This film is essentially Bergman does Hitchcock (in the mood of, say, "Foreign Correspondent," but darker . . . and yet with some moments of delightful humor). Bergman is making jabs here at the expected complacency of Swedish society in a situation in which malevolent foreign-based movements would be afoot. Beautifully photographed, and with splendid acting, this film is insightful, taut, intelligent, thought-provoking, and--to sum things up--most enjoyable, with no longueurs, no holes in the plot. Though for some reason Bergman himself ultimately didn't like it, that's no reason for this entertaining and enriching film to be unavailable. If you can find a screening, don't hesitate to partake of it!
Reviews
5 Reviews
Svärmor på vift
(1916)
Delightful Swedish Comedy Short
13 October 2017
Lighthearted short depicting the hijinks which come to a doctor's household when his in-laws arrive for a visit, reaching a high point at a costume party. The charming relationship between the doctor and his wife (played with brio by Nils Olaf Chrisander and Maja Cassel) lends the show a sexy sweetness which lingers in the viewer's mind. The in-laws are played with gusto by Manne Göthson and Tekla Sjöblom. The fine acting is naturalistic and the direction and camera-work well-considered. A rewarding little confection.
Vagabond Lady
(1935)
Denny is Splendid in this Amusing Show
20 May 2013
Every day can't be Christmas, every at-bat can't be a home run, every movie can't be expected to be an immortal classic. *Vagabond Lady* is solidly amusing fare rather of the screwball comedy mold, making fresh use of familiar Hollywood tropes to send us out of the theater smiling. The secondary and bit parts are handled pitch-perfectly by often-familiar professionals of the era who clearly knew the genre and the tone required for it, and threw themselves into it with pleasure and zest. Reginald Denny came from a family in which both his father and grandmother were Gilbert & Sullivan originals; he seems to have soaked up the family's experience, and his performances frequently show the characteristic deft Gilbertian handling of what might be termed restrained absurdity. His talent for this is well displayed in *Vagabond Lady*; his expressions of profound aversion to gumdrops still coax laughs from me as they linger in the memory. Robert Young, though he throws himself fully into his role and does well enough, just doesn't have the right vibes or charisma for it. Evelyn Venable as the leading lady similarly does well enough or even better than well enough, and is radiantly beautiful; but her performance is not well modulated. The production values are on the high side (be ready for rear projections now and then), the script is fine, the show moves right along--you will spend a little over an hour being amused by an unpretentious and workmanlike mid-30s comedy, time spent pleasantly with a few out-loud laughs. Come to it as you'd come to a standard TV situation comedy in one of its better outings, and, afterwards, you'll feel that, in investing time in it, you've done well.
The Nut House!!
(1964 TV Movie)
Spirited Attempt Has Its Moments . . .
21 October 2012
Considered in the context of its era (early 60s), this vigorous effort by Jay Ward is certainly different and mildly zany. Ward was to some degree channeling Olsen & Johnson in the wackiness he was attempting. The cast members throw themselves into it whole-heartedly, and almost make it work. The fact that it was a pilot excuses its awkwardness--the ensemble still had to develop its chemistry. Yes, some skits go on too long, others don't have a satisfying payoff; but nevertheless it rivets the attention and makes for an entertaining half hour. (By the way, contrary to what one might read elsewhere, the end credits for the players are not on hand-held pieces of paper: the participants parade down the studio audience aisle Olsen & Johnson-like bearing "striker-type" signs indicating their names.) The Falcon monologue, delivered in hilarious deadpan, redeems the shortcomings of the rest. Watch this show with the eyes and entertainment-experience of the 1950s and early 1960s: The program is certainly worth seeing once, and maybe once again to see what one missed the first time.
Dreams
(1955)
Our Dreams, Our Realities . . .
17 September 2012
Warning: Spoilers
(Mention over the course of this review of the thematic value and development of certain elements could be considered "spoilers." If you want to come to this movie absolutely fresh, you might want to save reading this review for *after* you see the show to help focus your thoughts.)
Dreams . . . what are dreams? Where do they lead us? Dreams can lead one to a new—and unanticipated—life (*Monika*); they can be the gateway to a better understanding of an old life (*Kris*); they can possess us, and damn us (*Vargtimmen*); they can be the vapor, the chemical, which helps our exposure to the world develop into a fixed image of ourselves . . . and so it is that we come to Bergman's splendid *Kvinnodröm*, called *Dreams* in English. The first moments of the film, at a photo-shoot, tell us what we are to witness: Human beings in development, their postures, their cosmetics, their pretenses; the development takes place in the dark, the pretenses in the light: It is the dark, the unreal dream, which lights the way to reality.
As so often with Bergman, repeated viewings reveal the details which, in truth, are the dark lights which guide the story: the glances and reactions of the secondary characters, the symbols, our awareness of the disjunct parallels and how they intertwine. A silly, irresponsible girl is wiser than a cultured older man, and yet her clear-sightedness is for others, not herself; but it is her silliness, not her wisdom, which brings her a stable reality. A cool and level-headed professional woman is frantic with desire; the cold and barren fruit of her desire turns out to be the ripe fruit of knowledge. The men of our tale have their own dreams: The shallowest has the most depth, the most serious is the most insubstantial, the most heart-felt is the most heartless. A fat man taps his fingers in impatient, impotent lust; an old photographer, wise in the ways of the world, is nevertheless blithe and carefree.
Bergman works with these themes more grandiosely in other works, and yet it is the unsettling intimacy of his treatment here which, for me, has the greater effect. The dark room brings the illumination; the negative is our access to the positive; the dream is the lens to focus our reality. In his conception, in his vision, in his cinematic art, this is Bergman at his finest.
Dreams . . . what are dreams? Where do they lead us? Dreams can lead one to a new—and unanticipated—life (*Monika*); they can be the gateway to a better understanding of an old life (*Kris*); they can possess us, and damn us (*Vargtimmen*); they can be the vapor, the chemical, which helps our exposure to the world develop into a fixed image of ourselves . . . and so it is that we come to Bergman's splendid *Kvinnodröm*, called *Dreams* in English. The first moments of the film, at a photo-shoot, tell us what we are to witness: Human beings in development, their postures, their cosmetics, their pretenses; the development takes place in the dark, the pretenses in the light: It is the dark, the unreal dream, which lights the way to reality.
As so often with Bergman, repeated viewings reveal the details which, in truth, are the dark lights which guide the story: the glances and reactions of the secondary characters, the symbols, our awareness of the disjunct parallels and how they intertwine. A silly, irresponsible girl is wiser than a cultured older man, and yet her clear-sightedness is for others, not herself; but it is her silliness, not her wisdom, which brings her a stable reality. A cool and level-headed professional woman is frantic with desire; the cold and barren fruit of her desire turns out to be the ripe fruit of knowledge. The men of our tale have their own dreams: The shallowest has the most depth, the most serious is the most insubstantial, the most heart-felt is the most heartless. A fat man taps his fingers in impatient, impotent lust; an old photographer, wise in the ways of the world, is nevertheless blithe and carefree.
Bergman works with these themes more grandiosely in other works, and yet it is the unsettling intimacy of his treatment here which, for me, has the greater effect. The dark room brings the illumination; the negative is our access to the positive; the dream is the lens to focus our reality. In his conception, in his vision, in his cinematic art, this is Bergman at his finest.
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