Original subtitles

You wished to speak to me, Doctor?

Have you seen Mrs. Vogler yet, Sister Alma?

No, not yet.

Let me explain her situation

and why you've been hired to care for her.

Mrs. Vogler is an actress, as you know.

In the middle of her last performance of Electra,

she fell silent and looked around as if in surprise.

She was silent for over a minute.

She apologized to her colleagues afterward,

saying she'd felt a sudden urge to laugh.

The next day the theater called

to ask if she'd forgotten about rehearsal.

The maid went in her room and found her still in bed.

She was awake but wouldn't answer questions or move.

This condition's gone on for three months now.

She's been given every conceivable test.

The result is clear:

She's perfectly healthy, both mentally and physically.

And it's not a question of some hysterical reaction either.

Any questions, Sister Alma?

If not, you can go see Mrs. Vogler now.

Hello, Mrs. Vogler.

I'm Sister Alma.

I've been hired to take care of you for a while.

Perhaps I should tell you a bit about myself.

I'm 25 years old, and I'm engaged.

I got my nursing certificate two years ago.

My parents have a farm in the country.

My mother was a nurse too, before she got married.

I should go get your dinner tray... fried liver and fruit salad.

It looked quite good.

Shall I raise this end up? Are you all right like that?

Sister Alma, what's your first impression?

I don't know what to say, Doctor.

At first her face looks soft, almost childish,

but then you see her eyes...

Her expression's so hard.

Perhaps I shouldn't...

What were you going to say?

I was thinking I should turn down the assignment.

Why? Did something frighten you?

No, not exactly,

but perhaps Mrs. Vogler should have an older nurse,

one with more life experience.

I might not be able to manage. - Manage? In what way?

- Mentally. - Mentally?

If she's made a conscious decision not to speak or move,

which must be the case, since she's healthy...

Then?

Then that shows great mental strength.

I may not be up to it.

I thought you might want to see the twilight.

I can draw the curtains later.

Shall I turn on the radio?

I think there's a play on.

Forgive me, darling.

You must forgive me.

All I want is your forgiveness.

What are you laughing about? ls the actress so funny?

What do you know of mercy? Well?

What do you know of mercy?

I don't understand those sorts of things.

I enjoy films and the theater,

but I'm afraid I don't go very often.

I have tremendous admiration for artists.

I think art is enormously important in life,

especially for those struggling for one reason or another.

But I'm skating on thin ice, telling you about such things.

Let's see if I can find some music.

Is that all right?

Good night, then. Sleep well.

Damn it.

It's funny.

You can go about as you please...

doing almost anything you please.

I'll marry Karl-Henrik and we'll have a couple kids,

whom I'll raise.

It's all decided. It's inside me.

I don't even have to think about it.

It's a great feeling of security.

I have a job I like and enjoy.

That's good too...

but in another way.

But it's good.

Yes...

it's good.

I wonder what's really wrong with her.

Elisabet Vogler.

Mrs. Vogler, would you like me to open the letter?

Shall I read it?

Shall I read it to you?

"Dearest Elisabet,

since I'm not allowed to see you, I'm writing instead.

If you don't wish to read my letter, you can ignore it.

But I can't help trying to contact you this way,

as I'm tormented by a persistent question:

Have I done you harm in some way?

Have I unknowingly hurt you somehow?

Was there some terrible misunderstanding between us?"

Should I really go on?

"As far as I know, we've been happy recently.

Surely we've never been...

so close.

Do you remember saying,

'I'm only just beginning to understand

what it means to be married'?

'You've taught me..."'

I can't make it out.

"'You've taught..." ' Now I see.

"'You've taught me that we must see each other

as two anxious children

full of goodwill and the best of intentions

but gov... "' Now I see.

"'...governed by forces we can only partially control.'

Do you remember saying all that?

We were walking in the woods,

and you stopped and grabbed the belt of my coat..."

There was a picture with the letter.

A picture of your son. I don't know if...

Do you want it, Mrs. Vogler?

He looks awfully cute.

Elisabet, I don't think there's any point

in your staying here in the hospital.

It's just hurting you to be here.

Since you don't want to go home,

I suggest you and Sister Alma move out

to my summer place by the sea.

You think I don't understand?

The hopeless dream of being.

Not seeming to be, but being.

Conscious and awake at every moment.

At the same time, the chasm between what you are to others

and what you are to yourself.

The feeling of vertigo, and the constant hunger

to be unmasked once and for all.

To be seen through, cut down...

perhaps even annihilated.

Every tone of voice a lie, every gesture a falsehood,

every smile a grimace.

Commit suicide?

No, too nasty.

One doesn't do things like that.

But you can refuse to move or talk.

Then at least you're not lying.

You can cut yourself off, close yourself in.

Then you needn't play any roles,

wear any masks, make any false gestures.

So you might think...

but reality plays nasty tricks on you.

Your hiding place isn't watertight enough.

Life oozes in from all sides.

You're forced to react.

No one asks whether it's genuine or not,

whether you're lying or telling the truth.

Questions like that only matter in the theater,

and hardly even there.

I understand you, Elisabet.

I understand that you're not speaking or moving,

that you've turned this apathy into a fantastic setup.

I understand and admire you.

I think you should play this part until it's played out,

until it's no longer interesting.

Then you can drop it, just as you eventually drop

all your other roles.

Thus, at the end of the summer, Mrs. Vogler and Sister Alma

move out to the doctor's summer house.

The stay by the sea agrees very well with the actress.

Her crippling apathy at the hospital

gives way to long walks, fishing excursions,

cooking, letter writing, and other diversions.

Sister Alma enjoys the seclusion of the countryside

and tends to her patient with utmost care.

Don't you know it's bad luck to compare hands?

Elisabet...

may I read you something from my book?

Or am I disturbing you?

Here's what it says:

"All the anxiety we carry within us,

all our thwarted dreams, the inexplicable cruelty,

our fear of extinction,

the painful insight into our earthly condition

have slowly crystallized our hope for an other-worldly salvation.

The tremendous cry of our faith and doubt

against the darkness and silence

is the most terrifying proof of our abandonment

and our unuttered knowledge."

Do you think that's true?

I don't believe that.

To change... but I'm so lazy.

And then I feel guilty about it.

Karl-Henrik scolds me for not having any ambition,

for going around like I'm sleepwalking.

I think that's unfair.

I graduated highest in my class.

But maybe he means something else.

You know... Oh, sorry.

You know what I think about sometimes?

At the hospital where I took my exam,

there's a home for old nurses

who were nurses all their lives and lived for their work

and were always in uniform.

They live in their little rooms there.

Imagine believing so strongly in something

that you devote your entire life to it.

Having something to believe in, working at something,

believing your life has meaning.

I like that.

Holding on tight to something, no matter what...

I think that's how it should be.

Meaning something to other people.

Don't you agree?

I know it sounds childish, but I believe in that.

What a downpour!

Oh, yes, he was married.

We had an affair for five years.

Then he got tired of it, of course.

I was terribly in love, and he was the first.

I remember it all like one long torment.

Long periods of agony, and brief moments when...

Your teaching me how to smoke reminded me.

He smoked constantly.

In hindsight it all seems so dreary.

A real dime store novel.

In some strange way it was never quite real.

I don't know how to explain it.

At least, I was never quite real to him.

But my pain was real, that's for sure.

But that was somehow all a part of it

in some nasty way,

as if that's how it was supposed to be.

Even the things we said to each other.

Lots of people have told me I'm a good listener.

Isn't that funny?

No one's ever bothered to listen to me.

Like you're doing now. You're really listening.

I think you're the first person who's ever listened to me.

It can't be at all interesting.

You could be reading a good book instead.

How I'm going on! I hope I'm not irritating you.

It feels so good to talk. It feels nice and warm.

I've never felt like this in all my life.

I've always wanted a sister.

I have loads of brothers... seven.

Strange, eh? Then I came along.

I remember being surrounded by boys all my life.

But I like boys.

But I'm sure you know that,

with all your experience as an actress.

I like Karl-Henrik so much,

but you really only love once.

I'm faithful to him.

Opportunities come up in this line of work, I can tell you.

Karl-Henrik and I rented a cottage by the sea once.

It was June, and we were all alone.

One day, when Karl-Henrik had gone into town,

I went to the beach on my own.

It was a warm and lovely day.

There was another girl there.

She'd paddled over from another island

because our beach was sunnier and more secluded.

We lay there sunbathing beside one another, completely naked,

dozing now and then, putting suntan lotion on.

We had those cheap straw hats on, you know?

I had a blue ribbon around mine.

I lay there peeping out from under my hat

at the landscape and the sea and the sun.

It was kind of funny.

Suddenly I saw two figures leaping about on the rocks above us.

They would hide and then peek out.

"There's a couple boys looking at us," I told the girl.

Her name was Katarina.

"Let them look," she said, and turned over on her back.

It was a strange feeling.

I wanted to jump up and put on my robe,

but I just lay there on my stomach

with my bottom in the air,

not at all embarrassed, completely calm.

Katarina lay there next to me the whole time,

with her breasts and thick thighs.

She just lay there sort of giggling to herself.

I noticed that the boys had come closer.

They just stood there looking at us.

I noticed they were terribly young.

Then one of them... the more daring of the two...

came up and squatted down next to Katarina.

He pretended to be busy picking at his toes.

I felt so strange.

Suddenly I heard Katarina say,

"Hey, why don't you come over here?"

She took him by the hand

and helped him off with his jeans and shirt.

Then suddenly he was on top of her.

She guided him in with her hands on his behind.

The other boy just sat on the slope and watched.

I heard Katarina whisper in the boy's ear and laugh.

His face was right next to mine.

It was red and swollen.

Suddenly I turned over and said,

"Aren't you coming over to me too?"

And Katarina said, "Go to her now."

He pulled out of her

and fell on top of me, completely hard.

He grabbed my breast.

It hurt so bad!

I was ready somehow and came almost at once.

Can you believe it?

I was about to say, "Careful you don't get me pregnant"

when he suddenly came.

I felt it like never before in my life,

the way he sprayed his seed into me.

He gripped my shoulders and arched backward.

I came over and over.

Katarina lay on her side and watched

and held him from behind.

After he came, she took him in her arms

and used his hand to make herself come.

When she came,

she screamed like a banshee.

Then all three of us started laughing.

We called to the other boy, who was sitting on the slope.

His name was Peter.

He came down, looking all confused

and shivering despite the sunshine.

Katarina unbuttoned his pants and started to play with him.

And when he came, she took him in her mouth.

He bent down and kissed her back.

She turned around, took his head in both hands,

and gave him her breast.

The other boy got so excited that he and I started all over again.

It was just as good as before.

Then we went for a swim and parted ways.

When I got home, Karl-Henrik was already back from town.

We ate dinner and drank some red wine he'd brought.

Then we had sex.

It's never been as good, before or since.

Can you understand that?

I ended up pregnant, of course.

Karl-Henrik, who's studying medicine,

took me to a good friend of his, who performed an abortion.

We were both relieved. We didn't want children.

Not then, anyway.

It doesn't make any sense.

Nothing fits together.

And the guilty conscience you feel over little things.

You understand?

And what about all the things you'd decided to do?

Don't you have to do them anymore?

Is it possible to be

one and the same person at the very same time...

I mean, two people?

God, I'm being silly!

Anyway, there's no reason to start blubbering.

I'll get a handkerchief.

It's almost morning...

and it's still raining.

I've been talking nonstop

while you've just listened.

How boring for you.

What could possibly interest you about my life?

People should be like you.

You know what I thought

after I saw a film of yours one night?

When I got home and looked in the mirror, I thought,

"We look alike."

Don't get me wrong. You're much more beautiful.

But we're alike somehow.

I think I could turn into you if I really tried.

I mean inside.

You could be me just like that...

though your soul would be far too big.

It would stick out everywhere!

Go to bed...

or you'll fall asleep here at the table.

I must go to bed now

or I'll fall asleep at the table,

and that would be rather uncomfortable.

Good night.

Elisabet...

did you speak to me last night?

Were you in my room last night?

Shall I take your mail too?

Let me have a taste.

See ya.

"Dear friend, I could live like this forever.

The silence, the seclusion, reducing my needs,

feeling my battered soul finally start to straighten itself out.

Alma pampers me in the most touching way.

I think she's actually enjoying it here and that she's very fond of me,

perhaps even a bit smitten in a charming, subconscious way.

In any case, it's a lot of fun studying her.

Sometimes she cries over past sins...

an orgy with a strange boy and a subsequent abortion.

She complains that her notions about life

fail to accord with her actions."

I see you're reading a play.

That's a healthy sign. I'll tell the doctor.

You think we should leave here soon?

I'm starting to miss the city.

Aren't you?

Would you like to make me really happy?

I know it's asking a lot, but I could use your help right now.

Nothing dangerous.

But I do wish you'd talk to me.

Doesn't have to be anything special.

We could talk about anything... what to have for dinner,

whether the water's cold now after the storm,

whether it's too cold to go swimming.

Just talk for a few minutes. One minute.

You could read to me from your book.

Just say a few words.

I have to try not to get angry.

It's your business if you want to keep quiet.

But I need you to talk to me now.

Can't you just say

one word?

I knew you'd refuse.

You can't know how I feel.

I always thought great artists

felt this great compassion for other people...

that they created out of great compassion

and a need to help.

That was silly of me.

You've used me. For what, I don't know.

Now that you don't need me anymore, you toss me aside.

Yes, I hear perfectly well how phony that sounds!

"You've used me, and now you're tossing me aside."

But it's true... every word. And these glasses!

You've hurt me badly.

You've been laughing at me behind my back.

I read the letter you wrote to the doctor.

It wasn't sealed, and I read the whole thing.

You got me to talk,

to tell you things I've never told anyone.

Then you go and pass it on. Great study material, eh?

You're not...

You're going to talk now!

If you have something to say, by God...

No, don't!

Scared there for a minute, weren't you?

For a second you were genuinely scared, weren't you?

A genuine fear of death, huh?

"Alma's gone crazy," you thought.

Just what kind of person are you anyway?

Or maybe you just thought, "I'll remember that face,

that tone of voice, that expression."

I'll give you something you won't forget!

You're laughing, are you?

Things aren't that simple for me.

Or so funny either.

But you always have your laugh.

Does it have to be like this?

Is it really so important not to lie, to tell the truth,

to speak in a genuine tone of voice?

Can a person really live without babbling away,

without lying and making up excuses and evading things?

Isn't it better to just let yourself

be silly and sloppy and dishonest?

Maybe a person gets better by just letting herself be who she is.

No, you don't understand.

You don't understand what I'm saying.

There's no reaching someone like you.

The doctor said you're mentally healthy,

but I wonder if your madness isn't the worst kind.

You act healthy,

and the worst thing is, everyone believes you.

Except me, because I know how rotten you are.

God, what am I doing?

Elisabet, forgive me.

I'm behaving like an idiot.

I don't know what got into me. I'm here to help you.

It was that awful letter.

I was so disappointed.

You asked me to talk about myself.

It felt so good. You seemed so kind and understanding.

I'd had a lot to drink,

and it felt so good to talk about it all.

And I suppose I was flattered

that a great actress like you would bother to listen.

I even thought it would be nice if what I said

were of some use to you.

But that's awful, isn't it? Sheer exhibitionism.

Elisabet, I want you to forgive me.

I like you so much. You mean so much to me.

I've learned so much from you.

Let's not part as enemies.

You won't forgive me because you're too proud!

You won't stoop to my level because you don't have to!

I won't...

...we don't speak...

...don't listen...

...can't understand...

...what means...

...to persuade... to listen...

When you sleep, your face goes slack...

and your mouth is swollen and ugly.

There's a nasty wrinkle on your forehead.

You smell of sleep and tears...

and I can see the pulse in your neck.

There's a scar there that you cover with makeup.

He's calling again.

I'll find out what he wants from us...

far away out here in our solitude.

Sorry if I frightened you.

I'm not Elisabet.

I'm not here to make demands.

I didn't mean to disturb you.

You think I don't understand?

The doctor explained everything.

But the hardest part is explaining to your little boy.

I do the best I can.

There's something deeper down, hard to get a grip on.

You love someone... or rather, you say you do.

It's something tangible... at least, as far as words can be.

Mr. Vogler, I'm not your wife.

And you're loved as well.

You build a community.

It gives you security.

You see a possible way of enduring, don't you?

How can I say everything I've thought without getting lost...

without boring you?

I love you as much as ever.

No, don't worry, my love.

We have each other. We have faith in each other.

We know each other's thoughts. We love each other.

That's true, isn't it? - Yes.

And it's the effort that counts, not what we achieve, right?

To see each other as children,

tormented, helpless, lonely children.

Tell our little boy Mommy will be back soon,

that Mommy's been ill, but she longs for her little boy.

Remember to buy a toy for him.

A present from Mommy. Don't forget.

I feel such great tenderness for you.

It's almost unbearable.

I don't know what to do with my tenderness.

I thrive on your tenderness.

Elisabet, is it good for you with me?

Is it good for you?

You're a wonderful lover. You know that.

Darling!

Give me a sedative.

Toss me aside. I can't go on!

My darling...

Leave me alone!

This is shameful, all of it!

Leave me alone!

I'm cold and rotten and indifferent.

It's all just a sham and lies!

What have you got there?

What are you hiding under your hand?

Let me see.

It's the picture of your little boy, the one you tore up.

We have to talk about this.

Tell me now, Elisabet.

Then I will.

It happened at a party one night, didn't it?

It was late, and the party was quite rowdy.

Toward morning someone in the group said to you...

"Elisabet, you have practically everything

as a woman and as an artist,

but you lack motherliness."

You laughed, thinking it was ridiculous,

but later you found yourself thinking about what he'd said.

You grew more and more worried...

so you let your husband get you pregnant.

You wanted to be a mother.

When you knew it was definite, you became afraid...

afraid of responsibility, of being tied down,

of leaving the theater behind,

afraid of pain, afraid of dying,

afraid of your body that was swelling up.

But you played the part the whole time,

the part of the young, happy, expectant mother.

Everyone said, "Isn't she beautiful now?

She's never been so beautiful."

Meanwhile you tried several times to abort.

But you failed.

When you realized it was inevitable,

you began to hate the baby

and hoped it would be stillborn.

You hoped the baby would be dead.

You wanted a dead baby.

It was a long and difficult delivery.

You were in agony for days.

The baby was finally delivered with forceps.

You looked with disgust at your squealing child and whispered,

"Can't you just die? Can't you die?"

But he survived.

The boy cried day and night...

and you hated him.

You were afraid. You had a guilty conscience.

In the end, some relatives and a nanny

took care of the boy,

and you could leave your sickbed and return to the theater.

But the suffering wasn't over.

The boy was seized

by a vast, unfathomable love for his mother.

You resist.

You resist desperately,

because you feel you can't return that love.

You try and try...

but your encounters with him are cruel and awkward.

You can't do it.

You're cold and indifferent.

And he looks at you.

He loves you, and he's so soft,

and you want to hit him for not leaving you alone.

You find him repulsive, with his thick lips and ugly body

and his moist, pleading eyes.

You find him repulsive, and you're afraid.

What have you got there?

What are you hiding under your hand?

Let me see.

It's the picture of your little boy, the one you tore up.

We have to talk about this.

Tell me now, Elisabet.

Then I will.

It happened at a party one night, didn't it?

It was late, and the party was quite rowdy.

Toward morning someone in the group said to you...

"Elisabet, you have practically everything

as a woman and as an artist,

but you lack motherliness."

You laughed, thinking it was ridiculous,

but later you found yourself thinking about what he'd said.

You grew more and more worried...

so you let your husband get you pregnant.

You wanted to be a mother.

When you knew it was definite, you became afraid...

afraid of responsibility, of being tied down,

of leaving the theater behind,

afraid of pain, afraid of dying,

afraid of your body that was swelling up.

But you played the part the whole time,

the part of the young, happy, expectant mother.

Everyone said, "Isn't she beautiful now?

She's never been so beautiful."

Meanwhile you tried several times to abort.

But you failed.

When you realized it was inevitable...

you began to hate the baby...

and hoped it would be stillborn.

You hoped the baby would be dead.

You wanted a dead baby.

It was a long and difficult delivery.

You were in agony for days.

The baby was finally delivered with forceps.

You looked with disgust at your squealing child and whispered,

"Can't you just die?

Can't you die?"

The boy cried day and night,

and you hated him.

You were afraid. You had a guilty conscience.

In the end, some relatives and a nanny

took care of the boy,

and you could leave your sickbed and return to the theater.

But the suffering wasn't over.

The boy was seized

by a vast, unfathomable love for his mother.

You resist desperately,

because you feel you can't return that love.

You try and try...

but your encounters with him are cruel and awkward.

You can't do it.

You're cold and indifferent.

And he looks at you.

He loves you, and he's so soft,

and you want to hit him for not leaving you alone.

You find him repulsive, with his thick lips and ugly body

and his moist, pleading eyes.

You find him repulsive, and you're afraid.

No!

I'm not like you.

I don't feel the same way you do.

I'm Sister Alma. I'm only here to help you.

I'm not Elisabet Vogler.

You're Elisabet Vogler.

I'd really like to have...

I love...

I haven't...

I've learned quite a lot.

Let's see how long I can hold out.

I'll never be like you. I change all the time.

You can do what you want. You won't get to me.

Say nothing.

Cut a candle.

A kind of otherness.

Not now. No, no.

Warning and outside time.

Unforeseen.

When it was supposed to happen, it didn't, so... failure.

You stand there,

but I should do it.

Not inward, no.

Say collect and advise others.

A desperate maybe.

I take, yes... but what is closest?

What's it called?

No, no, no.

Us, we, me, I.

Many words and then disgust,

unbearable pain, the nausea.

Try and listen to me now.

Repeat after me.

Nothing.

Nothing.

No, nothing.

Nothing.

That's it.

That's good.

That's how it should be.

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