Scandinavia
and the Baltics are ethically and socially similar, but their Twentieth Century
history could not be more different. The great auteur Ingmar Bergman was keenly
aware of that Scandinavian-Baltic divide. He was married to Estonian concert
pianist Käbi Laretei for five years—a good run, by his standards. He also
helmed this 1950 curio about Soviet spies infiltrating the Baltic refugee community
in Sweden, featuring many Baltic refugees in the cast. As Bergman’s stature
grew, he did his best to keep his odd little espionage film out of circulation.
Fortunately, it still survives—and has even been digitally restored by the Swedish
Film Institute. It is bucket list time for Bergman devotees, because This Can’t Happen Here is now screening
at MoMA.
Like
an episode of Law & Order, many
of the names in TCHH have been
changed to protect the guilty and the innocent. For instance, Atka Natas
(anagram alert) is a ruthless spymaster for Liquidatzia, a transparent analog
for the Soviet Union. He has come to Sweden (which is still Sweden, but was
Norway in Waldemar Brøgger’s source novel) with an attaché case full of
documents in hopes of defecting to the West. However, it seems his real goal is
to continue tormenting his estranged wife Vera Irmelin, a chemist granted
political asylum.
Not
surprisingly, Irmelin wants none of him and will do what it takes to protect
herself. Of course, the Liquidatzians want them both back, unsafe and sound.
Frankly, they are openly contemptuous of the Swedish authorities. Nevertheless,
her rather chaste Swedish romantic interest (a forensic chemist with the C.I.D.)
has a bit of fortitude, despite being hopelessly polite.
Taken
at face value, TCHH is an undeniably
creaky but diverting little film noir that also functions as a nifty visual
time capsule of its period. However, the context and subtext that go along with
it are fascinating. First of all, this is a Swedish anti-communist film, which alone
makes it rather special. Signe Hasso is also terrific as Irmelin, in a Swedish
homecoming performance. Although she had not exactly been the toast of Hollywood,
she had prominent roles in films like Heaven
Can Wait, A Double Life, and The
House on 92nd Street.
Yet,
all the talk in the film about refugees and expat communities sounds especially
timely in 2018, as Sweden struggles with huge influxes of refugees from the
Middle East. Apparently, the Baltic refugees were much easier to assimilate,
even with Soviet agents running amok, shooting at them.
Ironically,
TCHH was conceived for the export
market and largely funded with tax credits, but it reportedly only screened in
a handful of UK theaters. You could chalk it up to Swedish socialism, except
Sweden has never been as socialist as leftists like to think (especially not in
1950). (FYI, the land of Bergman and Saab currently ranks #15 on the Heritage Index of Economic Freedom, while the USA comes in at #18. Historically, Sweden
has spent a good deal on welfare programs, funded with progressive tax rates—as
Ingmar Bergman’s notorious tax problems can attest—yet there is comparatively
less regulation and property rights are scrupulously respected, but perhaps we
digress.)
That
all makes TCHH an even weirder, less
likely bit of Bergmanalia. At times, Bergman stages it like an out-and-out
farce, but Gunnar Fischer (his first great collaborating cinematographer)
frames some strikingly noir images. Particularly notable is the use of Stockholm’s
King Charles XII statue, which famously points towards Russia, in what is
widely considered a call to vigilance regarding a longtime historical foe.
Bergman
keeps it all surprisingly spry, while Ulf Palme chews the scenery with sinister glee
as Natas. It is highly watchable in an old-fashioned kind of way, but there is
no way it would screen for a week at MoMA without the Bergman connection.
Regardless, there just are not going to be a lot of opportunities to see TCHH, so anyone interested had better
get to MoMA this week. Recommended for its historical interest and some game performances,
This Can’t Happen Here screens daily
through Tuesday night (9/11), at MoMA.
