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Cult Review
Senior Film Conservator
Stockholm, winter of 1935: the city’s snow-mantled alleys glisten like surgical steel while inside the Rings’ Art-Nouveau flat every lampshade exhales opium-thick perfume. Director Theodor Berthels doesn’t open scenes—he unlocks them, letting the camera glide past mahogany doors just ajar enough to reveal a sliver of flesh or a half-burned cigarette. The first time we see Märta, she’s reflected threefold in a triptych mirror, each pane showing a slightly different tilt of suspicion; the visual grammar announces that truth here is kaleidoscopic.
Harriet Bloch’s screenplay, adapted from her own stage hit, surgically peels the epidermis off bourgeois civility. Dialogue crackles like sugar glass: Halfdan’s compliments arrive armored in legalese (“You remain, my dear, the most persuasive exhibit in my case for happiness”), while Märta’s replies flick like switchblades (“Exhibits can be replaced; evidence is eternal”). The couple’s pet names—min kära spetssax (“my lace scissors”)—sound tender until you realize scissors sever.
Karen Winther oscillates between porcelain doll and Medusa without ever appearing to try. Watch her fingers worry the fringe of a lampshade: each twitch is a Morse code of paranoia. When she confronts Halfdan over breakfast, she tilts her profile forty-five degrees—an angle borrowed from Nordic silent cinema—so that one eye fills with buttery dawn light while the other sinks into bruised shadow. The effect is not binary but quantum: both victim and predator until observed.
Ernst Eklund, Sweden’s answer to William Powell minus the comic levity, gives Halfdan the sleek cruelty of a scalpel. His baritone never raises; instead, authority pools in the pauses. In a bravura close-up, he polishes his pince-nez with the same silk square he later uses to stifle Märta’s scream—continuity as moral indictment.
Carl Schenstrøm, better known for slapstick duo Pat and Patachon, cameos as the dipsomaniacal janitor who may—or may not—have eavesdropped on the crucial midnight row. His quivering moustache injects a shot of expressionist hysteria, reminding us that Scandinavian cinema has always flirted with grotesque.
Cinematographer Julius Jaenzon, veteran of Sjöström’s phantom-laden silents, renders candle glow as liquid mercury. Shadows don’t merely fall; they metastasize. A corridor, lit by a single wall sconce, narrows into a funnel of Stygian black, suggesting that beyond the frame waits something older than marriage itself. Note the recurring visual motif of doorknobs shot at waist level: every entrance is a potential invasion, every exit a possible abandonment.
The film’s palette—what little survives in the nitrate print—leans toward bruised lavender and gangrenous green, achieved by tinting rather than full tint-toning. The effect is less nostalgic than necrotic, as though the celluloid itself carries marital decay.
Though shot in early sync-sound, Berthels overlays a musique-concrète layer: distant church bells bleed into the soundtrack whenever Märta fabricates a fresh accusation. The bells don’t comment—they haunt. Likewise, Halfdan’s pocket watch, amplified during a midnight tête-à-tête, ticks like a time-bomb, syncing with the viewer’s pulse until the inevitable explosion of revelation.
Released five months before Sweden’s National Board of Film Censors tightened its moral corset, En hustru till låns luxuriates in themes its Hollywood counterparts could only wink at: contraceptive sabotage (the borrowed wife of the title is literally “on loan” as a fertile surrogate), coded bisexual desire (Pip Overbeck’s Countess Ebba strokes Märta’s fur collar longer than decorum allows), and the implication that a husband might profit from his wife’s death. The final reel’s ambiguity—does Halfdan push Märta, or does she vault into the icy Nybroviken basin clutching his adulterous letters?—remains unresolved, a dagger left suspended in mid-air.
Unlike The Sundowner’s sun-scorched outback romanticism or Vengeance and the Girl’s pulp retribution, this chamber piece shrinks the world to four rooms and a hallway. It anticipates the claustrophobic eroticism of Whitewashed Walls yet predates Bergman’s Secrets of Women trilogy by two decades. Where Red and White Roses coats infidelity in pastoral pastels, Berthels opts for chiaroscuro angst.
The 2023 4K restoration by the Swedish Film Institute salvaged a near-complete 35 mm dupe struck in 1952. Scratches become snowfall; cigarette burns resemble comets. The audio hiss has been scrubbed just enough to keep Jaenzon’s sonic experiments intact. Currently streaming on Criterion Channel with optional English subtitles that wisely retain idioms like “borrowed wife” rather than flattening to “rented spouse.”
To watch En hustru till låns is to eavesdrop on matrimony’s autopsy while the corpse still blushes. It offers no moral, only a mirror: if you stare too long, you might notice your own fingerprints on the evidence.
IMDb 5
1912
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