Apologists for bad art almost always speak of 'intent', and, in a similar vein, bad critics always try to justify their 'liking' a bad film by praising it obliquely, often using words like 'abstract' in place of 'dullness', or calling a boring film an 'etude', even if it is trite. Such is what one will find if one reads the reviews for Danish filmmaker Carl Theodor Dreyer's final film Gertrud, made in 1964. Well, my advice to such critics is to look past the bullshit and deal with what is really on screen. Gertrud is a bad film, and is one in a long line of bad 'last films' made by great filmmakers. Recently, I watched Ingmar Bergman's final film, Saraband, and it was a black mark on an otherwise sterling career. While this film is not as bad as that, it's close, and Dreyer did not have nearly as many great films to his credit as Bergman has to offset his failure.
Like Saraband, Gertrud is a trite, ponderous film that recapitulates many of the themes and tropes that its maker dealt with far more successfully in earlier films. Like Saraband, Gertrud is a bad film primarily because of its atrocious screenplay. The thing that makes it a better film than Saraband is that it at least has sterling black and white cinematography by Henning Bendtsen, compared to the Sven Nykvist deprived work on Saraband. And, unlike Bergman, Dreyer can at least have his final film written off as failing due to the horrid play it was based upon, written by Swedish dramatist Hjalmar Söderberg in 1906, who can be considered a fifth rate Henrik Ibsen or August Strindberg. To say that Gertrud Kanning (Nina Pens Rode), an ex-opera singer, is no Nora from A Doll's House, nor Hedda Gabler, is to invoke a sharp 'Duh!' from your readership. This film is not some proto-feminist tract, for its heroine is a selfish, immature woman who emotionally uses and tosses away three men in the film. It is like an Oscar Wilde play, stripped of all vivacity and wit, so that one is left with only selfish, repugnant characters who are so devoid of real emotion that they rarely even look at each other when they speak to one another, and the acting is so wooden and ponderous that it defies all realism. And because Dreyer wanted it that way is no excuse. It's still a poor job on his and their part. Yet, the bad acting would not be damning if the new world it sketched were somehow remotely interesting. Instead, it's a hermetic coffin, and in his four major sound era films- Vampyr, Day Of Wrath, Ordet, and this- Dreyer's stubborn refusal to change styles from the silent era was an increasing drag on his art- but nowhere is it so manifestly on display as here, for it dooms this film to be not only trite, but anachronistically so . And, contrary to what many bad critics suggest, this film is in no way, shape, nor form 'inscrutable'. It is, in fact, the exact opposite, so transparent in its dull depiction of a disturbed and repulsive mind that it seems to be stating that a warped mind is greater than the universe because it contains it, to paraphrase Emily Dickinson. All the characters in this film succumb to the idiotic strictures that Gertrud imposes upon herself, strictures designed to limit any real love, and to cast herself in the role of martyr, occupied by other female characters in the Dreyer canon- Joan of Arc, Anne from Day Of Wrath, and Inger from Ordet. And, not only do all the characters in the film speak in dispassioned clichés- such as, when Gertrud declares to Erland that she is dew, white clouds, the moon, etc.; or when she declares that great men despise love; or that she needs 'pure, warm blood' in her love- to the point of inducing dry heaves, but from scene to scene the characters contradict each other and their prior claims. In short, they are banal and fickle!
This film, in many ways, has far more in common, albeit unintendedly, with the zombie films of George Romero and his imitators than with Dreyer's earlier great films- call it zombie formalism, of the sort that makes Dreyer have Gertrud dream of running naked, then being attacked by dogs, only to see a painting like that in the chamber where Gabriel is being honored by Gustav and others. This bad use of symbolism, as well the indulgence of a cliché, and Dreyer's inexplicable inability to see it as such, is what dooms Gertrud as a work of art, yet make a viewer thankful that the man lived only four more years, and never had a chance to make another film. One can only cringe with horror at the depths his silent era mannerisms would have wrought in the 1970s, when American filmmakers like Altman, Scorsese, Coppola, and company were pushing boundaries that Dreyer found insuperable. Fortunately, an artist is never judged by his last or least work alone, and Dreyer was wise enough, for his reputation's sake, to have that dufecta hit in a single film. As for the film? Watch Vampyr instead, and marvel at an artist at the height of his powers and ahead of the game. Gertrud is a really bad film, and I always mean every word I say.
Like Saraband, Gertrud is a trite, ponderous film that recapitulates many of the themes and tropes that its maker dealt with far more successfully in earlier films. Like Saraband, Gertrud is a bad film primarily because of its atrocious screenplay. The thing that makes it a better film than Saraband is that it at least has sterling black and white cinematography by Henning Bendtsen, compared to the Sven Nykvist deprived work on Saraband. And, unlike Bergman, Dreyer can at least have his final film written off as failing due to the horrid play it was based upon, written by Swedish dramatist Hjalmar Söderberg in 1906, who can be considered a fifth rate Henrik Ibsen or August Strindberg. To say that Gertrud Kanning (Nina Pens Rode), an ex-opera singer, is no Nora from A Doll's House, nor Hedda Gabler, is to invoke a sharp 'Duh!' from your readership. This film is not some proto-feminist tract, for its heroine is a selfish, immature woman who emotionally uses and tosses away three men in the film. It is like an Oscar Wilde play, stripped of all vivacity and wit, so that one is left with only selfish, repugnant characters who are so devoid of real emotion that they rarely even look at each other when they speak to one another, and the acting is so wooden and ponderous that it defies all realism. And because Dreyer wanted it that way is no excuse. It's still a poor job on his and their part. Yet, the bad acting would not be damning if the new world it sketched were somehow remotely interesting. Instead, it's a hermetic coffin, and in his four major sound era films- Vampyr, Day Of Wrath, Ordet, and this- Dreyer's stubborn refusal to change styles from the silent era was an increasing drag on his art- but nowhere is it so manifestly on display as here, for it dooms this film to be not only trite, but anachronistically so . And, contrary to what many bad critics suggest, this film is in no way, shape, nor form 'inscrutable'. It is, in fact, the exact opposite, so transparent in its dull depiction of a disturbed and repulsive mind that it seems to be stating that a warped mind is greater than the universe because it contains it, to paraphrase Emily Dickinson. All the characters in this film succumb to the idiotic strictures that Gertrud imposes upon herself, strictures designed to limit any real love, and to cast herself in the role of martyr, occupied by other female characters in the Dreyer canon- Joan of Arc, Anne from Day Of Wrath, and Inger from Ordet. And, not only do all the characters in the film speak in dispassioned clichés- such as, when Gertrud declares to Erland that she is dew, white clouds, the moon, etc.; or when she declares that great men despise love; or that she needs 'pure, warm blood' in her love- to the point of inducing dry heaves, but from scene to scene the characters contradict each other and their prior claims. In short, they are banal and fickle!
This film, in many ways, has far more in common, albeit unintendedly, with the zombie films of George Romero and his imitators than with Dreyer's earlier great films- call it zombie formalism, of the sort that makes Dreyer have Gertrud dream of running naked, then being attacked by dogs, only to see a painting like that in the chamber where Gabriel is being honored by Gustav and others. This bad use of symbolism, as well the indulgence of a cliché, and Dreyer's inexplicable inability to see it as such, is what dooms Gertrud as a work of art, yet make a viewer thankful that the man lived only four more years, and never had a chance to make another film. One can only cringe with horror at the depths his silent era mannerisms would have wrought in the 1970s, when American filmmakers like Altman, Scorsese, Coppola, and company were pushing boundaries that Dreyer found insuperable. Fortunately, an artist is never judged by his last or least work alone, and Dreyer was wise enough, for his reputation's sake, to have that dufecta hit in a single film. As for the film? Watch Vampyr instead, and marvel at an artist at the height of his powers and ahead of the game. Gertrud is a really bad film, and I always mean every word I say.