THE VIRGIN SPRING (1960)

The opening scene of The Virgin Spring / Jungfrukällan masterfully infuses foreboding into a simple, stripped-back moment, where the pitiful and self-pitying servant Ingeri (Gunnel Lindblom) calls upon the Norse god Odin. Without any context for her anguished pleading, one assumes she’s crying out for clemency. Somehow, director Ingmar Bergman provides us with a meaning behind Ingeri’s questioning, together with an answer for it; it’s immediately clear there’ll be no mercy in this punishing tale. How he can convey that response in what is on its surface a simple domestic scene featuring a despairing woman we do not even know is beyond description. The Swedish director, rightly so, has produced tantalising works that defy the simple sentences used to describe their plotting, with such words coming across as woefully inadequate at conveying how easily he infuses the barest of scenes with a specific tone.

The plot emerges when Karin (Birgitta Pettersson), the spoiled and naïve daughter of prosperous Christians Märeta (Birgitta Valberg) and Töre (Max von Sydow), is sent with Ingeri to take candles to their church, which is a day’s journey away on horseback. Not long after the two make headway, Ingeri is plagued by dark visions, separating the two young women after Karin insists on following through with their journey’s objective. It is not long after this that she encounters two very creepy men and a boy, who have been stalking her for some time and gradually ensnare her in a trap, subjecting her to a horrific act of violence.

Karin is delicate and unknowing, often proving quite frustrating given her blind faith in the world around her. But this turns out to be the film’s saving grace; without her presence, The Virgin Spring becomes haunted and hollowed out, its light and vibrancy having been extinguished for good. Her initial interactions with the three men are horrifying, as she is the only person oblivious to how easily she has let herself become trapped. These scenes amplify the rustic quality of Bergman’s backdrops, which never ring false notes in their depictions of locales in this film’s medieval timeline.

This period is also ideal for exploring a story of epic proportions, where guilt hangs over these characters as an existential threat. Though this world is decidedly small-scale, that only makes its plotting feel even more like a twisted fable or a Biblical tale centred on matters of the heart and soul that belies easy answers. The decision to make the film black and white emphasises the stark nature imagery, such as a bare, solitary tree that stands alone on a plain, which Töre rips from the ground late in the film. Even a lone tree represents too much connection in a world that has been plunged into darkness after tragedy befalls Karin. Speaking of which, this figurative darkness and moral rot would not be nearly so effective without a fitting black-and-white colour scheme to match.

Despite these shades of quality storytelling, where Bergman’s awe-inspiring direction is given ample room to shine, this tale becomes decidedly duller in its latter half. Its plot beats are predictable, and suddenly the smallness of this world makes its storytelling all too easy and its characters fairly unremarkable. Ulla Isaksson, The Virgin Spring’s screenwriter, keeps the dialogue feeling remote, with diatribes that hinder emotional investment rather than amplify it. Lindblom, though generally very strong in conveying the silent emotions of a woman whose existence has been reduced to deep bitterness, is much less convincing in her sorrowful notes of anguish.

Sydow, a mainstay of Bergman’s films who built a reputation as one of Sweden’s finest actors largely because of it, feels oddly replaceable here, likely down to never being given the proper outlet to explore his character’s sorrow. Töre is established as a more strict parent than the endlessly appeasing Märeta, who can never resist doting on her daughter, but that element of the story holds no value when the only scene between father and daughter is a stereotypically happy, quaint one. Töre lifts Karin in the air and spins her around as if she is still a young child, despite acting dismissively of his wife’s coddling of their daughter moments before this. If there had been some tension between the pair, anything horrific that could have happened to Karin would have increased Töre’s guilt tenfold.

It’s a very odd choice, then, that this opportunity was not explored, given this film’s prioritisation of guilt and the different ways it can manifest. This was a particular focus of Bergman’s, in contrast to how Isaksson placed more emphasis on the film’s depictions of the conflicts between Paganism and Christianity. The latter theme has plenty of potential connotations that can be drawn from The Virgin Spring’s plotting and imagery, but none of them are particularly compelling. Perhaps Odin represents the Devil, just as Töre is caught between these two religious modes of thinking throughout his internal battle between opting for revenge or forgiveness. While both ideas are easy to follow, there’s little present for audiences to sink their teeth into and ponder.

Perhaps that’s due to how simple and one-note this story is, which, in fairness, is not always to the film’s detriment. Another impressive aspect of The Virgin Spring’s imagery is its approach to Karin and Ingeri’s appearance. The virgin Karin is blonde, clean, well-dressed, optimistic, and naïve about the world’s evils. In contrast, Ingeri, who became pregnant out of wedlock, is darker in complexion and hair colour, looks far more unkempt, wears shabby clothing, and is perhaps a little too aware of the world’s darkness, whether that is for her own sake or the wellbeing of those around her.

But if these rather one-note characters benefit a story that starts as a fairy tale and then tragically subverts such notions, this trait also leaves little opportunity for thoughtfulness or entertainment value once it marks this stark shift in tone. The Virgin Spring stops being foreboding and is instead mostly slow, drab, and even dull in how it teases out its plot beats, with long bouts of silence that are more awkward than sinister. One can practically predict the rest of the film from this point onwards, and while some of these moments are conveyed very well visually, there is surprisingly little to appreciate on an emotional or thematic level given its wooden dialogue and simplistic plotting and characterisation.

In retrospect Bergman would refer to The Virgin Spring disparagingly, comparing it unfavourably to Akira Kurosawa’s Rashomon (1950). The film was also met with criticism upon its release, partly on the film’s merits, while the rest of its ire was directed at the film’s rape scene. Viewed through a modern lens this scene is surprisingly restrained, though it caused quite a stir upon the film’s release, with 15 people reportedly walking out of its premiere. Even with these detractors, The Virgin Spring was awarded the Academy Award for ‘Best Foreign Film’ in 1960, the first time that Bergman won in this category. He would go on to earn another Oscar the following year for Through a Glass Darkly (1961), again for ‘Best Foreign Film’. Though not viewed as one of the director’s major works, The Virgin Spring continues to receive acclaim from film lovers and critics alike, even if it proves frustratingly simplistic and unmemorable for a director as interested in the matters of the heart and soul as Bergman.

SWEDEN | 1960 | 89 MINUTES | 1.37:1 | BLACK & WHITE | SWEDISH • GERMAN

Cast & Crew

director: Ingmar Bergman.
writer: Ulla Isaksson.
starring: Max Von Sydow, Birgitta Valberg, Gunnel Lindblom, Birgitta Pettersson, Axel Düberg, Tor Isedal & Ove Porath.