It’s one thing for a film to manage to pull an emotion from you and make you believe in the world of the film; it’s another entirely to earn that emotion naturally. In the case of Victor Sjöström’s 1921 film, The Phantom Carriage, for nearly the entire runtime, each scene, each word, each facial expression earns that emotion by simply being present in these characters’ lives. It’s easy to see why Criterion would want to include this film in its own collection, and deservedly so, because not only has it this film (as with most of Sjöström’s work) been influential on many of the great filmmakers (i.e. Kubrick, Bergman), but because of what it offers cinema and audiences as a whole.
The premise of the film is one that has most assuredly been borrowed for many other films of its nature (think It’s a Wonderful Life), but what sets it apart is how earnestly real it feels. Where its offspring tend to force the emotions through Hollywood-style cheese (even if it works tremendously well in Frank Capra’s classic), Sjöström knows to let the characters drive the story and let their choices influence the conflict. Specifically, with the second part, I believe that’s what makes this film – clearly so ahead of its time – so fantastic. The film essentially starts toward the end and works its way back to help us understand – how did this character get here and why is he how he is? It’s over the course of the runtime that we begin to understand this character and each gut-wrenching emotion that’s felt due to the natural occurrence of incidents. Nothing is forced; nothing is cheesy; this is the life of a man in pain that’s clear as day for us to see and we essentially get to choose whether to interpret his fate as one of hope or one of failure.
At the core of the film is Sjöström himself (seen left) in the leading role, which I was quite nervous about considering in his last film I felt the acting was the strongest aspect, yet I had no idea whether he had any talent whatsoever. Turns out the man was not just a damned genius behind the camera, but he was ahead of his time in front of the screen, too. He cuts out the melodrama and goes straight for the gut – something many actors today would feel so proud to emulate, but not many could do so earnestly. He takes complete control of the film and his character is fully lived-in and real, something that’s very hard to come by when each character out of films from the 1920s tends to be more of a caricature than a character. But he makes this vile, nasty, hateful drunkard more honest and captivating than many actors of the decade.
Surrounding him is an ensemble of fantastic performances as well, particularly Tore Svennberg (the lead in his previous film and my favorite of 1920, The Monastery of Sendomir). Where he played a more vibrantly egotistical, yet increasingly paranoid character in Sendomir, he plays closer to the chest here as an old friend of Sjöström’s David Holm. Despite having little screen time in comparison to others, you have an absolute feel for who this character is that wasn’t evident in the script and Svennberg rolls with it. Each facial expression, each line is given so much weight due to his dedication to the character and he becomes the film’s voice of reason. Looking at him, I almost felt like I could hear Vincent Price reading his lines – that’s how bold and vexing he felt. Then there are the two actresses, Astrid Holm & Hilda Borgstrom, who perfectly encapsulate two tonally opposite characters (Holm the optimistic, Borgstrom the depraved) with many complexities on each side. Overall, the acting on display in this film is fantastic and so fully realized that it only helps to lend credibility to the fantastical story on display.
At the helm, though, is Sjöström’s powerful performance behind the camera. As if the script wasn’t strong and beautiful enough, his direction helps to weave an intricate story into something breathtaking and so incredibly well-paced for its time that it’s amazing this isn’t in considered one of the greatest masterpieces ever made. How people can discuss Griffith and Chaplin yet dismiss Sjöström’s incredible work during the decade is beyond me. This film alone is enough to put both of those filmmakers to shame (and I say that with the highest respect to both of them as filmmakers). Each frame is perfectly executed, each feeling of fear, love, hate, sadness, happiness is all merited and in using as little “telling” as possible. In particular, there’s a brief close-up of Sjöström’s character in a bar after his friends leave as he drinks a beer that slowly circles around his face as it changes from smug to distraught in the span of ten seconds that absolutely broke my heart (and continues to do so each time I reflect on it).
Except that the entire film is littered with strong, emotional moments like that – and that’s something horror and fantasy films today are seriously lacking. They forget that their characters are real people, too, and often times treat them like meat puppets instead of allowing us to care for them. Good horror is when we care for these individuals so much so that the scares come from our wanting them to survive. In this case, we care for David and we want him to fulfill his journey and change his past – but we know, like David, that we can’t. But the beauty in Sjöström’s film, though, shows that maybe we can. Despite its fantastical and horror elements, this is still a film about people and the choices they make. It’s a message to those of us who might want to think twice about what we do and how it might affect others. Even watching this nearly a hundred years later, I’m caught thinking about my life and the mistake I’ve made and what I can do differently to change the future – and that to me is why filmmaking is my passion, to allow others to feel the same way I feel watching them; changed. Damn you, Mr. Sjöström, you’ve done it again. 2 for 2, and easily my favorite film of the decade by far.
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