It Rains on Our Love (Bergman, 1946)

0022409c

The second feature from Ingmar Bergman may seem relatively unpolished and lacking the depth that would characterise his later work, but It Rains on Our Love (1946) is more than just a curiosity plucked from his back-catalogue. The earliest signs of a filmmaker able to align an audience with the plight of highly empathetic characters are on display, in this case two strangers who meet at a train station. Both Maggi (Barbro Kollberg) and David (Birger Malmsten) are down-on-their luck outsiders, heavily-laden with chequered pasts and with little but small change lining their pockets.

Maggi is won over by David’s charm but misery, in a sense, will bind them together. After a tryst in a hotel room that breaks the shackles of mounting frustration, they finally board a train to the country hoping to make a clean break. A rocky beginning awaits, in which a gleefully malicious old man threatens David with arrest, before they settle down in a home he keeps open for rent. However the road ahead is littered with obstructions blocking their progress towards a better life.

Though spliced with whimsical, comedic anecdotes centered on the town’s eccentric characters, the film generally takes a fairly bleak view of humanity. Regardless of the couple’s good intentions, every turn for the better is soon cancelled out by the poisonous suspicion or ill-will of those around them, especially the horrible wife of the man who employs David in his greenery. Her malicious response at the first sign of David’s distress when accepting bad news via a phone call, asking with malevolent glee, “what is it……..something tragic?” represents the nadir of scorn tossed like a bucket of cold water on his reformatory ways.

It Rains on Our Love can also be taken as a pessimistic, anti-authority film; a tirade against the misuse of power of those whose higher social standing affords them arrogance and contempt. These grim figures, portrayed as vampiric agents of faceless tormentors preying on the good intentions of David and Maggi are unrelenting and without conscience.

Conversely, our protagonists are far from saintly figures, with David’s life of crime and Maggi’s loose morals spelt out clearly early on. Yet both have made a pact with the past, to leave it behind and embrace a fresh beginning. Will their love be strong enough to overcome circumstance and human intervention? Or will their dreams tear apart at the seams once more? Malmsten and Kollberg are a great pairing. There’s a commendable earnestness in their portrayals of David and Maggi who are forever bracing for the worst with grim-set expressions which make the flickering moments of joy all the more convincing.

Bergman’s film holds up remarkably well, and though it’s difficult to reconcile this as emanating from the man associated with so many masterpieces of world cinema in the decades to come, there are glimpses of a serious director to keep an eye out for. Certainly the main theme – an acerbic probing of a man’s downfall and loss of faith in humanity – rings true, albeit with less psychological impact than Bergman would become notorious for. Then there’s the roving ‘narrator’, acting like an omniscient overseer mysteriously inserted into the story by Bergman as advocates for the beleaguered pair at crucial junctures. Another notable example is the montage of faces superimposed over the court documents as snippets of their testimony are presented to the jury. It’s a clever touch and seamlessly grafted onto the narrative; indication enough that this young director had the talent already to impart a story with something other than conventional methods.

Advertisements

You, the Living (Andersson, 2007)

you-the-living-movie-poster-2007-1020438318

This astonishing 2007 Swedish film, presented as a series of serio-comic vignettes, is the work of writer-director Roy Andersson. It’s no easy task attempting to categorise You, the Living; simply put it’s like nothing else you’ve ever seen. Each scene is short and sharp and virtually every set-up is a static one, but filled with fascinating, tiny details that speak of a meticulous attention to detail. It allows a painterly, dreamlike through-line to develop, like watching abstract works of art slowly come to life. Only twice in the entire film does the camera move.

The colours are muted and drab in this sunless world of mostly nameless, pasty-faced protagonists whose lives are played out in mournful, incremental advances. Andersson’s deadpan humour provides memorable surreal moments of suffering and joy, the avenging, repeating lines of these hapless, downtrodden souls insisting that “tomorrow is another day” regardless of their proximity to despair.

There’s a randomness of observation that borders on genius, and yet there are moments of perfect clarity too. Though a large ensemble of characters’ lives overlap without rhyme or reason, there is also the irreparable damage caused by acute isolation, more than one person bemoaning the fact that “nobody understands me!”

There are moments of poignant contemplation; in others, characters speak directly to the camera, whilst some seem to be speaking to a person who isn’t there. There’s a lovesick girl who pines for the lead singer of a rock group; an old doctor who’s fed up with unhappy patients he regards as beyond his help; a hilarious sex scene where a wife’s sporadic, ecstatic groans are drowned out by her husband’s continual dispassionate descriptions of the intricacies of his retirement funds.

There are dozens of others too, perhaps a few don’t come off, but nearly every one is a gem in its own way – and ripe for rediscovery in a film that demands multiple viewings to re-assess its subtleties and vagaries.

You, the Living is unique and unconventional, pulled off with such startling precision that I’m tempted to label it a masterpiece, and yet one simmering with barely tangible notions; a film so rich with minute, eccentric detail that it threatens to redefine the very nature of cinematic storytelling. Watch it and, like me, you’ll crave to see it again and again.