Classic Film Club: 'Ordet'

Each week Tom Huddleston watches a classic film he's never seen before. The rules are simple: each film must be considered a masterpiece and each must be completely new to him. This week: Carl Theodor Dreyer's 'Ordet' (1955)

Canterbury Cathedral is an incredible building, imposing and beautiful – but you wouldn’t want to live there. Much the same can be said of Dreyer’s ‘Ordet’, a religious fable told with unfussy deliberation and a sparse, absolute sense of authority: it’s striking, powerful, intellectually challenging, morally forthright, moving and heartfelt. And you can’t help feeling just a little bit glad when it ends.

The film takes place in rural Denmark, 1925. Morten Bergen, an ageing Lutheran farmer, feels threatened by a more rigorous nonconformist sect who have colonised the nearby town. His three sons have differing views on religion: happily married Mikkel has little interest in faith, boyish Anders is in love with a daughter of the opposition, and eldest child Johannes has gone quietly insane, proclaiming himself the reincarnation of Jesus Christ.

The film’s central themes are manifold, complex and inextricably interlinked: is religion a personal choice, or a societal imperative? Where do madness and religious faith intersect? Is there such thing as a ‘miracle’, and would we know one if we saw it? Are we not surrounded by miracles on a daily basis? Can organised religion ever transcend it’s flawed, manmade roots and truly do the work of God? Does organised religion bring man closer to God, or simply provide another form of social division? Can religion ever make us happy? And what is ‘happiness’, anyway?

Aesthetically, the film is immaculately controlled: the camera moves sparingly but significantly, picking up faces in moments of repose or devotion, or anger. The exteriors are few and sparse – this is a flat land of sand and scrub, a place for ascetics. Every interior scene is bathed in silvery, semi-natural light, particularly the climax, in which the shrouded glow of early morning gives way to the blinding light of holy grace. The acting is unfussy and functional, though Henrik Malberg stands out as the paternal Morten, a man painfully aware of his own mistakes as a father and a follower.

The film’s revered, reverent final scene – the details of which I won’t reveal here – could easily be read as a wholehearted affirmation of Christian faith, or at least of the existence of a benevolent God. But the ‘miracle’ which occurs raises many more questions than it answers: if God can perform miracles of mercy, why doesn’t he do it more often? If blind faith is all that’s required, why look for miracles at all? And if a madman can be Christ, is it not possible that Christ was just another madman?

Attempting to criticise ‘Ordet’ is tantamount to criticising a block of stone, or a river: there is no why, ‘Ordet’ just is. It’s endlessly open to interpretation, speaking to confirmed atheists just as eloquently as it does to the writers of artsandfaith.com’s list of the 100 most spiritually significant films (it came in at No 1, the author arguing ‘you can literally build your own worship experience around it’). It’s not a film which demands your admiration, and certainly not your affection. It does, however, require patience, determination and open-mindedness, and amply rewards such an investment. Just don’t go in expecting a good time.

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