A vintage novel with a "national treasure" quality about it, and a movie version of it directed by Liv Ullman, Norway's passionate prodigy: Kristen Lavransdatter has an emblematic quality, like a national-theatre production attended by royalty.
Sadly, the production does not quite live up to its own image: the star-crossed lovers more closely resemble a pedophile and his prey, or a sleazy playboy and his schoolgirl pick-up, than a knight and his lady. The wild passion at the heart of the picture would be a fizzle at a Christian am-dram camp.
The big landowner, Kristen's dad, lives in a wretched shack with a couple of nags in the yard --- and his much older wife is nursing an age-old guilt, too. Basically, this whole tale is about guilt, which is a tedious theme, especially strung out for nearly three hours, and without even a few seconds of the forbidden sex being depicted, or skin being shown, which for a Scandinavian picture is, well, bewildering.
Liv dutifully delivers her central, as-it-were feminist message: that daughters should always be allowed to shag whomever they wish, wherever, and whenever they choose, and probably at just about any age.
Kristen fancied her childhood playmate, Arne, but was betrothed to Simon. A neighbour tries to rape her, but she dings him on the head with a heavy stone, deranging him sufficiently that in a rage he kills Arne. While attending a convent in Oslo (!) she takes a fancy to His Lordship, a rake who has wrecked the lives of many a dame, and is immediately hot to jump her. Ah, but he knows a trick or two with these schoolgirl virgins, and first lets her sleep the night in his lap while he strokes her hair ---- sure! After she's had a couple of lusty romps in the hay, Kristen may be racked by guilt, but she obeys her lust like a machine, and the devil take the hindmost. She's quite tickled when Mr Moneybags licks the hymen blood off her inner thigh, but that's it for the rampant sex as far as Ms. Ullman is concerned.
Perhaps the weirdest moment in this theatrical-type movie is when Kristen watches her lover kill his other mistress of ten years, mother of six of his children, then marries him and falls adoringly into his arms in her father's bed. That's carrying Stepfordism to the Nth degree, in my opinion, and for most people in the audience, I think, rips the heroine away from normal and into the world of freaky Manson-girls.
It's nice to know that the Norwegians treasure this picture, and believe its depiction of the medieval period, but out here in the wider world this film looks dated and Sunday schoolish. Even the art direction is overrated: the scenery is fairly impressive, but sparingly delivered, and the costumes out of a theatrical hire shop, and sometimes garishly coloured.
Above all, this is a film about sexual desire and longing and rampant fulfilment, and for Kristen Lavransdatter not to depict any sexual activity at all is bordering on the perverted. This is a curiosity that is better left to the Norwegian board of education.
