Sweden

Searching for Sugar Man (2012)

André Crous

In Searching for Sugar Man, documentary filmmaker Malik Bendjelloul pieces together the unlikely story of how an almost anonymous singer in Detroit became a star in apartheid-era South Africa without his knowledge. 

Searching for Sugar ManSweden
4*

Director:
Malik Bendjelloul
Screenwriter:
Malik Bendjelloul
Director of Photography:
Camilla Skagerström

Running time: 85 minutes

In Searching for Sugar Man, Swedish director Malik Bendjelloul travels the world to track down the major players in a drama that unfolded on both sides of the Atlantic starting in the early 1970s. It is a tale almost too tall to be credible.

We hear the story of an unknown singer-songwriter performing in small smoky bars in the rundown centre of the Motor City, where on cold winter nights the lyrics would drift through the noise and the drinking and stick with anyone who bothered to pay attention. The singer wasn’t looking to make an impact on the audience, but one couldn’t help admiring the wisdom and sometimes the pain of the poetry in the lyrics.

This man was Sixto Rodriguez, and when he was discovered by some record producers, they thought they had found the next Bob Dylan. His first album, Cold Fact, was recorded and released in 1970 but sold so poorly that by the time his second record was put out the following year, the label thought it best to relieve him of his contract.

He didn’t give up on performing, but it was never the centre of his life, and he spent most of his time doing what he could get paid for: construction and renovation in the housing industry. He has lived in the same Detroit house for more than 40 years.

Meanwhile, completely unbeknown to him, he was becoming a star in a place he had never been to, and it’s still unclear what the genesis of his foreign fame was: In the 1970s and 1980s, despite no one knowing who Rodriguez was or what had become of him after his two albums, his records had phenomenal sales figures in South Africa, at that time mostly cut off from the international scene because of its racial segregation policy of apartheid.

The South African producers who sold his records in the country said they had either heard the legendary stories of his death – some said he set himself on fire during a performance; others claimed he was so disappointed by the lack of support at another show he blew his brains out onstage – or they thought he would never consider coming to South Africa because of politics and what they considered his “obvious” stardom.

Actually, he never had any idea, because those who made money from his records never told him. A very powerful interview takes place in Hollywood with the erstwhile chairman of Motown Records, Clarence Avant, who states that though Rodriguez was one of the best singers he ever worked with, it is pointless to look for where the money went. Avant is an odious fellow, getting riled up and defensive very quickly, and it is clear where the blame for Rodriguez’s situation lies.

In the meantime, the artist’s popularity surpassed that of Elvis Presley and the Rolling Stones in South Africa, and a few music buffs tried to track down the man, or at least piece together his life story as they were more or less convinced that he had died early in his career. What would come of their investigation is something quite remarkable: After decades out of the limelight, Rodriguez went to South Africa in March 1998 to perform six sold-out concerts for people who had grown up listening to his music – most notably, his single, “Sugar Man”.

From the opening scene, in which Stephen Segerman drives along the stunning Chapman’s Peak Drive mountain pass on the western side of the Cape Peninsula, it is made clear what a friendly influence South Africa and its people would be on the story of Rodriguez. Although it is easy to say the weather was merely dependent on the time of year when the documentary was shot, one comes away from watching the film with very strong images of a warm, welcoming South Africa and, by contrast, the icy, desolate cityscape of Detroit, where Rodriguez has toiled all his life without any kind of acclaim.

The beginning of the film does use the snow-swept Detroit in an interesting way: In a few rare instances, black-and-white scenes turn to colour and static shots become mobile when Rodriguez’s songs start playing on the soundtrack.

One shot in the film, however, is particularly irritating: the staged arrival of Rodriguez at Cape Town International Airport in 1998, which consists of silhouettes, starkly contrasted with a painted orange backdrop of Table Mountain, moving toward a horde of waiting paparazzi. It is out of place in a film that draws so much on almost-unreal reality, and it undercuts the power of the facts. Luckily, this scene is complemented by photos of his real arrival at the airport.

The film briefly touches on apartheid and shows footage of anti-government demonstrations and police beatings. This is important in conveying the feeling of oppression that Rodriguez’s music helped people to cope with in some way, but the focus is still mostly on the singer’s lack of knowledge about his fame on the other side of the world.

Searching for Sugar Man is truly inspirational and shows how small gestures can lead to big things. With scenes all around the Cape Town city bowl, the film is also another reminder of the beauty of the city at the bottom of Africa, and it encourages further investigation of the country’s rich (musical) history and its influences.

The Virgin Spring (1960)

André Crous

Ingmar Bergman’s The Virgin Spring involves the rape of a virgin in medieval Sweden and questions the meaning of God’s (initial) silence when her father takes revenge.

Virgin SpringSweden
4*

Director:
Ingmar Bergman
Screenwriter:
Ulla Isaksson
Director of Photography:
Sven Nykvist

Running time: 90 minutes

Original title: Jungfrukällan

Ingmar Bergman’s Virgin Spring opens with fire and closes with water. We expect a baby to be born, but instead, a virgin is raped and dies. We are reminded of God around every corner, but his apparent absence rings just as loudly. It is up to the viewer to decide whether to interpret these opposites as proof of balance or as markers of a fundamentally unpredictable existence.

Following on the heels of The Seventh Seal and Wild Strawberries, two of Bergman’s best-known films, Virgin Spring is less visual but equally interested in pressing questions related to mortality. In the opening scene, set in medieval Sweden, we see a wild-eyed servant girl, Ingeri (Gunnel Lindblom), quietly beseech the god Odin to come to her aid. The evening before, she witnessed her master’s teenage daughter, the pale-skinned, blond-haired, ever-smiling and pure-as-snow Karin (Birgitta Pettersson), dance with many young men, and she envies the attention the girl received from everyone. We later learn that she is asking Odin to put a stop to all this, failing to realise that the answer may not look very pretty.

Karin, a single child whose strong bond with her well-to-do parents is emphasised from the beginning, is sent to deliver candles to a church. The candles need to be delivered by a virgin, and Karin fits the bill. She even wears a special dress sewn by 15 “maidens”. For her own safety, she is accompanied by Ingeri, who is not very keen on talking to her, but during a conversation along the way, Karin tells her “no man will get me to bed without marriage”. Rather ominously, Ingeri suggests it might not always be her choice to make, but they continue onwards through the forest before Karin can consider the implication.

In the first half of the film, which culminates in the shocking rape and murder of Karin at the hands of a trio of vagrant brothers, there is a very strong focus on the two very different women. Karin knows nothing of the evil in the world, but perhaps because she is killed, she elicits some empathy from the viewer. We almost forgive her her ignorance because she passes away after a vicious assault.

By contrast, Ingeri seems to be slightly more world-wise and suspicious of men’s intentions. But she also reveals herself to be just as weak as Karin. At many turns, she becomes positively hysterical when overcome by fear or guilt or uncertainty, which makes her look all the worse. This film seems to imply that women are passive victims, while men are either malicious or vengeful.

But it is the rape scene that defines the film. Although mild in comparison with films of subsequent years, the act itself offers a few excruciating seconds of indirect assault, as the camera is positioned next to Karin’s face while she is being violated. While it only lasts a moment, and Bergman quickly reneges by going for a long shot that shows the full assault, this initial approach is stunningly effective and shows the “less is more” adage in action.

With the actions of the three goat herders that lead to Karin’s death, the focus turns to the male characters. By a stroke of pure bad luck for them, the malicious trio subsequently turns up at the estate of the late daughter’s parents, seeking food and shelter for the night and offering her 15-maiden-woven dress for sale – the same one she was wearing when they killed her. The youngest among them realises too late their fate is sealed and his petrified silence leads to their own deaths.

But the prospect of death hangs over the entire narrative. At the very outset, Frida, the housekeeper, mentions she nearly stepped on two dozen little chicks at night. She picks one up and says, “You poor thing, live out your wretched little life the way God allows all of us to live.”

Much later, when Ingeri has an awkward conversation with a man living in the forest, he shows her a few rudimentary implements that we quickly realise are to be used for an abortion: “Here is a cure for your anguish. Here is a cure for your woe. Blood, course no more. Fish, stop still in the brook.” To emphasise this point, he grabs her by the groin, but she manages to flee the scene.

The film’s interest in Odin, perhaps the best-known deity from Norse mythology, is tied to two rather debauched characters: the hysterical, irrational Ingeri and the aforementioned perverted man in the forest. By contrast, The Virgin Spring associates the god of Christianity with slightly more rational impulses. Even when Karin’s father, Töre (Max von Sydow), takes murderous revenge for his late daughter’s death, he does so after felling a birch tree and taking a sauna. This is not impulse but considered action.

In the film’s final scene, Töre lifts his hands to the heavens and delivers a prayer in which he looks up towards the Sun and questions why God saw his daughter’s rape but did nothing, why he saw Töre kill the three men but did nothing. “You allowed it to happen”, he seethes.

Of course, what he gets in response is more nothingness. Just like God failed to listen to him when he prayed to his crucified son the previous morning and asked that he “guard us this day and always from the devil’s snares. Lord, let not temptation, shame nor danger befall thy servants this day.” Like so many other believers in the centuries to follow, Töre decides that God requires penance for others’ sins but does not have to justify his own actions (or, more accurately, his passiveness when evil happens). Töre resolves that his “sin”, namely that he killed those responsible for Karin’s tragic death on Earth, will be sufficiently washed away by him building a church in honour of this god of his.

But then, something miraculous happens. When Töre and his wife, Mätare, move Karin’s body, water bubbles up from where her head had lain. Ingari washes her face, presumably to wash away her previous belief in Norse gods and all of her sins committed under the label of paganism. She appears to be happy for the very first time. And for a moment, all we can hear is the flow of the water, the symbol of life, even as the very dead body of Karin is draped in her parents’ arms.

The Virgin Spring does not have the visual inventiveness nor the intellectual force of many of Bergman’s other contemplations on religion and existence, but its simple plot is stripped of excess and easy to follow. It lacks real depth and eschews any serious probing of the issues it raises, but the final deus ex aqua moment shows a director open to making the presence of the extraordinary felt.

The Phantom Carriage (1921)

André Crous

Complex narrative structure of Swedish ghost story is easy to follow and underlines actor-director Victor Sjöström’s impact on the development of the cinema. 

The Phantom Carriage / KörkarlenSweden
4*

Director:
Victor Sjöström
Screenwriter:
Victor Sjöström
Director of Photography:
J. Julius

Original title: Körkarlen

Running time: 110 minutes

The Phantom Carriage, a 1921 Swedish feature film directed by and starring Victor Sjöström as the boorish central character, may be the most intelligent film made during the movie industry’s first 25 years. Not only does it utilise double exposure in a sustained fashion that is rooted in the material itself and comes across very well, but it also flashes forwards, backwards and inwards with a Russian doll structure that very early on produces a story within a story within a story (i.e. a second-level hypodiegesis).

Offering a slightly different take on Dickens’s The Christmas Carol and its Ghost of Christmas Past, The Phantom Carriage is based on the eponymous novel by esteemed novelist Selma Lagerlöf, first published in 1912. It tells the story of David Holm, a bitter and malicious man who is killed just before the clock strikes 12 on New Year’s Eve. Accompanied by Death, the carriage driver who collects the spirits of the dead, he has to look back over the past year and the events leading up to his demise. In his acts, he recognises how his recklessness and lack of care for those closest to him have led to desperation, suffering and tragedy, and this recognition eventually leads to a choice that could save him from eternal damnation.

The first 30 minutes of The Phantom Carriage easily constitute the most impressive part of the production, at least from a narrative point of view. Opening on New Year’s Eve, the film presents us with Sister Edith, a Salvation Army nurse afflicted with galloping consumption (tuberculosis) and lying on her deathbed. She desperately wants those around her to bring a man by the name of David Holm to her bedside, but no one – including his wife – is able or willing to find him. Holm gets quite a build-up, as his name is mentioned frequently, and the effect on the audience is one of enormous expectation.

This first half-hour contains multiple instances of parallel cutting to compare the sober scenes in Edith’s bedroom with the carousing trio of friends drinking in the town’s cemetery. Close to midnight, the focus shifts to one of the three men: He tells a story he heard about a late friend of his, Georges, who passed away one year earlier. Inside the flashback showing Georges one year earlier, yet another story is embedded, as Georges explains that Death allegedly trades places with whoever dies last during the year. And yet, the narrative hierarchy is very easy to understand, as the film eventually slides back through the different levels of narration one by one until it reaches the narrator in the cemetery.

At this point, however, the film takes another sharp turn. We learn it is David Holm telling the story, and after falling out with his two night comrades, he is killed and left for dead. Right on cue, Death arrives on the scene, snatches David’s soul from his body and then transports him (and us) back into the past to trace the journey of bad judgement that eventually led him here to the symbolically apropos graveyard. All the while, there are cuts back to David and Death (ghostly apparitions thanks to the double exposure) to remind us of the dynamic narrative hierarchy whose actions continue to move not only in the past but also in the present.

It is obligatory to mention that actor-director Sjöström would go on to star in one of Ingmar Bergman’s most celebrated films about life and death, Wild Strawberries, and it is impossible to ignore the resemblance between the two embodiments of Death in The Phantom Carriage and Bergman’s The Seventh Seal. Both wear black cloaks, and their faces are covered by giant hoods. They also carry a large scythe – the physical manifestation of their function as reapers of souls.

The film is at its best when it focuses sharply on Holm, particularly because his mere presence and unpredictable nature can evoke anxiety in the viewer. However, when the focus shifts to Sister Edith, who is possessed by a wholly unreasonable desire that Holm, despite his evidently malicious and uncaring nature, have a beautiful life, it is difficult to take the film seriously. Holm is responsible for Edith contracting consumption, and yet, while they have never had a conversation, she laughably calls him, “the man I love”.

It goes without saying that Edith’s “love” for Holm goes unrequited, but while she pines for him, our empathy for her drops precipitously despite the opening scene’s very successful juggling act of creating mystery and anticipation, as well as a measure of compassion for a bedridden stranger.

The Phantom Carriage is a gem of a movie. It deals with serious issues in a novel way by being formally creative, in terms of both structure and visuals, and the nearly two-hour running time flies past at a relatively brisk pace, even though the scenes are generally longer than viewers of contemporary films might be used to. Sjöström’s Holm is the protagonist, the villain and a tragic anti-hero, and he delivers a powerful re-enactment of the Damascus moment at the film’s climax.

It is no wonder this film is often considered to be among the earliest masterpieces in Swedish cinema.