresses, yet unable to achieve 'absolute distance or absolute proximity' (Barker 2009: 27). Aesthetically, the film delineates us as voyeurs, in a sense that is perhaps troubling, forcing us to examine our own scopophilic impulse; <em>how</em> do we look? <em>How</em> has it affected us? And, perhaps, <em>should</em> we look?</p>
<p><em>Persona</em> is all about scopophilia. Bergman subverts the normal filmic laws of time, space and narrative to present us with a piece of cinema that can be about nothing but the film itself. We are gazing at the gaze; we watch two characters - perhaps two actresses - watch each other, and watch ourselves watching the film. Through a profound break with convention, and an aesthetic and psychological style that foregrounds our consciousness of our own voyeurism, the film forces us to explore its only valuable truth: our own relationship to it.</p>
<p>The scopophilic gaze is central to <em>Sommaren med Monika</em> and <em>Persona</em>. Beginning with a simple, diegetic expression of looking, existing in both films, the idea develops into something such more sophisticated and self-reflexive, subtly and germinally in <em>Sommaren med Monika</em>, and reaching a point of vital and complex consideration in <em>Persona</em>. <em>Sommaren med Monika</em> explores the gaze particularly in its gendered aspect, centring on a figure clearly identified with the female scopophilic object, but also subverting this convention. It demonstrates traditional paradigms of the gaze only to question them. It exemplifies various, complicated forms of the gaze, from the diegetic, to the unsettlingly reflexive. In <em>Persona</em>, the scopophilic impulse is readdressed in extremely intricate and meta-cinematic terms. By largely effacing narrative realist convention, it exposes its own medium, foregrounding the nature of film itself, and the question of spectatorship. In
interpreting the relationship of the protagonists as representing the ambivalent relationship between film and viewer, and recognising the film’s address of our own viewing experience, we understand how the scopophilic impulse is at the heart of <em>Persona</em>. Both films successfully problematise any notion of a homogeneous, unilateral gaze in cinema. The scopophilic impulse of film is in fact complex, pluralistic, troubling, and ultimately unknowable; but it is far from straightforward.</p>
<p> </p>
<div Class="objavi-no-page-break"><h2>Author’s Comment</h2>
<p>The essay featured here was a project for an undergraduate course in Nordic cinema, written in the final year of my BA in Italian and Norwegian. Since my introduction to Scandinavian film in an independent cinema in Cambridge during my time as a sixth-form student, I have been a great enthusiast of Nordic cinema, and particularly all things Bergman. I returned to film studies persistently throughout my degree, exploring various styles, genres and auteurs as part of my course and for personal interest, but Bergman always remained a strong favourite. Since first discovering <em>Det Sjunde Inseglet</em>, I have been fascinated by the distinct, haunting and meaningful aesthetics of Bergman’s films, and therefore the subject of scopophilia and looking in his work interested me as a theme for an essay. I greatly enjoyed writing the project, and am generally pleased with the outcome. If I were to return to the essay, I should like to do so in a year or two, after the opportunity for further, more specialised
study, and hopefully after having spent time broadening my knowledge of film studies, to see whether I might be able to use more theories and comparisons with other films for more expansive insight.</p>
</div><p>After finishing my undergraduate degree in the summer of 2012, I am returning in the autumn to begin an MA in European Culture, in which I hope, amongst various themes and courses, to continue exploring the world of European cinema.</p>
<p> </p>
<div class="pagebreakbefore">
<h2>References</h2>
</div>
<p><em>Persona</em>, Dir. Ingmar Bergman, AB Svensk Filmindustri (1966)</p>
<p><em>Sommaren med Monika</em>, Dir. Ingmar Bergman, AB Svensk Filmindustri (1953)</p>
<p>Barker, Jennifer (2009). <em>The Tactile Eye</em>. Berkley; London: University of California Press .</p>
<p>Barthes, Roland (2000). <em>Camera Lucida</em>. London: Vintage.</p>
<p>Bazin, André (2009). ‘The Ontology of the Photographic Image’. In André Bazin: <em>What is Cinema?</em> translated by Timothy Barnard. Montréal: Caboose.</p>
<p>Bergman, Ingmar (1995). <em>Images: My Life in Film</em>, translated by Marianne Ruuth. London: Faber and Faber Limited.</p>
<p>Blackwell, Marilyn Johns (1997). ‘Persona: The Deconstruction of Binarism and the False Mergence of Spectator and Spectacle’. In Marilyn Johns Blackwell: <em>Gender and Representation in the Films of Ingmar Bergman</em>. Drawer, Camden House, Inc.</p>
<p>Bragg, Melvyn (2008). <em>The Seventh Seal (Det Sjunde Inseglet)</em>. London: Palgrave Macmillan.</p>
<p>Cowie, Peter (1992). <em>Ingmar Bergman: A Critical Biography</em>. London, André Deutsch.</p>
<p>Gunning, Tom (2004). ‘”Now you See It, Now You Don’t”: The Temporality of the Cinema of Attractions’. In Lee Grieveson and Peter Krämer (eds): <em>The Silent Cinema Reader</em>. London: Routledge.</p>
<p>Hubner, Laura (2007). <em>The Films of Ingmar Bergman: Illusions of Light and Darkness</em>, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan.</p>
<p>Livingston, Paisley (2009). <em>Cinema, Philosophy, Bergman: On Film as Philosophy</em>. Oxford: Oxford University Press.</p>
<p>Marks, Laura U. (2000). <em>The Skin of the Film: Intercultural Cinema, Embodiment, and the Senses</em>. Durham; London: Duke University Press.</p>
<p>Metz, Christian (1983). <em>Psychoanalysis and Cinema: The Imaginary Signifier</em>. London: The Macmillan Press Ltd.</p>
<p>Mulvey, Laura (2006). <em>Death 24x a Second</em>. London: Reaktion Books.</p>
<p>Mulvey, Laura (2009). ‘Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema'. In Laura Mulvey: <em>Visual and Other Pleasures</em>. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan.</p>
<p>Rugg, Linda Haverty (2004). ‘A Camera as Close as Ingmar’s: Sexuality and Direction in the Work of Ingmar Bergman and Liv Ullmann’. In Helena Forsås-Scott (ed.): <em>Gender, Power, Text: Nordic Culture in the Twentieth Century</em>. Norwich: Norvik Press.</p>
<p>Vierling, David L. (1974). ‘Bergman’s <em>Persona</em>: The Metaphysics of Meta-Cinema’. <em>Diacritics</em>, 4: 2, 48-51.</p>
<p>Wood, Robin (1969). <em>Ingmar Bergman</em>. London: Studio Vista.</p><h1 id="ReFzjuCOVS_10"><strong Class="initial">8.</strong> <span class="title">Hands as Icon and Symbol of Touch<span class="comma">, </span> <span class="author">Lauren Godfrey</span></span></h1>
<p>Hands are the part of a stranger that we shake when we meet them and the part of a lover we hold tightly; we entrust them to communicate our ideas in writing and to gesticulate as we speak; our hands can be enhanced with tools of creation or destruction, conversing with our brain to determine their course of action. The significance of hands in everyday life is often overlooked as they work so successfully in tandem with our progression. Hands are the symbol of man’s evolution: Aristotle declared that ‘Humans have hands because they are intelligent’. This statement could easily be reversed and read equally coherently. The relationship between the brain and the hand is interdependent; intelligence and progression depend on the conversation between the hand and the mind.</p>
<p>In cinema, hands are used as symbols, a part standing in for the whole, demonstrating the experience of a character through their most identifiable extremity. While the director is aware that s/he cannot truly make the viewer touch or feel something, s/he can attempt to make the ‘dry words’ - the two dimensional images on the screen - ‘retain a trace of the wetness of the encounter’ (Marks 2002: p.x intro.), that is, the physical experience of touching something. This visual-touch stimulation is referred to as the haptic, or ‘fingery eyes’ as simplified by Donna Haraway in <em>When Species Meet</em> (2008: 5). It allows the viewer to use his or imagination and association memory to elaborate on what the director offers. ‘Riegel invents the term "haptic" to indicate that our eyes are able to</p>
<p><br><img src="static/hands_bw.jpg" alt="" width="400" height="260"></p>
<p><br><span class="imagecaption">Images top row Left to Right: <br><em>Heftig og Begeistret</em> (Cool and Crazy), Knut Erik Jensen, Norway, 2001<br><em>Ariel</em>, Aki Kaurismäki, Finland, 1988<br><em>Höstsonaten</em> (Autumn Sonata), Ingmar Bergman, Sweden, 1978<br><br> Images middle row Left to Right: <br><em>Persona</em>, Ingmar Bergman, Sweden, 1966<br><em>Vredens Dag</em> (Day of Wrath), Carl Theodor Dreyer, Denmark, 1943<br><em>Persona</em><br><em>Persona</em><br><br>Images bottom row Left to Right:<br><em>Idioterne</em> (The Idiots), Lars von Trier, Denmark, 1998<br><em>Fanny och Alexande</em>r (Fanny and Alexander), Ingmar Bergman, <br>Sweden, 1982<br><em>Mies Vailla Menneisyyttä</em> (The Man Without a Past), Aki Kaurismäki, Finland, 2002<br></span></p>
<div class="pagebreakbefore">
<p>sense softness or hardness as well as contoured structure without touching the material by hand’ (Thomsen 2006: 48). Previously, ‘haptic’ was used to describe the painterly surface of a picture and the lack of perspective in the Renaissance as a moment when optical perception was not the totality of the image. Nowadays it is used more to describe the conjuring up of a sensation when looking at something, particularly film. In this essay, I shall discuss the role of hands in Nordic cinema, regarding the physical significance of the hand on screen, haptic association and recognition and the importance of auteurship, the director’s touch. I shall attempt, like Laura Marks, to ‘show how and why cinema might express the inexpressible’ (2000: 129) using ‘hands’ as my prop and Nordic Cinema as a case study. I shall explore the notions of hands as a representative of the whole, physically, emotionally and metaphorically; the potential for cinema to consciously distance the viewer and draw him or her in using
haptic techniques; and the camera or prop as a corrupt extension of the hand, posing the director as a puppet master and an enculturating force upon the viewer.</p>
</div>
<h5>It was his hands that revealed him – as if his hand had betrayed him (Le Corbusier in  Pallasmaa 2009)</h5>
<p>Directors use the power and expression of hands to their advantage in cinema. To signal to the viewer that the character has hidden motives, the hands will play out their inner feelings. The part stands in for the whole as the camera frames the isolated hand. An archetypal example of this is demonstrated in Aki Kaurismäki’s <em>Mies Vailla Menneisyyttä </em>(The Man without a Past, 2002). The protagonist, about whom we know little at this point, has been left for dead on a park bench. The film cuts to a station, the atmosphere is sinister and the few people present seem to veer away from the point of view of the camera, as if they are attempting to avoid our gaze. The shot cuts to focus on the hand, hanging limp and rich, red, bloody. We are aware it is not disembodied as the cuff of his coat peeps into shot and we can decipher the out-of-focus movement of his legs in the background. Our imagination can flesh out what the rest of his body may look like and we realise that the camera was showing us the
view from his eyes as the people swerved away from his mauled figure. These signals combine to great effect; we do not need to see the whole body as we can imagine just from this graphic shot what it looks like. This gives poignancy to the scene and avoids a horror movie humour that could have dominated if Kaurismäki had shown us everything in explicit detail. The implicit part represents the severity of the whole.</p>
<p>This is contrasted in the art work <em>La Tache </em>(1985/6) by Jean François Guiton in which ‘we see textures, skin and textile, brushing the screen’ (http://www.guiton.de/Bandes/Tache/<br>Tache.html). A blurred hand is manipulating fabric and wood; we know there is human interaction, but ‘his presence is no longer bound up with figural representation’ (Zech: 2000: 13). It is purely a hand we see, performing an action. In this case it is different from the narrative film because we do not desire to know why or to whom this hand belongs. It becomes almost erotic in its anonymity, representing the experience of touch without explicitly demonstrating the true mundanity of holding the fabric. This technique of hinting at the complete experience, using the hand as an icon, highlights the fundamentality of the hand as a key part of the anatomy, second only to the face.</p>
<p>In the silent film, <em>Körkarlen </em>(The Phantom Carriage, Victor Sjöström, 1921), the jealous Mrs Holm approaches the deathbed of Edit, led by her hands. Nobody else is present in the room and Edit’s eyes are closed. She walks towards the bed, her hands wringing with destruction. In the absence of speech, she melodramatically demonstrates the anger and frustration she feels towards the seemingly innocent girl. As a viewer, we are captivated by the hands, despite the fact that the camera is not close, as in the case of <em>Mies vailla menneisyyttä. </em>Mrs Holm's hands dominate the screen in their intimacy and revealing role. We are aware at this moment of the power of the human hand and fear that she may put the pent-up energy and strength in her fingers to the task of strangling the already dying Edit. The soaring emotions in this scene forecast the progression of the film as a whole, providing a solid foundation for the narrative to unfold. This is the first time we meet Mrs Holm and we are
comprehensively introduced to her role through this simple but potent movement.</p>
<p>In Bergman’s <em>Persona</em> (1966), the hand physically experiences and represents the emotional trauma that Alma faces in the film. The famous opening sequence demonstrates all of the ideas and frustrations of the film, through a series of symbolic occurrences. The hand appears frequently throughout this introduction as a solo part. The child’s hand grasping out in a fumble; the strong, manly hand controlling the sheep as it wriggles from his grasp and finally, the most poignant of all, the rusty, gnarled nail plummeting down into the hand. The clip is played three times at this point and then at regular intervals throughout the film to reaffirm its significance. The image lingers on the last time to show the fingers recovering from the crucifixion-like blow. The soft, vulnerable palm suffers the impact as the hand clamps in pain and the fingers curl up instinctively. This short and impactful shot pre-empts the progression of the film as a whole: ‘the pierced palm anticipates Alma’s turning of her
hands which, in turn, suggests that the back and the flat of the hand have their counterparts in the left and right half of the human face, so spectacularly contrasted in the film’ (Törnqvist 1995: 140). The idea of doubling and mimicry in the film is signalled early on, as well as betrayal and suffering. Through this ambiguous and disorientating series of images, Bergman encourages the viewers to fill in the gaps themselves; this lends itself well to the haptic potential of the film. ‘The more open the symbols are to interpretation, the stronger is the stream of visual/sensuous thought which is triggered by what the viewer sees and also transcends it’ (Zech 2000: 13). It is this transcendence, involving the memory or imagination of touch, that enriches the film as a whole. The almost pornographic detail of the nail-in-hand scene is incredibly sensuous and one can imagine and sympathise with the pain felt. The dilemma with this, however is that it is not a character that we are identifying with, but the
experience: the separate and non-narrative nature of this sequence sets the tone for the reception of the rest of the film. It is not until the film progresses that we realise the significance of this moment and are able to empathise on a more personal level with Alma. At this point it is a purely indulgent, dramatic image, sensational for sense’s sake.</p>
<h5> As Christopher Hussey put it back in 1927, the force of the picturesque was 'to enable the imagination to form the habit of feeling through the eye' (Bruno 2002: 202).</h5>
<p>The indulgence of imagery on screen, allowing the viewer to identify with the experiences and to go beyond the objective association with the characters in a film, is used by directors to enrich the viewing experience. Harking back to the earliest days of cinema, when cinema-goers went purely for spectacle, the modern viewer is still hungry for enjoyment and satisfaction. The director has become aware of the presence of the viewer and the viewer herself is conscious of her own body in space before the cinema screen. As Giuliana Bruno romantically states: ‘Seeing with one’s own eyes involves a (dis)placement; becoming a direct observer, the tourist acknowledges her body in space’ (Bruno: 2002: 191). This inclusion and consciousness on both the director and the viewer’s part allows for a new level of understanding and identification as the film develops before the viewers’ eyes. The film itself is completed through the viewing. This, of course, relies on a certain degree of awareness of the medium on the
viewer’s part. Although the all-encompassing sensory explosion on screen has some power to entice the viewer, the point is not to completely believe that one is feeling what the projected character on screen is touching. The artful use of haptics allows the viewer to be aware of the inability of the physical medium of cinema to fully conjure up these experiences. In the opening scene of Lars von Trier’s <em>Antichrist</em> (2009), for example, the slow pace and sensuous description of the girl’s experience as she walks towards ‘Eden’ lends itself to the haptic conjuring-up of senses. However, she appear to hover above the grass as she walks and ultimately lies down. Her physical body does not interact with the surface and so nor can ours. Trier is aware at this point that the actors on screen are fabricating an experience which we receive second hand. It is a series of imaginings of which we are presented with the most dilute version. There is a distance kept between us and the texture of the film, ‘pointing
to the limits of sensory knowledge’ (Marks 2002: 20). This distance is not only physical. The intrinsic nature of film as a medium that can only record a visual souvenir of what took place before the camera distances us further. It represents a subjective filter through the eye of the director, who has chosen how we should experience this scene as observers.</p>
<p>The closest haptic relationship demonstrated in cinema is erotic. Film has its own language to illustrate the most sensory experience of all: sex. The hand is both the origin and the expression of pleasure, holding the ability to provide others with satisfaction whilst simultaneously experiencing it. ‘We see something which is recognizable only in the traces of captured motion and transfer it in our imagination to something which has already happened or might possibly still happen’ (Zech: 2000: 17). Our memory and personal sensory knowledge embellish the images we see, developing the visual experience into a relatable, physical one. Sexual encounters are difficult to recall visually, as sex is in its very nature about touch. Film directors take this into account and often zoom in on the surface of the skin, in order to stand in for human contact. Our eyes are so close to the skin, we are practically touching it. The physical parts become indecipherable and our eyes get lost in the vast landscape of flesh.
In the controversial ‘gang bang’ scene in <em>Idioterne</em> (The Idiots, Lars von Trier, 1998), the camera is close to the writhing bodies. We see close ups of genitalia and skin as quickly as a slide show; it is mayhem on screen. The oblong of the film becomes a palate of beige, peach and brown. We can barely identify one body from another. The trauma in this scene lies in its explicit nature and its ability to involve the viewer in the action. The resulting experience forces us to look but denies us the clarity of recognition; we feel as though we are drowning in the images. Marks feels this lends itself to the very essence of the haptic. ‘If you try to bring the images into focus, you get a headache. But if you allow these selectively bulging and blurring forms to do just what they do, a haptic universe unfolds in all directions’ (Marks 2002: 70). On the other hand, the demonstration of touch with a caressing hand can be equally relatable. The viewer identifies with the physical representation of the
hand performing the touching and can imagine using their own hand in the same way. Immediately after the explicit sex scene in Idioterne,<em> </em>the camera follows Jeppe upstairs where he finds Josephine, naked and vulnerable. Slowly, they touch each other sensuously and nervously. Their touch is tentative and the camera stays close to the hand, following its course around the body. They seem almost not to make contact, as though their hand is hovering above the other’s skin, but it is incredibly delicate and we, as viewers complete the touch in our imagination. The contrast in pace to the previous scene adds to the sensitivity of this moment. It occurs almost in real time and we are given the chance to reflect on the intimacy of the touch. The hesitant hand appears extremely sensitive, so we can identify with the experience on a haptic level.</p>
<p>Hands are often used as a symbol of manipulation and control. Anne’s powerful hand in <em>Vredens Dag </em>(Day of Wrath, Carl Th. Dreyer, 1943) as she coaxes Martin is a prime example. At this point in the film, Anne has admitted her own fate. She realises that she is losing the support of those around her and decides to take control. Her movements are calculated and slow, the camera is close to Martin’s back as she rubs it firmly with her articulated fingers to manipulate him. The movement could be received by Martin as caring and caressing but our close up point of view can detect the aggression behind the fingers and the deep pushing into his muscle. The technique of giving more to the viewer than the characters themselves is powerful. We feel privileged to understand the truth of the characters and are advantaged because of this. This is a filmic and narrative method that allows the story to unfold in a more complex way than in reality. While the character of Martin just sees Anne’s smiling face, we
get an insight into her true motives. The hand is an effective vehicle for communicating this. The touch of her hand fools Martin into complying with her, while the visual movement of the hand that we as viewers see speaks volumes of her intentions. Törnqvist writes of the power of a manipulative hand in the dream sequence in <em>Höstsonaten </em>(Autumn Sonata, Ingmar Bergman, 1978): ‘Suddenly a woman’s hand caressingly creeps into hers…The caressing hand remains unidentified, since figuratively speaking it is both Lena’s and Eva’s hand. The hand caresses Charlotte’s cheek, then moves behind her head. Suddenly, it seems to tear at her hair’ (Törnqvist 1995: 166).  In this case, the hand acts as a symbol of desperation on the part of both Charlotte and her daughters. The unpredictability of the unknown hand is disorientating for the viewer and Charlotte respectively. The sensuous trust that the hand establishes though the preliminary caressing is betrayed as the dynamic changes, reflecting the plot in the
betrayal of a mother's unconditional love. To pre-empt the dream, the camera shifts to Charlotte’s own hand, limp on the bed, involving us directly in the guile of the dream. We are as shocked as Charlotte when the hand hastily changes course. Bergman uses the rectangular closeness of film, the intrinsic selection of our seemingly objective point of view, to draw us in, believing that what he is showing us is truth. He has not used the expected, recognised conventions of filmic dream-sequences where the shot becomes hazy or the image fades away and returns, showing a lapse in time or change of perspective. We are totally enticed by the seductive hand, experiencing the dream just as Charlotte does.</p>
<p>The ability of hands to master an art encompasses the world of performance and film. The quiet confidence of the pianists’ hands in the opening sequence of <em>Kauas Pilvet Karkaavat </em>(Drifting Clouds, Aki Kaurismäki, 1996) and those of the accomplished concert pianist Charlotte in <em>Höstsonaten</em> hold a modesty that reminds us of the trust we can put in our hands. The muscle memory that hands possess is remarkable, proving particularly frustrating when they fail us. A melancholy moment in <em>Heftig og Begeistret </em>(Cool and Crazy, Knut Erik Jensen, 2001) takes place in the church belonging to the community. The organ player attempts to impress the camera with his playing but becomes increasingly frustrated as he cannot succeed. This moment works particularly well in Jensen’s film because it is a documentary. We are aware that this is a real man who truly wants to be able to play the organ well at this special moment in time when he is being filmed. The truth of the situation gives the scene
pathos. We join him in his irritation and genuinely feel for him as he cannot proceed. It is easy to relate to the feeling of being out of control of one’s own hands but we identify with him, not on a sensory level, but an emotional one. The director has chosen to include this scene, rather than one where he plays immaculately, as it allows us to sympathise with the characters and develop a relationship with the lonely men.</p>
<p>In contrast to this, however, masterful hands are utilised in Bergman’s <em>Fanny och Alexander </em>(Fanny and Alexander, 1982) to reference the very nature of film. The children perform a puppet theatre, an imaginary scaled-down world over which they have control. ‘Behind the boards representing the world, there is a hidden manipulator who controls everything happening on these boards’ Törnqvist (1995: 179) observes about the nature of the puppet theatre. Developing this notion into a broader spectrum, he adds, ‘Also behind the world in which we live there is – perhaps – a hidden director’ (179).  This is also true of cinema itself. By using a puppet theatre Bergman not only suggests that the children are longing for more control, he signals the fact that we as viewers are being manipulated by a powerful figure: the director himself. The concept of the auteur in film is interesting to consider in terms of the hand of the director. The artistic vision and touch of the director is fundamental to the
completion of the filmic experience. Often the prime impetus to watch a film depends on the reputation of the director. This is especially apparent in Nordic cinema where it seems that certain filmmakers become representative of their own Nordic country, gaining auteur or celebrity status because of their individuality. We are often aware of their presence whilst watching the film, armed with the knowledge and vocabulary of their previous films. Their name is spelt in capital letters at the start and the end of the feature, reminding us of their artistic expertise. In the 1990s, the Dogme 95 movement attempted to shatter this illusion by including in their ‘Vow of Chastity’ the commandment ‘The director must not be credited’. This ironic claim is doomed to fail, as no matter how anonymous the director may attempt to be, they must sign the certificate that is projected at the start of the film with their own hand. There is no escaping the recognition they are entitled to. However, the statement that the Dogme
95 Brethren were making highlighted the intrinsic paradox that cinema faces. There is always an author. The artistic touch must be credited to somebody and, due to the hungry nature of the media and the star-studded realm in which they were working, there would always be a star behind the puppet theatre.</p>
<p>The physical movement of the camera itself could be interpreted as an artistic gesture. This is particularly prominent in the Dogme 95 Vow of Chastity in which it is declared: ‘The camera must be hand held. Any movement or immobility attainable in the hand is permitted’. Here, the inadequacies of the hand as a firm tripod are celebrated or at least accepted. As viewers we are conscious of the physical interaction of director and camera and the aesthetic result is very recognisable. This does, however, contradict the rule I discussed previously of an uncredited director. We are constantly reminded of the presence of the director manipulating our view with his subjective selection of what we see. Employing the scene in <em>Idioterne </em>where Stoffer strips off his clothes and protests as an example, the aesthetic suggests a haphazard happening. The movements of the camera lend themselves to the panic that ensues, involving us in the drama. The handheld nature of the camera allows us to imagine that one of
the ‘idiots’ is presenting the situation to us. The camera moves manically, reflecting the way that the ‘idiots’ act, providing the scene with another dimension of mayhem. It is this handheld quality that presents the camera as an extension of the hand and an expression of ideas, giving the film a similar status to drawing or writing. The unity of director and camera suggest a form of craftsmanship and expertise. There is a communication between the tool and the hand, a mutual reliance that implies that the ‘tool is not innocent’ (Pallasmaa 2009). The hand does not simply pick up the camera and manipulate it to its own delight. There are prerequisites that come with the camera; its weight and size in the hand; the balance it is provided with; the focus (whether the camera has an auto-focus function or manual); and the viewer (whether the eye must be put to the lens viewer or if there is a screen). Furthermore, the fact that the camera is handheld restricts the potential angles from which the camera can film.
The camera can only go as high as the cameraman’s arm can reach and only as fast as he can run. These factors give the film a physical, human element, prompting us to consider the tangible interactions that have taken place. The tool of the camera gives the director a certain power.</p>
<h5>The sense of touch fills nature with mysterious forces. (Focillon 1989: 28)</h5>
<p>This potential, provided by a prop, is often interwoven into the narrative of a film. The possession of a tool or weapon in film is a signal that the character has a new capacity to destroy others. How they use this power, however, is very revealing. The tool of the dagger is introduced in <em>Det Sjunde Inseglet </em>(The Seventh Seal, Ingmar Bergman, 1957) early on, during the scene in the tavern as the squire protects Joseph by threatening Raval with his dagger. The squire’s already large physique is made even more intimidating with the weapon he carries. Whilst it remains unused, it stands as a symbol for his potential as a character. The implement becomes an extension of his hand and hence his character as a menacing figure. Later in the film, Skat pretends to murder himself with a false dagger. He lies on the ground until the others have left and then climbs a tree to sleep. He is woken by Death sawing down the tree; his time has come. This charged symbol of a useless weapon that Skat thought he
controlled backfires upon him and he is taken by death anyway. The matter is out of his hands and that which he held in his hand has betrayed him. This underlines the responsibility that accompanies the use of such a tool, and accentuates its lack of innocence. In Aki Kaurismäki’s <em>Ariel</em> (1988), Mikkonen arms himself with an insufficient weapon. As he delivers the money to the men in return for passports, they fail to honour the deal of sharing the money. Mikkonen anticipates their attack by smashing a glass bottle against the wall. This makeshift weapon proves useless as he drops a wad of cash and reaches down for it. We see the man lunge towards him with a dagger at which point the camera cuts to Mikkonen’s grasping hand near the floor. Reminiscent of the nail-in-hand scene in <em>Persona</em>, his hand becomes incapacitated and we visualise his pain through this one extremity. Mikkonen is let down by his inadequate tool and it is his empty hand that we witness suffering.</p>
<h5>The relationship between mind and hand are not, however, so simple as those between a chief accustomed to obedience and a docile slave. The mind rules over the hand; hand rules over mind. (Focillon 2007: 28)</h5>
<p>As Focillon so aptly points out in his essay ‘In Praise of Hands’, not only does the hand touch and the brain identify, there is a conversation between the two parts. The brain can recognise something using the eyes, as in cinema, processing this through the brain and sending a message to the hands, which relates to the idea of touching something. As Mark Paterson puts it, ‘this is an example of the multisensory nature of our perception. We never perceive by vision alone; in fact, percipere means "to grasp’’' (Paterson 2009). We attempt to transform the visual nature of cinema through the entire sensory experience. This interdependent relationship can be likened to the conversation that takes place between cinema and culture. Cinema both embodies and enculturates us as viewers. We are represented in the sense that we can identify with the characters on screen; but we also use the film to enrich our existing lives and inform us on how to conduct them. Trends can be pioneered by cinema, for example. A
particular brand of cigarettes can become fashionable, as in the case of <em>Ariel</em>, where the icon of the ‘North State’ cigarettes<span id="InsertNoteID_1_marker1" class="InsertNoteMarker"><sup><a href="#hands-as-icon-l-godfrey_InsertNoteID_1">1</a></sup><span> persistently appears throughout the film. It is the pertinacious presentation of this image that enculturates the viewer as they watch. To develop the metaphor more concisely, it could be said that the cinema is the hand as it is the physical realisation of the conceptual idea;  culture is the brain, the theorisation and development of the physical experience. ‘We might expect the relationship between "viewer" and the more physical object of cinema to be more convincingly mimetic’ (Marks 2000: 138), thinks Laura Marks, pondering the correlation between cinema and viewer in comparison to that of reader and written text. The reflection that film is more physical is interesting in view of the fact that one can hold a book in one's hands whereas film
takes place beyond our physical reach. Film does, however, <em>show</em> the experience of being alive, whilst the book expects the reader to conjure up the images in their own, intangible imagination. It is this intimate closeness yet ungraspable distance that is so intrinsically characteristic of cinema.</span></span></p>
<p>‘A hand is not simply part of the body, but the expression and continuation of a thought which must be captured and conveyed’ (Balzac, quoted by Pallasmaa 2009). Cinema completes Balzac’s desire, capturing and conveying the thought and physicalising it in the form of light on celluloid. To some extent, film makes solid the movements and intonations of the hand itself, preserving the muscle memory in a visual format. The image of a hand on screen is relatable and iconic, representing a tactile, haptic experience. However, Laura Marks argues that the image of hands is not fundamental to the reception of the haptic: ‘Looking at hands would seem to evoke the sense of touch through identification, either with the person whose hands they are or with the hands themselves. The haptic bypasses such identification and the distance from the image it requires’ (2002: 8). Although I appreciate Marks’ point in relation to the entire vocabulary of the haptic in cinema, it has been worthwhile to discuss the specific
notion of the haptic in terms of imagery and the significance of the hand, framed in the oblong of film. Through this investigation we have found that hands play many a part in the plot-thickening and metaphorical development of film, flirting with the surface of the film to enrich the viewer's haptic engagement despite the visual distance. At a further leap, we’ve identified that the hands behind the lens of the camera are also important, the visual record of the muscle memory of the camera operators’ movements and the puppet-master nature of the director, pulling strings. It is clear that as a viewer one has a vivid and affective association with the representation of a hand in film and the experiences that it undergoes.</p>
<p> </p>
<div Class="objavi-no-page-break"><h2>Author's Comment</h2>
<p>I took the Nordic Cinema class as a subsidiary subject while in second year at the Slade School of Fine Art, studying sculpture. Inspired by my Northern heritage (my father was born and raised in the Shetland Islands) and after a recent trip to Shetland, I was drawn to the pensiveness of the culture and the dry humour. I had also been working on a documentary of my own, filmed in Shetland about a family friend and his remote, dilapidated house. The course complimented my work at the Slade in its sensitivity to the nuances of film and at the time I was nurturing an interest in the haptic touch in a sculptural sense as well as filmic. The two conversed nicely. Following the Nordic Cinema course I went on exchange for four months to Kuvataideakatemia, The Finnish Academy of Fine Arts in Helsinki. This was no doubt as a result of my enjoyment of the course and an expansion of my interest in Nordic cultures.</p>
</div><p>Looking back on the essay I feel that a discussion of the digital versus analogue film could be an interesting extension to the essay, though I am aware of the vastness of this topic. I still stand by this essay and I feel it sparked many related interests both in further pieces of writing and in artworks. I have since made work that confronts the relationship between the visual and the verbal when talking about art, including a personal audio guide to accompany an exhibition and a series of collaborative investigations into ekphrasis using radio and writing as formats. This seems to reflect the visual/touch relationship that I have explored in this essay.</p>
<div> </div>
<ol id="InsertNote_NoteList"><li id="hands-as-icon-l-godfrey_InsertNoteID_1">An unreliable source on You Tube states that these cigarettes, that always appear in Kaurismaki films are called ‘North State’, known as ‘Nortti’, famous Finnish working class cigarettes. This was confirmed by www.cigarettespedia.com. Nevertheless, they are iconic.</li>
</ol><p> </p>
<div class="pagebreakbefore">
<h2>References</h2>
</div>
<p>Bruno, Giuliana (2002). <em>Atlas of Emotion</em>. New York: Verso.</p>
<p>Focillon, Henri (2007). ‘In Praise of Hands’ in <em>Poetics of the Handmade</em>. Los Angeles: The Museum of Contemporary Art.</p>
<p>Haraway, Donna (2008). <em>When Species Meet.</em> Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.</p>
<p>Marks, Laura U. (2000). <em>The Skin of the Film: Intercultural Cinema, Embodiment and the Senses</em>. Durham and London: Duke University Press.</p>
<p>Marks, Laura U. (2002).<em> Touch: Sensuous Theory and Multisensory Media</em>. Minneapolis:  University of Minnesota Press.</p>
<p>Pallasmaa, Juhani (2009). Quotes from a lecture given in the Darwin Lecture Theatre, UCL, 25 November 2009.</p>
<p>Paterson, Mark (2009). Summary of forthcoming essay on haptic geographies. http://people.exeter.ac.uk/<br>mwdp201/space.html viewed on 28/12/09 (no longer online).</p>
<p class="st">Thomsen, Bodil Marie (2006). 'On the Transmigration of Images: <span class="st">Flesh, Spirit and Haptic Vision in Dreyer's <em>Jeanne d'Arc</em> and von Trier's Golden Heart Trilogy'. In</span> C. Claire Thomson (ed.): <em>Northern Constellations: New Readings in Nordic Cinema</em>. Norwich: Norvik Press.</p>
<p>Törnqvist, Egil (1995). <em>Between Stage and Screen: Ingmar Bergman Directs.</em> Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press.</p>
<p>Zech, Hanne (2000). <em>Body and Mind in the Painting: Sense and Sensuality</em>. Berlin: Neues Museum, VG Bild-Kunst.</p><h1 id="ReFzjuCOVS_11"><strong Class="initial">9.</strong> <span class="title"><em>INNI</em>: Embodied Spectatorship<span class="comma">, </span> <span class="author">Rose-Anne Ross</span></span></h1>
<h5>To touch is always already to reach out, to fondle, to heft, to tap, or to enfold, and always also to understand other people or natural forces as having effectually done so before oneself; if only in the making of the textured object. (Sedgwick 2003: 14)</h5>
<p><em>I hear a low ring and hurry towards the figure silhouetted on the frosted glass; the lock clicks and with an effort I slide the front door open, take the square brown box and scribble my initials onto the electronic signature pad. Back in my room, I carefully unfold a side-flap and pull out a slate grey, shallow box, protected by a thin film of clear plastic, which I tear open with a fingernail; it is heavier than I imagined it would be, and smells like a new book. The words ‘</em>Sigur Rós<em>’ and ‘</em>INNI<em>’ are separated by the ghostly double moon image on the cover that I recognise from the concert poster. I lift off the cover, and run my fingers over the shadowy printed images on the inner side. Neatly arranged inside the box, the top paper sleeve holds a 7” vinyl single, and beneath that another cardboard case folds out to reveal four discs: a double CD live album recording of their show at London’s Alexandra Palace in 2008, a DVD film of the show, and a short film, </em>Klippa<em>, in
which three dressmakers are shown cutting up the elaborate costumes the band wore into little squares. I remember gazing at the elaborate designs as they walked onto the stage to the sound of our cheers, which I hear once more when I play the first CD. In a small cardboard pocket is one of those squares of material, beneath an enamel pin badge and four photographic prints of the band in the same grainy pearlescent shades of the artwork that lines the box; they are stills from the film. I feel the rough square of cotton between my finger and thumb, and pull at a hanging thread loosened by the blades of the scissors. The last item is a shiny, black opaque envelope holding ten pieces of light-sensitive paper within it, with instructions on how to create images from shells, flora and other things that can be arranged on the surface of each sheet before it is left to develop in the sunlight. The contents of this square box are my multimedia, multisensory keepsakes - my experience of what was potentially the band’
s last show in the UK, materialised. </em></p>
<p>INNI is a limited-edition box set which was put together to celebrate the release of the film <em>INNI</em> (2011), directed by Vincent Morisset and featuring footage of Icelandic group Sigur Rós’ two London performances of 2008, and the eponymous accompanying live audio recording of the full set. There has always been a certain textural feel to their music, faithfully translated into the audio, visual and tactile output of the band (artwork, films, clips, packaging, etched vinyl). Many of their songs feature a nonsensical language of sounds, and the rest of their lyrics are incomprehensible to the majority of their international fans who, like me, do not speak Icelandic: thus the human voice returns to sound without significance, contributing to the texture of the overall listening experience. As I researched the making of the film <em>INNI</em> and considered the impact of the other contents of the box set, I became increasingly confident that it could serve as a case study for the ongoing discussion
around texture, tactility and embodied spectatorship in cinema and other media, with particular reference to the work of Laura U. Marks. Observing the visual style of <em>INNI</em>, and handling all the above-mentioned items</p>
<p><br><br><br><img src="static/Ross_BW.jpg" alt="" width="400" height="224"></p>
<p><br><span class="imagecaption"><em>INNI</em>, Vincent Morisset, 2011. Image courtesy of Sigur Rós</span></p>
<div class="pagebreakbefore">
<p>included in the box set, convinced me that Sigur Rós and the other artists involved in its production had documented the band’s performance in a way that transcends the audiovisual media forms typically used in the music industry, to try to facilitate a more meaningful interaction between spectator and subject. Although I have no evidence that they were aware of the body of works I will be referring to, I do believe that my discussion of one will inform my understanding of and relationship to the other.</p>
</div>
<p>I am adhering to Marks’ definition of cinematic works in my discussion of <em>INNI</em>. In her book <em>The Skin of the Film</em> (2000), Marks includes a number of ‘marginal viewing situations’ within the category of cinema, for ‘not only are they all time-based, audiovisual media, but also the word refers to the experience of an audience gathered in a theatre’ (Marks 2000: 6). At its simplest, this is precisely what characterises this film, which tries to recreate the experience of being in the audience of the actual live performance, and then gathered spectators again for screenings in cinemas worldwide before being released on DVD. Much of Marks’ writing on touch and new media resonates with director Morisset’s hopes for the general reception of <em>INNI</em>. Speaking to NPR Music about archiving these two shows, he states he wanted to ‘focus on the details, give the time to the spectator to appreciate the virtuosity and the effort, understand the cause and effects, <em>feel</em> the unique energy
of their performance’ (Boilen, my emphasis). In Morisset’s explanation there is more to the film than a visually pleasing spectacle, and something of its energy is transferred to the body of the viewer. The eye serves as the gateway to sensibility and emotion; in seeing the smaller details the mind understands the entirety of the performance, and the body <em>feels</em> an energy from the footage that traverses the screen. Morisset achieves this by bringing the spectator up close to the band – often so close that the frames communicate not a recognisable figure or instrument, but the minute textural details of the surfaces that come into contact with the eye of the lens. The original colours are drained away, leaving pearlescent greyscale tones that foreground shape and surface; then through various post-production procedures, the visually sharp and high definition images are rendered grainy and by turn dreamily indistinct, emphasising texture and suggestion over the usual clean precision of commercial
cinema.</p>
<p>The importance of texture is explored more literally by Sigur Rós through the form and presentation of the INNI box set, with its layered contents inviting us to re-experience the live performance of the band through sight and sound, but also through touch, and even smell. The dissemination of pieces of their costumes is rather unusual; when read in the light of recent discussions of touch it appears to be an attempt at bridging the gap between spectator (and/or, in this case, the owner of INNI) and the live show, in a move that is not dissimilar to director Morisset’s own experiments with the accompanying film. Constance Classen discusses the impact of this particular sensory encounter in her introduction to the anthology <em>The Book of Touch</em>. She affirms the value of touch, commenting that we now live ‘in a society of the image,’ and that ‘the inability to touch the subject matter of the images that surround us […] produces a sense of alienation’ (Classen 2005a: 2). In her article ‘Touch in the
Museum’, she looks at the behaviour of visitors in the early museums, and evaluates the nature of touch as a uniting force:</p>
<h5>Sight requires distance in order to function properly, detaching the observer from the observed. Touch, by contrast, annihilates distance and physically unites the toucher and the touched. Handling museum artefacts gave visitors the satisfaction of an intimate encounter. (Classen 2005b: 277)</h5>
<p>For Classen, touch facilitates a more meaningful interaction with an object than mere sight can offer. She uses the same vocabulary of closeness as Marks, who reminds us that cinema, asymptotically (Marks 2000: 192), may come ever closer to transcending its audio-visual medium, but (thus far) has never actually been able to let its spectators reach out and touch its filmic subjects. Nevertheless, as Marks argues, haptic or tactile cinema can still ‘encourage a bodily relationship between the viewer and the image,’ by forging a connection between the two in which a certain exchange of excess energy - although it cannot be seen - is certainly <em>felt</em> (Marks 2002: 2).</p>
<p>This idea of an excess of energy corresponds to Brian Massumi’s useful designation of ‘affect’ as ‘an ability to affect and be affected. It is a prepersonal intensity corresponding to the passage from one experiential state of the body to another [...] an encounter between the affected body and a second, affecting, body’ (Massumi 2004: xvii). It is the energy that Morisset wants the spectators of <em>INNI</em> to experience. This definition will serve for all future references to affect, for it leaves enough space for conversation between other theorists and practitioners who play a part in this discussion. One of these former figures is Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, who argues for the importance of our sense of touch, which mediates reality to us in ways that the other senses cannot. For Sedgwick, ‘if texture and affect, touching and feeling seem to belong together,’ it is because, ‘<em>at whatever scale they are attended to</em>, both are irreducibly phenomenological’ (Sedgwick 2003: 21). Holding that roughly-
cut square of costume, feeling the fibres of the material between my fingers, brings me straight back to the night of the live show; in fact, this artefact brings me closer than my memory of standing in the audience could ever do. I watch the film, and see the costumes worn by the band, then the accompanying short film <em>Klippa</em> shows them being cut into pieces by the dressmakers, and I experience the thrill of knowing that one of those squares in neat piles that I see on the screen has traversed time and space to be under my hands now. There is something irrefutable about the existence of a past event, and something affirmative of my connection with it, when I can physically hold and <em>feel</em> a piece of it in my hands. However, Marks asserts the multisensory nature of cinematic media, and it is in the light of her work that we may regard the entire box set as a vehicle for haptic perception, and Morisset’s <em>INNI</em> in particular as an exploration of haptic visuality.</p>
<p>Both theorist and practitioner discuss their notion of a cinematic experience in which something beyond the audio-visual reaches out so that the body of the film is in contact with the body of the viewer. Marks calls this tactile experience <em>haptic</em>, and she explains her understanding of it in her volume of essays, <em>Touch: Sensuous Theory and Multisensory Media</em> (2002). In haptic visuality, ‘the eyes themselves function like organs of touch […] the viewer’s body is more obviously involved in the process of seeing than is the case with optical visuality’ (Marks 2002: 3). Haptic perception, then, is <em>embodied</em> perception – it is ‘the way we experience touch both on the surface of and inside our bodies’ (2). Her description traces a response to a contact with the skin which is also manifested within the body; Marks implies here that in haptic cinema the eyes are intimately related to the skin. However, if they are to function as organs of touch whatever is being perceived must have a
certain discernible visual texture. In the process of seeing this texture the eye encounters something more - an engagement, an interaction – which is not isolated to the optic centre but takes place across and within the whole body. Furthermore, this embodied perception lends a symmetry between viewer and film, ‘the [former] responding to the [latter] as to another body and to the screen as another skin’ (4).</p>
<p>This inner response to outer stimuli, this inward-moving influence which works symmetrically on and in the two bodies, is a motif which appears in the work of other film theorists. Jennifer M. Barker’s <em>The Tactile Eye: Touch and the Cinematic Experience</em> explores our relationship with cinema ‘as a <em>close</em> connection’, in which forms of tactility are expressed and shared by viewer and film, in ‘a full-bodied engagement with the reality of the world’ (Barker 2009: 2). Barker is more explicit about the inward reach of cinematic tactility, asserting that ‘as a material mode of perception and expression, then, [it] occurs not only at the skin or the screen, but traverses all the organs of the spectator’s body or the film’s body’ (Barker 2009: 2). On the official Sigur Rós website, Morisset explains that with INNI he wanted to give viewers the experience of ‘going “inside” the music’, using an expression that echoes the idea of <em>a move into another body</em>, one that the viewer is capable of
just as much as the film (‘About INNI’). Like Barker, he believes in the potential of cinema to profoundly affect the viewer in a specifically embodied way - indeed, in an interview at the British Film Institute, he uses the insides of the human body to describe the impact of the film, through which he wants to transmit the ‘visceral power’ of the live shows, to get the audience ‘in the guts’ (BFI, n.d.). The title of the project means ‘inside’ in Icelandic, and neatly encapsulates the essence and reach of the film, as well as the organic, parallel affect that is felt within and moves between both bodies: from the viscera of one to the viscera of the other. Barker’s book goes on to discuss the deeper significance of touch, which is ‘not simply contact, but rather a profound manner of being, a mode through which the body – human or cinematic – presents and expresses itself to the world, and through which it perceives the world as sensible’ (Barker 2009: 2). Morisset is clearly sensitive to the potential of a
visual live music recording when it harnesses the power of tactile and visceral cinema.</p>
<p>Faced with the task of imbuing the recorded footage of a past performance with the spirit of a live show, the artists behind the INNI project have created a piece of cinema that resonates with both Marks’ notion of haptic perception and visuality, and Barker’s more explicitly organic conception of the embodied cinematic experience. Although it was initially filmed on HD digital, Morisset rejected the highly polished, visually perfect finish of this format, opting instead for effects that would breathe life into the images. In another interview he explains, ‘in (gaining) details and (pristine) quality, you relate to it in the sense of how I view broadcast television – something really cold’ (Blau, n.d.). Although there is a similar documentary aspect to recording a live performance, Morisset has gone for something more affective. He transferred the digitally edited footage onto 16mm, projected the analogue images in the studio and recaptured them onto digital, this time experimenting with the grading of
the film, as well as moving his hands in front of the projector lens and placing glass prisms and other materials over it to impressionistic effect. During this exercise, he played Sigur Rós’ music in the studio. For this final stage, he was ‘inspired’ by Neil Young’s scoring method for <em>Dead Man</em>, who improvised on his guitar whilst watching the film for the first time, ‘reacting to the images in an intuitive way’ (Paste, n.d.). Morisset’s use of, quite literally, <em>handmade</em> effects to manipulate these images is analogous to the embodied audience response he was aiming for; acting upon his natural, pre-subjective response to the footage and the music, using his hands – so strongly associated with touch and feeling – he translated his own response to the images and the music through his body, channelling the flow of affect between the film and the future spectator.</p>
<p>We do not have to look beyond the recent Nordic film context to find other cinematographers who have similarly transferred footage between different film formats to add texture to their images: Anthony Dod Mantle, filming <em>Festen</em> (dir. Thomas Vinterberg, Denmark, 1998) in adherence with the rules of the Dogme 95 movement, converted the digital video footage to very high-speed film stock for theatrical release, explaining that, ‘that way, the digital noise starts to speak to the film grain. And I wanted this square, Academy, organic mass to bubble up on the screen’ (Kelly 2000: 101-2). Like Morisset, he wanted to give the images life, an ‘organic’ quality, and to set them apart from the ‘really cold’ feel of so-called high quality film (Paste, n.d.). Lars von Trier has used inter-format transfer extensively in his work, as explored, for example, by Emma Bell in her article ‘The Passions of Lars von Trier: Madness, Femininity, Film’. When shooting his 1988 film for Danish television, <em>Medea</em>,
von Trier, one of the founders of the Dogme 95 movement, used this technique and other additional effects ‘to emphasise form as integral to content’ (Bell 2006: 207). In this particular instance, the ‘corrupted’ footage is further enhanced ‘with theatrical silhouettes, superimpositions and back-projections, creating a psycho-active mise-en-scène that reflects and intensifies Medea’s emotional state’ (207). Here, Bell posits the affective power of manipulating the surface of the film, demonstrating how complex visuality in film may communicate the emotions played out on the screen, as well as generating an emotional response in the viewer. However, she goes further in her analysis of this ‘hyper-realism,’ declaring that it has ‘an ethical function: to disallow the passive spectatorship and emotional cliché of classical cinema, instead normalising drama by encouraging a sense of immediacy and witness’ (209). Hyper-realism, with its demand for interaction between film and spectator, seems analogous to Marks’
haptic images and Barker’s notion of the ‘engagement’ facilitated by tactile cinema. Across the work of all these writers and cinematographers there is an emphasis on the importance of the textural qualities of the film’s surface in establishing a meaningful and powerful connection between spectator and film.</p>
<p>Morisset uses a number of fixed and handheld cameras for the live show, so that the members of the band are captured up close and from many angles. The audience barely features at all, suggested only as a body of applause that has been edited and restrained so as not to impinge on the music. Even in the few long shots of the band, the stage takes up the entire frame; Morisset’s edit is all about what is happening on stage, taking the spectator right amongst the band and all their equipment for an intimate experience of their performance.  The title of the film sums up the aim of everyone involved on-stage and behind the scenes of the project: according to their official site, the ‘job’ of <em>INNI</em> is to convey ‘what it feels like to actually watch Sigur Rós play’, Morisset employing post-production techniques ‘to create an emotional understanding of being in the room with the band and going “inside” the music’ (‘About Inni’, n.d.). Again, the verb <em>feel</em> is used; Morisset wants the experience
of the film to go beyond mere aural or visual pleasure, to encourage an engagement with the subject matter on an emotional and affective level, and to experience appreciating the music as an inward movement that is more of an instinctive sensation than a physical possibility. His is an attempt to bring the viewer as close as possible to touching the performance, as though there is neither screen mediating nor any distancing lapse of time. Indeed, in an interview with AU Magazine he asserts, ‘it will always be disappointing to try to do a photocopy of a live performance […] Cinema is a medium where you can take the spectator by the hand and bring him to places that would be impossible otherwise’ (Harrison 2011). This film is no exact, flat reproduction, but realises the full potential of cinema in opening up a world to be explored which is neither that of the viewer nor that of the film, but which is in some way liminal to both.</p>
<p><em>INNI</em>’s gaze and movement towards the ‘inside’ are approached through the way the performance is initially filmed. The cameras themselves do not move, only their subjects; there are no panning or zooming shots, nor any handheld shakiness, so that their mediating presence is easily forgotten, and the spectator’s gaze may move over the images within the frame at will. This encourages ‘haptic looking,’ which is ‘a labile, plastic sort of look, more inclined to move than to focus’ (Marks 2002: 8). The chosen footage tends to favour an unusual perspective, so that our eyes are drawn to the overlooked or rarely seen details of a live performance; we are almost peering over drummer Orri’s head and shoulders, which jerk from the impact of his drumsticks making the costume jewels on his hat sparkle; our eyes travel along the gleaming plastic-coated wires taped to the floor, and are dazzled by the trembling reflections on a metal cymbal; our gaze is directed at Kjartan’s foot, in polka dot socks and shiny
leather shoes, pressing down the pedals of the piano. Between songs, the handmade effects, which echo the stage effects and are inspired by the shape, movement and patterns of natural phenomena, pulsate and crackle across the screen like materialisations of the affect that traverses the screen between our bodies and that of the film.</p>
<p>According to Marks, haptic looking ‘tends to rest on the surface of its object rather than to plunge into depth, not to distinguish form so much as to discern texture’ (Marks 2002: 8). In Morisset’s final cut, the cameras could have been following these remarks to the letter. They are consistently too close to their subjects for the eye to distinguish them in their entirety - yet this haptic looking is only fully facilitated by the post-production work.  The grainy black and white footage bears a level of contrast that accentuates the texture of every surface that comes within the frame, be it skin, metal or fabric, smoke, shadow or light. This is particularly noticeable in the closest of the close ups; we glimpse the icy flashes of glitter particles on Jónsi’s cheek; we discern the criss-crossing weave of a starched cotton shirt cuff and the grain of the wooden piano lid; we watch the ripple of tendons as Georg’s hand works along the frets of his bass guitar. Sometimes the film’s subjects are only just
within the frame, the rest of the screen a shadowy blank space where the pulsing and unstable effects of Morisset’s postproduction methods are much easier to discern. When the shot is far back enough to frame a recognisable figure silhouetted against the pale, flickering atmosphere, the blurred, smoky edges and the deeper shadows seep across the whole screen so that the figures, instruments and musical equipment no longer stand out from their background.</p>
<p>The style of the film ‘”horizontalizes” figure and ground’, achieving a look which, like Barker, I would ‘hesitate’ to describe as flat, ‘because of its richly textured surface’ (Barker 2009: 42-3). Although she is discussing in particular how the cinematography of <em>Pather Panchali</em> (dir. Satyajit Ray, India, 1955) reflects the film’s major theme of a family at one with its surroundings, her analysis resonates with the making of <em>INNI</em>, and more generally with Marks’ discussion of haptics. Barker remarks that ‘figure and ground mingle continuously in [<em>Panther Panchali</em>] with the help of cinematic effects that flatten the image into pure surface and texture’ (Barker 2009: 42). The live footage of <em>INNI</em> has been manipulated in the same way; it now consists of images that Marks would call haptic. 'Haptic images invite the viewer to dissolve his or her subjectivity in the close and bodily contact with the image […] The viewer is called on to fill in the gaps in the image, engage
with the traces the image leaves. By interacting up close with an image, close enough that figure and ground commingle, the viewer gives up her own sense of separation from an image' (Marks 2002: 13). </p>
<p>The band members are not foregrounded as four individuals, but are as much a part of the light, shadow and texture of each frame as their surroundings and the post-production techniques. And as Marks emphasises, the viewer, too, is moved to feel at one with the images, to be moved inwardly and let the images move inward. INNI, though, goes further in incorporating material and textural elements into its packaging. Just as the film visualises the affects it shares with the viewer, the multimedia package seduces the receiver into a multisensory relationship with the remnants and traces of the live show. If, as Marks puts it, the audiovisual text can only ever gesture to ‘its own asymptotic, caressing relation to the real’ (2000: 192), INNI materialises that caress in its provision of fabric from the show – fabric now touching, and touched by, the same hands that reach up, in the film, from the crowd towards the band.   </p>
<p> </p>
<div Class="objavi-no-page-break"><h2>Author's Comment</h2>
<p>This was written for the final year/MA module ‘STUFF: Media and Materiality in European Culture’; as a masters student, I had to write an essay on a topic of my own choice. Inspired by the contemporary media theory of Laura U. Marks, I decided to look at haptic cinema in more depth, and to bring my own experience into a dialogue with the texts I’d enjoyed reading. A recent release from an absolute favourite band was perfectly timed, and provided plenty of scope for discussion. As my graduate degree primarily involved studying literature and literary theory, exploring the history of the moving image and its potential for engaging with all the senses of the spectator was invigorating, and has changed the way I watch film. I am also grateful for being introduced to Nordic film, which has really whetted my appetite!</p>
</div><p>If I were to revisit this essay, I’d want to expand it and talk much more about the audio content - perhaps in an electronic piece of work, in the sprirt of Marks, in which I could employ audio/visual examples to illustrate the sort of experience I am discussing. It would also be interesting to compare other filmic recordings of musical performances to trace the development of the relationship between film, music and haptics.</p>
<p>This essay was previously published in <em>Scandinavica: An International Journal of Scandinavian Studies</em>, 51:1, 2012.</p>
<p> </p>
<div class="pagebreakbefore">
<h2>References</h2>
</div>
<p>‘About Inni’. http://www.sigur-ros.co.uk/band/disco/inni/. Accessed 17 April 2012.</p>
<p>Barker, Jennifer M. (2009). <em>The Tactile Eye: Touch and the Cinematic Experience</em>. Berkeley: University of California Press.</p>
<p>Bell, Emma (2006). ‘The Passions of Lars von Trier: Madness, Femininity, Film.’ In Thomson, C. Claire (ed.) <em>Northern Constellations: New Readings in Nordic Cinema</em>. Norwich: Norvik Press.</p>
<p><em>BFI: In Conversation</em>. ‘Sigur Rós: Inni’. http://www.bfi.org.uk/live/video/825. Accessed 19 April 2012.</p>
<p>Blau, Max. ‘Vincent Morisset’s Sigur Rós.’ <em>Paste Magazine</em> 19. http://mplayer.pastemagazine.com/issues/<br>week-19/articles#article=/issues/week-19/<br>articles/inni-vincent-morissets-sigur-ros-doc. Accessed 17 April 2012.</p>
<p>Boilen,  Bob (2011). ‘Sigur Rós, Inni.’ <em>NPR Magazine: All Songs Considered</em> http://www.npr.org/blogs/allsongs/2011/09/16/<br>140471649/first-watch-sigur-r-s-inni.  Accessed 17 April 2012.</p>
<p>Classen, Constance (2005a). ‘Fingerprints: Writing About Touch.’ In Classen, Constance (ed.) : <em>The Book of Touch</em>. Oxford: Berg.</p>
<p>Classen, Constance (2005b). ‘Touch in the Museum.’ In Classen, Constance (ed.) : <em>The Book of Touch</em>. Oxford: Berg.</p>
<p>Harrison, Daniel (2011). ‘Shooting Sigur Rós.’ <em>AU Magazine</em>. http://iheartau.com/2011/10/shooting-sigur-ros/. Accessed 17 April 2012.</p>
<p><em>INNI</em> (Vincent Morisset 2011)</p>
<p>Kelly, Richard (2000).  <em>The Name of this Book is Dogme95</em>. London: Faber and Faber.</p>
<p>Marks, Laura U. (2000). <em>The Skin of the Film: Intercultural Cinema, Embodiment, and the Senses</em>. Durham and London: Duke University Press.</p>
<p>Marks, Laura U. (2002). <em>Touch: Sensuous Theory and Multisensory Media</em>. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.</p>
<p>Massumi, Brian (2004). ‘Notes on the Translation and Acknowledgements.’ In Deleuze, Gilles and Félix Guattari: <em>A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia</em>. London: Continuum. Sedgwick,</p>
<p>Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky (2003). <em>Touching Feeling: Affect, Pedagogy, Performativity</em>. Durham and London: Duke University Press.  <strong> </strong></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p><div id="section-4" Class="objavi-subsection"><div Class="objavi-subsection-heading">Auteur and Style</div><div Class="objavi-chapter"><strong Class="initial">10.</strong> Tancred Ibsen and the Norwegian Film Industry,  Clare Glenister</div><div Class="objavi-chapter"><strong Class="initial">11.</strong> Dreyer, Dogme and the Real,  Martin Butcher</div><div Class="objavi-chapter"><strong Class="initial">12.</strong> 'It is Too Beautiful': Accidents and Auteurship in Lars von Trier's Antichrist, Pei Sze Chow</div></div><h1 id="ReFzjuCOVS_12"><strong Class="initial">10.</strong> <span class="title">Tancred Ibsen and the Norwegian Film Industry<span class="comma">, </span> <span class="author">Clare Glenister</span></span></h1>
<p>This essay analyses Tancred Ibsen's film <em>Den hemmelighetsfulle leiligheten</em> (The Mysterious Apartment, 1948) with reference to the representation of secrets, lies and mystery. In addition, it places the life and work of Tancred Ibsen within the context of Norwegian film history up to and including 1948.</p>
<p>Of the cinematic output of the Nordic countries, it is perhaps that of Norway that is least known internationally. The towering figures of Ingmar Bergman, Aki Kaurismäki and Lars von Trier have placed Sweden, Finland and Denmark firmly on the cinematic world map, but Norway lacks such a figure. A front-running candidate for this position might be Tancred Ibsen, whose output of more than twenty films remains the largest of any feature film director in Norway. A reason for his relative obscurity might be the paucity of the availability of his work. Whereas the whole of Bergman's, Kaurismäki's and von Trier's output is available on comprehensibly subtitled DVDs, at the time of writing this is true of only a small fraction of Ibsen's oeuvre, namely <em>Fant</em> (Tramp, 1937), <em>Den hemmelighetsfulle leiligheten</em>, <em>To mistenkelige personer</em> (Two Suspects, 1950) and <em>Vildanden</em> (The Wild Duck, 1963).  I do not recall ever having seen a Tancred Ibsen film shown on British television.</p>
<p>So who was Tancred Ibsen? The surname is, of course, famous in connection with Norwegian dramatic output in the second half of the nineteenth century. Tancred Ibsen (1893-1978) was the grandson not only of Henrik Ibsen but also of Bjørnsterne Bjørnson, and his father Sigurd, a diplomat, and mother Bergliot (neé Bjørnson) were both writers. As the 'double grandson' (doppeltbarnebarnet) of two literary geniuses and the son of a successful diplomat and author, it might have been expected of Tancred to follow his famous forebears into a literary career. At school, however, he was not an academic success. In his autobiography he writes in a light-hearted style of the difficulties he had in learning the alphabet and it has been suggested that he was dyslexic (Ibsen 1976: 12-14). Did these early problems with literacy nurture the development of a visual language? Not to be defeated, he resolved to take up a career which neither of his grandfathers could have done: he joined the military and became a pilot. His
flying career was distinguished and in 1920 he founded A/S Aero, a commercial airline company (www.europeanairlines.no).</p>
<p>How did Tancred Ibsen evolve from pilot to film director? In 1923, he sold A/S Aero and accompanied his wife, the actress Lillebel Krohn, to New York, where she was to appear in the play <em>Peer Gynt</em> (Henrik Ibsen 1867). While Lillebel rehearsed, Tancred went to the movies, and on seeing D.W. Griffith's <em>Orphans of the Storm</em> (1921) decided that film could be 'art' and resolved to get involved in the moviemaking business. He gained practical experience by working as an electrician and handyman on King Vidor's <em>His Hour</em> (1924) and Victor Sjöström/Seastrom's <em>Tower of Lies</em> (1925). For a time he was a scriptwriter for MGM but none of his scripts was produced. He was determined, though, to apply his newly-gained experience to the making of Norwegian films, to 'Ibsenize' cinema. He and Lillebel moved back to Norway (Iversen 1993: 7-10).</p>
<p>What was the situation with Norwegian cinema at this time? By 1930, film production in Norway had had a somewhat chequered history and was emerging from a period of stagnation. The first public film screening of moving pictures in Norway, indeed in Scandinavia, had been in 1896. This new form of entertainment became hugely popular and by 1904 five cinemas had been established in Christiania (the capital city, now Oslo). In 1905, film played an important role in building up national identity after Norway's independence from the Union with Sweden, the footage of King Haakon's arrival in Christiania being a much quoted example (shot by Hugo Hermansen and currently available on the Norwegian Royal family's website). Fictional films, particularly the popular Danish erotic melodramas, were seen by some as being rather too much of a good thing, however. They came under the scrutiny of groups such as the Society for the Promotion of Morality (Foreningen til Sædelighetens Fremme) and in 1913, the Film Theatres Act
(<em>kinoloven</em>) was passed. Under this Act, cinemas and film showings came under the control of the local municipalities (<em>kommuner</em>). They bought out the private owners and used the (often considerable) box office profits to finance projects for the public good. There was no obligation to plough revenue back into film production. Some enterprising individuals were willing and able to sponsor film production privately, but the results were usually 'one hit wonders' due to lack of sustained finance. In 1916, Peter Lykke-Seest established Christiania Film Compagni and directed six films (now lost) between 1917 and 1919. The earliest surviving Norwegian feature film is Halfdan Nobel Roede's <em>Under forvandlingens lov</em> (Under the Law of Change, 1911) (see Popplewell 1972, Cowie 1992, Iversen 1998).</p>
<p>In 1920, however, there was something of a breakthrough (<em>filmgjennombrudd</em>) when some privately-produced films were subsidised by the municipalities. Among these was <em>Fante-Anne</em> (Anne the Tramp, 1920), directed by Rasmus Breistein, the first Norwegian film to be adapted from literature. It set a trend for Norwegian film style, being shot on location in the countryside. Of the twenty-nine films produced in the 1920s, twenty-four had rural settings due, perhaps, to the paucity of studio facilities in Norway at that time. Notwithstanding, at a time of industrialisation, the new urban-dwelling audiences liked to see images of the countryside at the cinema. This success was not without a sting in the tail, however. Entertainment tax (<em>underholdingsskatt</em>) was introduced and production dropped (Iversen 1998).</p>
<p>When Tancred Ibsen arrived back in Norway he put his plan to 'Norwegianise' cinema into practice. In 1931 he secured the rights to Oskar Braathen's play <em>Den store barnedåpen</em> (The Big Christening, 1925) and produced it as the first Norwegian 'talkie', with leading actor Einar Sissener as co-director. It broke with the recently established tradition of rural settings, deploying instead working class characters within an urban industrial environment. 1932 saw another breakthrough for Norwegian cinema – the establishment of Norsk Film A/S with studio facilities at Jar, a suburb of Oslo. Ibsen's success with <em>Den store barnedåpen</em> led to five more films in Norway and seven in Sweden. These included <em>Synnøve Solbakken</em> (1934), based on Bjørnsen's 1857 novel, and starring Victor Sjöström. <em>To levende og en død</em> (Two Living and One Dead, 1937) and <em>Fant</em> (1937) for Norsk Film A/S returned to the rural settings of the</p>
<p><br><br><br><img src="static/glenister_BW.jpg" alt="" width="400" height="300"></p>
<p><br><span class="imagecaption">From Den<em> hemmelighetsfulle leiligheten</em> (The Mysterious Apartment, Tancred Ibsen, 1948)</span></p>
<div class="pagebreakbefore">
<p>films of the 1920s (Iversen 1993). In his autobiography, Ibsen writes about the location shooting in <em>Fant</em> as being a matter of expediency, because no back-projection nor other studio tricks were available (Ibsen 1976: 156-7). This gives the film an 'authentic' feel which it might not have had, had studio facilities been more readily available. (It can be noted at this stage that, apart from a few 'library' type establishing shots, <em>Den hemmelighetsfulle leiligheten</em> is shot entirely in the studio, back projections included). The 1930s have been labelled 'The Golden Age' (<em>gullalderen</em>) of Norwegian cinema when films such as Tancred Ibsen's <em>Gjest Baardsen</em> (1939) and Leif Sinding's <em>De vergeløse</em> (The Defenceless, 1939) could compete with American ones in the domestic market.</p>
<p>During the German occupation of Norway in World War II, the showing of American and British films was forbidden. The municipal cinemas showed German newsreels, alongside home grown comedies and other light-hearted features. Production continued at Norsk Film A/S (under German control) and Ibsen's <em>Tørres Snørtevold</em> (1940) and <em>Den farlige leken</em> (The Dangerous Game, 1942) were made there. However, in August 1943, due to his military background, Ibsen was arrested, transported out of Norway and imprisoned in Schildberg (Ostrzeszów) and Luckenwalde until the end of the war (Ibsen 1976: 203-228; oflag21c.ovh.org).</p>
<p>During the post-war recovery period, cinema attendance rose to a record 8 million in Oslo and 2 million in Trondheim (Iversen 1998: 121). Entertainment tax rose also but some of the revenue found its way into Norwegian film subsidy. As in other parts of the world, the experience of World War II contributed a wealth of new stories for feature films. In Norway, the 'occupation drama' dominated for many years, such as Toralf Sandø's <em>Englandsfarene</em> (We Leave for England, 1946) and Titus Vibe-Müller and Jean Dréville's docu-drama <em>Kampen om tungtvannet</em> (The Battle for Heavy Water, 1948). Norsk Film A/S had produced no feature films since 1945 (due to lack of finance) but in 1948 it became a joint state and municipal concern and film production resumed. Its first production was Ibsen's <em>Den hemmelighetsfulle leiligheten</em> (Cowie 1992, Iversen 1998).</p>
<p>In this film, adapted from the novella by Kristian Elster junior, it was Ibsen's idea to let the audience into the thoughts of the characters. The use of voice-over monologues, he reasoned, would reveal more of their inner truth than by the use of spoken dialogue (Ibsen 1976: 238).   According to Gunnar Iversen, the post-war period was one of restless experimentation for Ibsen. He was searching for a new style and wanted to try out modernistic forms. A similar (albeit later) experiment in modernism was Erik Løchen's <em>Jakten</em> (1959) (Iversen 1993: 23).<em></em></p>
<p><em>Den hemmelighetsfulle leiligheten</em> has a complex temporal arrangement employing flash-backs and non-consecutive narrative, which had been a feature of film technique since the silent era. Indeed, Victor Sjöström's <em>Körkarlen</em> (The Phantom Carriage, 1921) had employed just such a technique. In <em>Den hemmelighetsfulle leiligheten</em>, the chronological order of the plot runs as follows (scenes labelled alphabetically):<br><br>(A) As a boy, Byråsjefen (The Office Boss) has found a secret compartment in his parents' bureau containing explicit love letters. He reads them and is shocked. <br><br>(B) At the theatre cloakroom where she works, Dora Danielsen (Dot) meets the former apartment owner and becomes his mistress. She spends evenings in the apartment.<br><br>(C) At the boarding house where he lives, Byråsjefen plays cards with his friends who persuade him to buy the apartment that has become available (complete with furnishings, maid and parrot) due to the previous owner's death from
oyster poisoning.<br><br>(D) Byråsjefen views the apartment and decides to buy it due, partly, to his curiosity about the bureau and what it might contain.<br><br>(E) He has the apartment cleaned and tries to remove all traces of previous (deceased) owner.<br><br>(F) On the tram, Byråsjefen reminisces about recent events.<br><br>(G) He moves into the apartment and discovers explicit love letters hidden in the bureau. They are from a woman called Dot. He is disturbed by the parrot's mimicry of the previous owner.<br><br>(H) In the office, he considers what sort of woman Dot might be. He pays little attention to his client and leaves early.<br><br>(I) At night, Dot tries to get into the apartment to retrieve her letters. She has a key but there is a chain on the door.<br><br>(J) Next morning she visits to ask Byråsjefen to look for the letters. He pretends not to have found them but promises to contact her should he do so. She visualises her previous life in the apartment. She tells him she has come for the
pills that the previous owner had given her. He was going to commit suicide and she was to follow but she forgot the pills. Byråsjefen tells her that he died of oyster poisoning in Paris. She educates him about the paintings. He takes away her key and promises to look for the letters.<br><br>(K) In her room, Dot talks to the photograph of her former lover.<br><br>(L) At the office, Byråsjefen starts to notice the secretary's attractiveness. The secretaries notice a change in his behaviour. He resolves to burn the letters and not see Dot again.<br><br>(M) On the tram, Byråsjefen decides to send Dot her letters.<br><br>(N) In the apartment at night, Byråsjefen starts to burn the letters, then writes that she must come and get  them.<br><br>(O) In her room, Dot reads his letter.<br><br>(P) Dot comes to collect the letters but Byråsjefen gives her only some of them so that he can invite her back. She educates him about the music. She leaves when one of his friends telephones, inviting himself and the other
friends to a party.<br><br>(Q) In her room, Dot reads his second letter. She is angry and wishes Byråsjefen dead.<br><br>(R) Byråsjefen goes shopping to buy things for her return visit.<br><br>(S) She visits and resolves to live there. He returns her key and clumsily suggests that she become his lover. She slaps him.<br><br>(T) Byråsjefen visits the theatre cloakroom and proposes marriage to Dot. They go to a café. She accepts in order to get back into the apartment.<br><br>(U) Byråsjefen throws a dinner party for his three friends. He educates them about the paintings and music. Dot charms them on her way out to the theatre. Byråsjefen tells the story of Dot's meeting with the deceased owner as if it were his own. He has taken on his persona.<br><br>(V) On the tram the secretaries gossip about Byråsjefen and he reminisces about the party.<br><br>(W) Byråsjefen (wearing the deceased lover's dressing gown) and Dot put the letters back into the bureau with the photograph of the previous owner. The parrot
laughs...<br><br>The order in which the scenes appear in the film is, however:</p>
</div>
<p><br>(F), (C), (F), (D), (A), (D), (F), (E), (F), (G), (H), (I), (J), (B), (J), (K), (L), (M), (N), (O), (P), (B), (P), (Q), (R), (S) ,(T), (V), (U), (V), (W)</p>
<p><br>What is the point of this? Why not just enact the story? The use of flash-back, which in this case includes description by the characters in voice-over monologue, allows for personal elaboration by them. Indeed, there is no guarantee that they are telling the truth. They are acting as narrators and as such are not necessarily reliable. For example in (U), Byråsjefen repeats the story of Dot's meeting with her former lover as told by her in (P) as if it were his own story. On this occasion we know that he is lying, but how are we to know that her original story is true? Is it more likely to be true because it is 'enacted' as well as 'told'. Are 'actions' truer than 'words' according to the language of the film?</p>
<p>With regard to the so-called truth, from the outset the story is told through the eyes and in the mind of Byråsjefen. We accept him as the focalizer, as the controller of our reading of the events. This is because the use of voice-over takes us into his mind as was Ibsen's intention. It is as if we are reading a work of narrative fiction written in the first person. We hear him in the first person but see him, as it were, in the third person. We hear him on the inside and see and hear him from the outside. We know he is a liar because he tells Dot that he has not read the letters but we know that he has. Crucially, when Dot arrives, we read her as a character in his story but at some point doubt sets in and we begin to suspect that she might be the focalizer and controller of the story. So we might say that persuading us that we are watching Byråsjefen's story is a kind of lie too, because what we are actually seeing is Dot's story. When we hear her voice-over for the first time in (K) we hear a menacing
tone. She cannot bear the thought of an 'art imbecile' living in the apartment. In (Q) we get the impression that she can be truly venomous, the reverse of the sweet exterior that Byråsjefen has fallen for.</p>
<h5>Byråsjefen (VO reading letter): If it is convenient, you can come around to pick up several letters. I found them in another drawer.<span id="InsertNoteID_1_marker1" class="InsertNoteMarker"><sup><a href="#tancred-ibsen-and-the-norwegian-film-industry-c-glenister-tbc_InsertNoteID_1">1</a></sup></span></h5>
<h5><span id="InsertNoteID_1_marker1" class="InsertNoteMarker"><span>Dot (VO in a menacing tone): He has been going through his <span id="InsertNoteID_2_marker2" class="InsertNoteMarker"><sup><a href="#tancred-ibsen-and-the-norwegian-film-industry-c-glenister-tbc_InsertNoteID_2">2</a></sup><span> drawers. He has found my letters! And probably other things too. Things of his! </span></span></span></span></h5>
<h5><span id="InsertNoteID_1_marker1" class="InsertNoteMarker"><span><span id="InsertNoteID_2_marker2" class="InsertNoteMarker"><span>Dot (Speech): I wish he would die!</span></span></span></span></h5>
<p>Another example of the use of use of voice-over is in the second part of (T), where the couple sit in 'silence' in the café. In the first part of (T), Byråsjefen has proposed marriage to Dot and is, presumably, awaiting an answer. We hear the thoughts of each of them in turn, an impossible situation in real life, but one which ought to fulfil Ibsen's intention of revealing the characters' inner truth:</p>
<h5>Byråsjefen (VO): I am sitting here…Quite relaxed. With a woman I have proposed to.<br><br>Dot (VO): He wants to marry me! Even though I was his lady friend. Even though I hit him! <br><br>Byråsjefen (VO): With her…I want to learn how to live, be like everyone else! She must forgive me!<br><br>Dot (VO): I didn't hit him when he asked if I wanted a key. I knew he would never marry me.<br><br>Byråsjefen (VO): She loved him! But he is dead…I will give her everything I am capable of. <br><br>Dot (VO): If I marry him, it'll be my apartment. I can be there…among all the furniture, paintings and books. Everything he loved so dearly! He is quite handsome…I am sure he is kind. (Speech): Cheers!<br><br>Byråsjefen (Speech): Cheers!</h5>
<p>The paradox is, that by revealing the characters' 'inner truth', we are exposed to their lies. At times, this has a disturbing effect. A significant part of cinema-going experience is about identifying with the characters and in this case that identification can feel uncomfortably close to home. Nonetheless, by revealing the characters' lies, Ibsen is giving us dramatic truth. All this could be achieved without the use of voice-over, of course. Film is good at showing a character acting in one way in one scene and lying about it in another. With voice-over we can get 'truth' and 'lies' simultaneously.</p>
<p>Another kind of lying is hypocrisy. Byråsjefen's initial distaste for the apartment and its contents is reversed in the light of his growing attraction for Dot, and the possibility that he might come to possess her along with everything else. The paintings and music, for example, he comes to appreciate with her encouragement:</p>
<h5>Byråsjefen: Have you ever seen blue grass?<br>Dot: Yes, but you have to be an artist or understand art to see it.<br>…<br>Byråsjefen: Do you really like this music?<br><br>Dot: Can't you hear how sophisticated it is? The voices countering each other? The solo in contrast to the orchestra?<br>Byråsjefen: Maybe so. Now you come to mention it.</h5>
<p>He is happy to share this 'appreciation' with his friends and pass it off as genuine:</p>
<h5>(Looking at the painting of three nudes)<br>Doctor: Have a look at this! How appalling! What an anatomy! That's not the anatomy I studied! […]<br>Lawyer: Have you ever seen such colours? […]<br>Byråsjefen: You are blind. You can't see. <br>Friends: Are we blind?<br>Byråsjefen: The grass isn't green. It is blue, gentlemen.</h5>
<p>So much for secrets and lies. What about mystery? First, there is the mystery of the box of pills. This is found hidden in the bureau along with the letters. Dot says that she was unaware of the previous owner's death from oyster poisoning because she had been taken to hospital. Why? She believed that he had committed suicide and it was her intention to follow suit. For this purpose, he had given her a silver box of pills but she had left them behind. None of this is fully explained and after she has married Byråsjefen and got herself back into the apartment, one cannot help but feel concerned for his safety, especially as she has already pronounced that she wishes him dead and insists on displaying the photograph of her former lover in the bureau. I have  suggested that the presentation of Byråsjefen as the main character is misleading, a 'lie'. On first viewing, we accept this presentation from the outset because we have no reason to think otherwise but after the appearance of Dot, and as the film draws
to a close, some confusion sets in. On subsequent viewing it becomes clear that Dot is the controlling influence and Byråsjefen is the victim. Indeed, one could make a case for the story's primary influence being the deceased. After all, it is his taste that overwhelms the milieu of the film. In spite of Byråsjefen's efforts, he is still 'present' in the apartment through the paintings and the music and the smell of the cigarettes 'I was only allowed to smoke these' says Dot. This 'absent presence' brings to mind films such as <em>Rebecca</em> (Alfred Hitchcock, 1940) in which housekeeper Mrs Danvers keeps 'alive' her previous employer by the fetishistic preservation of her things. There is a touch of the 'Mrs Danvers' about the maid in <em>Den hemmelighetsfulle leiligheten</em> but she turns out to be a benign figure in comparison. Similarly, in plays such as Henrik Ibsen's <em>Hedda Gabler</em> (1891) and Anton Chekhov's <em>Three Sisters</em> (1901), deceased fathers (Generals Gabler and Prozorov) exert
their influence from beyond the grave.</p>
<p>Another mystery concerns the film's genre. What is it? In some respects it is a comedy. There are some delightful moments not least involving the parrot which maintains the presence of the previous owner by imitating him. In fact, it is the parrot that has 'the last laugh'. The voice of the parrot is a living manifestation of him. The parrot can be read, though, as menacing, as a ghostly presence exacerbating the unease Byråsjefen feels about the apartment at first. He feels that he will never get rid of the smell and ambience of the deceased but when Dot turns up, Byråsjefen convinces himself that it is her ambience so he has to have her in order to complete the picture. So is it a romance? From his point of view it is. His fear of women, as pointed out by his Doctor friend in (C) (and likely to have been initiated by his boyhood reading of the erotic letters), is dispelled along with his other restrictive prejudices, such as his aversion to modern art and music. Here the film could be seen as a lesson
in appreciation of culture. The mise-en-scène incorporates paintings by Norwegian expressionist Kai Fjell (1907-1989). There is a visual joke in (G) when Byråsjefen sits in a chair and unwittingly adopts a pose just like the one in the cubist portrait adjacent to it. The diegetic gramophone music, specially composed by Gunnar Sønstevold (1912-1991) in the style of Bartok or Stravinsky is similarly discussed. So have we entered the genre of art education?</p>
<p>So we have a romantic (black) comedy mystery with a bit of cultural education, possibly. The majority of Norwegian films of this period were concerned with the Occupation and <em>Den hemmelighetsfulle leiligheten</em> could be read politically as an allegory of collaboration. Dot's 'home' is under Occupation and she is prepared to compromise her integrity to get it back. This may not have been Ibsen's intention but it is not the intention that is significant, rather the reading. Perhaps this is stretching things a bit far.</p>
<p>1948 saw the release of more than 2000 films worldwide, including Ingmar Bergman's <em>Hamnstad</em> (Port of Call) and <em>Musik i mörker</em> (Music in Darkness), John Huston's <em>The Treasure of the Sierra Madre</em> and <em>Key Largo</em>, Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger's <em>The Red Shoes</em>, Vittorio De Sica's <em>Ladri di biciclette</em> (Bicycle Thieves) and Laurence Olivier's <em>Hamlet</em>. In such company, it is not surprising that neither <em>Den hemmelighetsfulle leiligheten</em> nor the five other Norwegian films released that year received much attention at international level. At the time, Tancred Ibsen was perplexed that neither audiences nor critics were impressed with his idea of exposing the characters' inner thoughts. Meanwhile David Lean's <em>Brief Encounter</em> (1945), with its extensive use of voice-over, had been hailed as an innovative masterpiece. Ibsen's film had some support, however. French director Georges Huisman said in an interview that it was 'a significant
work' (Ibsen 1976: 238). A significant work, perhaps, that awaits the time for its secrets to be revealed and appreciated.<em></em></p>
<p><em>Den hemmelighetsfulle leiligheten</em> is full of experimentation. The use of voiceover to show the inner life of the characters, the play with chronology and the departure from traditional location shooting all add up to a transition from the pictorial to the psychological in Norwegian filmmaking. Tancred Ibsen was active through some of the most important times in Norwegian film history, through its golden age and the journey to the modern era. In common with his distinguished grandfathers he was a fine storyteller, one whose chosen medium allowed for a kind of narrative sophistication those two gentlemen could scarcely have contemplated.</p>
<p> </p>
<div Class="objavi-no-page-break"><h2>Author's Comment</h2>
<p>I am a mature student who spent thirty years as a classical musician. I began a BA in Scandinavian Studies at UCL in 2009 and am due to graduate in 2013. I took Nordic Cinema as an option in the second year, as it suited my interest both in cinema and in all things Nordic. One of the films we studied was Knut Erik Jensen's documentary <em>Heftig og Begeistret</em> (Cool and Crazy, 2001) which is set in Berlevåg, Finnmark in the far north of Norway. In July 2012 I was able to visit this extraordinary place and hope to return before too long.</p>
</div><p>I first became aware of the work of Tancred Ibsen through his film version of Henrik Ibsen's <em>Vildanden</em> (The Wild Duck) and was intrigued to find out more. I was delighted to discover the high quality and level of innovation of his work.</p>
<p>Since writing this essay, I have read more on the history of Norwegian cinema, notably material in Norwegian, and have made some revisions which reflect this. I would love to gain access to the remainder of Tancred Ibsen's work, that which is not commercially available at present.</p>
<p>I have just returned from my year abroad, which I spent at Universitetet i Oslo, where I took courses in Norwegian language, Ibsen Studies and Film Studies. I visited and worked as a volunteer at film festivals in Oslo, Tromsø and Haugesund. It is encouraging to see the high level of input, both creative and financial, being invested in Norwegian cinema today.</p>
<p> </p>
<ol id="InsertNote_NoteList"><li id="tancred-ibsen-and-the-norwegian-film-industry-c-glenister-tbc_InsertNoteID_1">Translation taken from film subtitles. </li>
<li id="tancred-ibsen-and-the-norwegian-film-industry-c-glenister-tbc_InsertNoteID_2">Italics refer to the deceased previous owner of the apartment, Dot's former lover. </li>
</ol><p> </p>
<div class="pagebreakbefore">
<h2>References</h2>
</div>
<p>Cowie, Peter (1992). <em>Scandinavian Cinema: A Survey of the Films and Film-makers of Denmark, Finland, Iceland, Norway and Sweden</em>. London: Tantivy Press.</p>
<p>Derry, T.K. (1973). <em>A History of Modern Norway 1814-1972</em>. London: Clarendon Press.</p>
<p>European Airlines (n.d.). 'Tancred Ibsen'. http://www.europeanairlines.no/tancred-ibsen-and-as-aero/ (Accessed 06/01/11)</p>
<p>Evensmo, Sigurd (1992). <em>Det  Store Tivol</em><em>i</em>. Oslo: Gyldendal Norsk Forlag.</p>
<p>Griffiths, Tony (2004). <em>Scandinavia: at War with Trolls.</em> New York: Palgrave Macmillan.</p>
<p>Grønlie, Tore (1995). 'The Years since 1945'. In Danielsen, R., Dyrvik, S., Grønlie, T., Helle, K., Hovland, E.: <em>Norway. A History from the Vikings to Our Own Times.</em> Translated by Michael Drake. Oslo: Scandinavian University Press.</p>
<p>Hayward, Susan (2007). <em>Cinema Studies. The Key Concepts.</em> London: Routledge.</p>
<p>Hölaas, Odd (1949). <em>The World of the Norsemen</em>. London: The Bond Publishing Company.</p>
<p>Ibsen, Tancred (1976): <em>Tro det eller ei</em>. Oslo: Gyldendal Norsk Forlag.</p>
<p>Iversen, Gunnar (1993). <em>Tancred Ibsen og den norske gullalderen</em>. Oslo: Den norske filminstitutt.</p>
<p>Iversen, Gunnar (1998). 'Norway'. In Soila, Tytti, Astrid Söderbergh-Widding and Gunnar Iversen: <em>Nordic National Cinemas</em>. London: Routledge.</p>
<p>Kongehuset.no (Norwegian Royal Family online). Videoarkiv.<em> Kong Haakon VII ankommer Christiania</em> (King Haakon VII arrives in Christiania, Hugo Hermansen, 1905. Available at http://www.kongehuset.no/c74266/videoarkiv/vis.html?strukt_tid=74266. Accessed 11.9.2012.</p>
<p>Larsen, Karen (1948). <em>A History of Norway</em>. Princeton: University Press.</p>
<p>Monaco, James (2009). <em>How to Read a Film. Movies, Media and Beyond</em>. Oxford: Oxford University Press.</p>
<p>Nordstrom, Byron J. (2000). <em>Scandinavia since 1500</em>. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.</p>
<p>Popplewell, Ronald G. (1972). <em>Norway.</em> London: Earnest Benn Ltd.<em></em></p>
<p><em>Store Norske Leksikon</em> (1979). 'Tancred Ibsen'.</p>
<p>'Tancred Ibsen'. In  Andersen, Alf G. (ed.): <em>500 som preget Norge. Norske kvinner og menn i det 20 århundre</em>. (1999) Oslo: N.W. Damm and Søn A/S.<br><br><br id="tancred-ibsen-and-the-norwegian-film-industry-c-glenister-tbc_InsertNoteID_1"></p><h1 id="ReFzjuCOVS_14"><strong Class="initial">11.</strong> <span class="title">Dreyer, Dogme and the Real<span class="comma">, </span> <span class="author">Martin Butcher</span></span></h1>
<p>This essay explores film and the expression of reality. It offers a comparison and critique of the cinematic techniques of Carl Theodor Dreyer and the Dogme Brethren Lars von Trier and Thomas Vinterberg, with particular reference to the films <em>La Passion de Jeanne d'Arc</em> (The Passion of Joan of Arc, Dreyer, 1928), <em>Vredens dag</em> (Day of Wrath, Dreyer, 1943), <em>Ordet</em> (The Word, Dreyer, 1955), <em>Gertrud</em> (Dreyer,<em> 1964</em>), <em>Festen</em> (The Celebration<em>,</em> Vinterberg, 1998) and <em>Idioterne</em> (The Idiots, von Trier, 1998).</p>
<h5>Everything depends on the ‘right’ balance between the realistic tendency and the formative  tendency;  and the two tendencies are well balanced if the latter does not try to overwhelm the former but eventually follows to lead. (Kracauer 1960: 39)</h5>
<p>It is something of a cliché that all films are about the making of films. To make a film is to explore the ways in which cinematic techniques can be used to portray or express a narrative or subject. The film director has at his or her disposal a range of technical tools to assist in fashioning the end-product. The question arises whether these aids enhance or detract from the representation of the film’s subject. At the most basic level all cinematic representation involves mediation between the subject and the viewer, because film cannot be made without a camera and it is through the camera’s recording facility that the film is created in the first instance.  (It is now possible to create a 'film' using only computer-generated imagery; for the purposes of this essay I am discounting that facility.)  The 'raw material', as Dreyer called it, is captured by the camera and is mediated by its capabilities and its limitations. The film-maker may opt to employ every technical and other facility available; he
or she may use only some of these aids; or he or she may be ascetic and interpose as few of them as possible between the raw material and the viewer, essentially aiming to reduce filming to a record made just by the camera.</p>
<p>The increasingly sophisticated cinematic technology of film raised much debate about the nature of film, what film should be, whether cinema is an art-form, and how it represents its subject-matter. Notable names in the field of film theory, such as Rudolf Arnheim (1957), André Bazin (1967) and Siegfried Kracauer (1960), argued their case for and against realism, expressionism and the purpose of film. Without producing manifestos or sets of rules, they preached what films ought to be and how they should be crafted. 'Art in the age of mechanical reproduction' (as Walter Benjamin called it, 1935) has diversified and proliferated so greatly, and the concept of art has become so multifarious, that the theorists’ prescriptive attitudes can seem outdated and the issues merely academic. However, the superficial spectacle (modern-day cinema of attractions) producible by technology has provoked and kept ongoing debate about realism, illusion, methods of expression and art and non-art cinema very much alive. The
Dogme 95 Brotherhood and their 1995 Manifesto and Vow of Chastity with their back-to-basics prescriptions are, in the context of Nordic cinema, the most celebrated protagonists on one side of the argument. In this essay I shall examine the film-making approaches of two Dogme Brothers, Lars von Trier and Thomas Vinterberg (with particular reference to their films <em>Idioterne</em> and <em>Festen</em>), and of Carl Theodor Dreyer as an expressionist filmmaker (with reference in particular to his films <em>La Passion de Jeanne d'Arc</em>, <em>Vredens dag</em>, <em>Ordet</em> and <em>Gertrud</em>) with the aim of comparing and contrasting their cinematic methods and drawing some conclusions about filmic representation and film as an art.</p>
<p>In this analysis the role and attitude of the director are primary determinants.  Although he acknowledged that film was a collective activity, Carl Dreyer was in no doubt about the director’s role in making a film:</p>
<h5>within the collective, the director is and always will be – and has to be – the driving and inspiring force.  He is the man behind the work . . . It is he who stamps the film with this inexplicable something that is called style. (Dreyer quoted in Skoller 1973: 178)</h5>
<p>Such an approach marks him out as what would come to be known as an auteur, but apart from his determination to impose his own style on his work, the most significant feature is the commitment to control. Dreyer chose to work to texts by other authors, and in the cinematic representation of these texts he exercised absolute, even ruthless, control. This was for him essential to create the illusion which would convince the viewer of the truth of the representation. For Dreyer this striving after truthfulness was the only way to create film which is art. The director’s role must be interpretative, and all the expressive elements of film must be used and refined to integrate form and meaning. The material of the mise-en-scène is raw material; it is not sufficient in itself to portray the essence of the text. Dreyer mediates the image of the subject-matter in form and in substance both in setting up the mise-en-scène and in the editing process. He adopts an expressive approach: every element in the frame must
be made to contribute to the meaning of the narrative, whether literally or figuratively; he excludes all excess and superfluity, and reduces the mise-en-scène, the dialogue and the sound to the essential minimum. He would, for example, instruct his crew to build a set and furnish it; then he would strip it of everything he deemed inessential or non-contributory. He is said to have built rooms which were never actually used in shooting. This approach, which he called abstraction, is a set of self-imposed limitations, the constraints of form restricting the expression in order to create art by refinement. And Dreyer was in no doubt that in his films he was seeking to create works of art, and that it was through art that he could portray reality:</p>
<h5>The cinematic representation of reality should be true, but purged of trivial details. It should also be realistic, but transformed in the director’s mind in such a way that it becomes poetry. It is not the things in reality that the director should be interested in, but rather the spirit in and behind the things. For realism in itself is not art. The realities must be forced into a form of simplification and abbreviation and in a purified state reappear in a kind of timeless psychological realism. (Dreyer quoted in Skoller 1973: 184)</h5>
<p>The Dogme Brotherhood would have endorsed this aspiration to 'truth' in the cinematic representation of reality. They declare: 'My supreme goal is to force the truth out of my characters and settings', but they appear to have felt that art impeded realisation of this goal: 'I am no longer an artist.  I swear to refrain from creating a "work", as I regard the instant as more important than the whole.' (The Dogme 95 Manifesto and VOW OF CHASTITY, 1995).   Their purge involved the prohibition of all but the most basic technological tools rather than 'trivial details'. In this it could be argued that they confused artifice with art as the obstacles to truth. They too were interested in the inner reality of people and things, but their method was to prompt it to emerge by stripping away inhibition, superficiality, convention, hypocrisy, everything that covered the true self, or inner 'idiot'. The one approach might be likened to sophisticated portrait or domestic painting (the Dutch masters, Whistler and
Hammershøi are referred to in connection with Dreyer’s compositional art); the other might be compared to naïve painting. Whatever the differences, it is illuminating that Dreyer and the Dogme Brotherhood both use language with spiritual and religious connotations to describe how they will create their visions of reality. All three were engaged in a mission.</p>
<p>Much time could be spent, perhaps fruitlessly, assessing the seriousness with which the Dogme 95 Manifesto and the Vow of Chastity were intended, whether they were simply a clever publicity stunt, and how strictly Dogme directors adhered to the rules. A clutch of comments indicates the irony and self-deprecation which underlay this blast against convention and mainstream film.  For example: 'Dogma is not about following the Brothers’ Rules: it’s simply abut setting some rules and some limitations . . . The idea is simply to gain creativity through self-imposition' (Lars Bredo Rahbek quoted in Kelly 2000: 80). 'I don’t think it’s necessarily crucial that the Dogma rules be followed.  I think the issue of whether you can gain something by throwing away total freedom in exchange for a set of rules is worth discussing” (Lars von Trier quoted in Hjort and MacKenzie 2003: 54).  'it is very solemn, and not rigid.  On the other hand, it is a game, as it’s defined in the manifesto, which is a bit arrogant, and, of
course, ironic also' (Thomas Vinterberg quoted in Hjort and Mackenzie 2003: 54). The Manifesto and Vow may have been thumbing the Brothers’ nose at big-budget, high-tech mainstream cinema, and the Manifesto may have been partly in jest; the Brothers were, however, committed to serious film-making.  Before the camera started rolling they abstracted much of the normally accepted 'apparatus' of filming.  The Brotherhood eschewed genre, style, much conventional technology (the fixed camera, non-diegetic lighting and sound, fabricated locations and sets) and the creation of illusion. Like Dreyer, they imposed a restricted form within which to operate and with a similar purpose – 'to force the truth' out of the characters and settings. Dreyer would not, however, have agreed with the sentence which followed this aspiration. 'I swear to do so by all means available and at the cost of any good taste and any aesthetic considerations' (The Dogme Manifesto, 1995).</p>
<p>The Dogme Brotherhood associated aesthetics with style and auteurism. The French New Wave had espoused these and 'it had proved to be a ripple that washed ashore and turned to muck' (The Dogme 95 Manifesto 1995).  So, aesthetics and deliberate artistry were, purportedly, anathema. Directors were not to be credited; a controlling hand, even if active in the making of the film, was to be unacknowledged. This would appear to be diametrically opposed to Dreyer’s attitude and methods. However, even if not credited as directors in the films, it is perfectly clear that Vinterberg in the case of <em>Festen</em> and von Trier in the case of <em>Idioterne</em> were very much in control of the manner in which the films were made. The manuscript for <em>Idioterne</em> apparently shows no significant improvisation or deviation from the script (Hjort and Mackenzie 2003: 71).  Von Trier has said: 'My greatest problem in life is control versus chaos.  I can get extremely afraid of not having control when I want it . . .
All my worst anxieties are about losing control' (Schepelern 2005: 64).</p>
<p>The eye of the film is the camera, and how the director deploys his or her camera dictates how the viewer sees the film. Dreyer’s use of the camera is fundamental to his technique and it was in some respects wholly innovative. He prepared meticulously: 'Everything must be prepared – if not you might suddenly find yourself lacking an elephant' (Kau 2010). The set having been created as in a painting, the camera was to be positioned and/or moved with unwavering precision: it was to capture a studied mise-en-scène. In <em>La Passion de Jeanne d'Arc</em> (1928) the greater part of the cinematography is a study in moving portraiture. The camera examines the human face and its expressions from every perspective: extreme frontal close-up, in profile, in one corner of the frame, from above, from below, motionless, animated, in various emotional states. When the face is not the focus of attention, shots are composed in highly artistic ways: passing laterally across the court-room and the torture chamber, movement
interrupted by the verticals of people, columns and lances (a feature even more prominent in <em>Vredens dag</em>), the shadows of crosses cast on the floor, blood spurting from Joan’s arm, aerial shots of crowds rushing to the execution. Dreyer’s camera can sometimes be in the position of a theatre spectator looking in on scenes from a play, and this <em>Kammerspiel</em> mode is especially evident in <em>Gertrud</em> with its long static scenes.  In all this the artistic potential of cinematography was exploited to create pictures, tableaux and compositions within which the characters were to express an inner reality. Film was mimetic in the same way as pictorial art:</p>
<h5>Dreyer . . . does not even try to instil cinematic life into his film (<em>Day of Wrath</em>) . . . perfectly illustrates the clash between the realistic and the formative techniques . . . on the whole Dreyer fashions his imagery after paintings of the period . . . It is as if old Dutch masters had come to life. (Kracauer 1960: 81)</h5>
<p>This is especially true of <em>Ordet</em>. The narrative development is slow as the camera lingers in a succession of extraordinarily beautiful monochrome compositions.</p>
<p>Rule 9 of the Dogme 95 Vow of Chastity stipulates that 'the camera must be hand-held.  Any movement or immobility attainable in the hand is permitted. The film must not take place where the camera is standing; shooting must take place where the film takes place'. By contrast with Dreyer’s precisely planned shooting the Dogme camera appears to be just pointed at what is there, not mise-en-scène in the sense of what is put in front of it but rather what is found in front of it; that is, notionally at least, reality as it is rather than as it can be expressed. So, pictorially <em>Idioterne</em> and <em>Festen</em> have the appearance of home videos – uncomposed, poorly lit, jumpy, improvised, at times crude and clumsy (so much so that a cameraman and a sound boom are caught in shot in <em>Idioterne</em>. That said, in <em>Festen</em> in particular there is some deliberateness about the positioning of the hand-held camera: for the opening shot of Christian walking along the country road (a shot which
figuratively represents his outsider status); cars arriving at the house are shot half-screen from low down behind a pillar; Lars, the butler, and Pia, the maid, are shot in baths from directly overhead. The 'getting warmer' game signs and the letter left by Linda, the sister who committed suicide, have to have been staged. Obviously the locations are not wholly fortuitous: the country house in <em>Festen</em>, the house, the restaurant, the swimming pool and the factory in <em>Idioterne</em> must be chosen, but thereafter relatively little is introduced to enhance the representation or expression of the narrative. The actors act in real environments, and the camera records what they do. The rules and the method are different, but the goal is the same: the portrayal of reality.</p>
<p>What were the subjects of the reality they aimed to portray, and what light do these shed on their approaches?  Dreyer’s main feature films were all based on literary texts, plays, short stories, a novel, the transcript of Joan of Arc’s trial. Dreyer’s construction of sets and use of internal locations, his camerawork and montage render the films analogous to stage plays with a sequence of consecutive internal scenes, interspersed with some external location scenes. There is a small cast of characters usually within a domestic situation.  The dialogue is limited, even minimal, and concentrated on the psychological dramas being played out between the characters. Again, this is part of the process of abstraction and aesthetic refinement, the removal of the trivial and dramatically superfluous. Formal constraints are embraced in order to communicate a subtle, implicit, perhaps figurative truth.</p>
<p>The material for <em>Festen</em> and <em>Idioterne</em> is dramatic but with a far less structured development.  Both scenarios are set in a communal environment, the one an assembly of friends and family in a country house to celebrate Helge Klingenfeldt-Hansen’s sixtieth birthday, the other a rather randomly assembled group linked by their commitment to 'spassing', also living in one large house. <em>Festen</em> is said to have been based on a real-life incident; <em>Idioterne</em> was an original idea.  Many of the events in the films appear to be improvised, both action and dialogue, and the camera records what transpired, but the narratives are not anarchic, not without order or unity; what was shot has been edited to create a dramatic sequence and chronology, indeed a beginning, a middle and an end.</p>
<p>The directors sought to extract truth and psychological realism from the characters and scenarios before the camera: how did they direct their actors to achieve this?  Dreyer produced sets which were reduced to the absolute essentials for the drama. This meant the objects and architectures of the mise-en-scène – candles, crosses, walls, windows, pillars, doors, clocks, books, rooms – are as important for their aesthetic impact or figurative meaning as their physical reality (Monaco 1981: 44-45). Equally, he was insistent that his actors 'live' in the location, that it become their natural environment.  He espoused a Stanislavskian attitude to the actors’ performance: they were, as far as possible, to represent the inner lives of the characters and to feel what the characters feel. He is said to have pressed his actors, particularly Anna Svierkier as Herlofs Marte and Marie Falconetti as Joan, almost to the point of physical duress in order to obtain convincing performances.</p>
<p>Vinterberg and von Trier also strove for psychological realism and the revelation of inner truths.  Given the prohibition on technical aids in the making of Dogme films, the performance of the actors becomes critical in conveying the drama. The actors improvised and the camera recorded what occurred spontaneously. Thus the actors were obliged to generate their emotions, responses and actions from within. For this to work it was probably essential that the main characters were a group who, for the duration of the filming, lived virtually as a commune:</p>
<h5>they all [the Dogme films] seem to be group portraits. They’re all very melodramatic in a way; the emotional life is very explosive. And I think that’s because you have nothing to tell the story with other than the actors; nothing else to use when you want to express feelings. (Thomas Vinterberg quoted in Kelly 2000: 114)</h5>
<p>Naturalism was not confined to the main characters. Neither the extras at the dinner-party in <em>Festen</em> and the diners in the restaurant in <em>Idioterne</em> were told beforehand what was going to happen in Christian’s speeches nor how the spassers would behave. The shattering of conventional propriety produces an excruciatingly uncomfortable non-reaction, especially in <em>Festen</em>; no one (not even the actors) knows how to behave in that situation. One guest claps, the grandfather gets up to tell his smutty joke; the instinct is almost to behave as if nothing had disturbed the civilised formalities. The result is a far more realistic portrayal than would have been achieved with rehearsal according to a learned script.</p>
<p>'While shooting one is already editing, one has already done the editing mentally' (Dreyer quoted in Nash 1977: 42). Montage can be argued to be the most fundamental part of both the material and artistic process of film-making: films are created in the cutting room (or perhaps nowadays by digital compilation and manipulation.) Editing turns the raw material of the shot film into the finished product and it is difficult to conceive of a film being made without this process.  At one extreme Andy Warhol can shoot the Empire State Building from one point of view continuously over many hours and then simply show the resulting film; editing might do little other than reorder the timings or abbreviate the time-span. That kind of unmediated reality obviously has a different end from that of a narrative film. Most film-makers will exploit montage to dramatise the story, create attractions or sensations, or, as with Carl Dreyer, to produce expressive effects. For Dreyer the making of a film is an all-inclusive
process, that is to say, having reduced the mise-en-scène and the dialogue to what he regarded as the essentials, he then set about creating his films in the most artistic way using every facility at his disposal.  Edvin Kau (2010) calls this 'combinatory dynamics':</p>
<h5 style="text-align: left;">Dreyer is in the process of formulating or exploring the abstract narrative potential of film language and its formal minimum elements through a highly refined technique of constructing moving images into narration, rather than settling for photographic recording.</h5>
<p>Dreyer is celebrated for close-ups (of faces and objects), for lingering tracking and panning shots, and for the slow pace of his films created through the camerawork and the montage of scenes. In <em>La Passion de Jeanne d'Arc</em>, after the tour de force of the drama through the tableau of faces in the trial, the editing becomes uncharacteristically hectic and abrupt in the final scenes as Joan is burnt and the crowd riots: the juxtaposition of the suckling of a baby, the cutaways to the flight of doves, the soldiers’ violence, the aerial shots of the crowds running. This camerawork suggests hysteria, heightening the gruesome tension of the event. In <em>Vredens dag</em> scenes are theatrically juxtaposed to create drama and figurative meaning: Herlof’s Marte’s cottage against Absolon’s rectory, Laurentius’s deathbed against Anne’s seduction of Martin, then intercut with Absolon and his curate battling through the storm. In <em>Ordet</em> a slow succession of painterly scenes builds suspense to the
climax of Inger’s funeral. In <em>Gertrud</em> Dreyer edited in his most measured theatrical way with long takes showing minimal movement of the characters and extended scene following extended scene. Montage for Dreyer is another part of the compositional process with building or arranging the set, choosing the props, lighting the scenes and positioning the camera. These are the brushstrokes of his pictures.</p>
<p>In the Dogme Manifesto and Vow of Chastity von Trier and Vinterberg make no reference to montage: they vow to 'refrain from creating a work, as I regard the instant as more important than the whole.'   Rule 3 stipulates 'The camera must be hand-held'.  Rule 4 prohibits special lighting.  Rule 7 forbids 'temporal and geographical alienation.' They eschewed both the artistic aim which Dreyer espoused and the technical features he used to accomplish it. The first two Dogme films are, however, manifestly dramatically coherent works which create suspense and engage the viewer’s interest in more than 'the instant'. Notably, the Vow does not forbid editing to achieve dramatic coherence.</p>
<p><em>Festen</em> and <em>Idioterne</em> are not without artistic quality or dramatic unity, different in kind from Dreyer’s but equally powerful in their effects, and some of that impact is undoubtedly achieved through editing. Neither film is chronologically continuous or located in only one place: there are temporal lapses and changes of location.  In <em>Festen</em> there are some notably meaningful juxtapositions created by editing: the maid Pia submerges herself in Christian’s bath while Helene is searching for the letter from Linda who drowned herself in a bath; in the deserted dining-room after the dinner couples are dancing while Michael beats up his father; scenes of violent argument and sex, of revelation and confession in private rooms are interspersed with the formal calm of the dining-room.  The drama in which abominable truths emerge has many moments of broad, even slapstick, comedy as well as very black humour: Michael is a clownishly incompetent figure, falling over in the shower, pulling
the curtain rail down, running across the drive with his trousers falling down; Michelle pours water over him; some guests cannot distinguish whether the soup is lobster, salmon or tomato; Michael’s racist reception of Gbatokai is embarrassingly funny. Indeed, the whole concept of a birthday celebration undermined by revelations of child abuse and sodomy is grimly comic in its illumination of the hypocrisy and superficiality of civilised propriety. In the narrative and the editing incongruous juxtaposition highlights the falsehood of what appears to be reality. This is montage 'to force the truth out of (the) characters and settings', and despite the Brothers’ disavowals these are creatively artistic works. In <em>Idioterne</em> the locations are 'found', but they have been identified – a restaurant, a factory, a swimming pool, Karen’s house – as places suitable for the impact of spassing.  The shooting at these locations is completely devoid of any of the compositional applications of Dreyer and at times is
almost slapdash. The camera is used to record authentically the life going on in front of it, but while there is virtually no attempt at artistic composition in the framing of the image because the image itself would then be a falsification, the apparently haphazard shooting has been edited to give a dramatic structure to the events. This is especially true of <em>Festen</em> in which there are many jump cuts, juxtapositions and short scenes interspersed with longer takes of, for example, the speeches. The  truth is to be conveyed in the characters and their interactions alone; but purposeful editing enhances the dramatic impact.</p>
<p>The ascetic realism of the Brothers’ anti-aesthetic mode is a little tainted by, for example, the interviews with the actors in <em>Idioterne</em>, who may or may not be speaking in character. This is temporal alienation and disturbs the viewer’s suspension of disbelief. So, too, in <em>Festen</em> Linda, the sister who committed suicide, seems to appear in a vision or dream to Christian, a piece of artifice alien to the rest of the narrative.</p>
<p>Differences in the use of sound and the spoken word complement the cinematic approaches.  Rule 2 of the Dogme Manifesto prohibits sound which is not produced at the time of shooting of the images. In <em>Festen</em> and <em>Idioterne</em> this rule appears to be adhered to, and the dialogue is as spoken at the time of filming. It is naturalistic, sometimes barely coherent, lacking in dramatic polish: it has the authenticity of ordinary speech. There is no non-diegetic music. Dreyer’s films on the other hand have sound effects added which are essential to the plot development – in <em>Vredens dag</em> bells ringing, choirs singing, crowds baying, the sound of fire burning; in <em>Ordet</em> the ticking clock stops for the period of Inger’s resurrection – and there is musical accompaniment to heighten the dramatic impact. The spoken words are like those of stage drama and are confined to what is necessary for the progress of the action. There is no improvisation or spontaneity here: as noted above, this is
theatricalised film-making. For a Dreyer film the viewer must suspend his or her disbelief as he or she would do in a theatre and be moved by the power of the overall expressiveness of the imagery. The Dogme films, made in a home-video style, attempt to convince the viewer that the camera was simply present at what was happening: the viewer must believe it because it is real.</p>
<p>Real life occurs in colour: so the Dogme Brotherhood films had to be in colour (Rule 4). The Vow of Chastity allows no special effects, no special lighting, optical work or filters; there is no attempt to use colour or lighting for expressive purposes; there is no deliberate creation of a work.  The light in <em>Idioterne</em> and <em>Festen</em> is natural, and as a consequence the picture on screen is sometimes shadowy, out of focus or obscure to the point of indistinguishability, notably, for example, in the external night scenes in <em>Festen</em>. There is no compromise with the principles in order to enable 'reality' to be seen clearly: no artifice is used apart from the camera.  Dreyer, on the other hand, exploits the expressiveness of black and white and shades of grey to the full.  Lines, shapes, shadows, contrasts, the irregularity of the human form and movement against geometrical patterns of furniture and architecture, grass or leaves or washing blowing in the wind against a grey sky – all
such elements in the mise-en-scène are composed and lit with consummate artistry. With a monochrome palette he composes moving pictures.</p>
<p>Since the late nineteenth century virtually all established conventions and forms of art have been dismantled and all limits and constraints undone: art has become simply what it is, not what it has been or, by tradition or theorists’ prescriptions, should be. Modern art in all media has exploded any idea that there can be prescribed ways of expressing truth or reality. Film as the most recent form of art could be said to be still exploring its form and developing its expressive capabilities. Relatively speaking, it is a young art form.  How do Carl Dreyer, Thomas Vinterberg and Lars von Trier stand in this context?  They strove in radically different ways to extract reality from the raw material in front of the camera and to convey it truthfully.  Dreyer employed most of the artistic and technical facilities available to him to mediate between the material and the viewer; in that respect he was a conventional artist.  Vinterberg and von Trier attempted to reduce the mediatory effects to a minimum; they
worked against the received conventions. Dreyer chose to use established texts as his material and to express them in a highly controlled, pictorially artistic way: his films became animated tableaux with the depth of the masters of art. He produced masterpieces of complex and subtle film the meanings of which are to be interpreted slowly through contemplation. This is the realism of theatrical drama with the expressiveness of great art. By contrast the Dogme films of Vinterberg and von Trier have been likened to the <em>arte povera</em> movement in which natural and manufactured materials and found objects are presented as artworks in themselves, often with little composition or intervention by the artist. In these films the controlling hand of the director is obscured, and the viewer is presented with people and events that, apparently, just happened to be in front of the camera.  The shaping of that raw material is reduced in the interests of authenticity. Vinterberg and von Trier created more spontaneous,
 crude everyday reality. Their films purport to be a slice-of life, and the viewer may make of it what he or she will because there is no overt artistic message. This is an attempt to capture reality as immediately as possible; the only abstraction is of technical facilities to reduce the mediation intervening between the subject and the viewer.  The Dogme film-makers indulged in cinematic retardation: their film-making is spassing to provoke the audience out of complacency induced by the superficiality of conventional cinema.  The material is deliberately provocative prompting the viewer into self-questioning. </p>
<p>Obviously there is some disjunction in comparing the film-making of these directors: they are from different eras (Dreyer made his first film in 1918, and his last in 1964, spanning the transition from silent to sound films and from black and white to colour; the first Dogme film was made in 1998); there have been step-changes in the technology within the last twenty years; their stated aims and aesthetic approaches are different to the point of being antipathetic. However, their common goal was to represent reality and truth as they conceived of it through film. They reacted against the artificiality and manufactured quality characteristic of much mainstream (often Hollywood) cinema. Commercial profit was not a primary aim; the authenticity of the vision of film was. Dreyer and the Brotherhood employed forms of refinement of the filming process – reductionism and abstraction in Dreyer’s case, self-imposed technical asceticism on the part of von Trier and Vinterberg – to express, in the sense of
extracting, verisimilitude from their material. It could be argued that there is artificiality in both methods – the one through creative artistry, the other through a kind of Luddite self-denial.  But their films succeed: they engage the viewer in the drama and convince him or her of their truth. At the same time they are provocative and stimulating because their films are self-reflexive: they are also works which are palpably exploring the art of film-making.<br><br></p>
<div Class="objavi-no-page-break"><h2>Author's Comment</h2>
<p>I retired as a university administrator at UCL in 2005 and one of the activities I wanted to pursue in retirement was study of the Finnish language. I lived and taught English in Finland for three years from 1969 to 1972 and I am married to a Finn. After a few years of study as a Continuing Education student I was able to register as an undergraduate on the B.A. in Finnish and East European Studies at the School of Slavonic and East European Studies. I had taken the East European Cinema course as one of my optional courses before I took Nordic Cinema for which this essay was written. The course introduced me to the films of Carl Theodor Dreyer; Lars  von Trier I knew only through <em>Breaking the Waves</em> (1996). The aesthetic approaches of Dreyer and the Dogme Brotherhood are apparently so different that the idea of comparing them seemed to offer fruitful ground for a discussion of film as a medium for representing reality and the techniques used for doing so.</p>
</div><div class="pagebreakbefore">
<h2>References</h2>
</div>
<p>Arnheim, Rudolf (1957). 'The Complete Film.'  In Braudy, Leo and Cohen, Marshall (eds.) (1981): Bazin, André (1967). <em>Film Theory and Criticism</em>. New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press.</p>
<p>Bazin, Andre (1967). <em>What is Cinema?</em> Essays selected and translated by Hugh Gray. Berkeley: University of California Press.</p>
<p>Bell, Emma (2006). 'The Passion of Lars von Trier: Madness, Femininity, Film.'  In Thomson, Claire (ed.) (2006): <em>Northern Constellations: New Readings in Nordic Cinema</em>. London and Norwich: Norvik Press.</p>
<p>Benjamin, Walter (1935). 'The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction.'  In Braudy, Leo and Cohen, Marshall (eds.) (1981): <em>Film Theory and Criticism</em>. New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press.</p>
<p>Bondebjerg, Ib (2003). 'Chapter 4: Dogma 95 and the New Danish Cinema.' In Hjort, Mette and MacKenzie, Scott (eds.) (2003): <em>Purity and Provocation: Dogma 95</em>. London: BFI Publishing.</p>
<p>Bordwell, David (1981). <em>The Films of Carl Theodor Dreyer</em>. Berkeley: University of California Press.  </p>
<p>Bordwell, David (1985). <em>Narration in Fiction Film</em>. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press.</p>
<p>Carney, Raymond (1989). <em>Speaking the Language of Desire: The Films of Carl Dreyer</em>. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.</p>
<p>Drum, Jean and Drum, Dale D. (2000). <em>My Only Great Passion: The Life and Films of Carl Th. Dreyer</em>. Lanham, MD: The Scarecrow Press.  </p>
<p>Elkington, Trevor G (2005). 'Costumes, Adolescence and Dogma: Nordic Film and American Distribution.' In Nestingen, Andrew and Elkington, Trevor G. (eds.) (2005). <em>Transnational Cinema in a Global North: Nordic Cinema in Transition</em> (2003).</p>
<p>Gaut, Berys (2003):'Naked Film: Dogma and its Limits.' In Hjort, Mette and MacKenzie, Scott (eds.) (2003). <em>Purity and Provocation: Dogma 95</em>. London: BFI Publishing.</p>
<p>Hjort, Mette and Mackenzie, Scott (2003). 'Introduction'. In Hjort, Mette and MacKenzie, Scott (eds.) (2003). <em>Purity and Provocation: Dogma 95</em>. London: BFI Publishing.</p>
<p>Hjort, Mette (2003). 'Dogma 95: A Small Nation’s Response to Globalisation'. In Hjort, Mette and MacKenzie, Scott (eds.) (2003). <em>Purity and Provocation: Dogma 95.</em> London: BFI Publishing.</p>
<p>Kelly, Richard (2000). <em>The Name of this Book is Dogme 95</em>. London: Faber and Faber.</p>
<p>Kracauer, Siegfried (1960). <em>Theory of Film: The Redemption of Physical Reality</em>. Oxford: Oxford University Press.  </p>
<p>MacKenzie, Scott (2003). 'Manifest Destinies: Dogma 95 and the Future of the Film Manifesto'. In Hjort, Mette and MacKenzie, Scott (eds.) (2003). <em>Purity and Provocation: Dogma 95</em>. London: BFI Publishing.</p>
<p>Milne, Tom (1971). The Cinema of Carl <em>Dreyer.</em> New York: A. S. Barnes &amp; Co.</p>
<p>Monaco, James (1981). <em>How to read a film</em>. New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press.</p>
<p>Sandberg, Mark (2006). 'Mastering the House: Performative Inhabitation in Carl Th. Dreyer’s The Parson’s Widow.' In Thomson, Claire (ed.) (2006). <em>Northern Constellations: New Readings in Nordic Cinema</em>. London and Norwich: Norvik Press.</p>
<p>Schepelern, Peter (2003).  '“Kill Your Darlings”: Lars von Trier and the Origin of Dogma 95'. In Hjort, Mette and MacKenzie, Scott (eds.) (2003). <em>Purity and Provocation: Dogma 95</em>. London: BFI Publishing.</p>
<p>Schepelern, Peter (2005). 'Film according to Dogma: Ground Rules, Obstacles and Liberation'. In Nestingen, Andrew and Elkington, Trevor G. (eds.) (2005). <em>Transnational Cinema in a Global North:</em> <em>Nordic Cinema in Transition</em>. Detroit: Wayne State University Press.</p>
<p>Skoller, Donald (ed.) (2004). <em>Dreyer in Double Reflection: Carl Th. Dreyer’s Writings About Film</em>. New York: A. P. Dutton.</p>
<p>Smith, Murray (2003). 'Lars von Trier: Sentimental Surrealist'. In Hjort, Mette and MacKenzie, Scott (eds.) (2003). <em>Purity and Provocation: Dogma 95</em>. London: BFI Publishing.</p>
<p>Thomsen, Bodil Marie (2006). 'On the Transmigration of Images: Flesh, Spirit and Haptic Vison in Dreyer’s Jeanne d’Arc and von Trier’s Golden Heart Trilogy'. In Thomson, Claire (ed.) (2006). Northern Constellations: New Readings in Nordic Cinema.<em></em> London and Norwich: Norvik Press.</p>
<p>Widding, Astrid Söderbergh (1998). 'Denmark'.  In Soila, Tytti, Widding, Astrid Söderbergh and Iversen, Gunnar (1998). <em>Nordic National Cinema</em>. London: Routledge.</p>
<p>Wollen, Peter (1972). <em>Signs and Meaning in the Cinema</em>. Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press.</p>
<div Class="objavi-no-page-break"><h2>Electronic sources</h2>
<p>Christensen, Ove (2000). 'Spastic Aesthetics – The Idiots.' A Danish Journal of Film Studies, no. 10, December 2000. pov.imu.qu.dk/Issue_10/Section_2/artc3A.html. Accessed April 2010.</p>
</div><p>Conroch, Ian and Estella Tincknell: (2000). 'Film Purity, the neo-Bazanian Ideal, and Humanism in Dogma 95.' A Danish Journal of Film Studies, no. 10, December 2000 pov.imu.qu.dk/Issue_10/Section_4/artc7A.html. Accessed April 2010. </p>
<p>Doxtater, Amanda. 'Perilous Performance: Dreyer’s Unity of Danger and Beauty.' Danish Film Institute website About Dreyer, english.carldreyer.dk/AboutDreyer/. Accessed April 2010.</p>
<p>Kau, Edvin. 'Camera and Space.' Danish Film Institute website About Dreyer, english.carldreyer.dk/AboutDr. Accessed April 2010.</p>
<p>Kau, Edvin Vestergaard Kau. 'Auteurs in Style: The Heresy or Indulgence of the Dogma Brothers'. A Danish Journal of Film Studies, no. 10, December 2000, pov.imu.qu.dk/Issue_10/Section_4/artc4A.html. Accessed April 2010.</p>
<p>Laursen, Thomas Lind. 'The Agitated Camera: A Diagnosis of Anthony Dod Mantle’s Camera Work in The Celebration'. A Danish Journal of Film Studies, no. 10, December 2000, pov.imu.qu.dk/Issue_10/<br>Section_3/artc2A.html. Accessed April 2010.</p>
<p>Moor, Paul. 'The Tyrannical Dane.' Danish Film Institute website About Dreyer, english.carldreyer.dk/AboutDreyer/. Accessed April 2010.</p>
<p>Thomsen, Bodil Marie (2000). 'Idiocy, Foolishness and Spastic Jesting'.  A Danish Journal of Film Studies, no. 10, December 2000 pov.imu.qu.dk/Issue_10/Section_2/<br>artc4A.html. Accessed April 2010.</p><h1 id="ReFzjuCOVS_15"><strong Class="initial">12.</strong> <span class="title">'It is Too Beautiful'<span class="punctuation">: </span><span class="subtitle">Accidents and Auteurship in Lars von Trier's <em>Antichrist</em></span><span class="comma">, </span><span class="author">Pei Sze Chow</span></span></h1>
<p>After a crippling illness that left him incapacitated for six months in 2007, Lars von Trier set about work on his latest project, a horror film. Premièring at the Cannes Film Festival in May 2009, <em>Antichrist</em> was screened to an audience that expressed outrage in very similar ways to the first audiences of von Trier's earlier films <em>Idioterne</em> (The Idiots, 1998) and <em>Dancer in the Dark </em>(2000) — with plenty of boos, hisses, people storming out of the auditorium, and a prolonged media furore. Despite the hailstorm of negative criticism surrounding <em>Antichrist</em>, Charlotte Gainsbourg left the festival with the <em>Prix d’interprétation féminine</em> (Prize for Best Actress) for her role in the film. This time around, there was no <em>Dogme 95</em>-esque manifesto, no 'Statement of Revitality' as issued in conjunction with <em>Direktøren for det hele </em>(The Boss of it All, 2006), nor any overt provocation of cinematic form. The only ruffle, as it were, came from the shock value
of <em>Antichrist</em>'s objectionable content. Yet, despite being a horror film, it is not very far from the self-reflexive temper of von Trier's previous project, which was a comedy. Knud Romer (2009) notes that, like so many other remarkable auteurs, von Trier ‘keeps making the same film over and over again in different, increasingly radical variations.’ In acknowledgement of this pattern, von Trier remarks that the idea of the genre film is an inspiration and motivation for his desire for aesthetic innovation: ‘I’ll probably never really hit any genre straight on, because I think you should add something to them’ (quoted in Romer 2009). On that account, the underlying connection between <em>Antichrist</em> and the other ‘genre films’ that von Trier has produced (<em>Dancer in the Dark</em> [2000] - a musical, <em>Breaking the Waves</em> [1996] - a melodrama), is that they are specimens by which he not only exhibits his mastery of storytelling, but also where he manipulates the aesthetic forms to explore
metaphysical questions about truth and authentic expressions of emotion and spectatorship. The latter consideration is the ‘something’ that he adds to the horror genre which is of import to this analysis, especially since, in the context of his months-long depression and personal anxieties about control, von Trier has emphatically revealed to the press that <em>Antichrist</em> is a deeply personal film. Therefore, <em>Antichrist</em>’s innovative appeal is perhaps not as perspicuous and explicitly delimited as the experiments in form and technique that von Trier’s earlier films boast. There is not as much direct rhetoric that surrounds the film as the manifestos and statements that came before, and no clear guiding aesthetic framework shapes the film. Instead, <em>Antichrist</em> is a rich visual text packed with symbolic imagery and a sophisticated style that seems to reflect von Trier’s technical prowess with film. Significantly, the themes of control and authenticity as composed in this film have their
genesis in a different circumstance that originated from von Trier’s personal life at the time of the film’s making.</p>
<p>A key line from the film signals this proposition: ‘chaos reigns’. In this essay, the first argument occurs on the level of the narrative, where I argue that the idea of expressive authenticity is conveyed through the motif of chaos filling the gap created by a lack of control. The couple’s conventional social roles as parents have disintegrated with their child’s death. With their move into the woods, their chaotic and true natures are thereby coaxed to the fore to fill this gap in self-identity and meaning. The second argument posited here is that the incidental collaborative action from the near-absence of von Trier’s artistic control results in a film that projects the authenticity of the creative dynamic between the various agents: actors, director of photography, and director. That is, in giving up a measure of his directorial control due to his illness, other creative agents have thus been allowed to fill that absence. I will first examine the film’s treatment of chaos and control as a subject
within the narrative, then explore how, despite von Trier’s seemingly minimal involvement, this subject manifests itself in the production and performance of the film. Lastly, the collaborative nature of <em>Antichrist </em>calls to question<em> </em>the idea of the auteurist film as the artistic expression of a sole individual, where von Trier foregrounds the tension between performance and practice in the construction of his auteur identity. He does so through his publicity of the film as a carefully packaged product, and this will be evaluated alongside the implications of von Trier’s gambit in releasing such a provocative film to public outcry.</p>
<div Class="objavi-no-page-break"><h2>Chaos Reigns</h2>
<p><em>Antichrist</em> tells the story of a couple — nameless except as ‘He’ (Willem Dafoe) and ‘She’ (Charlotte Gainsbourg) — who deal with the trauma from the accidental death of their infant son by retreating to a cabin in the woods, named Eden. He, a psychiatrist by profession, attempts to treat his wife by himself, hoping to cure her insuperable depression without the use of prescribed drugs but instead through rhetoric and cognitive therapy. His methods focus on taking her through visualisations of her fear, which reveal her perception that the woods and herself are evil personified. We learn that she had previously stayed in the same cabin with their son while working on her doctoral thesis about gynocide (femicide) in history, and there is the faint suggestion that she had attempted to harm the child then. Meanwhile, She struggles against her husband’s rationalist attempts by interrupting their therapy sessions with sex, while He is confounded by the portentous signs that he stumbles upon in the
cabin and in the woods. The difficult road to recovery turns to insanity and horror, resulting in graphic scenes of physical disfigurement and torture. Their move to Eden thus becomes a sharp descent into Hell, as She becomes even more convinced by the idea that women are evil, just as Nature is, and starts to embody this notion by committing a series of heinous acts that are focused on dismantling her husband’s rational subjectivity. She physically attacks him in rages of fury, and goes as far as attempting near-castration, attaching a grindstone to a bolt drilled through his leg, and performing genital self-mutilation with a pair of rusty scissors. Von Trier spares not the viewer in this last section, depicting these scenes with significant visual detail, before ending the film with He strangling She and making his way out of the woods. The film is divided into four chapters sandwiched by a Prologue and Epilogue filmed in black and white. The chapters are respectively titled 'Grief', 'Pain (Chaos Reigns)',
'Despair (Gynocide)', and 'The Three Beggars'. The latter refers to the three animals that symbolise a trinity of death: a deer (Grief), fox (Pain), and crow (Despair), and, according to She, the simultaneous appearance of all three signals death. At various points, they individually appear before He, and are seen together only at the end of the film while he makes his escape.</p>
</div><p>Jan Simons tracks a pattern in characterisation evident in all of von Trier’s films:</p>
<h5>The protagonist in each of his films enters a world in which he or she is a stranger and where he or she is confronted with the task of finding out what laws, rules, customs, and conventions govern the behaviour of its inhabitants. (2007: 188)</h5>
<p>This trait is seen very clearly in the characters of Beth from <em>Breaking the Waves</em>,<em> </em>Karen from <em>Idioterne</em>, Selma from <em>Dancer in the Dark</em>, Grace from <em>Dogville</em> (2003), Kristoffer from <em>Direktøren for det hele</em>, and to an extent, Jørgen Leth in <em>De fem benspænd</em> (The Five Obstructions, 2003) as well. Already, it is unambiguous that such a set-up reflects that of a game, since, once the character learns and masters those rules and customs, he or she is able to manipulate and subvert them to his/her benefit to effect a release or catharsis of sorts. In <em>Antichrist</em>, this role of the protagonist is precariously split between the two characters, and the film is centred on the psychological struggle between them as they search for ways and means to resolve their emotional and psychological predicament. I suggest that the subject of control is analysed, subverted, and radically weakened with wild abandon — the film is in favour of the argument for the
deficiencies of any kind of rationalist structure in our lived experience.</p>
<p>The terms of the struggle are clear, and the characters are unambiguously aligned to a specific dichotomy depicting control and chaos. He, representing the rational and the clinical, stubbornly insists that his scientific methods can cure his wife’s trauma and depression, while She in this case might represent the irrational and emotional figure that resists being categorised or diagnosed. In a theological context, She is portrayed as the figure of Eve, who in the Christian tradition is represented as the personification of evil and bringer of death (Beattie 2009). Significantly, their move to the cabin in the forest, which She says is the place she fears the most, is charged through with symbolic references: as they make their way deeper into the primeval woods, they cross a bridge that symbolises the partition that separates culture and nature, reason and chaos, and sanity and madness (Beattie 2009). In a romantic sense, the forest also signifies illogic and the fear of the unknown, and von Trier
highlights this emphatically with the expressionist visual design of the space. The psychiatrist, on the one hand, directs his wife through the ordeal of coming to terms with their son’s death by his impersonal and dispassionate analyses, thereby asserting his power of reason and knowledge over her emotional and psychological infirmity. Yet, on the other hand, for all his rationalist scientific certainty, he is unable to identify the real source of her fear. Even though She arrives at the location not able to even walk on the grass due to her neurosis, she later tames her fear and embraces the primacy of the woods. At this point, her comment, ‘Nature is Satan’s church,’ becomes much more resonant as She becomes the dominant figure in the later half of the film, rising to become the antichrist, as it were. Appropriately, the speaking fox also utters ‘Chaos reigns’ to the hapless psychiatrist in the woods. Even though He manages to kill her at the end, we are shown in the Epilogue an overwhelming mass of women
coming out of the woods, engulfing him as he stares grimly into the sea of bodies.</p>
<p style="text-align: justify;">Such a characterisation is an archetypal division of the sexes, indeed, where female sexuality is painted as dark and monstrous as the sprawling woods. Nature is portrayed as chaotic and abstruse in the film. Von Trier explains his choice of a forest setting:</p>
<h5>What characterises this virgin territory is maximal death: a great quantity of species fighting for life there, fighting for light, fighting for survival. Nature is filled with suffering and pain and death. …</h5>
<h5 style="text-align: justify;">Nature goes against everything religion talks about. Nature reminds us of inescapable death and does not offer any consolation about any possibility beyond. There is nothing godlike in nature. Nature seems more to be an idea of Satan. (quoted in Björkman 2009: 18)</h5>
<p>As with von Trier’s other films, such references are never unintentional, and they ultimately point to a larger discourse about the nature of good and evil which is pertinent to the theological framework that the characters fit into. While her qualities directly align her character with this conception of nature, evil, and chaos, Gainsbourg’s character is not meant to be read as a target of misogyny, and von Trier takes care to subvert such a reading. Instead, the eventual triumph of the feminine figure, as signified by the mass of women at the end, is yoked to the dark fascination of fear and irrationality, which, to von Trier, is more compelling than the masculine perspective in the Christian discourse of salvation where female sacrifice is necessary to bring redemption to humanity. Von Trier notes also that it is the horror and fear of the feminine form that drives the film: ‘I don’t think women or their sexuality is evil, but it is frightening. … Certain images and certain concepts are interesting to
combine in different ways. They show pieces of the human soul and human actions. That’s interesting’ (quoted in Romer 2009). In other words, the focus of the narrative hinges on the argument that chaos does indeed reign in a world where secular power structures are unable to enforce their authority.</p>
<p>A short acknowledgement of the notion of abjection might further illuminate the imbalance in power between chaos and reason, and further link chaos to von Trier’s articulation of authenticity. Aristotelian tragedy has been formulated as a form of contamination (<em>miasma</em>), which is balanced in the end through ritual cleansing (<em>catharsis</em>). In this formulation, contamination leads to imbalance and chaos, which is then cleansed and purified in order to restore a certain balance and order to the social world (Sjöholm 2005: 96). In <em>Antichrist</em>, however, there is neither cleansing nor purification to speak of, since She is contaminated by the ontological evil of her womanhood, and She in turn contaminates Nature. Eden and its environs, including He in it, become the totality of the abject. Sjöholm (2005: 97) notes that Julia Kristeva describes abjection as a state of being cast outside of the symbolic order of reason and society, of which it was once a subject, and argues further that the
presence of the abject is ‘a confirmation of the fact that the subject can only be conceived of as a heterogeneous construction that is always already contaminated.’ In such terms, She embodies the full ambiguity of evil, and since abjection is the ‘in-between, not respecting borders, positions and rules,’ this also explains the inability of both He and She to identify and categorise her fear and psychosis (Sjöholm 2005: 97). Throughout the film, She is projected as the embodiment of the abject that is violently positioned outside of the cultural world without a clear sense of selfhood, and it is significant that the film’s grim ending sees a symbolic eclipse of women forcing her husband out of the woods. This particular moment’s significance lies in the fact that it is a reversal of the idea of expulsion: it is the expulsion of not the abject, but rather, the subject who had tried to purge the contamination within the abject. It is interesting, therefore, that von Trier’s perversion of Aristotelian
catharsis <em>does</em> come to an uneasy balance and order, but only with chaos and the uncanny with the upper hand. Furthermore, if the abject represents the inherent, authentic nature of humans previously subdued or masked by rational convention, then the image of a mass of women emerging from the woods and engulfing He might similarly symbolise a reemergence of the authentic.</p>
<p>In a more personal context for von Trier, the formulation of chaos here is perhaps an expression of his partiality to what one might conceive as the authentic and ‘human’ aspect of art-making, echoed from <em>De fem benspænd </em>and the romanticised notion of ‘spassing’ from <em>Idioterne.</em><span id="InsertNoteID_1_marker1" class="InsertNoteMarker"><sup><a href="#lars-von-trier-boos-antichrist-p-chow-tbc_InsertNoteID_1">1</a></sup><span> That is to say, the imperfect artist, unrestrained and working against convention and habit, has the advantage of being able to make meaningful and genuine discoveries, either by accident, instinct, or through experimentation. The ‘accident’ is a key term here that characterises the relationship that chaos has with the text. The motif is manifested in two further ways: first, through von Trier’s methodology, and second, through the actors and their performance of the text. Instead of following his regular method of handling the camera, controlling the images while at
the same time being close to the actors during the filming (as he was wont to do before), he now has to physically stand back and direct from a very different perspective.</span></span></p>
<p>The first expression of the motif lies in von Trier’s experience in the production of the film. He had wanted to make a horror film in 2007 after the completion of <em>Direktøren for det hele</em>, but could not do so due to his illness. He discloses that taking on the project was a kind of therapy for him to counter his severe depression, and that it was critical for him to ‘do something straight away and something hard’. He explains further:</p>
<h5>My experience with anxiety and therapy was unfortunately quite big, so that became very quickly the theme. The good thing about this whole process was that I was not really feeling very well, so I wasn’t rewriting a lot of the time, and things were done more instinctively. I just wrote it through once, and I didn’t analyse it. (quoted in Kehr 2009)</h5>
<p>There is a dominant sense here that von Trier has embraced a form of easing his control over the film that is much less conceptual and abstract than his previous films. Perhaps the key to understanding the aesthetic of the film is as von Trier says — that <em>Antichrist</em> is ‘a film where I had to throw reason overboard a little bit’ (qtd. in Romer 2009). In another interview he says that he used to be much more “clear and mathematical” about his earlier films, but instead, <em>Antichrist</em> felt ‘more like a dream’ (quoted in Bourgeois 2009). Here, he has chosen to work with a degree of primal instinct and a more organic process that produces a certain freedom for the development of the film. Björkman (2009: 19) rules that the film works more like a stream of consciousness, a far cry from the predominance of overt rules in von Trier’s earlier projects, and the latter agrees that there is ‘a feeling that the film has a more <em>accidental</em> character. That’s what I tried to attain. I felt so
miserable when making the film, I just had the strength to take one scene at a time and hope for a more haphazard result’. What he means by ‘accidental’ might be better understood as ‘instinctual’ — that is, where his previous involvement in his films were more intellectual and abstract, his approach to creative action in <em>Antichrist </em>was based on instinct instead. The ‘accidents’ or incidental creative moments that arise from the filming are due to this unintentional obstruction to von Trier’s involvement in the film; he says in the same interview that he felt like ‘a runner who was suddenly put in a wheelchair’.</p>
<p>Here, the motif of a relaxed direction that engenders creative imagination is made manifest. Visually, and aside from the grislier scenes, the film stands out particularly with its painterly mise-en-scène and exceptionally long takes reminiscent of the films of Andrei Tarkovsky, to whom von Trier dedicates <em>Antichrist</em>. Tarkovsky’s work favoured overt spiritual interpretations and possessed an emotional and aesthetic reliance on nature — both traits are indeed mirrored in <em>Antichrist</em>. Perhaps the more illuminating note about Tarkovsky’s philosophy of cinema is that in the later part of his life, he came to realise that overindulgent control over a film’s genesis restricts the imagination (Totaro 2000). Like Tarkovsky, then, von Trier’s temporary physical and psychological affliction has led him to turn to a ‘freer’ mode of working. He says that ‘it was also a choice of [his] not to make the film too logical’ (Schepelern 2009). For example, several scenes within the film deviate from the
narrative in an elliptical manner. While explicitly positioning <em>Antichrist</em> in the horror genre, the protracted shot in extreme slow-motion of She walking through the woods, or He standing outdoors in the midst of a shower of acorns in extreme slow-motion evokes a distinct aura that is incongruent with the flow of the narrative. The latter example is particularly striking as the image breaks the fourth wall by featuring He staring directly into the camera. Similarly, the lengthy academic discussions that He and She have transform the diegesis, acting as a kind of break from the action and intense visuality of the woods, drawing the film away from the more visceral elements of horror. In this sense, one might say that the film does not conform to conventional rules of horror and narrative cinema. As a result of this diminished desire to craft a meticulously planned film, it seems as though von Trier has approached his own earlier calls for an ascetic methodology now in a different mode from the
apparent self-ironic simplicity of <em>Direktøren for det hele</em>. Instead, the style is less determined, abstract, and rational, but now more instinctual and borne of the psychological drama from within the narrative. Therefore, one might characterise <em>Antichrist</em> as a film that expresses an expansive visual style as well as a plot that draws heavy influence from August Strindberg’s discussion of the psychological relationships between men and women in his plays. He remarks that he ‘let this film flow to me instead of thinking [it] up’ and this is shown in the diverse, if sometimes labyrinthine mythical imagery that is expressed in the film (Corliss and Corliss 2009). In other words, the images of the woods painted in a muted palette of grey and near-colourless green express not only the fear of darkness, but perhaps also suggests the internal chaos and uncertainty from which an instinctual and evocative artistry emerges.</p>
<p>He continues to declare that he is immensely pleased with the film’s visual style: ‘They come out of an inspiration that’s real to me. I’ve shown honesty in this project’ (quoted in Romer 2009). Where ‘honesty’ is concerned, the idea is better understood through the near-total relinquishing of control over the film’s aesthetic design. <em>De fem benspænd</em> boasted a strict framework, while the only restriction in <em>Direktøren for det hele </em>was the framing of the Automavision. In both cases, von Trier asserted his aesthetic authority in explicit ways. Here, he compares <em>Antichrist </em>with his earlier films as having almost no rules: ‘It was also a choice of mine not to make the film too logical’. By not insisting on or adhering to his tendency to effect austere aesthetic rules and instead, relying on a completely spontaneous mode of filmmaking, von Trier is indeed working from inspiration — as shown in his undisguised references to other auteurs’ works and the looser narrative flow. As he
remarks, he gave more control away in the sense that he ‘did not want it to be too constructed’ and ‘allowed pictures to come in that was strange [sic] and not kind of in the right mathematical place’ (Schepelern 2009). A few examples illustrate this point: He and She’s discussions about Nature and Evil meander considerably throughout the film, and their speech is frequently elliptical, with large gaps left unexplored. The same elliptical quality is seen in the editing of the narrative scenes, where abrupt jump cuts interrupt what would otherwise be a single shot. Furthermore, the stylised, steadier slow-motion shots that punctuate the story appear in an arbitrary manner, as are the overt and poetic references to other artists, such as the burning cabin at the end of the film as a nod to Tarkovsky, the thematic link between women and nature characteristic of August Strindberg, and the scene with the windswept birch trees from Ingmar Bergman’s <em>Jungfrukällan</em> (The Virgin Spring, 1960). Where the von
Trier of old would not have admitted readily to such borrowing of themes and images from other auteurs, here he readily conveys his inspirations overtly and plainly.</p>
<p style="text-align: justify;">Alongside this instinctive and honest filmmaking, a level of authenticity, albeit subjective, manifested itself especially in his direction of the actors. Addressing the second point regarding the actors’ performances, Gainsbourg speaks about her experience working on the set with von Trier:</p>
<h5>At the start of the day Lars would just say, ‘Go on, do it,’ with no indications, nothing. Nobody knew what we were really supposed to do, so the first take was often quite bad, and he would say so. It was a first step, and then he would give a lot of directions and a lot of ideas. I got the impression that he was just interested in <em>the truth</em>, in <em>true accidents</em>, and just working in all sorts of directions. (my emphasis, quoted in Kehr 2009)</h5>
<p>Partly motivated by his weaker constitution during the filming, this working relationship on the set of <em>Antichrist</em> distinctly embraces the value of relinquishing control as an essential measure to allow the expression of the ‘true accident’ and ‘human’ to surface. That is, the actors respond instinctually to the demands of the script in their performance. Dafoe is of the same opinion about von Trier's methodology: ‘He feels there’s more truth in accident and more truth when the actors aren’t controlling what they’re doing, and they’re either scared or confused or struggling’ (quoted in Kehr 2009). Dafoe continues in his favourable assessment that without pre-shoot rehearsals or preparation, one starts to ‘get very flexible and open with impulses’ (quoted in Bourgeois 2009). The utterly convincing and evocative performances the two actors turn in indeed earned them critical praise, perhaps also with some thanks due to their unbounded willingness to perform outrageous and to most, abhorrent scenes.
According to von Trier, the filming was a significant challenge to Gainsbourg, but a liberating one: ‘She claimed she had a lot of hang-ups as an actress. “I cannot cry on film,” she said. Which isn’t true, as you can see in the film’ (quoted in Björkman 2009: 19). The unique liberty that Gainsbourg and Dafoe had in von Trier’s absence allowed them to explore their characters until an authentic expression was achieved. Despite the difficulties within the chaos of uncertainty and the lack of power and constraint, von Trier seems to be making the argument that those are precisely the conditions that engender a verity in performative expression. An outstanding example is the scene where She aggressively knocks He out with a violent blow to his genitals, then proceeds on to her attempt to disfigure her own in painful, visceral detail. The strength of Gainsbourg’s interpretation is manifested in the sense of complete discomfort that the viewer experiences while watching the thoroughly violent and tense scene with
explicit sexual acts that stretches on for about twenty minutes. Similarly, the choking scene is just as discomforting to watch, as its length and extreme close-up gives it verisimilitude. The sustained presentation on Gainsbourg’s part in these scenes, perhaps the most unsavoury parts in the film, is for the viewer her most striking performance that blurs the line between acting and instinctually manifesting the character, in support of the thesis of authenticity in the actors’ performative expressions.</p>
<div class="pagebreakbefore">
<h2>Von Trier, the Antichrist Auteur</h2>
</div>
<p>Lastly, the express absence of an aesthetic schema in <em>Antichrist</em> has resulted in a text that opens itself up to a multitude of interpretations due to the unbridled use of symbolism and von Trier’s heavy hand (through his Director of Photography) in asserting visual elegance. This latter point must be acknowledged because, despite the seeming distance von Trier puts between himself and the film by highlighting his depression in various press conferences and interviews, there is always the notion that the director is consciously defending his artistic presence in the art cinema milieu. Hence, one must interpret his exceptionally public defence of the film in a more critical light, especially when his penchant for provocation is articulated emphatically in this instance.</p>
<p>In this film, he deviated from the hand-held film technique that dominated his more recent projects and even turned the photography of the film over to Anthony Dod Mantle, his long-time Director of Photography, because he was in no physical shape to operate the camera. Mantle says that it is nonetheless significant that despite this limitation that von Trier faced, the latter still managed to make it one of the most technically demanding films yet, in terms of visual design. For example, it was upon von Trier’s insistence that the black and white prologue was shot with a super-high-speed camera and then slowed down tremendously:</p>
<h5>It was Lars’s intention to make that contrast between the roving physicality of the rest of the film and the amazing stillness you get when you use a high speed. What you’re seeing is slowed down so much that for the first time in the cinema I had the sense of watching a film in the way that I look at a painting. (quoted in Johnston 2009)</h5>
<p>This must not be mistaken as an abandonment of two of the main traits that define von Trier's artistic identity — control and innovation. Contrary to that perspective, <em>Antichrist</em> is simply von Trier’s complex variation of relinquishing control to showcase and parade his artistic ego. Mantle’s comment compares the visual design of the film to that of a painting, and as mentioned earlier, the references are not without purpose — that is, to align his work with those of noted European auteurs and thus situate his work within that milieu. In slowing down the shot and not ascribing further action to it, the viewer’s gaze is simultaneously and deliberately focused on the image to a minute degree. This not only calls attention to the technique and artistry of the camerawork, but also suggests an insistence on acknowledging this stillness as a dissolution of the boundaries between cinema and painting. Such a shot thus interrogates the nature of cinema from an ontological perspective: as still pictures in
motion. In this sense, von Trier is indeed presenting the possibilities of cinema by foregrounding what Heidegger (2000: 94) would term the ‘thingness’ and truth of film. According to Heidegger, the authentic is that which possesses ‘unconcealedness’ in the work — so too does <em>Antichrist</em> feature this ‘unconcealedness’ especially in the shots in extreme slow-motion described earlier. Hence, it is not that von Trier has completely surrendered artistic control over the film completely, but that, in a manner that typifies his ironist trait, he still unequivocally performs his formal mastery of cinema in spite of his frequent laments that he is physically and mentally only ‘functioning at sixty percent’ (Kehr 2009).</p>
<p>As Schepelern (2005, ‘The King of Dogme’: 11) writes, his public image is a combination of ‘detached, complex artist and challenging media personality’. As is his wont, von Trier is oxymoronically a shy exhibitionist. What his highly publicised depression and the theatrics in press conferences have done really is to draw even more attention to not only <em>Antichrist</em> but also himself and his <em>oeuvre</em>. When pressed by an indignant journalist to explain why he made the film, he said, ‘I never have a choice. It’s the hand of God. And I am the best film director in the world’ (quoted in Bourgeois 2009). The provocative retort manages to side-step a logical explanation of the film, since he has none, while at the same time drawing the attention closer to his personality. An auteur defines his signature mark by way of the strength and originality of his work, and in von Trier’s case, by his personality and the construction of his artistic ego. Such an initiative of his highlights not only the
ingenuity and coherence of his <em>oeuvre</em>, but also his principal trademarks, irony and provocation. As von Trier once noted early in his career, ‘a film should be like a pebble in your shoe’ with the intention to unsettle, and in the case of <em>Antichrist</em>, repulse with its provocative subject matter (quoted in Schepelern 2005: 116).</p>
<p>Moreover, von Trier’s exaggerated and tongue-in-cheek utterance at the press conference underlines another key point regarding the visual design of <em>Antichrist</em>. It is striking that von Trier’s self-conscious proclamation positions himself in the pantheon of great directors and his frequent references in his interviews to renowned artists in film, theatre, and painting also serve the same function of reaffirming his auteurship. Consequently, <em>Antichrist</em> is redolent of von Trier’s reverence for those great artists, and the film consciously acts as a collection of visual quotations, as if to declare his affiliation to the coterie of auteurs. The visual and technical motifs that echo Tarkovsky and artists such as Hieronymus Bosch and Henri Rousseau are evident especially in the painterly, meticulously shot scenes that utilise extreme slow-motion to the point that the shots look like still pictures, as discussed earlier. The camera lingers on each of these visual references – the burning before
the cabin borrowed from Tarkovsky and the intricate tangle of the trees in the woods that reference Rousseau’s paintings are examples – and thus creates a tension between the autonomy of the image and its place in the overall narrative. Hence, one might argue that von Trier is lacking control over the images, in the sense that such images are allowed to exist on their own, almost divorced from the logic of the plot. That von Trier has borrowed heavily from influential artists is not an unintentional laxity, even when he complains that the film is ‘too beautiful overall,’ and again, blames it on his poor health at that time (quoted in Björkman 2009: 19). The complaint is certainly a self-compliment in the same instance. This comment nevertheless reflects the pattern that von Trier has experienced a mode of liberation through an obstruction of sorts: in having to renounce his proclivity for abstracted aesthetic frameworks, he has returned to a stylistically conventional mode of filmmaking that now allows him
to indulge in adornments and even overt narcissism with regard to his formal mastery.  In all, von Trier’s citations in and outside of the film are self-consciously and carefully placed in order to evoke an alignment to the auteurist stance.</p>
<p>To conclude this argument, an alternative perspective might colour this egocentricity as an anxiety. Coincidentally, two directors whom he greatly revered passed away on the same day in 2007: Michelangelo Antonioni and Ingmar Bergman. The passing of the latter was particularly hard on von Trier as a fellow Scandinavian, and it has been suggested that <em>Antichrist</em> is von Trier’s oblique response to his anxiety about the economic and cultural viability of an auteur in the context of Hollywood genre domination (Gross 2009: 40). The choice of genre might then be seen as an interesting engagement with the idea of an auteur defending his artistic individuality against the Hollywood machine. The combination of horror and, to an extent, pornography articulates not only the presence of a great deal of self-reflexive gestures (through the customary ‘horror’ soundtrack, tone, and subject matter), but also von Trier’s alterations of the genre. The traits of horror and pornography are taken to extremities far
beyond what the placid and tamer mainstream variants offer, and this is precisely what he meant about reworking genres to ‘add something to them’ (quoted in Romer 2009). Thus, by re-examining the elements of the horror genre, he is putting into play its conventional expressions by turning them completely around, or in other scenes, amplifying them beyond orthodox boundaries of taste. In doing so, he has added his artistic mark on the film and the genre at the same time, and again, such a gesture affirms his position as an auteur in the art film canon. Furthermore, the most striking impression about <em>Antichrist</em> is the looseness in the coherence of its plot and the overwhelming intensity of its visual imagery. Thus, in letting go of the impulse to create a structured and logical film, and in his instinctual and impressionistic approach to the visual design, von Trier has achieved an expressive authenticity of examining the relationship of the art cinema to its ontological root, the image.</p>
<p>While the film has invited much negative criticism due to its offensive subject matter, critics still interpret the film as a remarkable piece that has managed to provoke and perturb even the most inured of spectators. This horror film is as cerebral as it is visceral, and that in itself is an outstanding quality that mainstream films lack — a quality that only an transgressive auteur such as von Trier might achieve (Ebert 2009).</p>
<p> </p>
<div Class="objavi-no-page-break"><h2>Author's Comment</h2>
<p>This essay is adapted from a chapter of my MA dissertation entitled <em>Losing Control: Lars von Trier and the Production of Authenticity and the Auteur</em>, completed in 2010 at the National University of Singapore. The dissertation sought to examine von Trier’s three latest film projects and read them as variations on a theme of control that is present throughout his <em>oeuvre</em>. I began writing this chapter shortly after the film was first screened in 2009, right in that exciting space of time between a film’s release and the initial publication of scholarly articles on it. When I say ‘exciting’, I also mean ‘daunting’ because, as a student, treading new ground without having the comfort of more established scholars interpret the film before you can be perplexing: ‘Does my analysis hold water? Have I overlooked some obvious and significant angle? Should I throw some Deleuze in there?’ Nevertheless, this anxiety is precisely what makes research an invigorating exercise in overcoming self-doubt, and
such an endeavour becomes a genuine delight when you realise you are contributing your own voice, and not rehashing someone else’s. </p>
</div><p>While my academic background was in English Literature, I have always had an affinity for film and visual studies, particularly aesthetic experimentation in cinema. An earlier encounter with von Trier’s <em>Dancer in the Dark</em> distressed me so much that writing both my BA and MA theses about the director’s work was my only (productive) means of catharsis. I continue to be harrowed by von Trier’s work, even though my interests have shifted to slightly different themes and aspects of film analysis.</p>
<p>Since 2011, I have been a PhD candidate in the School of European Languages, Culture and Society at UCL. My doctoral project focuses on cinematic representations of transnational space and architecture, analysing film essays from the Øresund region and Berlin.</p>
<p> </p>
<ol id="InsertNote_NoteList"><li id="lars-von-trier-boos-antichrist-p-chow-tbc_InsertNoteID_1">The lead character, Stoffer (Jens Albinus), championed the thesis that ‘spassing’ (behaving like an idiot, or pretending to be mentally retarded) not only challenges and confronts convention and conformity, but also offers the space and means for authentic, unrepressed emotion to be expressed. Read in the context of the Dogme framework, <em>Idioterne</em> argued for the foregrounding of imperfections in everyday experience as a kind of freedom to allow one’s ‘inner idiot’ to be exposed, leaving room for emotion and psychological truth to germinate. </li>
</ol><p> </p>
<div class="pagebreakbefore">
<h2>References</h2>
</div>
<p>Beattie, Tina (2009). ‘<em>Antichrist</em>: The Visual Theology of Lars Von Trier.’ <em>openDemocracy</em> http://www.opendemocracy.net/<br>article/antichrist-the-visual-theology-of-lars-von-trier. Accessed 13 August 2009.</p>
<p>Björkman, Stig (2009).  ‘Making The Waves’. <em>Sight &amp; Sound </em>August, 16-19.</p>
<p>Bourgeois, David (2009). ‘Lars Von Trier, “Best Film Director in the World,” Holds Press Conference.’ <em>Movie|Line</em> http://www.movieline.com/2009/05/lars-von-trier-best-film-director-in-the-world-holds-press-conference.php. Accessed 30 December 2009. </p>
<p>Corliss, Richard and Mary Corliss (2009). ‘<em>Antichrist</em>: Von Trier’s Porno Horror Rhapsody.’ <em>TIME Magazine</em> http://www.time.com/time/arts/article/0,8599,1899134,00.html. Accessed 24 July 2012.</p>
<p>Ebert, Roger (2009). ‘Cannes #6: A Devil’s Advocate for <em>Antichrist</em>.’ <em>Roger Ebert’s Journal </em>http://blogs.suntimes.com/<br>ebert/2009/05/a_devils_advocate_for_antichri.html. Accessed 30 December 2009.</p>
<p>Gross, Larry (2009). ‘The Six Commandments of the Church of the Antichrist.’ <em>Film Comment </em>45:5, 38-46.</p>
<p>Heidegger, Martin (2000). ‘The Origin of the Work of Art.’ In Cazeaux, Clive (ed.): <em>The Continental Aesthetics Reader</em>. London: Routledge.</p>
<p>Johnston, Trevor (2009). ‘<em>Antichrist</em> Cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle: Interview.’ <em>Time Out London</em> http://www.timeout.com/film/features/show-feature/8257/antichrist-cinematographer-anthony-dod-mantle-interview.html. Accessed 31 December 2009.</p>
<p>Kehr, Dave (2009). ‘Away from It All, in Satan’s Church.’ <em>The New York Times</em> http://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/13/<br>movies/13kehr.html. Accessed 13 September 2009.</p>
<p>Romer, Knud (2009). ‘A Hearse Heading Home.’ <em>FILM #66</em> http://www.dfi.dk/Nyheder/Tidsskriftet-FILM/Artikler-fra-tidsskriftet-FILM/66/A-Hearse-Heading-Home.aspx. Accessed 9 September 2009.</p>
<p>Simons, Jan (2007). <em>Playing the Waves: Lars Von Trier’s Game Cinema</em>. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press.</p>
<p>Sjöholm, Cecilia (2005). <em>Kristeva &amp; the Political</em>. London: Routledge.</p>
<p>Totaro, Donato (2000). ‘Art for All “Time”.’ <em>Film-Philosophy</em> 4:4. http://www.film-philosophy.com/vol4-2000/n4totaro. Accessed 30 December 2009.</p>
<p>Schepelern, Peter (2005). ‘The King of Dogme.’ <em>FILM #Special Issue/Dogme </em>Spring: 8-10.</p>
<p>Schepelern, Peter (2005). ‘The Making of an Auteur.’ In Grodal, Torben, Bente Larsen, and Iben Thorving Laursen (eds.): <em>Visual Authorship: Creativity and Intentionality in Media</em>. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, University of Copenhagen.</p>
<div class="pagebreakbefore">
<p>Schepelern, Peter (2009). ‘Interview with Lars Von Trier.’ <em>Antichrist</em> http://www.antichristthemovie.com/<br>?p=252&amp;language=en. Accessed 19 December 2009.</p>
</div>
<p> </p>
<p> </p><div id="section-5" Class="objavi-subsection"><div Class="objavi-subsection-heading">Nation and Identity</div><div Class="objavi-chapter"><strong Class="initial">13.</strong> Alternative Endings in Early Danish and Russian Cinema,  Anna V. Strauss</div><div Class="objavi-chapter"><strong Class="initial">14.</strong> The Unknown Soldier in Finnish History,  Essi Viitanen</div><div Class="objavi-chapter"><strong Class="initial">15.</strong> Globalisation and National Identity in Transnational Nordic Cinema,  Rebecca Spaven</div><div Class="objavi-chapter"><strong Class="initial">16.</strong> The Father Figure in Swedish 'Immigrant' Films,  Linda Blank</div></div><h1 id="ReFzjuCOVS_16"><strong Class="initial">13.</strong> <span class="title">Alternative Endings in Early Danish and Russian Cinema<span class="comma">, </span> <span class="author">Anna V. Strauss</span></span></h1>
<div Class="objavi-no-page-break"><h2>Introduction</h2>
<p>Towards the beginning of the last century film companies began producing and exporting alternative endings for different national markets, drawing on stereotypes to create a film narrative that would satisfy the imagined foreign audience. At the centre of this study are two countries, Denmark and Russia, who were to exchange specially adapted endings in the 1910s until the Russian Revolution in 1917 was severely to restrict trade. In both cases, the endings consist of a final scene in which the fate of the characters is altered. This meant that Danish actors would come to a tragic (often fatal) end on the Russian screen when they would enjoy a happy resolution in other markets, such as the UK, US, Denmark and Sweden. Meanwhile Russian film companies would retain the ‘inevitable’ end for the domestic audience and produce an alternative ‘happy’ ending for Western spectators of the same film across the border.</p>
</div><p>Any previous scholarly reference to these endings has been restricted to a national context. The unhappy Russian endings produced by the Danish film company Nordisk Films Kompagni have been viewed as a quirk of general director Ole Olsen’s production policy and international ambitions. In an article by Casper Tybjerg in <em>Kosmorama </em>the tragic Russian endings produced by Nordisk were cited as evidence for the importance of Russia as an export market, whilst they were considered by Paul Malmkjaer to be the beginnings of a production culture centred on satisfying foreign demand (Tybjerg 1997: 19; Malmkjaer 1997: 163). The endings produced in Russia, meanwhile, have been considered against the background of a struggling cultural identity. Here the opposition of the happy and unhappy endings has been seen as evidence of the opposition of Russia to America in a process of Russian self-definition (Tsivian 1989: 24). Whilst academics in both cases acknowledge the existence of alternative endings in
the other’s country, neither has ventured outside of their national framework to seek explanation for the emergence of the phenomenon (Thorsen 2009: 139; Tsivian 2004: 341; Nielsen 1999: 6).</p>
<p>This study will focus on two factors that informed the practice of producing alternative endings. The first concerns developments within the film industry at large. Changes in film length, narrative structure and the characterization of national film styles raised the question of how to end a film. The second factor is commercial production policy. The motivation to sell more films on a more diverse distribution network encouraged the development of alternative endings as part of a production policy aimed at appealing to wider markets. Cultural perception is closely tied with production policy and constitutes a third factor not addressed in this essay due to its limited scope.</p>
<p>Two academics have been responsible for the exploration of alternative endings in Denmark and Russia thus far. Both use a national framework to explain alternative endings. Isak Thorsen has written on the alternative endings produced by Nordisk Films Kompagni. The endings formed part of his work on the development and significance of Nordisk in the international market from its conception in 1906 to its liquidation in 1928 (Thorsen 2009:139; n.d.: 2). According to his research, the <em>un</em>happy endings filmed for Russia can be explained within the framework of Nordisk’s own development and history. Thorsen groups the endings together with ‘self-regulation’ and adherence<strong> </strong>to censorship laws as features of a production policy centred on international export (Thorsen 2009: 126, n.d.: 2). General Director Ole Olsen’s grand plans for expansion and participation in the international market are considered fundamental to the emergence of these practices (Thorsen 2010a: 2). For Thorsen, the
endings present another example of Nordisk’s process of ‘tailoring’ a film to its (various) audiences, a process which was to become part of long-term production policy and for which the company became renowned (Thorsen 2010a: 2; Malmkjaer 1997: 163). The production of the <em>un</em>happy Russian ending is seen directly to correspond with the project to expand into Russia in the 1910s (Thorsen 2009: 69, 139, 203). As such, the endings can be fully explained by the commercial strategy of Nordisk.</p>
<p>Yurii Tsivian refers to the alternative endings in several of his works on pre-Revolutionary and early Soviet silent film (Tsivian 1989, 1991, 1994, 2004, 2008). Although Tsivian comes to differing conclusions in his various essays as to the reasons behind the practice, the basis for his understanding of the ‘Russian’ and ‘Western’ endings varies very little across his papers. For Tsivian, the endings are linked to expressions of national culture. He understands alternative endings as part of a process of cultural definition in Russia (Tsivian 1989, 1991, 2004). His latest reflections link the endings with other features of the ‘national’ cinema style that Russian filmmakers were attempting to define and to export (Tsivian 2004: 339). The acting style and the pace of the action, in his view, combine with the Russian ending to constitute a ‘national’ film style, aimed to differentiate Russian cinema from both its American and European counterparts (Tsivian 2004: 342, 345). According to his arguments, the
endings are inextricably linked with an emerging national(istic) sentiment (Tsivian 1989, 1991, 2004. See also Hutchings 2008:9).</p>
<p>This study cross-references the work of Thorsen and Tsivian, developing a new international perspective on the alternative endings. Taking the focus on industry prevalent in Thorsen’s work and considering it alongside the cultural explanations offered by Tsivian, this study aims at a more comprehensive understanding of the factors that influenced the emergence of the phenomenon. Whilst recognising that the film industries in Denmark and Russia have different histories, both were engaged in trading their films on an international market. Indeed, the production of alternative endings evinces the importance of foreign markets in both cases.  International contexts must, therefore, be central to any explanation of this practice.</p>
<p>Research into this era of film is constrained by the loss or disintegration of the majority of films, and must rely on fragmented written accounts to piece together cinematic moments otherwise lost to posterity. Given these practical limitations, this study will understand films as the product of an industry in order to piece these fragments together. Cultural audience design is part of this theoretical framework, but this must be differentiated from attempts to define a national psyche.</p>
<p>Films of the silent era, as Bo Berglund reminds us, ‘die in their cans every day’ (Berglund 1999: 63). Of the endings that are the subject of this study, only five are known to survive. They are all of Danish origin.<span id="InsertNoteID_1_marker1" class="InsertNoteMarker"><sup><a href="#what-explains-the-export-of-alternative-endings-in-russian-and-danish-silent-film-before-1917-anna-strauss_InsertNoteID_1">1</a></sup><span> While extensive resources in the various Nordic Film Institutes allow for a reasonably detailed understanding of the situation in Denmark, the same cannot be said for Russian film<strong></strong>. Thus far, no alternative endings for Russian-made films have been discovered by any academics working in the field of silent film. Knowledge of films with alternative endings is tied to scripts, correspondence, synopses and memoirs. Ground-breaking work has been done by Jay Leyda and Yurii Tsivian in this area but there is still much that remains unpublished or unknown in relation to this
period of Russian film history (Taylor and Christie 1994: 1; Tsivian, 1989: 1). As a result this essay<strong> </strong>relies heavily upon those studies done by other academics, films re-released on DVD, journals and resources available online for its evidence.</span></span></p>
<p>In addition, the endings that have survived constitute only a small percentage of the overall number of films that have survived from the period, and an even smaller percentage of all films that were produced at the time. The number of films from which I am working is necessarily a tiny fraction of the total and this must be remembered when making generalising observations.</p>
<p>This study will adhere to an understanding of cinema ‘not merely as an aesthetic phenomenon, an art form, but as an administrative and industrial complex, with all the additional perspectives that this implies’ (Taylor and Christie 1994: 2). As such, films are not to be analysed purely for their aesthetic and narrative qualities, but as products of an industry. Consequently, the films and their various endings must be considered the result of a production process.</p>
<p>It is also important to establish the limitations of cultural analysis. This study follows Tsivian in stating that ‘culture is useful insofar as it helps us to understand films, not the other way round’ (Tsivian 2004: 347). The films will not be used as a means for understanding the culture or psyche of Russia or Denmark. The unhappy endings for the Russian market, for example, will not be taken to reveal something of the ‘terrific Slavic emotions’ (cited in Tsivian 2004: 341).  Investigation into the origins of the ‘Russian ending’ would prove complimentary to this study but<strong> </strong>the films under examination here have been produced with an assumption about these ‘Slavic emotions’ in mind. They serve only to demonstrate the existence of such a perception amongst film-makers and traders at the time. These perceptions and their realisation in films, though, aid us in our attempts to understand how stereotypes are constructed, re-negotiated and disseminated.</p>
<p>As such, Kazimierz Musiał’s concepts of stereotyping add a new perspective to this study. Although championed in his work in the field of politics and the Scandinavian model of progressiveness, auto- and xeno-stereotypes, applied to the object of this study, provide an important theoretical framework. Musiał, in his article <em>Tracing the Roots of the Scandinavian Model</em> argues that ‘the image of a progressive Scandinavia has been shaped and enhanced by two dimensions which in the course of its development remained in constant interaction: an external, foreign dimension and an internal, native one’ (Musiał 2002). In this case, he suggests, the xeno-stereotype of Scandinavia as ‘progressive’ then influenced ‘the constitution of what the Scandinavians thought of themselves’ (Musiał 2002). Returning to silent film with this in mind,<strong> </strong>the alternative endings filmed for different national markets serve<strong> </strong>as products of the processes of internal and external identity-
construction that Musiał describes. As cultural products circulated in a multi-national industry, however, the exportation of alternative film endings is also implicated in the manufacture and perpetuation of such images. Moreover, they translated stereotypes into a new visual medium.</p>
<div Class="objavi-no-page-break"><h2>Developments within the film industry</h2>
<p>Developments in the international market in the period in question, including the move from shorts to features, a boom in the number of cinemas and film companies, and an increasingly dominant role played by the US industry, impacted upon the policies and production of global competitors. Fears of cultural insignificance and financial loss led European film companies to seek distinction and definition in the face of the seemingly homogenous<strong> </strong>and threatening American film industry. The threat of American dominance was real enough for Olsen to play to it in an interview when justifying an expansion of share capital in 1915:</p>
</div><h5 style="text-align: left;">‘America possesses a large quantity of finished negative, and at the first opportunity will throw these out on the European market at prices that will exclude all European competition. This will mean the death of the European film industry, which is what we’re trying to prevent by taking these actions’ (cited in Thorsen 2010b: 471).</h5>
<p>The promotion of a Hollywood style served as a model for the ‘happy’ endings deemed necessary for the sale of film to the US, and, Tsivian argues, a negative model for the film endings that Russia wished to promote amongst its own audience. I propose, however, that the sad endings circulated in the Russian domestic market were less a product of national definition and more of a production policy, which aimed at success in the West.<strong> </strong></p>
<div Class="objavi-no-page-break"><h3>Narrative and American Endings</h3>
<p>The move towards feature-length films raised new issues and opportunities for film-makers. Amongst these was how to end a film. According to Noël Burch:</p>
</div><h5 style="text-align: left;">It was more than ten years before film-makers knew how to end their films in a way allowing the spectator to withdraw ‘gently’ from the diegetic experience, convinced that he or she had no more business in it and not feeling that the dream had been interrupted by a beating or by being kicked out of it. (Burch 1990: 222)</h5>
<p>The alternative endings are evidence of this process. The Russian ending for <em>Evangeliemandens Liv</em> (1915) and <em>Atlantis</em> (1913) from Nordisk and <em>Rukoj Materi </em>(1913), <em>Drama po Telefonu</em> (1914) and <em>Nevesta Ognya</em> (1911)<em> </em>from Russian companies all demonstrate a 'punitive' ending (see Tsivian 1989: 24). This type of ending is characterised as abrupt and featuring the punishment of one or all of the main characters. In each of the examples above, the Russian ending features the death of at least one central character. In comparison with their counterpart endings the Russian endings are left ‘open’. 'Non-closure' is a quality that Burch attributes to a 'primitive mode of representation' and thus identifies these films with early cinema, and a period of film production prior to the 'institutionalised mode of representation' later to be associated with classical Hollywood style films (Burch 1990: 220). The different film endings 'draw attention to the process by
which the "satisfactory" endings of the institutions were constructed' (Burch 1990: 222). The production of happy endings as alternative, then, reveals an awareness of the emergence of Hollywood style and recognition of its increasing authority within the<strong> </strong>international film industry.</p>
<p>Development and promotion of the ‘classic Hollywood cinema style’, which according to David Bordwell et al. was already in place by 1917, brought with it new pressures and models for other global firms (Thompson 1985: 157). Significant for this study is the development of the ‘Hollywood’ or ‘American’ ending. The happy ending was a part of the construction of the Hollywood style and ‘mode of production’, which ‘began to crystallize around 1908’ and aimed to (re)claim the American domestic market from Pathé Frères (Tsivian 2004: 342). As early as 1909 the American trade journal <em>Moving Picture World </em>urged exhibitors to ‘Give the public good cheer and watch the increased stream of dimes and nickels which will flow into your coffers’ (cited in Trumpbour 2002: 19). This is the type of ending that the Russian market felt compelled to produce and export in order to make sales of its films abroad a possibility in the 1910s. Similarly, within Nordisk, Blom was to write to director Hjalmar Davidsen: ‘I
will kindly remind the directors about the rule that for every film with a sad ending, even if it seems misleading, must always be supplied with an extra ending scene…’ (Thorsen 2009: 141) Most often these endings twisted the plot so as to end the film with the happy union of a couple, the recovery of a dying character or the successful rescue of a character in danger.<span id="InsertNoteID_2_marker2" class="InsertNoteMarker"><sup><a href="#what-explains-the-export-of-alternative-endings-in-russian-and-danish-silent-film-before-1917-anna-strauss_InsertNoteID_2">2</a></sup><span> Previous to this, the endings that we now recognise in the negative as <em>un</em>happy were the norm (Tsivian 2004: 342). The increasingly dominant ‘closed’ endings within the Hollywood style became a model for Russian and Danish filmmakers with an eye to the ‘West’.</span></span></p>
<p>The production of both open and closed endings identifies this period as an experimental one, in which alternative endings could be marketed and produced. At this time, styles, genres, and narrative structures were in a stage of development rather than having been standardised and institutionalised. The ‘predominance of narrative structure’ was not yet in place and as such there was opportunity to experiment with features such as endings, the style and structure of which would soon become set in stone (Thompson 1985: 157). It cannot be assumed that the happy ending was inherent to cinematic narrative. In fact, there was a tendency towards ‘punitive’ endings, which as Burch claims, were adopted from the circus (Burch 1990: 222; Tsivian 2004: 342). Although to the modern-day viewer it seems that the <em>un</em>happy endings exported to Russia need more explaining than those <em>happy </em>endings exported from Russia at this time, in fact, the definition of any particular type of film ending in this period
requires critical consideration. The uncertainty surrounding the issue of ending a film made the production of alternative endings feasible and, as such, the endings must be understood in this international context of formal experimentation. The move to feature-length films and the rising authority of Hollywood film style with its happy endings gave rise to an atmosphere conducive to the production of alternative endings in Denmark and Russia.</p>
<div Class="objavi-no-page-break"><h3>Narrative and the medium of film</h3>
<p>The alternative endings that were developed were only a fraction of the whole product being exported. Other features of experimentation by film-makers suggest that film in this period was a site of negotiation between narratives, their visual realisation and spectacle (Gunning 2004: 41). This negotiation allowed for the flexibility that enabled the production of alternative endings to become so widespread a practice. Narrative works by ‘posing an enigma…[and] delaying the resolution of that enigma’ (Gunning 2004: 43). As is shown by the production of alternative endings, the nature of that resolution was not considered as important as the process of leading to a resolution. Instead, features of both Russian and Danish cinema in this period highlight a ‘dynamic relation to nonnarrative material’ (Gunning 2004: 43). Russia, for example, developed a slow pace of action and a ‘psychological’ acting style, which brought to the fore the image of the film star (Tsivian 2004: 342). Denmark became renowned for its
settings, film stars and erotic spectacle (Engberg 1993: 441; Sandberg 2001: 6). These features are less to do with the plot and more to do with the image projected on screen. In addition, criticism in journals often focuses upon the technical or aesthetic aspects of films, whilst details of the plot are reserved for programmes and synopses. The plot and the film, although reliant upon one another, are dealt with separately. Altering the ending to the plot was therefore not considered as significant as it would be today.</p>
</div><p>According to correspondence that Tsivian has come across in his research of early Soviet cinema, directors at that time did occasionally attempt to resist the changes prescribed by the Export-Import Division regarding the endings of films (Tsivian 2008: 24). Similarly, re-editing done within the Soviet Union was not well-received by Western film companies, who in some cases had already made alterations for their export to the Union (Tsivian 2008: 33, 26). The absence of any such resistance by pre-Revolutionary directors when the policy of making alternative endings was originally implemented implies that a change had occurred that made such alterations to the plot and narrative less acceptable to film-makers in the 1920s than it had been in the 1910s. Aside from the political developments that led to a definite opposition of post-Revolutionary Russia to the West, ideas of narrative had changed. For Soviet editors, the ‘man in the shot’ was ‘raw material’ to be manipulated and plots increasingly
became dictated by political propaganda (Tsivian 2008: 40). In post-war Europe, however, the dominance of American film became fact rather than simple prediction and as a result character and plot emerged as central to any film in accordance with the classical Hollywood style (Staiger 1985: 109; Thorsen 2009: 143). The practice of producing alternative endings arose before these changes came into play. The dynamic changes and developments to the film industry and attitudes of film-makers in the 1910s meant film endings at this time could be manipulated for marketing purposes.</p>
<div class="pagebreakbefore">
<h2>National endings in a global cinema</h2>
</div>
<p>Tom Gunning has argued that ‘in its first decades… a primary way that film understood itself was as a medium that could express a new sense of global identity’ (Gunning 2008: 11). Olsen recalls this ‘new consciousness of the global’ in his memoirs when he writes: ‘we had to be careful and make the films in such a way that they could be understood everywhere’ (Gunning 2008: 13; Thorsen 2010a: 2). It seems that Olsen’s belief that Nordisk films could be made wholly exportable and translatable was founded in his understanding of the film market and the film medium as international<strong>.</strong> However, it also highlights national difference implying that films had to be made in a particular way to be universally understood.</p>
<p>At Nordisk, writers were instructed to compose ‘simple stories, which were easily understood not only in Denmark, but everywhere’, ‘to use as few intertitles as possible’, instead telling the story ‘by means of the pictures shown’ (Engberg 1993: 63). Olsen’s international ambitions, thus, impacted upon the style, genre and content of his company’s films. To some extent the trade that went on between Russia and Denmark, best documented in the archives of the DFI, is demonstrative of this idea and encourages belief in the ‘internationality’ of early silent film that Gunning describes (Gunning 2008: 11). Indeed, it has been observed that ‘neither the exhibitors, nor the public seemed to restrict their film interests by country of origin’ (Leyda 1983). This suggests that the belief Olsen held in the quality of the picture and comprehension of the plot being that which would sell a picture was a well-founded one. Judging by those I have been able successfully to research, the alternative endings consist of a
final scene or two, without intertitles. The endings are self-explanatory. These endings would have been comprehensible to any audience, regardless of cultural background. The wish to appeal to an international audience, therefore, dictated the nature of the endings and encouraged a tendency to extremes i.e. either death or the happy union of the main characters. The understanding of film as a universally comprehensible medium led to the belief that companies could make films that appealed to all different national markets. This encouraged ambitious businessmen like Olsen to look beyond the borders of their own small nations convinced that with particular films they could tap into the rich international market.</p>
<p>The different endings were clearly defined and aimed at national audiences, however. (There would be no mistaking a happy American ending for a sad Russian one, for example). The need or desire to appeal to individual markets through adaption of the films in a supposedly global industry requires explanation.</p>
<p>Alternative endings arose at the coincidence of a global film industry and fierce nationalism exaggerated by war. Increasing national consciousness amongst film-makers in part explains the timing for the development of alternative endings. America and Hollywood were not the only film industries to be developing a distinctive national style. Several scholars have noted the emergence of ‘national traits’ or ‘characteristics’ within Europe in this period (Low 1949: 206; Neergaard 1960: 39; Engberg 1977: 441, 1993: 441; Abel 1994: 299; Lebedev 1965). Danish film was associated with ‘social drama’ and ‘erotic melodrama’ (Neergaard and Engberg cited in Thorsen 2010a: 9). Russian film-makers initially focussed on ‘Russian’ subjects such as its ‘glorious past’ or folklore (Leyda 1983: 38). Evidence for this juxtaposition of the global and the national can be found in the Russian press of the time. Russian trade journals include on their pages an increasing awareness of the domestic industry and its responsibility
to promote a national product, along with articles written to report on the success of Russian films abroad and comparisons of the Russian product with that of the States and Europe.The development of a self-consciously national industry defined by its place in the international market demanded recognition of the difference between domestic and foreign markets in a way not so apparent before. In this atmosphere, established stereotypes could be appealed to by the film industry in attempts to sell to a given national market. The endings were imagined in an atmosphere where national traits and national industries were developing; constructing national borders within what was a global industry.</p>
<p>The production of national identity in film endings must be understood in a global commercial context. Investigation of the developments within the international market reveals traces of these developments in the films and the endings themselves. The prevalence of film as a new visual medium, increasingly aggressive nationalism and the question of how to end a film in the new era of multi-reels made the widespread production of alternative endings possible. In these ways the multi-national film industry shaped the forms of nationalism in film and dictated the framework within which national film industries were to function.</p>
<div class="pagebreakbefore">
<h2>Commercial Production Policy</h2>
</div>
<p>This section will focus upon the reasons for the emergence of alternative film endings in Denmark and Russia, again taking an international perspective. Commercial production and the nature of the entertainment industry were to influence the policies of national film companies as they clamoured for a place on the highly competitive international market. Differentiation of the product proved necessary for those companies aspiring to global success. For Nordisk alternative endings were to constitute part of a wider production policy aimed at tailoring films to different national consumers. For Russian companies, they were considered a necessary adaptation to have films sell in the more dominant and institutionalised Western markets. In both cases, alternative endings were produced with the fundamental aim of selling more films in a wider market and increasing revenue.</p>
<div Class="objavi-no-page-break"><h3>Money-making</h3>
<p>In the early twentieth century, cinema was regarded ‘first and foremost as a means of making money’ (Taylor and Christie 1994: 19). In order to increase the amount of revenue it was necessary to increase the size of the distribution network and, with it, the audience. In a competitive entertainment industry, film companies needed to demonstrate innovation and differentiate their product in order to succeed. As in America, where happy endings were encouraged as a means of ‘increasing the stream of dimes and nickels flowing into the coffers’, the endings produced in Denmark and Russia fundamentally served as a means to earn more money (Trumpbour 2002: 19).</p>
</div><p>For Nordisk, the production of alternative endings was linked to the company’s interest in expansion into Russia. The potential of the Russian market had, despite its inherent difficulties, attracted attempts to set up a local branch by several different countries and companies (Malmkjaer 1997: 123). The adoption of alternative endings into Nordisk’s production policy coincides with a deal brokered in 1911 with the Russian film company Thiemann, Reinhardt &amp; Osipov. A letter from the time communicates to the new distribution agent that Nordisk ‘will always, if possible, make a special dramatic ending for Russia. We have given clear orders about this to our directors and literary employees’ (Thorsen 2010a: 14). It appears that the guarantee of unhappy endings made for the market was discussed as part of the deal. In the two years that followed, Russia became Nordisk’s second largest export market, only surpassed by Germany, and in 1914 the Russian market became Nordisk’s largest (Thorsen 2010a: 13)
. This would imply that the deal was a success and that film, which Nordisk exported to Russia in these years, answered the demands of the Russian market. This assertion is confirmed both by the lack of complaints from Russian agents and by surveys responded to by the Russian public (Thorsen 2009: 145; Ginzburg 1963: 163). According to records from 1913, for example, answering a question about their favourite film company, 916 of the 1313 inhabitants interviewed in Kharkov answered Nordisk (cited in Thorsen 2009: 145). The quality and quantity of the films produced by Nordisk would doubtless have played a more significant role than the endings (Christensen 2009: 61). Nevertheless, the explicit assurance that special endings would ‘always, if possible’ be made demonstrates that the endings did play some role, even if only as a marketing gimmick for Nordisk. As such, potential increase in revenue from wider distribution was a significant motivation for their production.</p>
<p>Although there is no such evidence that explicitly links Russian-made alternative endings to deals within a particular foreign market, research done by Tsivian and Jay Leyda would suggest a similar financial incentive. In 1906, Aleksandr Khanzhonkov followed Aleksandr Drankov’s lead and broke away from the French-owned Gaumont to set up his own film company. According to Leyda, the successes of foreign films made in Russia for foreign audiences, such as <em>Smert’ Ioanna Groznogo </em>(1909) which was withdrawn in Russia but enjoyed notable success across the border, made Khanzhonkov ‘determined to reach the rich foreign market, too’ (Leyda 1983: 38; Lebedev 1965). In addition, Tsivian observes in his work on the early Soviet period that film companies had inherited a belief from the pre-Revolutionary days that ‘the death of a hero made foreign sales problematic’ (Tsivian 2008: 24). Taken together these observations suggest that the motivation for making happy endings for export was founded in a desire to
have those films successfully sell in the West.</p>
<p>The endings made both in Denmark and in Russia were a means of ‘ensuring’ the appeal of those films abroad, and in theory, therefore ‘ensuring’ their sale to foreign distributors.</p>
<div Class="objavi-no-page-break"><h3>Product Differentiation</h3>
<p>In a market so intensely competitive and developing so quickly ‘product differentiation’ became essential for success. In her work on the Hollywood mode of production, Janet Staiger notes an important tension between standardisation and differentiation: ‘standardising - to be known for excellence and to increase efficiency, differentiation to compete in a varied market and as grounds for repeated consumption.’ (Staiger 1985: 108) Through the production of alternative endings a film company was able to differentiate its product, in the case of Nordisk even gaining a reputation ‘for at levere det, man ønskede’ (‘for giving [the buyer] what they wanted’) (Malmkjaer 1997: 163). Simultaneously, however, the innovations which were to differentiate the film companies were made within a wider standardised context. Film companies in both countries relied upon the foundation of an international reputation and worked within the confines of those standards being consolidated in the 1910s.</p>
</div><p>This tension between standardisation and differentiation is revealed in the combination of Olsen’s international ambitions for his company and recognition that in order to realise these ambitions the company would need to be reliable and respectable. Olsen recognised that just such a company needed to be producing films that were ‘acceptable to all cultural groups’, writing in his memoirs ‘they [the employees of Nordisk] couldn’t pay the bills if we shot the wrong picture’ (Olsen cited in Thorsen 2010a: 2). Yet, to achieve his dream of Nordisk Films Kompagni becoming ‘the biggest in the world’, it was necessary to demonstrate innovation and novelty in order to maintain a competitive edge in the market (Thorsen 2010b: 465; Staiger 1985: 97). Nordisk had been amongst the first to make the transition from shorts to feature length films and this was to bring some international recognition (Thorsen 2009: 117). After its being standardised across the industry, however, Nordisk needed new means of standing
out. Affirmation for Nordisk came with the emergence of the first international film stars, the quality of the sets and design, cinematic ‘finesse’, and eroticism (Malmkjaer 1997: 160, 162; Nordisk Film 2011). Included in this oft-cited list should also be the reputation that Nordisk gained for ‘providing what was wanted’ by its buyers (Malmkjaer 1997: 163). This refers both to the Russian endings and the other adaptations made especially for individual national markets. Whilst making sad endings for the Russians, Nordisk also produced ‘discrete’ and ‘stronger’ versions of scenes to suit the censors and avoided certain themes or topics. For example, no spies were to be present in films for the Germans, and in English versions, no man could be seen inviting a woman into a room if the two would be alone with a bed (Malmkjaer 1997: 163; Thorsen 2010a: 19). Any guarantee that a film company could offer to ensure a film would pass the censors would have been a big selling point. Thorsen notes:</p>
<h5>Med en films forholdsvis korte 'levetid' kan producenten ikke med sikkerhed være garanterest at få sin investering igen. Derfor blev brandingen af en film overfor publikum en måde at sikre filmens succes. (Thorsen 2009: 143)</h5>
<h5>With a film’s relatively short ‘lifespan’ the producer could not with any certainty guarantee to get his investment back. Therefore the branding of a film to the audience became one way to ensure a film’s success.</h5>
<p>Having a reputation of satisfying demand, passing the censors and delivering a high quality product was vital to Nordisk’s success. Alternative endings as a means of satisfying audience demand were a part of the creation of its brand.The endings, then, in part arose due to the demands of the film industry and the value placed on innovation and differentiation as a means of competing in that industry.</p>
<p>In the case of Russia, Tsivian argues that the alternative film endings are linked to a distinctively Russian style of acting and direction. As such, he describes the Russian endings as forming part of an ‘arsenal of cultural tools deployed by national cinema to stake a claim on the map of international filmmaking’ (Tsivian 2004: 342). As opposed to giving the foreign market ‘what it wanted’, the Russian film companies exploited the mystery and exoticism attached to the Western perception of Russia to emphasise the ‘Russian’ aspect of the films they were exporting and thus differentiating them. The slow pace of the action aimed at complimenting a ‘psychological’ style of acting, for example, was to be branded ‘Russian cinema style’ (Tsivian 2004: 342; Anon. 1911: 2).The production of a happy ending for the West, though, cannot be seen as an extension of this policy – if it were a truly Russian product, then why not export the <em>un</em>happy endings supposedly so popular amongst its domestic audiences?
Here the tension of differentiation and standardisation is revealed. The relatively insignificant output of Russian film companies could not afford to displease the American and European audiences, which as Russian film-makers understood it, desired a happy resolution. As such, the innovations of Russian film style had to occur within the framework of the more dominant American narrative style and with its prescribed happy ending (Staiger 1985: 97). Tsivian’s theory explains the Russian endings as if they were intended for export. In fact, Russia pursued the same commercial strategy as Nordisk in producing happy endings for the West, pandering to an internationally more powerful national stereotype.</p>
<div Class="objavi-no-page-break"><h3>Russia and Denmark: Export-Oriented</h3>
<p>The roots of the commercial strategies of both Russia and Denmark are found in the differing development of the film industries in each country. These film industries were at the mercy of those larger and more influential that were more developed or had more money at their disposal.</p>
</div><p>Denmark, as a small, peripheral nation, has necessarily always been reliant upon foreign export. When setting up Nordisk in the early 1900s, Olsen’s recognition that ‘the demand for films exceeded the number of films produced’ led him to focus on exportation (Engberg 1993: 63). In conjunction with this he implemented policies within the company that would enable the films to be tailored to the nations to which Nordisk was exporting. As he wrote to a disgruntled British customer, with whom he had misjudged the audience preference, ‘we do in all cases always make, if it’s possible different endings according to the tastes of different countries’ (Thorsen 2010a: 15; 2009: 141). At the end of the war, around ninety-eight percent of Nordisk’s income came from its output in foreign markets (Arnedal 2006: 30). The fate of Nordisk was thus closely bound with the export markets. In his thesis Thorsen links the demise of Nordisk to the move away from an international focus after the war (Thorsen 2009: 365).
With so much riding on success abroad, it is no wonder that an ambitious man like Olsen would induce orders to his workers to go out of their way to tailor films to the tastes of foreign consumers.</p>
<p>Whilst for Denmark, its size and position on the edge of Europe made carving out a space on the international market essential for success, Russia was faced with an enormous domestic market and, theoretically, little financial or practical need to expand its market abroad. As was to be seen during the war and after the Revolution with the subsequent restrictions on the import of foreign films, the domestic market alone could provide and sustain a flourishing and profitable film industry. Nevertheless, Russia, too, was engaged in the process of producing alternative endings for export.</p>
<p>Russia’s alternative endings find explanation in the situation of its domestic film industry. The Russian film industry was dominated by foreign firms from its outset. Foreign companies had technical expertise, financial support and wide distribution networks that Russian companies could not compete with. In journals of the 1910s many articles are concerned with the inability of Russian film companies to contend with foreign firms. An enduring example is the belief that Russian companies were incapable of making successful comedy films (Leyda 1983: 35; Lebedev 1965). In order to break the stranglehold that foreign companies like Pathé had over the market, Russian film-makers and distributors had to find a means of differentiating their films. Unlike Denmark, Russia had strong cultural connotations in Europe as being ‘exotic’ and unknown (Leyda 1983: 38; Norris 2008: i). Attempts by foreign film companies to capture ‘Russianness’ on screen were widely criticised (cited in Tsivian 2008: 41; Leyda 1983: 30).
Russia’s strong cultural connotations gave it a different position in the world film market and a means of differentiating its films through its subjects and cinematic style. The endings were considered a necessary adaptation in order to have their films sell abroad, enabling Russian film companies to both access the rich foreign film markets and in the process disseminate a defined national style.</p>
<p>The alternative endings, then, serve various purposes for the Russian and the Danish film companies that produced them. In both cases, the alternative ending provided a resolution to the tension inherent to the film industry, occurring as a result of the value afforded to both standardisation and differentiation within it. Companies within Denmark, such as Nordisk, needed to actively carve out a niche in the international market and to make a reputation in order to achieve any level of success within that wider international context. This was achieved in part through the use of the alternative ending as a marketing gimmick, a novelty that could be associated with other features of ‘tailoring’ that the company was engaged in. Russia, similarly peripheral to Europe, but with a reputation for ‘difference’, utilised the alternative endings as a means of selling its films abroad and, in the process, standardising its innovative film style. The differing strategies for competing in the international film market,
 then, can be explained by the positions of individual nations in reference to it.</p>
<div Class="objavi-no-page-break"><h2>Conclusion</h2>
<p>Alternative endings are the result of film-makers in Denmark and Russia responding to aesthetic and commercial developments within the international film industry, which in the 1910s was going through a period of dynamic change. Although the industries in the two different national contexts have histories of their own, the emergence of alternative endings in each case must not be viewed as two separate phenomena. The practice in both countries arose as means of competing on the international market. Fundamentally, then, alternative endings were produced in order to appeal to new audiences, the success of which would lead to an increase in revenue. The situation of the film industry at the time enabled endings to be manipulated in a process of adaptation to new foreign markets. The fluidity of the times allowed for greater flexibility and experiment in relation to narrative, content and style than later decades would permit. Cultural stereotypes determined the nature of the endings that were produced. The
films and their alternative endings then constructed and produced these stereotypes, circulating them in new markets embedded in a new visual medium.</p>
</div><p>Alternative endings reveal a tension between the global and national existent in the film industry. Assumptions about national markets and audiences found at the core of the practice were drawn from internationally held stereotypes and constructed in accordance with an understanding of a nation’s position within a wider global context. The 'new global consciousness' of the filmmaker and cinemagoer meant that perceptions of national culture, be they externally or internally focused, were formed by and understood within this international framework. These perceptions were constructed, mediated and distributed through films released in the international market. The investigation of alternative endings thus exposes how international markets shape the ways in which national identity is produced and consumed.</p>
<p> </p>
<div class="pagebreakbefore">
<h2>Author's Comment</h2>
</div>
<p>The essay here is an edited version of my undergraduate dissertation completed in the spring term 2012. A third section on cultural perception and audience recruitment within the industry has been omitted in order to shorten what was previously a 10,000 word project.</p>
<p>I followed the BA Language and Culture degree programme studying Russian and Swedish languages along with various aspects of Slavic and Nordic cultures. I chose Nordic Cinema in my second year, at which point I was introduced not only to Nordic directors, films, actors and movements, but also more fundamentally to film as an object of study. Previous to this, my interest and understanding of cinema, it has to be said, was rather superficial. This project came about almost totally by chance but the finished product feels to be a culmination of that which I learned during the preceding four years of study.</p>
<p>Reading the essay now, I should have liked to have had the time to watch more films and to have realised my interest in the topic whilst on my Year Abroad in Russia. Research in the Moscow film fund, I am sure, would have been an experience worth having in its own right and would have thrown light upon other curious paths for exploration. I also ought to have discussed the film texts themselves and explored the differing narrative and aesthetic qualities of the films and their endings but given the nature of the period under scrutiny and the lack of surviving materials (especially on the Russian side) this would have been difficult. I would have liked to have got my hands on some of the old journals and programmes themselves instead of being limited to those copies online, but again this would have involved travel, time and money that, unfortunately, I did not have at my disposal. A project for the future, perhaps.</p>
<p> </p>
<ol id="InsertNote_NoteList"><li id="what-explains-the-export-of-alternative-endings-in-russian-and-danish-silent-film-before-1917-anna-strauss_InsertNoteID_1"><em>Et Drama paa Havet</em> dir. Eduard Schnedler Sørensen, Nordisk (1912); <em>Atlantis</em> dir. August Blom, Nordisk (1913); <em>En Fare for Samfundet</em> dir. Robert Dinesen, Nordisk (1915); <em>Blade af Satans Bog</em> dir. Carl Theodor Dreyer, Nordisk (1919) [English ending]; <em>Evangeliemandens Liv</em> dir. Holger-Madsen, Nordisk (1914)</li>
<li id="what-explains-the-export-of-alternative-endings-in-russian-and-danish-silent-film-before-1917-anna-strauss_InsertNoteID_2">Examples to be found in <em>Evangeliemandens Liv</em> (1914); <em>Atlantis</em> (1913); <em>Rukoj Materi</em>, <em>Drama po Telefonu</em>, <em>Nevesta Ognya</em> as described in Tsivian 1989: 24-42.</li>
</ol><p> </p>
<p> </p>
<div class="pagebreakbefore">
<h2>References</h2>
</div>
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