Original subtitles

Hold it...

Tora.

Stop it!

THE IMAGE MAKERS BY PER OLOV ENQUIST

No, Jules...

Over here.

Get down.

Down.

Hold it...

- Jules! - I'm scared shitless.

- Are you scared of her? - She's a national treasure.

- And we've been tinkering forever... - Don't say tinker.

- You never know. - It sounds common.

Tinker.

Tinker, tinker, tinker!

Tinker.

All right. I was trying to seem humble and keep a low profile.

Come on, honey.

Turn around.

How's this? No good?

All this sucking up to a fat old bumblebee like her.

Cut it out.

Couldn't you please...

No, I don't want to.

Well, I'm used to that.

I've told you I don't want to. Don't sulk.

It's painful. Every time I'm near you,

I feel like a steam boiler ready to blow.

- Don't worry, she won't eat you. - I end up walking all doubled over.

I might get sick and die.

- And then you'll... - Be sorry?

Everyone's always sorry in the end.

- Will she get to see it all? - We're not finished cutting it.

Listen... I have something to confess.

It's driving me crazy that I can't have you.

- Why don't you let up? - Because it's the truth.

- It's the honest truth. - "Honest, honest, honest..."

Every time you drink, out comes your honesty.

Every time I jerk off, I think of you.

- Honest? - Every single time.

Christ, that's so sweet. That's so sweet!

- It's like a damn dry run. - A dry run?

It's only purely theoretical.

But seriously, you imagine the two of us doing it?

So I'm there with you, right... Stop it...

But I don't actually have to do it.

"Don't have to"? Gee, thanks a lot!

Right...

It might be lovely, though.

Wouldn't it be great if life were like that?

That most things only took place in your imagination.

You could be with everyone.

You could be everywhere,

and be with any number of different people.

You could be there

for everyone.

Actually, I pictured myself as being the only one.

It would be like when you and Victor make movies

and I'm up there on the silver screen for everyone to possess,

without having to do it.

Life would be like the movies.

No...

What's this? Is this Victor's script?

No, it's hers. It's a transcript from the book.

Can't you see how frustrating it is?

To just keep on imagining and imagining...

My, that's wonderful!

Imagine being able to write like that even though you're fat and old.

Lord, it's beautiful!

"Do not think that my body is of no consequence."

"It houses a soul, just as your body houses your soul,

"only do not picture it as being solid, heavy or strong.

"Picture it as a reflection in a mirror.

"Imagine that this image is able to leave the mirror

"and can talk, see and move about."

- Is that in the movie? - It inspired our double exposures.

When Death's driver arrives and the drunkard leaves his dead body.

"A reflection in a mirror." Something is pulled clear,

away from life's filth.

- And it becomes a thing of beauty. - The bird of clay takes flight.

"Do not think that my body is of no consequence.

"Picture it as a reflection in a mirror."

Tora?

- How are you doing? - Fine.

I mean, is it over between you and Victor?

- What's going on? - I don't know.

I heard Edith's in Helsinki.

- Does she know? - He doesn't say much.

Yes, she knows.

Was that why you didn't get the part in Thy Soul Shall Bear Witness?

I don't get it.

I'd better go before they get here, or Victor will be angry.

I don't think he wants me to meet Selma, I might say the wrong things.

- I think he's ashamed of me. - No, that's not true.

It's just the way things are between you, and Edith in Helsinki...

So I've been dumped. Just like that!

Out of the blue.

"A dry run"!

Don't you want to see Selma?

It's not every day you get the chance to meet a Nobel Prize winner.

No... He would be ashamed of me.

I always make a fool of myself in situations like those.

But he's never ashamed of Edith.

That's the difference, isn't it?

That must be the difference.

I guess that's

the difference.

Jules, you stingy bastard, why aren't you sharing that bottle?

I didn't think it was appropriate, seeing our movie's about drunks.

You wonder what a person who writes such beautiful lines is like.

Where it all comes from, and why...

There must be a reason.

It's all so fantastic.

"Do not think that my body is of no consequence.

"It houses a soul, just as your body houses your soul,

"only do not picture it as being solid, heavy or strong.

"Picture it as a reflection in a mirror.

"Imagine that this image is able to leave the mirror

"and can talk, see and move about."

That was beautiful.

- You startled me! - It wasn't my intention.

- Who said that? - You did... Ma'am. Sorry, I'm rattled.

Aren't those your words?

Yes, but when I heard them, I heard someone else entirely.

- How do you do? - It was just me. How do you do?

- Hi, Victor. - Hi.

This is Tora Teje, she's an actress.

Julius Jaenzon is a photographer.

He spells his name J-A-E-N-Z-O-N...

He's a photographer, and he's done a great job on the trick photography.

Pardon me... Please have a seat.

We're very proud of the consistency of the spirits.

Consistency?

They had to be transparent, and Mr Jaenzon's been very clever.

The chairs in front of a spirit are opaque.

So Mr Jaenzon is responsible for the spirituality of the movie.

That's a scream. "Spirituality"?

Sorry, but it was such a relief that you could crack a joke...

- Is it loaded? - It has been for quite a while.

- I wasn't aware you were here, Tora. - Don't worry, I'm leaving. Goodbye.

I know my place, even if I am a bit stunned.

What a pity you're leaving.

I recognise you.

Weren't you in the film version of Jerusalem?

- What was that strange title of the movie? - Karin Ingmarsdotter.

But you're not in this one? Why not?

Mrs Sjöström said no. Mrs Sjöström happens to be jealous.

A young, beautiful and talented girl needs to be careful with herself

and with other people's marriages.

I see.

Well, goodbye.

Kiss my arse!

Well, that leaves me with my regular line, "Goodbye!"

- Why? - Because I damn well won't take it.

Sit around and admire each other, but I'm saying goodbye.

I'm getting the hell out, I refuse to take any more.

Young, beautiful and talented girl exits the room.

I will be careful, but no one gets to order me to.

I'm sick of people being in my face.

It's not big enough. End of story.

Don't just stand there like an idiot.

Don't be mortified. Sure, I made a fool of myself.

Fine, I'm leaving. I've already said my exit line.

- I demand that you apologise. - Not a fucking chance!

- She doesn't know what she's talking about. - What did I say?

I just got here.

No, you've been here for ages. Your spirit has been here for weeks.

Look at the boys, they're terrified.

Jules here has been boozing it up.

- They're scared! - Of what?

- Of you coming here. - But you don't seem scared, dear.

Oh, I am, but not of you.

- Not of... - Dear, dear!

I must apologise, Dr Lagerlöf. I don't know what to say.

Miss... Mrs Teje is out of sorts.

It's unforgivable... Unfathomable...

Shut up!

There's nothing unfathomable going on.

Tora, please!

Cease repeating "Holy shit" like a parrot!

Fetch the girl a glass of water and a handkerchief, and hurry!

- You heard her! - Mr Sjöström...

Give us a moment alone, please.

It's better to get angry than to run away.

That's right...

You've scared the shit out of them. They don't really like having the author around.

They want to tinker with the... What do you call it?

- The movie? - The spirits. The soul of the movie.

They want to tinker in peace. They figure you regard the soul of the tale as your creation.

- And they'd like to tinker with it. - You have some nerve, my dear.

- Even the King treats me formally. - I forget to mind my manners.

Being confused makes me irresponsible, see?

So my behaviour's excusable.

And the passage I read was so beautiful.

The bit about the body being like a reflection in a mirror.

- That led me to believe... - Believe what?

That the author of those lines would understand everything, including me.

That's what pissed me off, I expected more.

- You understand. - You, perhaps, but not everything.

Blow your nose and take a seat.

- I should be going... - You're staying.

When I want you to leave, you'll want to leave, too.

Shall we run the movie? That's why we're here, to see clips.

Selma...

- That's Dr Lagerlöf to you. - We've put aside the formalities.

Since she herself insists, I'm on a first-name basis with Selma.

Why did you write this book, Thy Soul Shall Bear Witness?

It's the novel of mine I hold dearest to my heart.

Did you hear that, Victor?

Did you? You were pissed off with me when I said it was her best novel.

You called it cheap pulp fiction with cinematic potential.

So do others. It doesn't bother me.

But it shows damn poor judgement.

Isn't his judgement pretty shitty?

To say something like that about a masterpiece? I saw its greatness.

His judgement's poor. In every respect.

"Dearest to your heart"? But Dr Lagerlöf has written...

- Shall we get started? - With what?

- With the movie! - Of course, forgive me.

Forgive me, there were so many distractions.

No answer...

The bastard's not there! Damn it all to hell! Olof!

Why?

- Why is it the dearest? - That's private, not to be revealed.

- Not to be revealed? - To outsiders.

So I'm an outsider, am I?

You can't say something like that!

I've read the book, I can't be an outsider!

- What do you mean? - You just dumped me, you see.

Even though I was nice enough to think your book was a masterpiece.

It's fucking private, and I'm to keep my nose out of your business.

I'm not allowed to know!

You can't go writing a moving novel like that and then shut me out.

- You've got to stop dumping people! - Authors have an inner core.

A core they never expose to anyone, you do realise that?

It's wrong! There should be no outsiders to a writer like you.

Not the people who love your work, like me.

Victor's an outsider. Dump Victor, but don't dump me.

Respect for the inner motives of the author...

You wrote the goddamn book about inner motives!

I have to ask you to leave, Tora.

Quite firmly and unconditionally, I must ask you to leave.

You are ill-mannered and unreasonable.

Now leave!

It's not your decision.

It's Selma's decision.

I'm convinced that Dr Lagerlöf would be relieved.

Isn't that so?

I'm not sure.

- Isn't that so? Isn't it? - Tell us.

- It's loaded. - I should say so.

- What did you refer to? - The projector. We can run the clip.

- lf that's fine with Dr Lagerlöf. - It's up to you.

I would greatly appreciate seeing what the boys have...

What did you say the boys had done to my "work of art"?

- Tinkered with it. - Show me what you've tinkered with.

Tora will kindly take a seat right here.

Refrain from uttering nonsense for a few minutes, if possible.

Mr Sjöström will tell me what he and his friend Jules have been up to.

We'll need to be cheerful while viewing this mess.

And I don't mean the film or the tinkering,

just the sorry tale in that drivel I wrote.

The one that Tora loves...

Which is why she gets to stay.

Gets to stay.

All right...

If everything's ready, it's time to put an end to this torture.

Dear God, yes. Of course. Scenes 36B to 45.

The Salvation Army sister, played by the Danish actress Astrid Holm,

is on her deathbed.

Mrs Sjöström wouldn't let me play the part.

She wants David, the alcoholic she's been trying to save,

to come visit her, but David's wife comes instead.

Wait, one moment, please.

I would like to describe my vision of the film.

I wanted to create... This is the opening scene.

I wanted to portray the girl's relationship...

I know what happens.

I'm familiar with the plot.

- Of course you are. - I even wrote the book.

She means that it's her book, not yours.

You just tinkered with it.

I'm aware the cinema is a new medium,

that it cannot compare with the great arts.

But I do not presume to do so either. Julius, roll it.

Finally something that makes sense.

- We're ready. - I'll get right to it.

Right.

Ask him to load scenes 56 to 75.

- 56 to 75. - I can't bear to see her.

- What is it, my dear child? - I can't bear seeing her.

I really, really wanted to play the girl.

And she does it so damn well, too.

Only she doesn't have a lush for a dad, she's just playing it by note.

But she's still good.

It's just not right!

My dear girl, take a swig, it'll do you good.

Oh, Jules!

Guess what?

When you turn 60, I'm going to give you a present.

Oh, but I will.

The finest gift of all.

You know what I mean.

- Really? - I mean it.

Just because you're such a wonderful person.

60, huh? By then it will be too late. I'll be too old.

Not at all. Even if it takes days on end...

We'll succeed, despite your age.

Just look at Selma, she looks awfully fit.

- What do I look fit for? - Well, it's hard to explain.

- Not a dry run, then. - I'm here to see clips.

- What are you talking about? - It's difficult to explain.

- I see, it's private. - Right.

Making it incomprehensible to outsiders.

- As you wisely pointed out earlier. - But I don't write books.

- Authors have an obligation... - An obligation?

Authors like you have a responsibility not to dump us.

That's why everyone respects you so much, Selma.

We respect you so much.

When I read your stuff I realise that it's about you.

But it's also about me!

That's one hell of an obligation!

- Or am I on the wrong track? - This is appalling.

We have at least ten scenes to show Dr Lagerlöf.

Haven't they misinterpreted something?

Both of the women are trying to save that alcoholic.

So why does the wife want to strangle the girl?

Could we show the next scene?

Why say the story is about TB, when booze is the real issue?

- It's loaded. - Maybe it will be clear in the end.

It must be nice to see the movie, so it can clarify things for you, too.

Scenes with the double exposures. Shall we run the clip?

You won't tell why you wrote the book. And Victor turns it into a movie.

So how is he supposed to clarify things? You are responsible for...

- What's it called, Jules? - How should I know?

The something of a work of art.

- The spirit? - Yes.

But that's what we've done.

Double exposures make the spirits visible.

It's difficult, technically, making the images look three-dimensional...

There you are, Selma. Jules' tinkering produced spirits.

I see you are not amused.

I can see that.

Yes...

May we look at the next scene now?

"Like a reflection in a mirror..." What a wonderful way to express it.

- Can we get moving? - Ask Selma, it's her call.

Dr Lagerlöf, how about it?

There's something strange about the girl.

Why does she love that old wreck?

It made me wonder when I read the book, too.

How the hell could she love an old wreck like that?

It's like she's totally

obsessed.

The man could be her own father, his wife could be her mother.

And yet the pretty girl doesn't want to dump him.

I know she's got religion, but why this man?

Isn't there something strange about it, Selma?

Or am I just stupid? Please tell me if I'm just being stupid.

- Roll it! - Aye, aye, Captain!

Hold it, Julius. Selma hasn't said what she wants.

- Or comment on the last clip. - Would you like to, Dr Lagerlöf?

- Then I suggest we get rolling. - Roll it!

You may turn the lights back on.

- Should we load the next scene? - No.

Turn the lights on, please.

No, not yet.

We're rather tense, but if Dr Lagerlöf disliked the clips...

Tell them what you think. They've worked their arses off here.

I thought it was fine.

- It was excellent. - Thank you.

I would like to speak to Tora in private.

Right this instant. I need to straighten something out with her.

If you need me, I'm staying at the Grand Hotel.

Perhaps we could resume the screening at 7:30 tomorrow.

But right now I would like to speak to Tora.

- To me? - Yes, you.

- Alone? - Tomorrow at 7:30, then.

- Good day, Mr Sjöström. - Good day, Dr Lagerlöf.

- Good day, Mr Jaenzon. - Good day.

Do you think she liked it?

She didn't mention that it took flight.

Good Lord, I'm scared.

The Grand, huh? My, that's fancy.

How much do you shell out for a room there?

- Hey, what did I do? - You didn't do a thing.

- I made a mistake. I'll see you tomorrow. - Why?

We're cancelling it, that's all.

I was a trifle impulsive. That was unwise of me.

I was a trifle impulsive tonight.

I feel hesitant now and I think we should go home.

- Are you dismissing me? - No, you misunderstood me.

It simply doesn't feel as right as I thought at first.

But seeing as you're here, we can chat a bit.

About your work...

- No, I think we'd better leave. - I got really damn nervous.

You sending the boys off like that... They expected me to get bawled out.

But now you're sending me off like some damn trolley car!

- Now, that's not very nice. - I haven't sent you off.

Could you stop swearing so much?

How will you get to play the great tragic roles

if you cannot manage to say half a sentence without cursing?

Let me tell you something. That's not how you get the juicy parts.

- All right, so tell me how. - First you kiss arse in general.

And after admiring the right morons you'd better do well in bit parts.

Then you might get a shot at something bigger,

but only if you sleep with the director, unless he's gay.

God bless the gay ones.

And in addition you need luck. It's damn hard work fucking for art.

Swearing on my own time is hardly the main issue.

"Oh, my," you say.

The theatre's full of "daddies" who discover how talented you are

and want to teach you to stop swearing, and use proper diction.

Then they haul out their cocks and demand a blow job

while you recite Ophelia's descent into madness at the same time.

The theatre's answer to the pebbles of Demosthenes!

"The theatre's answer..."

Did you expect me to swoon with terror?

- Stop baiting me. - It's a struggle... A struggle.

- But you wouldn't know, being elevated above... - Above what?

Life's filth.

Could you tell me where you plan on spending the night?

At Victor's place.

At least, that's what I hope to do. But I guess I blew it.

That's what I thought.

You shouldn't just take it.

You should stand on your own two feet and walk away.

While I'm so spiritual, out of touch with life's filth.

- I didn't mean that. - You did.

- I didn't mean to be offensive. - You meant something.

"Holy shit," as your pal says.

Holiness above and shit below in the real world.

And you despise me...

I've apologised already! Don't hurt my feelings.

If that's how you feel, why do you insist on acting?

Because I'm on fire!

Empty vessels make the most sound.

Why be an author? You could have married a rich man.

Yes, that would have pleased my father.

Lord, there's something I forgot.

Thank you for the fantastic speech you made

about your father when you received your Nobel Prize.

We studied it in school, and it made me bawl.

That bit where you talk to him in heaven

and thank him for making you an author.

And how you felt so obligated to him.

- You owed him so much. - Owed...

Because you were grateful.

It was so touching and beautiful.

- Let's change the subject. - So you brought your own poison.

- Would you like some? - Yuck, I'd rather have whisky.

- Jules took his bottle with him. - "Liquor's liquor,"

as a certain connoisseur used to say in my youth.

You thanking your dad like that made me cry my eyes out!

No, thanks.

Your dad must have been wonderful. How I wish mine was like that.

Imagine living all your life surrounded by...

Love.

That must be why you write like you do.

- Go to hell! - What did you say?

You've been baiting me long enough.

I do prefer honesty to fawning.

And at least you don't fawn. I guess that's why I put up with you.

Why I like you. But I don't like that tone of contempt.

You act like you're so experienced and bad-mouth me...

- I do? - As if I were some blithe spirit from the heavens.

A storyteller.

And you, so worldly, are going to teach me a thing or two.

I demand you treat me with respect.

I can't fucking bow down any lower!

- Stop swearing! - Explain what you mean, damn it!

Don't diminish me.

I do happen to know a great deal about life's filth.

I've never heard anything so strange in my life.

Diminish you? Look around!

Everyone bows down to you and declares you a genius.

Diminish you? How could I?

But there was something else.

Hey, what do you know about filth?

- How about leaving the stage? - No.

It sounded so dreadful, that business you mentioned.

That's not what I asked you about.

What is your favourite part, the one you most hope to play?

You're trying to weasel out of answering.

"Favourite part, favourite colour, what historical person do you admire?"

"What book would you bring to a desert island?"

- Do you think I'm stupid? - I had the best intentions...

Stop this instance!

No one speaks to me like that.

I know. I'm leaving.

But I didn't treat you with a lack of respect.

I wondered about you being familiar with life's filth.

It wouldn't be the reality of the theatre.

Don't go!

Don't go.

Don't go.

- Only stop shouting at me. - I'll try.

I don't think I deserve it.

No.

My dear, I wasn't all that different from you when I was little...

Young, I mean.

Or maybe that's the way I wanted to be...

Selma?

May I ask you again the question you refused to answer before?

About why Thy Soul Shall Bear Witness is dearest to your heart.

- Ask away, but I won't answer. - But I read your books.

All those fantastic tales and fables set in Värmland.

And I read your lovely speech about your dad, and it moved me to tears.

And your dad...

Jules often tells this story you wrote about birds of clay.

- But the bit about your dad... - He was a lousy bastard.

He drank himself to death.

I hope he burns in hell.

He was lousy bastard who ruined my life.

You can't say such a thing, Selma.

Are you feeling unwell?

Should I call for someone?

My dear... My dear!

- How about a nip of sherry? - I'll have some when it suits me!

Stay out of my face.

"Liquor's liquor," as he was partial to saying.

Now it suits me.

How about a tale?

It's about the drunk who hid liquor in the watering can.

He had a special can reserved for the plants in his room.

Once his wife took it by mistake.

The next day she heard angry screams, and we ran to him.

He stood there in his filthy underwear, sweaty and shaking,

and pointed at the plants. They were all dead.

The liquor hidden in the watering can killed them.

He cried and raged.

His own children distrusted him, so he was forced to hide his nectar.

The suspicious nature of his family drove him to despair.

His artistic nature couldn't take it, he was so very sensitive.

Everything needed to be delicate and refined, since he was so artistic.

Artists are so sensitive. Sensitive! So aware of beauty.

Raising a glass in good company. Indulging in good wine occasionally.

Occasionally...

Every minute.

We didn't understand his artistic nature.

You know what?

I hate artists, artistic natures, beauty and refinement.

He lay in bed and sweated.

Got all bloated. It was as if his face went doughy.

Spongy, like the dead. You could have torn chunks out of his cheeks.

And I felt like doing it at times. Dead meat, bloated like a corpse.

Can you imagine what it was like growing up with a corpse?

- Growing up with a dead man? - No.

He hadn't always been like that. Once he was warm and amusing.

I loved him so terribly once.

Loved?

Before he and the estate fell apart.

And us... Me. Us.

I can't seem to recall how the others looked.

Mother, my brothers and sisters...

It was as if we circled around Dad, watching him rot away.

Nothing else mattered. We were in a circle, facing inwards.

We didn't see one another.

It was dreadful. Dreadful.

All we saw was a corpse that vomited, lied and yelled at us.

We could have seen each other, seen someone besides him.

I can't remember what my mother looked like.

I can't recall her.

I can't remember what my mother looked like!

I think she was wonderful.

She was a fine mother, I think.

I should write about her. I haven't as yet,

because I can't remember what she looked like.

Tora, please...

Everything I've written is about my dad.

But mother, who must have been lovely, is never my subject.

All due to that wailing, quaking child that was my father.

He took over...

Took over my whole life.

I hate him!

He was so wonderful once.

I have no children.

I have no children.

I had one child, and he was it.

I didn't want him to be my child.

- That's why I had to kill him. - Selma...

I had to. I had no choice, he died so slowly.

A drunkard loses all feelings. Only the bottle is important.

If forced to choose between Selma and a bottle, I know what he'd pick.

Everything died. His conscience, his feelings, everything.

And yet he was my child.

I saw I had given birth to a monster.

And I knew it was my own fault. I knew it, I knew it... I know.

It never passes.

The obligation, the guilt, remains.

- That's what I was trying to say. - In your speech.

I couldn't see anything apart from him. Only him.

- I had to kill him to survive. - Did you? That can't be true!

- You can't mean that. - But I do.

I was 21 when I made up my mind.

I told him I was going away to become a teacher, and he laughed.

I knew his opinion, it was insane for women to work.

"I forbid it," he said, practically without slurring.

I saw that he was frightened.

"I'm leaving," I said. "You can't stop me."

"I forbid it," he said. "You can go to hell," I replied.

It was the first time he heard me swear, so he knew I meant business.

Then he started shouting. "You have to stay!" he howled.

"If you go, I'll kill myself. I'll drink myself to death!"

"Go ahead, you bastard."

"It's about time. Just be quick about it!"

He tried to rise and grab hold of me to beat me,

but he was too drunk.

He fell on his desk, sweeping his sheet music to the floor.

There he lay.

I took a chair, and we looked at each other.

We both knew that if I left, he would die.

And we both knew I wouldn't change my mind.

"Father," I said.

"I'm walking away."

"You aren't able to," he replied.

"You can't walk,

"you goddamned cripple."

- So what did you do? - I stood up

and limped off away from him.

That's what I've been doing for the past 40 years.

No.

No.

No, Selma...

You tell your story so honestly, there must be something wrong.

- No, Selma, something's wrong. - Wrong?

What could it be? I don't believe you.

You're holding something back. No, Selma...

No.

No.

EROTIKON - SCREEN TEST

Hello. Show the third act, reel B.

- Selma called and asked me to be here. - I know.

I know. She called and told me, too. So I know already.

- I'm not trying to butt in. - You're always welcome here.

- How did things go yesterday? - All right.

What did she want? What did you talk about?

I really can't go into it. I can't.

Goodness! Well, then...

- Was she mad at you? - I don't know.

I think the Great One feels that filmmaking is a bit of a racket.

She looks down on us, we're aren't quite good enough.

You're tinkering with her life. Toying with it.

As far as I know, we are portraying her novel, not her life.

That father of yours was here today

asking me to advance him some of your wages for booze.

But he was drunk, so I threw him out.

You must be amused to tell me that.

I end up like a louse under someone's thumbnail.

You didn't have to tell me.

Shouldn't we be frank about family matters?

- You are welcome to the screening. - How fucking condescending!

I only meant it as a warning, that your dad's turned up again.

- And you are always welcome here. - No, you hate having me here.

Yes, Maestro?

Forgive me... Forgive me.

Everything I do goes wrong, in spite of my intentions.

We can't go on like this.

We aren't going on.

You dumped me to placate your family.

I'm sad, that's what I am. I wouldn't call that "going on".

We're simply hurting each other.

Victor...

No!

You think I'm a bastard, but I'm not. I'm not a bastard.

But you don't seem to realise that I'm scared.

And scared people lash out in defence.

I'm afraid of you.

Help! "Ich sterbe!"

The Great One is scared!

Tora, please be quiet for a second!

I've never met anyone like you.

So talented, so stupid. So beautiful, so repulsive.

So utterly dangerous.

You're a genius.

And at times I search for a shred of talent in you.

One day you're brilliant on stage,

the next, you say things about corsets in Veckojournalen that leave you speechless.

There is no one more loyal, and yet your poor husband...

I believe you're married.

It's amazing, but I believe you are married.

You betray your husband. You're as faithful as a chimpanzee!

What's that?

The mere thought of living with you scares the daylights out of me.

And yet I can't live without you.

- Could I just say... - Hold on.

I don't want you to destroy what little I have left

of my self-esteem.

And what I have left is this movie.

I think it's special, and I'm filled with fear.

Fear of how things will go, fear of Selma...

I fear for the shreds of self-esteem I have left.

Please pay attention to me!

Every time you show up, things turns into chaos. Chaos!

I don't want you to tear me apart.

My dear girl, how I hate the moment that brought us together.

I've crawled into this movie to hide.

As if it were a cave to hide in. It's mine!

When her trashy novel is forgotten, my movie will live on.

So I refuse to be ashamed of tinkering with her soul.

And I won't let you hurt me any more. Let go!

Well, that's it.

Are you finished?

I'm finished.

What a fucking monster I must be!

I don't understand why I have to... scare people.

- I just don't. - You scare people.

You don't know the meaning of fear.

That's what makes you so frightening.

I would very much like to know

what Edith has that I don't.

Yes, we're going to discuss it!

Victor!

As you wish.

She makes me feel calm and warm.

As if she embraced me on all sides.

As if I were a foetus floating in the womb.

Don't say such things. I didn't want to know that.

That's how it feels with her.

So that's it.

How creepy.

So you splash around, not letting anyone in,

like me, an outsider.

You demolish people, that's the difference.

What a fool I've been.

I feel sick to my stomach.

How nice to be so untouchable.

Damn you!

And here I tried to get you and your secrets out in the open.

You and Selma aren't so unalike.

Don't worry, I won't demolish...

But I love you.

Well, I don't give a damn about you and Mrs Sjöström.

I've been such a fool.

Such a fool.

But I am an actress.

One day I'll play the great parts and understand them.

And I'm trying to understand this, too.

I'll be on stage.

Phèdre,

Nora, Schiller.

I'll play them by note, as you so kindly like to put it.

But I need to know what each note signifies.

Otherwise I can't make them mine.

But now I'm getting angry. An outsider?

Confused.

I thought I grasped the essence.

But I don't understand.

How can you act if you don't know how the composer thinks?

- I compose the music, and I'll tell... - You?

I'll tell you when you're wrong.

Stuff that music where the sun doesn't shine, it's not yours.

It's her life we're talking about.

Some day I'll make a movie about you.

How burning hate is turned into art.

And filth is transformed into beauty.

- Don't do that. - What?

Your feet. I won't fall for it.

Acting coaches teach you to sit with your toes turned in

to project innocence and vulnerability. But you don't fool me.

You've hurt me enough.

I'm going to make a movie about you, but you won't be in it

because this is one movie I'm going to...

Own? All by yourself.

A chimpanzee...

I was just going to watch the movie and leave.

I told myself, "Damn it, Tora, don't cause a fuss."

Write a note that will make Victor feel relaxed, happy,

not afraid.

So that you could return to the bosom of your family

and feel kind of pleased.

But I'm in such pain, Victor.

Pain! And I do as I please with my feet!

It hurts so bad, what should I do?

It's so fucking painful! What should I do? I can't bear it!

Help me, Victor!

- I didn't mean to... - Wait, I can manage it.

- I can't bear it, Victor. - My dear little Tora.

- Sit however you like. - What's that?

- Turn your toes out or in... - I don't care what you think.

- Do as you please. - That's not what you said before.

What on earth is going on?

- I'm not allowed to turn my toes in. - I'm not a fool, you know!

- What's this? - It has nothing to do with feet.

- You've had a quarrel. - We'll start soon, Dr Lagerlöf.

I just wanted to wait for Julius, but he's always late.

I'll just go see if I can find Mr Jaenzon.

- What did you talk about? - That the movie is all that matters.

He will crawl inside it, as if it were a cave full of amniotic fluid.

And that I'm a chimpanzee that fucks everyone in sight.

- And I sit with my toes turned in. - I see.

And we talked about Dad.

The lush.

What did you say about him?

- My dad, not yours. - I'm glad.

I don't discuss mine with outsiders.

Not with anyone. And I demand to be respected in this matter.

You don't trust me.

You think I'm going to tell tales?

I'm like a clam! And I would never...

- When will the photographer arrive? - With his greyhounds. It's a joke.

Victor thinks I said something silly in Veckojournalen.

He finds it ridiculous that I said women should quit wearing corsets.

I say something silly, and he's mortified. It happens all the time.

What's wrong with refusing to wear a corset?

Corsets make you feel crowded.

Like when I was a kid and five of us shared a flat.

Six until my dad got chucked out on his arse.

The reporters laughed, but they kept the bit about Dad out.

And they took my picture with a pair of greyhounds.

Come sit here, my uncouth one.

- You threw your dad out? - On his arse. Then life got better.

- Threw him out just like that? - Mum did the throwing.

- And you never felt guilty? - Guilty?

- Absolutely not! Should I? - You're quite admirable, Tora.

Interviewed by Veckojournalen with greyhounds.

Threw dad out and tore corsets off girls. What a range you have!

The pretty, slender lady doesn't care for corsets.

How chic!

How will fat old ladies like myself hold up without their corsets?

Did you try? Mum never wore a corset and she held up enough for four kids.

None of us faded into the woodwork. We couldn't afford woodwork.

But you tell outsiders you had a happy childhood with a loving dad.

But not Veckojournalen, since it's a magazine for tarts.

Featuring vulgar actresses, not grand Nobel Prize winners.

Outsiders see her as a storyteller,

and no one is invited in.

Not even herself.

How I regret telling you.

Lord, how I regret telling you.

Why couldn't I hold my tongue?

Oh, Lord, why did I tell you?

- So that's what you're thinking. - Why?

You think I have a hold on you that I'll use.

That's what you think.

You actually think I'm rotten.

Christ, that really hurts.

But I'm not rotten.

And I like you, Selma.

But all this covering up puzzles me.

- Hiding things from yourself, too. - So I personify hypocrisy, do I?

I'm sorry, that was foolish of me.

- Let's not war with each other. - I agree.

It's the truth, after all.

My intention was to explain.

But without causing myself pain.

Did you want people to understand or not?

That's just it. Good question.

- Must you be loved fairly as well? - Yes, I think so.

Though I was terrified of being too direct from the start.

Gösta Berling, the drunken daddy, drinking his fortunes away.

And the sweet Emperor of Portugallia with flowers in his hair,

like Ophelia, like Ophelia.

Lord, how the ladies cried.

- And no one understood. - That's not how I read it either.

How I hate Värmland!

Call me "storyteller" again and I'll throttle you!

- I give you my word. - I hate Värmland.

The bloody place drained him of every last drop of self-esteem.

You've started swearing a lot, Selma.

That's no good. You might end up just like me.

I wish I would.

I wish I could be like you.

Young, beautiful...

Brash.

I could never have kicked my dad out on his arse.

Never. He stayed put.

That's what I found so strange yesterday.

Weren't you a tiny bit grateful for that?

- Selma, please... - No, no, no.

Pull yourself together, Selma.

You aren't afraid of anything.

You don't need a corset.

I'd love to be like you.

And be told you screw around like a chimpanzee?

- What's up with that? - It's all right. It varies.

It's fun at times.

Then I would like to screw around like a chimpanzee.

But I wouldn't know.

Haven't you ever... Not ever?

- Not ever? - No.

- Good God! - Say what you will, facts are facts.

Dear Selma, you've written some of the finest... The finest love stories around!

You don't write what you know.

Only how you want things to be.

Is that true?

Like a charm.

- That's why you write. - Is that why?

Do you know what, Tora?

I've never seen you on stage, but I do know that you're clever.

You use your head. You do.

But you haven't quite grasped what the creation of art involves.

It's painful, you see.

And that's why you need to write charms.

No, that sounds...

To ward off the pain.

To ward off the pain.

You know about pearls.

They start out as a grain of sand that is excruciatingly painful.

And it is sealed in with a layer of mother-of-pearl.

No pain, no pearl.

And without a charm, only sand remains.

Sand, sand, sand...

You're lucky to be an actress.

- And hide in other characters. - Lucky?

Lucky?

Sometimes...

Sometimes it's like nothing exists beyond the world of the theatre.

And it feels so good that it's almost intoxicating.

But that scares me, because it feels wrong somehow.

In order to act you need to invite the world in.

If I'm ever going to play the great dramatic parts,

I'll have to invite it in, you see.

I guess it's like that grain of sand.

You need that grain of sand.

Otherwise it doesn't make sense.

I believe you will play the truly great parts.

You do?

That's why I was angry about the "storyteller" bit.

It diminishes me.

I don't deserve that.

- They don't see the grain of sand. - Which should be on stage with you.

I'm sorry I got so angry. I got so damned upset

when you claimed I should feel guilty about Mum kicking Dad out.

The guilt is not mine. He is the master of his own life.

I've been surrounded by daddies.

If I hadn't learnt how to kick them out, I'd have been reduced to pulp.

You trust in yourself, Mum taught me that.

She was responsible...

It's quite a feat to not feel guilt.

One I never mastered.

You need to be on guard against daddies.

Including Victor?

Including Victor?

It's just that he's wonderful.

Like a child.

It hurts when he's scared of me.

Let me tell you something.

Daddies who are like children are the very worst kind.

If you run into one, keep running until you can't see him any more.

Then you can relax and walk. Just run!

But why?

Because they can hurt you so badly.

You never saw him again?

- Your dad, the lieutenant. The lush. - Yes, I did.

When was that?

I received word that he was dying and I went home to his side.

How awful! Wasn't it awful?

He had shrunk, as drunkards do as they die.

- So you weren't scared? - He was so tiny.

He'd been vomiting blood. He was scared.

Though we hadn't exchanged a word since I left, he was glad to see me.

- I was his favourite. - That's understandable.

I sat by his bedside and remained there

until he died.

Apart from a few hours spent on the floor.

- What did he talk about? - Mostly about how scared he was.

How he never amounted to much. Due to fear.

And he kept asking me how I would remember him.

I couldn't shut him up.

How did he want to be remembered?

He slept through most of the second night.

But that's when I told him about the resurrection.

- It would be like a miracle. - The resurrection?

I told him not to be afraid, I would resurrect him.

I would be responsible for resurrecting him.

It wouldn't matter what had actually taken place.

I would restore him to glory.

It would be my mission in life.

Daddy would be my mission...

I'm sorry, Tora. I'm so ashamed.

- I must be mad. - I don't find you...

We would disregard his partying, his indulging in good wine.

That he and his friends went on benders. And all the lies.

Everything I identify with Värmland. The lies. Our story.

I was to put down a description.

I was to become an author and write what should have been.

Not how we encircled him and stared at a corpse.

Then everyone would realise what a great father he really was.

Because that's what I said he really was.

He really was.

He really was...

Really...

Really.

I would write books, and he

would be remembered for what he was, a flickering flame.

Though his flame was difficult to keep alive, he would be born again.

And I would be born again as well. That's the truth, so would I.

And everyone would read about him.

I'd earn money, and Mårbacka would be a happy place once more.

But it would be his doing, since I would compose...

Not report, but compose pieces of what should have been.

We would show each other mercy.

Transform life's filth.

I could tell he heard me.

He went calm.

So I described his resurrection.

And I saw how his flame flickered down...

He drew breath at longer intervals and turned transparent.

Beautiful...

Like he was when I was little, he was beautiful then.

Finally the flame went out for good.

He was dead.

But I had told him everything. Everything.

My mission and his resurrection.

How his true flame,

his essence,

would be resurrected in me.

And it would shine for all to see.

Mercy. Until eternity.

The promise of resurrection.

Resurrection?

His light.

His flame

burning inside of me.

The way it ought to be!

Did you care for him so deeply?

Yes.

Some day, when I'm playing a part by note, I'll think of you.

And Dad.

And your dad.

Sorry!

- Would you like to leave? - No, I'd like to see the movie.

I didn't mean to disturb you.

But I'd be glad to screen the film.

- Where's Victor? - He told me to show the movie.

In case anyone wanted to see what he had seen.

- He left? - Yes.

To be perfectly honest, he was sad.

He was sad. You see...

Victor's dad was an alcoholic,

and his childhood was sheer hell.

He wanted to make this movie more about his life, his own life,

though it would be based on Dr Lagerlöf's novel.

He was afraid Dr Lagerlöf would think he'd distorted the story.

He took it personally.

He worked like the dickens on the script.

605 scenes, every single camera angle described in detail.

So that's why he was

sad.

His intention was to make the first movie ever

about something real.

He thought he saw something Dr Lagerlöf might not like.

I guess we wonder

- if you despise us. - How can you ask such a thing?

Movies aren't an art form according to some people.

- They're like ugly birds of clay. - I don't think I can bear any more.

It's been draining. Tora and I...

Please!

But I would like to see the movie.

I want to see what you saw.

May I tell you something?

I hadn't intended to, but now things are so strange anyway.

I read this story of yours when I was a boy.

The one where Jesus and Judas were children and made birds of clay.

And Jesus made such beautiful ones without much effort.

When he dipped his hand into the muddy water,

it shimmered with many colours, like a pearl, I think.

While Judas' birds were awkward and ugly. Dirty grey lumps.

He screwed things up, his were ugly.

Judas was so upset

he started trampling Jesus' birds to pieces one by one.

But then Jesus clapped his hands and said, "Fly!"

And the birds came alive and took flight.

It was their salvation.

They came to life!

And I was filled with anger and sadness towards the author.

To be perfectly honest, I was bloody sad!

You see, Mary came up to Judas, who was just a boy,

and said that nothing good could come of a person

who competed with someone who could paint with sunshine

and breathe life into clay.

I felt that Dr Lagerlöf acted a bit high and mighty.

Maybe Judas was an artist of sorts, too?

That's true.

How silly of me.

But life is cruel.

I decided to become an image maker.

An image maker...

I wanted to be a painter, but ended up being a photographer.

But I guess that's a kind of image maker as well.

Image maker.

Good expression.

What a good expression! Perhaps I'm an image maker as well?

It's not all that easy, being an image maker.

I know. I realise it more and more.

Shall we roll the clip?

This is from Thy Soul Shall Bear Witness. Act 3, reel B.

We've worked on this day and night for months on end.

We haven't just tinkered, either.

- Is that going to be the title? - What else would we call it?

I had thought of The Resurrection.

It should have the same title as the book, to show what it's about.

Mr Sjöström is back, I'm so pleased.

I've behaved badly. I'm sorry.

Don't be sorry, Selma.

You're the most darling bumblebee I've ever met.

Julius, let's roll it.

Roll it!