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By the time I arrive, it's too late for a doctor
It is probably a disservice to Victor Sjöström's masterpiece The Phantom Carriage (Körkarlen, 1921) to describe the film as A Christmas Carol, only with more TB and domestic abuse, but I will admit the comparison kept recurring.
The original Swedish title means Coachman or Driver, referring to the tradition that the last person to die in the old year must become the collector of souls for the year to come, driver of the carriage that carries none living and bound to serve en sträng herre, som heter Döden, "a strict master, who is called Death."1 David Holm (Sjöström) doesn't believe this story, but he tells it to give his drinking buddies a fright in the churchyard one New Year's Eve and sure enough, before the last chime of midnight he's dead, cracked on the skull with a beer bottle and frantically trying to claw his spirit back into his body as Death's weather-cloaked, scythe-bearing coachman approaches, to harvest him and hand over the job. But this particular Charon happens to know him—and feels a certain amount of responsibility for his current state—and so before he takes over the black carriage's reins, David will be forced to reflect on the not at all inexorable series of events that led him from a loving, hardworking family man to a violent derelict, bleeding out on a tombstone while the charity worker who tried to reform him lies dying of the disease he gave her and his battered wife prepares to kill herself and their two children before the drunken husband she ran away from once already can come home.
This should be a penny dreadful, a temperance shocker with as much blood and fire and subtlety as the Salvation Army's motto. Instead, it's still surprisingly gritty, softened very little by its supernatural frame or the prayer that its protagonist offers up in its final moments: Please, Lord, let my soul ripen before it's reaped. The ghostly dead-cart is less frightening than a roaring, maddened David, taking an axe to the kitchen door to get at his terrified family.2 He's not just wounded and misanthropic, he's the kind of brutal nihilist who coughs in a girl's face when she's concerned for his health and Sjöström3 gives him a real, unpredictable sense of danger—I admit my knowledge of silent films is mostly limited to German Expressionism and Harold Lloyd hanging off a clock, but the naturalism of the acting would show up some sound films I've seen. And the special effects look rudimentary now, but imagine synchronizing double exposures—with multiple moving layers—with hand-cranked cameras. Death's coachman striding through a closed door is one thing, but hauling up a drowned fisherman from drifting, weedy depths through crashing surf is another. And while the film's bent is toward redemption, it is hardly a guarantee. In short, I'm not sure that The Phantom Carriage is my particular flavor of movie to rewatch, but I was genuinely impressed.
In other news, I slept for slightly over eight hours last night. (And baked a version of Australian comfort food, because I was curious. I didn't have glacé cherries proper, so I substituted the fruit out of cherry preserves. Verdict: tasty, if teeth-hurting. Use a better grade of chocolate next time. Also, don't eat for a week.) Happy solstice.
1. Fans of The Seventh Seal (1957) will remember that the visionary Jof twice refers to Death as den stränge Herren Döden, "the strict master Death." Ingmar Bergman imprinted on this film like woah.
2. I'm guessing Stanley Kubrick also imprinted on this film like woah.
3. Who also wrote the script, an adaptation from Selma Lagerlöf's 1912 novel. I had previously known Sjöström only as Isak Borg in Wild Strawberries (1957). Clearly I need to keep better track of him.
The original Swedish title means Coachman or Driver, referring to the tradition that the last person to die in the old year must become the collector of souls for the year to come, driver of the carriage that carries none living and bound to serve en sträng herre, som heter Döden, "a strict master, who is called Death."1 David Holm (Sjöström) doesn't believe this story, but he tells it to give his drinking buddies a fright in the churchyard one New Year's Eve and sure enough, before the last chime of midnight he's dead, cracked on the skull with a beer bottle and frantically trying to claw his spirit back into his body as Death's weather-cloaked, scythe-bearing coachman approaches, to harvest him and hand over the job. But this particular Charon happens to know him—and feels a certain amount of responsibility for his current state—and so before he takes over the black carriage's reins, David will be forced to reflect on the not at all inexorable series of events that led him from a loving, hardworking family man to a violent derelict, bleeding out on a tombstone while the charity worker who tried to reform him lies dying of the disease he gave her and his battered wife prepares to kill herself and their two children before the drunken husband she ran away from once already can come home.
This should be a penny dreadful, a temperance shocker with as much blood and fire and subtlety as the Salvation Army's motto. Instead, it's still surprisingly gritty, softened very little by its supernatural frame or the prayer that its protagonist offers up in its final moments: Please, Lord, let my soul ripen before it's reaped. The ghostly dead-cart is less frightening than a roaring, maddened David, taking an axe to the kitchen door to get at his terrified family.2 He's not just wounded and misanthropic, he's the kind of brutal nihilist who coughs in a girl's face when she's concerned for his health and Sjöström3 gives him a real, unpredictable sense of danger—I admit my knowledge of silent films is mostly limited to German Expressionism and Harold Lloyd hanging off a clock, but the naturalism of the acting would show up some sound films I've seen. And the special effects look rudimentary now, but imagine synchronizing double exposures—with multiple moving layers—with hand-cranked cameras. Death's coachman striding through a closed door is one thing, but hauling up a drowned fisherman from drifting, weedy depths through crashing surf is another. And while the film's bent is toward redemption, it is hardly a guarantee. In short, I'm not sure that The Phantom Carriage is my particular flavor of movie to rewatch, but I was genuinely impressed.
In other news, I slept for slightly over eight hours last night. (And baked a version of Australian comfort food, because I was curious. I didn't have glacé cherries proper, so I substituted the fruit out of cherry preserves. Verdict: tasty, if teeth-hurting. Use a better grade of chocolate next time. Also, don't eat for a week.) Happy solstice.
1. Fans of The Seventh Seal (1957) will remember that the visionary Jof twice refers to Death as den stränge Herren Döden, "the strict master Death." Ingmar Bergman imprinted on this film like woah.
2. I'm guessing Stanley Kubrick also imprinted on this film like woah.
3. Who also wrote the script, an adaptation from Selma Lagerlöf's 1912 novel. I had previously known Sjöström only as Isak Borg in Wild Strawberries (1957). Clearly I need to keep better track of him.
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This sounds excellent. I wonder if the book is good too, and if it exists in English.
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Cursory internet research indicated it was translated once, in 1921, as Thy Soul Shall Bear Witness!, which did not fill me with confidence. Lagerlöf was the first woman to win a Nobel Prize for Literature. You'd think she'd be easier to find.
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Happy solstice! We have the first snow on the mountains.
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Yes, that sounds like something you could eat without going into diabetic shock. I suppose if you ever make the recipe, let me know how the two compare?
Happy solstice! We have the first snow on the mountains.
Nice!
(Your icon is perfect.)
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*bows happily*
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You had me right there.
Eight hours! That's fabulous. And the Cherry Ripes sound devastating.
Happy solstice.
Nine
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It's not streaming or otherwise available from Netflix, I'm afraid; I caught it on TCM. But Criterion's putting out the DVD.
And the Cherry Ripes sound devastating.
They were very simple to make. And somewhat indestructible, I suspect . . .
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I'm delighted for your sleeping!
The cherry ripe bars sound interesting--I'm not sure I'll try making them, but it's always good to know of such things.*
My mother and I are planning on seeing Cave of Forgotten Dreams tomorrow.
*It's always possible I'll meet a cute and homesick Australienne, after all.
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I'd heard it was an influence on Bergman and it was showing on TCM; I watched it.
I'm delighted for your sleeping!
Thank you!
My mother and I are planning on seeing Cave of Forgotten Dreams tomorrow.
Have a lovely time. You'll have to let me know what you think of the bone flute and the albino crocodiles.
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I see. Excellent co-incidence of events, that.
Thank you!
You're welcome!
Have a lovely time. You'll have to let me know what you think of the bone flute and the albino crocodiles.
Thank you. I will do so. I'm looking forward to seeing them.
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The flute was cool. I amn't yet sure what I think of the crocodiles, but I don't think they did any hurt.
I'll try to actually write some variety of review. I've been a bit busy of late--Irish language book club meeting in New York City on Saturday, plus a party/barbecue contest back in CT at which I'd not only committed to attend but to bring cornbread, and I realised the night before that I'd cornmeal, but no buttermilk, so I had to get up early, get buttermilk, bake, catch the train, navigate the bodged-together replacement for the 7, that being the usual subway... and here I'll stop myself boring you with the rest.
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(And yay more sleep!)
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It was quite good! I'd had no idea what to expect.
(And yay more sleep!)
Thank you! I will be attempting to repeat the process tonight. (The cherry ripe bars kind of put last night out of the running.)
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I am in quite a lot of pain, but the review was diverting, if disturbing.
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I forgot your housemate is Australian. You could test them on her!
I am in quite a lot of pain, but the review was diverting, if disturbing.
Oh, good. Why are you in a lot of pain?
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*hugs*
But we do have dessicated coconut and chocolate in the pantry even at this very moment!
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Oh, for God's sake.
*hugs*
At least the storm sounds nice.
But we do have dessicated coconut and chocolate in the pantry even at this very moment!
I bet you could substitute maraschino cherries, too. They even come in organic, which has never failed to nonplus me.
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The lightning was kinda scary, though, because it was IN THE BACK YARD.
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Also sleep! And those cherry ripe bars have "Colours of the Earth" playing in my head.
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It could have been a completely sentimental film and it avoided that peril almost entirely, even considering the impossibly selfless Salvation Army worker. The supernatural, too, could have been stagy and creaky, and instead those starved, tireless horses and their cowled, trudging master are still eerie.
And those cherry ripe bars have "Colours of the Earth" playing in my head.
. . . Congratulations, you've invented the creepiest dessert ever.
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You know. I think I could actually make use of that...
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You had better make use of this, because until you do, I'll be stuck hearing it as the refrain of one of those children's games that make adults uneasy—the ones that look like little rituals, unsettling fragments of the grown-up world—singsong in the street after rain and they're only splashing up mud from the cobblestones, stamping in puddles, the way children do, but all he can see are the drowning craters of France and the glint of the wires in the wet sun, hanging, dripping.
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aa.
I think you just dropped an old-school geas on me. I think I probably deserved it, but still...
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