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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