Monthly Archives: April 2022

  • The Passion of Anna

    Old YorkerFilm review

    En passion

    Ingmar Bergman (1969)

    The film’s Swedish title translates simply as ‘A Passion’.  In his Bergman biography, Peter Cowie explains how it acquired a different one for its American release:  ‘Bergman had a single day in which to think of an acceptable alternative title when United Artists informed him that A Passion could not be used in the United States for copyright reasons.  The Passion of Anna was Bergman’s choice.  In fact, Andreas is far more at the centre of the drama than Anna …’   One possible explanation of Bergman’s hurried choice is that he and Liv Ullmann, who plays Anna, were a couple at the time the film was made:  he may have felt, without much time for second thoughts, that the woman at the centre of his life must also be the centre of his art[1].  Of course, the prime mover isn’t really Anna or Andreas.  Max von Sydow’s character is, as Cowie says, the protagonist but Andreas’s essential identity is virtually acknowledged in the film’s closing line, spoken by the voiceover narrator, who is also the writer-director:  ‘This time his name was Andreas Winkelman’.  The Passion of Anna, like so many of its forerunners and successors in the Bergman oeuvre, is ‘The Passion of Ingmar’.

    Bergman was a master translator of his preoccupying anxieties into screen drama but the process feels unusually incomplete here.  It may be no coincidence that (uniquely in his work, as far as I know) the narrative is punctuated by short interludes in which each of the four main actors – von Sydow, Ullmann, Bibi Andersson and Erland Josephson – describes, in turn, their understanding of the person they’re playing.  This seems almost a tacit admission on Bergman’s part that the characters are undeveloped in the story being told.  A further peculiarity of these interludes is that, except for von Sydow, the actors give the impression, as they analyse their roles, of acting being themselves.

    Following the break-up of his marriage, Andreas Winkelman lives alone on a sparsely populated island.  His solitude is interrupted by the arrival in his life of the widowed Anna Fromm, who turns up one day at Andreas’s house with an urgent plea to use his telephone.  He eavesdrops on her call and hears her distress.  When Anna goes, she’s upset enough to leave her handbag behind.  Andreas returns the bag but not before finding in it, and reading, a letter from Anna’s late husband, who was also named Andreas.  He and the couple’s young son died in a car crash in which Anna was injured (she still walks with a stick though it chiefly signals persisting emotional damage).  Anna is staying on the island with her married friends, Eva and Elis Vergerus, to whose house Andreas returns the bag.  He accepts their invitation to dinner, where he once more meets Anna.

    The main narrative describes Andreas’s developing relationship with each of the other three.  As usual in Bergman, the surname Vergerus announces a chilly, negative personality and Elis (Erland Josephson), an architect and a prolific, obsessive amateur photographer, isn’t – or, at least, is no longer – a loving husband to the unhappy Eva (Bibi Andersson).  While Elis is away from home, she spends time with Andreas and they end up having sex.  The affair is short-lived; soon afterwards, Anna moves in to live with him.  This partnership, companionable rather than physically passionate, continues for some months but Anna’s insistent idealisation of her life with the first Andreas wrecks her alliance with the second.  The latter eventually reveals to Anna that he read the letter in her handbag, in which her husband warned that their marriage would encounter ‘new complications that in their turn will bring on terrible mental disturbances, as well as physical and mental acts of violence’.  In the course of the film, Bergman repeatedly shows these words in emphatic close-up.  They get inside the protagonist’s head and under his skin.  His predecessor’s prophecy is realised in the demise of Andreas Winkelman’s own relationship with Anna.

    Each one of the quartet often seems wearied by the pressure of personal failure or tragedy but this, as well as the emotional cruelty to which they sometimes subject each other, registers less strongly than the brutality of the world around them – a brutality both deliberately inflicted and natural.  Someone (never identified) is killing animals on the island – slaughtering sheep, setting fire to a barn containing a horse and other livestock, hanging in a noose a dachshund puppy, which Andreas manages to rescue and adopt (before giving the friendly little dog to Eva as a kind of linus blanket).  Andreas and Anna are shown at one point watching television news footage of Vietnam War atrocities.  But no other creature, human or otherwise, is responsible for the ruinous damage done to a bird that flies into a window pane of Andreas’s house, and which he and Anna have no option but to finish off as kindly as they can.

    Despite its dramatic limitations, the piece has some interesting and (at least at the time it first appeared) distinctive aspects.  Like his two films of the previous year, Hour of the Wolf and Shame, The Passion of Anna was shot on Bergman’s island, Fårö.  Unlike any previous Bergman, save for the aberration All These Women (1964), this one is in colour.  (Sven Nykvist’s searching study of faces is as absorbing as ever.  It’s hard to describe the close-ups as penetrating, though, since what’s going on behind the faces – or masks – tends to remain opaque.)  Another new departure for Bergman is an extended improvisation – a dinner table conversation among the four principals.  What’s more, it’s a strikingly coherent improvisation, thanks to the top-class actors and also, perhaps, the fact that, as Erland Josephson told Peter Cowie, ‘It was a kind of rehearsed improvisation … the evening before we had a dinner together where we tried it’.  Even so, Josephson added, ‘it became a sort of spontaneous improvisation’.

    In choosing the English title, Bergman may also have been recognising that Liv Ullmann gives the outstanding performance:  volatile Anna’s numerous, startling mood shifts are always made to seem remarkably natural.  The ending to the film sees Anna drive away, leaving Andreas alone once more.  As the camera pulls out, he’s an increasingly small figure in the Fårö landscape.  He seems undecided whether to follow Anna’s car or head in the opposite direction.  He turns one way then the other, covering less distance each time before he turns.  If he weren’t walking up and down in a straight line, he’d be moving in ever decreasing circles.  On the soundtrack there’s a quietly ticking clock before the reading of the closing line.  The finale crystallises one’s sense of the film as an arresting but fragmentary treatment of enduring Bergman themes.

    7 April 2022

    [1] For the record … only three Bergman films have titles that include characters’ names, all of them those of women or children (Summer with Monika, The Passion of Anna, Fanny and Alexander).  Two more titles refer to a group of women (Waiting Women, All These Women), none to men.

  • The Worst Person in the World

    Old YorkerFilm review

    Verdens verste menneske

    Joachim Trier (2021)

    The heroine, Julie (Renate Reinsve), chooses medical school because it’s hard to get into – she wants her excellent exam grades to count for something.  She finds that surgery is ‘like carpentry’, decides she’s more interested in matters mental and spiritual, and switches to psychology.  She sleeps with her psychology professor but gives him and the course up to become a photographer.  To support herself, she gets a job in an Oslo bookshop, where her employment lasts longer than her higher education:  not long into The Worst Person in the World Julie has her thirtieth birthday.  By now, she’s in a relationship with Aksel (Anders Danielsen Lie), a famous graphic novelist and cartoonist, fifteen years older than her.  He’s keen to have children but Julie says she’s not ready for motherhood.  She wants to get her life in order first.  Despite the passing years, she’s young enough to feel time will stand still for as long as she needs.

    That is what Joachim Trier makes happen in The Worst Person in the World’s most noticeable sequence.  On the point of breaking up with Aksel, Julie leaves his apartment one morning, as he starts making coffee, and runs through the city streets.  She’s the only person in Oslo on the move:  everyone else is frozen in position, until she reaches her destination.  Eivind (Herbert Nordrum), whom Julie first met when she crashed a wedding reception where he was a guest, is also making coffee but, then, he’s a barista.  After leaving his workplace, he and Julie spend the rest of the day and the night together.  They part early the following morning, when Julie returns to Aksel’s apartment and he emerges from suspended animation.  He hands Julie a mug of coffee.  She gives him the bad news, though without admitting that she’s seeing someone else.

    In an earlier scene, Julie celebrates her thirtieth birthday in the company of Aksel, her mother (who’s estranged from Julie’s father) and her grandmother.  The camera, moving away from the table they’re sitting at, scans family portraits displayed on a dresser and the wall behind it.  A voiceover (on which more below) summarises the situation of several generations of Julie’s female ancestors at the age of thirty.  Her grandmother had appeared as Rebecca West in Rosmersholm at Norway’s National Theatre before becoming a mother of three.  Julie’s great-grandmother had lost two of her children to tuberculosis.  Her great-great-great grandmother was already in her grave, as most eighteenth-century Norwegian women were by their mid-thirties.  This is an obvious but effective way of underlining how much more time and choice is available to Julie as an educated, middle-class, western European young woman of today but Trier, like Jacques Audiard in Paris, 13th District, means to illustrate the ups and downs of millennial freedom.  I loathed Paris, 13th District (and, for that matter, Louder Than Bombs (2015), the only other Trier movie I’d seen before this one).  There’s no denying that Julie and the film she’s in have their vexing features.  So why did I enjoy The Worst Person in the World?

    First and foremost, because of Renate Reinsve, who has amazing emotional fluidity and the (related?) ability to look sometimes unremarkably pretty and sometimes extraordinarily beautiful:  Julie’s changes in mood are, for better or worse, often signalled by a rosy blush suffusing her flawless complexion.  Reinsve, who’s in nearly every scene, won Best Actress at last year’s Cannes for this performance and it’s hard to believe the prize was undeserved.   I also like the film because Trier and Eskil Vogt (his regular writing partner, who again shares the screenplay credit) do a good job of situating Julie in a present-day context without suggesting that her troubled irresolution is a novelty.  At a drinks do to launch Aksel’s latest comic book, Julie has to get out, makes her excuses and leaves the gathering.  It’s a lovely, sunny evening; after walking a little way, she pauses to look at Oslo spread out below her and her eyes fill with tears.  She knows she’s attractive, clever and privileged yet she feels dissatisfied, and doesn’t understand why.  At the book launch, she may have been oppressed by a sense of being merely Aksel’s companion – perhaps also by not knowing what more she wants to be.  In this expressive moment, Julie, as Trier implies in the production notes used by BFI as their handout for screenings of the film, could be a character created by Ingmar Bergman – even Henry James.

    The Worst Person in the World is supposedly the last part of Joachim Trier’s ‘Oslo Trilogy’, following Reprise (2006) and Oslo, August 31st (2011).  Trier is Danish, as are Kasper Tuxen and Olivier Bugge Coutté, his cinematographer and editor respectively.  In the production notes, Trier also remarks on the ‘very special’ light in Oslo, and Tuxen and Bugge Coutté’s astonishment at the difference between Norwegian and Danish light, despite the two countries’ proximity.  Trier clearly  has a strong attachment to the city his trilogy’s named for.  In this film anyway, he likes all three of his main characters, too.

    When Julie meets Eivind at the wedding, they get fairly drunk, agree not to be unfaithful to their other halves but spend the night testing the boundary between intimacy and infidelity, which includes describing sexual preferences, smelling sweat and watching each other pee.  (Whatever turns you on probably is the appropriate phrase here …)  When they say goodbye next morning, they don’t intend to meet again – they do so when Eivind and his partner, Sunniva (Maria Grazia Di Meo), turn up one day in the bookshop where Julie works.  The suit and tie Eivind wears for the wedding anonymise him, and enable Trier and Herbert Nordrum to reveal who he is gradually and surprisingly.  You expect his work to be more white collar than it turns out to be; Julie, when she tires of him, berates and hurts Eivind by accusing him of being willing to work behind a coffee-shop counter until he’s fifty.  Eager and confident when they’re having sex, he’s increasingly diffident and vulnerable out of bed.

    Anders Danielsen Lie had a lead role in the two preceding Oslo trilogy films and briefly takes centre stage in the later stages of this one, when Julie learns that Aksel has pancreatic cancer and goes to see him.  Aksel is a contemporary of Trier and Eskil Vogt, who may be putting themselves in his terminal illness shoes when he tells Julie how much time he now spends re-watching favourite films, how rooted he is in an object-based culture that’s now also in decline (objects ‘were interesting because we could live among them’).  Aksel’s creative output is little consolation in the face of impending extinction:  he quotes Woody Allen (without attribution) when he tells Julie, ‘I don’t want to live on through my art; I want to live on in my apartment’.  Lie’s acting here is a huge advance on what I’d seen from him before (chiefly in Paul Greengrass’s 22 July (2018) and Mia Hansen-Løve’s Bergman Island (2021)).  He develops the various strands of Aksel’s vulnerability subtly and, in the end, powerfully.

    Trier and Vogt have written plenty of high-quality dialogue, and given the characters individual voices.  An early episode in which Aksel and Julie spend a weekend with two other couples, with children, dramatises tensions in the air and that emerge in conversation, recognising the difference between the two things:  plenty remains unsaid.  The Worst Person in the World has major weaknesses, though, and the excellence of the main performances has the effect of drawing attention to them.  At the start, Trier stresses Julie’s intelligence and desire to make use of it.  Renate Reinsve’s alert, fine-tuned presence means you never lose sight of that but Trier first blurs Julie’s creative vs romantic indecision then suggests these two parts of her life are simply separable.  He opts to focus on her love life, in ways that start to feel lazy.  He makes clear what draws her to medical and psychology degrees but not the appeal to her of photography or when she actually picks up a camera.  She tries her hand at writing and produces a piece about feminism and oral sex.  She chucks it out but Aksel retrieves it from a waste bin.  (That’s the default soap-opera location for secret writing that’s bound to be discovered but Trier’s modern twist is nice:  Aksel says he took the crumpled sheets out of the bin to move to paper recycling.)  He thinks the piece is well written and he encourages Julie to post it online, which she does.  The voiceover returns to note that the blog post provoked debate but we’ve no idea what that meant to Julie or whether she blogged again (and, if not, why not) or what kind of writer she means to be.  These are serious omissions when a main cause of her growing frustration with her life with Aksel is his absorption in an established creative career.

    Like the Paris, 13th District set, Julie appears to have virtually no cultural or political interests – a problem in the environment, and in view of the dilemmas, that Trier creates for her.  Her blog post is entitled ‘Oral Sex in the Age of #MeToo’ but she doesn’t have much to say on Bobcat, the scatological and sexist feline protagonist of Aksel’s comic books; after they’ve split up, she happens to see Aksel being trounced by an anti-Bobcat feminist critic in a television discussion but it’s unclear what Julie thinks about this.  When she derides Eivind’s lack of intelligence and ambition, it comes out of nowhere.  When she and Aksel eventually meet up again, she tells him she’s never talked with anyone else as she used to talk with him – implying that their conversation was uniquely stimulating, intellectually and emotionally.  This makes no sense since the main verbal exchange between them up to now has been the one that immediately precedes her leaving him.  When the dying Aksel, reminiscing about his movie favourites, asks, ‘How many times can you watch Dog Day Afternoon?’ and Julie replies, ‘A lot’, it comes as a surprise:  the only film she’s mentioned hitherto is Bambi.  Her photography stays on the back burner until it’s useful to Trier.  Julie takes pictures of Aksel in his last days; in the (weak) epilogue, she’s working on a film set as a stills photographer.  Like the #MeToo piece that isn’t followed up, this seems to say more about the writer-director’s casual approach than about Julie.

    Trier’s use of the aforementioned voiceover (Ine Jansen) is inconsistent and, as a result, unsatisfying.  At the start, it has almost too much to say – you want it to stop to let you concentrate on the people on the screen.  As the film goes on, the voice features only sporadically and not at all in the closing stages.  When, as happens a couple of times, it’s heard during characters’ conversations, it seems to represent what’s uppermost in their minds regardless of what they’re saying.  Usually, though, Trier resorts to voiceover as the simplest way of conveying information and giving it a definitive ring.  Text at the start announces that the film will comprise twelve chapters, plus prologue and epilogue.  Each chapter has a name (‘Cheating’, ‘Oral Sex in the Age of #MeToo’, and so on).  Since Trier’s storytelling is clear enough not to need this structuring, it seems to be no more than a homage to/pinch from a famous cinema portrait of a young urban woman of sixty years ago – Godard’s Vivre sa vie:  film en douze tableaux (1962).  Some chapters are self-contained and have little or no discernible influence on what happens next.  ‘Finnmark Highlands’ is a quick précis of Eivind’s life with Sunniva:  after discovering her Sami ancestry, she becomes a passionate climate change and indigenous peoples’ rights activist and a bit much for Eivind:  the episode comes across as cheap-shot ridiculing of Sunniva’s brand of advocacy.   ‘Julie’s Narcissistic Circle’ describes what happens when a couple of Eivind’s friends join him and Julie in their apartment, and discover his stash of magic mushrooms, of which all four partake.  The only point of the horrifying psychedelic consequences seems to be to confirm Julie’s animosity towards her father, which Trier seemed to have forgotten about.

    ‘I feel like a spectator in my own life – like I’m playing a supporting role in my own life’.  This is Julie explaining her feelings to Aksel as she prepares to walk out on him.  Her words – never mind the ‘supporting role’ – are self-dramatising, and you might expect the film’s title to be another self-description.  In fact, it’s Eivind who feels ‘like the world’s worst person’ when he’s cheating on Sunniva and leaving her for Julie – but the heroine doesn’t have a high opinion of herself.  When Aksel eventually tells her she’s ‘a damned good person’, she finds the judgment hard to accept.  The insights of The Worst Person in the World – on love, time, delusion and evasion – aren’t remarkable but the principals’ charms and frailties are distinctive and make you root for them, especially Julie.  Joachim Trier’s attention to important parts of his story is highly erratic but his sympathy for the main characters is sustained.  Aksel, Eivind and, again, especially, Julie are more than continuously entertaining company.  These are screen lives that seem to matter.

    6 April 2022

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