Ingrid Bergman

by Grace Carter

  Ingrid was taken aback. She had come to humbly explain her dilemma and was being treated like a stupid schoolgirl. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’ve made up my mind.”

  After a short pause, Molander let loose with a tyrannical outburst. “You’ve made up your mind? Young woman, you will not leave this theatrical school! You are only a student. I forbid you to go! Understand that. I forbid you to leave!”

  This was too much for Ingrid. “I don’t see how you can forbid me,” she said quietly. “We have no contract between us. You accepted me. The lessons are free. I don’t pay anything, and I don’t get paid. If I don’t want to come back to school in September, you can’t put me in prison for it. And now you’ve made up my mind for me. I am leaving.”

  Ingrid left, leaving Molander a bit stunned by her audacity. After the meeting, however, she had doubts. She knew Molander was right about her lack of training. But the studio’s offer to pay for private lessons seemed to solve that problem and clinched the deal for her.

  So she studied dancing, movement, and voice production. One of her teachers, the actress Anna Norrie, imparted a lesson about stage acting that stayed with her. “If you do a gesture, make it a big gesture,” she said. “Never be afraid of gestures, sweep out your arms. Do it from the point of the shoulder here. Big gestures. Always big gestures.”

  Screen acting, of course, was different, and Ingrid learned some valuable lessons by watching her own performances. Being tall – and ashamed of her height – she noticed that she was creeping through scenes like a hunchback. So she did corrective exercises to make herself straighten up and stand tall. She learned how to breathe properly, make vocal inflections, and stress certain words in the script while de-emphasizing others. “I never stopped learning,” she recalled. “I’m still learning today. I love learning. You learn acting from life, and that goes on round you all the time.”

  Even before The Count of the Monk’s Bridge was released, Ingrid began work on a second film. Her role in Ocean Breakers was nothing like the lighthearted character she played in her first film. This time, she was playing Karin, the daughter of a fisherman who is seduced by the parish priest and becomes pregnant. Horrified by his behavior – and then literally struck by a bolt of lightning that gives him amnesia – the young priest is taken to a distant hospital to recover. When he reappears and meets Karin again, his memory returns and he publicly confesses to his crime. Afterward, he abandons the priesthood and joins Karin to help raise their child.

  The film was shot on location on Prästgrund, a small island off the northern coast of Sweden. “I loved every second,” she wrote in her journal. “For the very first time people asked for my autograph. Ivar Johansson is the world’s funniest and best director. I was sometimes ugly like a witch, but Ivar says that is right for a fisher-girl. They all praise me, and I must keep my head with all these compliments. I only wish I had been really good in every scene. In the rehearsals, I think it is good, but then there is a take and somehow it is not the same.”

  But Ingrid made the most out of her part, breathing life into her dreary, one-dimensional character and making Karin a sympathetic figure without being overly emotional. The actor playing the clergyman, Sten Lindgren, was impressed, too; he thought their love scenes were so steamy they might be censored. Critics swooned. One described Ingrid’s performance as “well balanced and tender, and she is gracious and true.”

  At the studio in Stockholm, the nineteen-year-old was rapidly earning a reputation as a professional who learned her lines quickly and did her job without complaint. Ingrid later said that having Lindstrom’s support gave her the confidence she needed to keep going. Even Uncle Otto and Aunt Hulda were impressed by her success.

  After Ocean Breakers, Ingrid was offered a part in a film called Swedenhielms Family, the story of an aristocratic family facing bankruptcy brought on by its extravagances in the wake of the Depression. It was written by Hjalmar Bergman (no relation), the same author who had penned Patrasket (The Rabble), the play that inspired Ingrid to become an actress when she saw it with her father at the age of eleven. Ingrid would play Astrid, a wealthy girl willing to support the family’s indolent son. It would be directed by the man who had discovered her in her first screen test, Gustav Molander.

  But the pace of filmmaking was proving exhausting. When she complained of being overworked, the filmmakers insisted that the role of Astrid was perfect for her. “You should not overdo things,” she protested. “You are milking me too much. Not three in a row.”

  Ingrid changed her mind, however, when she was told that her hero, Gösta Ekman – the actor she had longed to perform with ever since she was a child – was playing the lead in Swedenhielms Family. “Several days in advance I was completely destroyed by my nervousness that at last I was going to meet the man that I looked up to as a god on this earth,” she wrote in her journal. “We met and I liked him immediately. He is one of God’s great artists, and I am delirious that I have been chosen to take one of the crumbs that has fallen from his table.”

  When filming began in November 1934, Ingrid developed an immediate rapport with her co-star. She felt that she had known him all her life. Ekman inspired her in “a very mystical way,” she said later, as if he were her own father. And she practically swooned when he told her, “You are really very talented. I like you very much. You help me to play because your face and expressions reflect every word I say. That is very rare nowadays.”

  Ekman became so attached to Ingrid that when he was asked to do a close-up without her, he refused. “I must look at her because she inspires me,” he said. Ingrid felt the same way.

  In January 1935, The Count of the Monk’s Bridge was finally ready for its premier at the Skandia Theater. As the date of her screen debut neared, Ingrid was both hopeful and anxious. “I am insecure and secure at the same time,” she wrote in her journal. “I am unsure about all the publicity there has been. I hope the public will think I can live up to it.”

  The reviews were deflating. “Ingrid Bergman doesn’t give any strong impression,” one said. “A somewhat overweight copy of that promising young actress Birgit Tengroth,” read another. A third said, “Hefty but quite sure of herself.” The comments about her weight hinted at the struggles Ingrid would later have with food. Though never fat, she craved sweets and would put on weight between roles while the men in her life – from Lindstrom to studio executives – tried to control her sometimes ravenous appetite.

  In the cool light of hindsight, it’s easy to see how wrong those critics were. In fact, the red-and-black striped dress she squeezed into in the film would be preserved in the costume department of the Swedish Film Industry, right alongside a gray silk evening gown worn by Greta Garbo in her first movie appearance in 1924.

  And by the time Ingrid’s third film, Swedenhielms, was released, the critics took notice of her dynamic collaboration with co-star Ekman. The Svenska Dagbladet declared: “Swedish film production has for the first time in many years reached not only international standards but high international standards.”

  Ingrid, of course, had no clue how celebrated she would become. In tears, she asked Ekman what she should do about those first negative reviews. “Ingrid, as an actress if they talk about you and write about you, that is good,” he replied. “It is only when they don’t talk about you and write about you that you should worry.”

  Fortunately, Ingrid also found comfort in the arms of Lindstrom, who took her skiing for a week in Norway. Such a trip was out of character for Lindstrom, who was committed to his practice and furthering his career and reputation. For him – as it was for Ingrid – work would always come first. That winter, the two grew closer, despite their hectic schedules.

  Ingrid’s next film was Walpurgis Night, which was treated more kindly by critics. Ingrid was excited when her understated but passionate performance about a secretary who falls in love with her boss earned her rave reviews. But her increasing confidence sometimes put her at od
ds with studio VIPs. During filming one day, Karin Swanström, criticized her hat and insisted she put on a different one. When Ingrid refused, Swanström was so astounded by the girl’s temerity that she dropped her glasses. Ingrid proceeded to stroll past her, proudly wearing the objectionable hat.

  Another time, a high-ranking executive, who knew of her affair with Adolphson, accompanied her on a junket to promote Walpurgis Night. He propositioned her - standing at the door of her sleeping compartment wearing long underwear and holding champagne. Ingrid slammed the door in his face.

  By the time she made her fifth film, On the Sunny Side – once again directed by Gustav Molander - Ingrid had broken off her affair with Adolphson. Though she was polite to him on the set and the two remained friends, she had decided to commit to Lindstrom. Whether Lindstrom ever knew about the affair is unclear. In her public statements, even years later, Ingrid would say only that she and Adolphson were “very good friends.”

  Reviews for On the Sunny Side, released in February 1936, cemented Ingrid’s status as Sweden’s new “it girl.” “Ingrid Bergman is blindingly beautiful and acts with strong inspiration,” read one review. “She handles every line with perfection,” said another. A third gushed, “Ingrid Bergman has matured as an actress and as a woman. One simply must give up before her beauty and talent . . .”

  American reviewers echoed the Swedes’ admiration. A film critic from Variety wrote that Ingrid “rates a Hollywood berth.” The New York Times thought the film was pedestrian at best, but Ingrid’s “natural charm makes it all worthwhile . . . Miss Bergman dominates the field.”

  As her career blossomed, her relationship with Lindstrom solidified. When Uncle Otto passed away in March 1936, Lindstrom was by her side, providing comfort and a shoulder to lean on. She found his attentiveness and thoughtfulness touching and felt fortunate to have found such a caring and compassionate man.

  Ingrid was eager for Aunt Mutti to meet Lindstrom - but when the couple visited her German relatives, the introduction did not go as smoothly as she hoped. While her aunt was impressed with her boyfriend and thought Ingrid had made a good match, Lindstrom was horrified to learn that Aunt Mutti had become a zealous supporter of the National Socialist German Workers Party, otherwise known as the Nazis. Aunt Mutti and her new boyfriend, who worked at a factory making Nazi uniforms, frequently threw up their arms in salute to the führer and shouted “Heil Hitler!”

  Ingrid, wanting to please her aunt, copied them in the Nazi salute, but the disgusted Lindstrom could not. At one point, Aunt Mutti suggested that Lindstrom drop his middle name - Aron - because it sounded too Jewish. At a dinner party, Elsa’s boyfriend said he had heard that Joseph Goebbels, Germany’s minister of propaganda and head of the German film industry, liked Ingrid’s work and thought she should consider a career in Germany. Those at the table toasted Ingrid’s future, as Elsa’s boyfriend raised his arm once again in the Nazi salute.

  Clearly, Ingrid was no Nazi sympathizer. The twenty-year-old didn’t even know what the party stood for, much less about its genocidal ambitions. She loved her aunt and was oblivious to her increasing fanaticism. Ingrid’s performance of the Nazi salute was not a political statement; she just wanted to do what good Germans did, never imagining that her actions would eventually create a rift with the man she would soon become engaged to marry.

  One source of conflict was Lindstrom’s admonishment that Ingrid not become “too German,” something Aunt Mutti considered ridiculous: Ingrid was as much German as she was Swedish. Ingrid didn’t understand her fiancé’s concern; after all, another Swedish actress, Zarah Leander, had become quite successful in Germany, especially since Marlene Dietrich and Greta Garbo had left for America. But Leander may not have been the best role model for Ingrid: She would go on to play a prominent role in the Third Reich’s propaganda machine, something her fellow Swedes found particularly repugnant.

  When she returned to Stockholm in March, Ingrid began work on Intermezzo, a film written specifically for her by Gustav Molander and screenwriter Gösta Stevens. The film would become the springboard for her later leap to Hollywood. Intermezzo also reunited her with Gösta Ekman, and the two were overjoyed to be working together again. “My admiration for Gösta is pretty well unbearable,” she wrote in her journal, adding that “for me he is still God Almighty himself.”

  Intermezzo tells the story of virtuoso violinist Holger Brandt (Ekman), who spends much of his time on the road performing and away from his home and his family. When he returns for his daughter’s birthday, he meets her piano teacher - Ingrid as Anita Hoffman - and, overwhelmed by her talent, asks her to accompany him on tour. As they share each other’s passion for music, their intimacy grows, and the two become lovers. Despite their deep feelings for each other, it soon becomes obvious to Anita that Holger will eventually return to his wife and children and that their love affair is only an “intermezzo,” a brief interlude in their lives.

  Ingrid’s uncanny intuition and natural empathy infused Intermezzo and her other films with an honesty and authenticity unrivaled by even the most experienced actresses of her day. The hardships and the loneliness she had experienced in her youth seemed to have given her a depth uncommon for a girl her age.

  When shooting wrapped up in June 1936, Gustav Molander was so grateful for Ingrid’s contributions that he gave her an enormous bouquet with forty carnations and a note that said, “You lift and clean and beautify my movie.”

  With Intermezzo completed, Ingrid and Lindstrom took the plunge and decided to get engaged. Neither was without reservations. Ingrid was worried that both were too devoted to their careers to form a lasting union. She was also acutely self-aware: As an orphan who often questioned her own judgment, she saw Lindstrom as a father figure – someone who could make decisions for her. That, she thought, was not the best dynamic upon which to base a marriage.

  Lindstrom, meanwhile, was a quiet and studious man who had little interest in pursuits he considered frivolous – dancing, traveling, and socializing with friends, all things Ingrid enjoyed and, of course, are part of the typical dating ritual for any young couple. Confused, he even asked a friend if he thought it was foolhardy for a sober professional like him to marry an actress – theater people being known for egotistical and overly dramatic personalities and Ingrid herself demonstrating an ambitious and headstrong character.

  Despite their qualms, both felt they were making the right decision. Ingrid was deeply in love with Lindstrom, did not want to lose him, and was ecstatic at the prospect of spending the rest of her life with someone who would take good care of her. Lindstrom’s friend, after meeting Ingrid, encouraged him to marry her. While there were risks to consider, Lindstrom became convinced that their devotion to each other would provide a firm foundation.

  Ingrid wanted to exchange rings on July 7, 1936 – the seventh day of the seventh month – because seven was her mother’s lucky number. So they drove to Hamburg to celebrate with Aunt Mutti and exchanged rings in a little church nearby, where her mother and father had been married.

  “I remember I was very pleased with my design of the engagement rings,” she recalled. “Real platinum. Very romantic. Outside the ring, two lines were engraved all round, always close together, but swinging up and down to show the ‘ups’ and ‘downs’ you expect of marriage, but never breaking.”

  In Sweden, it was customary to remain engaged for a year before marrying to make sure the couple is really well-suited to each other. This seemed like a good idea to both of them. So they set the date of the seventh day of the seventh month of the following year, 1937 – and Ingrid was pleased that the year also included a seven.

  Afterward, Lindstrom returned to Stockholm and Ingrid remained with Aunt Mutti in Germany. She wanted to work on her German and study English - mastering several languages, she knew, would only expand her opportunities as an actress. Clearly, Ingrid was already focused on her career with a ferocious, single-minded devotion that foreshadowed the dif
ficulties she would have reconciling her insatiable artistic desires with the demands of maintaining a relationship with any man.

  By the time she was twenty-one, Ingrid was an acclaimed Swedish actress with a handsome, successful fiancé. For her, that wasn’t nearly enough. “In fact there was no way I was going to remain in Sweden,” she said later. “The world was too big and wide and inviting. There was a place called Hollywood with all those talented directors and big budgets and big movies.”

  But she also knew that she didn’t have enough experience – or fluency in English – to make the leap just yet. So she bided her time. Over the next few years, she would take more Swedish film roles, get married and have a child, and even make a short detour into the bizarre film industry of Nazi Germany before feeling ready to tackle Hollywood.

  But before any of that, there was a stage play – her first. In the fall of 1936, Ingrid said goodbye to her Aunt Mutti in Hamburg and returned to Stockholm to launch her professional theatrical career. She accepted a small part in a Swedish stage version of The Hour H, a satire by the French playwright Pierre Chaine about Communist revolutionaries planning to sabotage a factory.

  The play itself wasn’t much, but it portended great things for Ingrid, who was “pretty and pleasant to look at and she gave rich promise of future dramatic performances,” said one critic. The production, which opened in January 1937, ran for 128 performances.

  The following spring, Gustav Molander offered her a part in his latest film comedy, Dollar, a role that spotlighted Ingrid’s comedic timing and sharp wit. Despite the movie’s lighthearted tone, Ingrid’s character delivered a poignant speech that resonated with filmgoers: “You think you have fun, think you’re in love, think you are loved,” she says. “Like candles at a party. You stare blindly at the flames and forget that they soon go out. Belief after belief goes out - until at last only belief itself and death are left.”