Blogical Conclusion

BIRDS OF A FEATHER

NOV 7, 2009 – IN A DIMLY LIT KITCHEN, Ingeri (Gunnel Lindblom) – a wild creature sometimes referred to as servant girl and sometimes as half-sister to Karin (Birgitta Pettersson) – crouches in front of a fireplace. She puffs her cheeks and blows. A faint crackle is heard. She blows again. Her expulsion of breath fans the sparks into a flame, which begins to dispel the darkness. Ingeri prods open the skylight. A rooster crows in the distance. Looking up at the morning spilling through the roof, Ingeri prays, “God Odin, come!” She repeats the entreaty and hisses, “I seek your service.” What does she seek? Perhaps she just wants proof, simple proof, that the faith of her pagan fathers is still viable and valid in the face of the new religion that’s begun to sway people like Karin’s parents, Töre (Max von Sydow) and Märeta (Birgitta Valberg).

Even the director of the film appears swayed. Where he barely allowed any light into the kitchen that is Ingeri’s domain, Töre and Märeta – who stand outside, clasping their hands in front of an icon of Christ – are lit beatifically, as if to emphasise their enlightenment, their breaking free of the barbaric religions of the past. They pray, “God the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, with Your angel host. Protect us this day from the devil’s snares. Save us from sin and shame and harm.” And where Ingeri is a dirty scullery maid, clad in clothes that resemble washrags, Karin, the Christian, is presented to us as an angel, who possesses white stockings and blue shoes with pearls and a dress stitched by fifteen maidens. Even the colour of their hair suggests a bias – Karin is a blonde goddess, Ingeri a raven-haired wildcat.

When Karin sets out to deliver the Virgin’s candles to Mass, at a church across the forest, Ingeri accompanies her. The initial portion of their journey offers more contrasts. Ingeri, the pagan, has lost her virtue. She is pregnant – certainly not the maiden that Karin is. And unsurprisingly, Ingeri remains sullen, riding behind as Karin bursts into happy song the way people do when everything they ask for is theirs. “The little bird soars up so high, glides softly on the breeze. How sweet it would be to fly, floating o’er mountains and trees. Happily the streams meander, through valleys green they wander, in the springtime.” A little later, an altercation ensues, and Karin slaps Ingeri. Almost at once, she’s contrite. She leans forward and asks to be forgiven. Ingeri, however, is in no mood to relent. “Don’t ask my forgiveness,” she spits out.

They approach a stream, and a gnarled bridge-keeper (Axel Slangus) rises to shepherd their horses across. Even here, Karin is given precedence. Ingeri watches hatefully, awaiting her turn. But the moment Karin reaches the other bank, something changes in Ingeri – as if what had been crossed weren’t a stream so much as an invisible line, a point of no return. She scrambles across the shallow waters and pleads with Karin, “Let’s turn back.” Karin protests, “But we’re going to church.” Ingeri offers, “I can take the candles.” Karin explains, “Father and mother wouldn’t like that.” Ingeri wails, “The forest is so black; I can’t go on.” Taken aback by this hysterical display, Karin arranges for Ingeri to stay with the bridge-keeper until her return. After Karin leaves, the old man enquires, “In labour?” Ingeri replies, “Worse than that.”

“Come, I can help,” the bridge-keeper says, and leads the way to his hut. Ingeri observes, “This is a forlorn place. Have you no neighbours?” He comes closer, but he’s no longer the kindly old man from outside. Inside, he looks like a leering ghoul. By way of an answer, he explains, “I hear what I will and I see what I will. I hear what mankind whispers in secret and I see what it believes no one can see.” Ingrid becomes uneasy. Is she beginning to wonder if the old man knows something? After all, if he can “hear what mankind whispers in secret,” perhaps he’s overheard her entreaties to Odin in the dimly lit kitchen. Perhaps he knows that she prayed for evil to befall Karin and later regretted her actions, which is why she turned so hysterical, beseeching Karin to flee from the forest.

The bridge-keeper – who, it is evident by now, is no ordinary bridge-keeper – reaches for a box and begins to pull out shamanistic objects. “Here is a cure for your suffering. Here is a cure for your woe. Blood, cease to flow. Fish, high and dry. Eagle, fall from the sky. Here is the power.” One of the objects is a severed finger. Ingeri trembles, “You have made a human sacrifice – a sacrifice to Odin.” At the mention of the pagan God’s name, he snarls, “I recognised you at once. I recognised you by your eyes, your mouth, your hands.” He knows her kind. He is her kind – a benighted believer in curses and sacrifices, and he now pledges his support, as if they were both part of a shadowy cabal resisting the onslaught of Christianity. “But you are afraid; you must not be,” he rasps. “I shall give you strength.”

Jungfrukällan (1960, Swedish, German; aka The Virgin Spring). Directed by Ingmar Bergman. Starring Max von Sydow, Gunnel Lindblom, Birgitta Pettersson.

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