Hunger (Sult)

Why does Pontus, the starving writer who narrates the Norwegian novel Hunger and appears in every scene of Henning Carlson's 1966 film adaptation, want to starve himself? There can be no doubt that his hunger is self-imposed. A friend invites him to lunch, and probably would treat him to a bowl of stew if pressed. Concerned neighbors suggest he return to his family's home in the country, where presumably he could at least have a place to sleep and three squares a day. Several times, he's openly offered money, by a publisher who expresses interest in one of his articles, a pawn shop owner who purchases his waistcoat and a grocery clerk who mistakenly hands him change. Each time, Pontus devises some excuse to dispose of the money without eating. He'd rather make himself ill chewing on a salvaged cow bone or pass out in the streets of Oslo from exposure and malnourishment than accept charity or compromise his principles.

As if reflecting the inner monologue of its hero, Carlson's film fetishizes suffering and want. Pontus stares longingly through windows into restaurants and apartments where families sit down for succulent meals in shots reminiscent of Chaplin or Lloyd's silent comedies about hapless tramps. Long, funereal shots of Pontus stumbling down streets in a daze, curling up in alleyways to sob quietly out of public view, elevate his purposeful hunger strike to the level of an existential crisis. He is a man desperate to feed his appetites, yet also a committed ascetic, seeking solace in his own deprivation.



As Pontus, Swedish actor Per Oscarsson maintains an odd, aloof and maniacal tone. Call it arrogant schizophrenia. When in command of his faculties, he dreams of being a writer, though he's easily distracted, prone to senseless fits of anger and even dementia. He spends most of his time wandering Oslo (called Kristiania in 1890, when the film is set) alone, sputtering, shouting nonsense at strangers and attempting unsuccessfully to edit his latest piece on park benches.

Carlson seems fascinated by the gulf between Pontus' perception of himself and the reality around him. Boastful and ceaselessly proud, he's both unable to accept generosity from friends or well-wishers and unwilling to face the truth about his living situation. When his most recent landlady kicks him out of the hovel in which he's been squatting for a few days, he gets indignant, as if he had some God-given right to this small studio apartment. He tells himself that writing will be his salvation, yet offers to pawn his only pair of eyeglasses for 25 cents, money he'd probably just give away.

In the film's most dramatic demonstration of this distance between Pontus' imaginary, romantic lifestyle and the grim fact of his destitution, he chases after a beautiful young girl (Ingmar Bergman regular Gunnel Lindblom) and her severe, humorless sister (Birgitte Federspiel) through an empty expanse of public park. In the harsh light of midday, exerting himself in the pursuit, Pontus comes across at his most pathetic. The prototypical insane transient. He looks homeless, desperate and unhinged.

Yet the idyllic sunlit serenity of the setting and cinematographer Henning Christiansen's wide, expansive shots, stranding Pontus at one end of the frame and the object of his desire at the other, suggest an openness to the surprises and possibilites of life beyond the margins of Oslo's uncaring, ceaselessly bleak downtown boulevards.

When the young girl actually looks back and smiles at Pontus, confirming his deeply-rooted suspicions that this life has been concocted purely for his use and pleasure, it stretches the limits of believability. Perhaps the entire encounter, and subsequent meetings with the strange creature he will come to know as Ylajali, occur only in Pontus' head? Perhaps Carlson (and Hamsun before him) realized that Pontus' story needed a bit more humanity or emotional resonance. Regardless, these scenes are thematically satisfying even if they come across as inherently false. (And who could believe, after all, that a beautiful young woman would strike up a forbidden love affair with a misanthropic homeless derelict who doesn't bathe and can barely issue forth a coherent thought?)

His good fortune with Ylajali and subsequent luck with one of the city's large publishing houses seems to indicate a brighter future for Pontus, and it's at this point (about an hour into the film) that Hunger gets more interesting and more ambiguous. He certainly seems pleased to have his work recognized, and eagerly awaits the moment he can go to the office and get paid, but then appears to forget all about his success. He continues to rail against police and others whom he sees as oppressors, and takes no joy in an opportunity to realize his greatest ambitions. After receiving a desperately needed fee for his article, he throws it at his landlady out of spite. He keeps right on refusing food, a foolish decision Carlson highlights using overexposed first-person POV shots that mimic the woozy light-headedness that frequently accompanies prolonged hunger.

Eventually, Pontus will turn his back on Oslo and any opportunities he may have had there, embracing the extended isolation and deprivation of a long sea voyage to parts unknown. (In the novel, he takes off on a Russian ship bound for England. In the film, Pontus just wanders bleary-eyed on to a ship and gets hired on the spot, without ever inquiring about a desintation.)

Perhaps Carlson meant this story as an allegory for modern life, in which people become so intensely focused on their inner worlds of petty conflicts and material wants, they lose sight of the reality swirling at all times around them. Pontus spends so much time keeping up appearances and lying to himself - getting his soiled blanket wrapped up like a store-bought package, chivalrously removing his hat to greet ladies on the street - these meaningless, silly chores become the focal point of his daily life.

Hunger could, likewise, be taken as an examination of the ego of the artist, obsessively firing odd thoughts into an unconcerned world out of some heightened sense of self-importance, never bothering to take in any ideas for fear that they would pollute the genius already hiding within them. Or perhaps it's just nihilism incarnate - the guy refuses to eat, just as he refuses to live in police society with its various rules, restrictions and requirements. He chooses a different path, or the lack of a path, and thus has no choice but to leave the city.

Regardless, the film is fascinating and a visual marvel, breathtakingly shot and ceaselessly intriguing. It's a terrific and demanding performance from Oscarsson, who appears in every scene. Hunger was the first united Scandanavian co-production in history - financed equally by Sweden, Norway and Denmark with an even mix of artists from each country. It was an odd choice, presenting as it does a rather bleak and unflattering portrait of urban Scandanavian society, but also a film of significant artistic merit that reflected well on all three burgeoning film industries. These three countries continue to support their own homegrown artists, which is a way of guaranteeing that challenging but worthwhile work like Hunger will be created. The United States, apparently, is satisfied with being the world's supplier of soul-crushing garbage like Poseidon and Little Man. Oh well, to each his own...