Hen-pecked husband Vihtori Rantamo (Eino Jurkka) takes rather too enthusiastically to his newfound freedom when his wife Klaara (Annie Mörk) goes out of town, and ends up making a fool of himself on national radio. Hearing him singing, Klaara confuses her husband with his duet partner and namesake Vihtori Hiltunen (Arvi Tuomi), a recently divorced man cavorting in Helsinki high-society. Assuming that she has been ditched in absentia and that some floozie has stolen her husband, a shocked Klaara returns to make amends or exact revenge, depending on how she feels. Meanwhile, their daughter Hilkka (Sointo Kouvu ) is up to no good with her foppish boyfriend Robert (Helmer Kaski), creating a series of misunderstandings of her own that will all solve themselves when he turns out to be a millionaire.
“Laugh Bomb!” (naura pommi!) promises the film poster for Kaksi Vihtoria, rather optimistically, particularly considering that director Nyrki Tapiovaara was obsessed with realism in cinema, but obliged here to confine his work within the usual, humdrum constraints of yet another “random-people-descend-on-a-mansion” plot. This, in turn, owes its origins to the fact that so many Finnish cinema productions in the 1930s and 1940s drew their source material from stage plays that predictably called for the recycling of the same sets and props guaranteed to be found at repertory theatres throughout the country.
This one, however, has a fascinating production history, creating a huge set of behind-the-scenes influences and connections. The story itself derives from the stage play Klaara and Her Vihtori (1931), written by Tatu Pekkarinen, but this itself was based on the comic strip known in Finland as Vihtori ja Klaara, and in its native United States of America as Bringing Up Father or Jiggs and Maggie. The strip, created in 1913 by George McManus, ran in Uusi Suomi from 1929 to its final issue in 1991, and presented the intriguingly modernist tale of a blue-collar labourer, suddenly coming into money, and trying with little success to cling to his old friends, haunts and habits, while his wife eagerly embraces the new temptations of the middle class.
This film-by-film blog of Finnish cinema derives from the two massive box sets of the works of the production houses Suomi-Filmi and Suomen Filmiteollisuus, which account for most of the films in the country before the 1960s. There were, however, a number of squib companies and upstarts, works from which I am doing my best to slide into this narrative as and when I can. This film is from one such also-ran, the company Elo-Seppo (“Cine-Smith”), such a small-time operation that it needed to rely on the laboratory at Suomi-Filmi to process its footage.
You know that this is going to be a different film from the very first scene, in which Vihtori is seen innocently, but creepily flirting with a leggy secretary at his office (the sultry Senja Soitso), only for Klaara to walk in and whack him on the head with a rolling pin.
Determined to add a bit of pizzazz, director Tapiovaara takes every conceivable opportunity to cram songs into the storyline. In a film that runs for 103 minutes, entire scenes drag by in perky vaudeville routines and impromptu sing-alongs. In the role of Vihtori and Klaara’s daughter Hilkka, Sointo Kouvu is first encountered playing one song on the piano, before her mother interrupts her and asks her to play another one, all as a prelude to a tiny little bit of plot-creating dialogue. The cast also perform several versions of a song called “Do the Lambeth Walk and there is No Chalk in Your Veins.” Which really is a mutant version of the “Lambeth Walk” in Finnish. Can you imagine? The Lambeth Walk was the last, great global dance craze of the pre-war era, although that is no excuse. Although if you really want to see terror up close, have a look at these tormented Finnish teenagers, grimly shuffling around to the tune of the actual Lambeth Walk at some godforsaken school prom in 2016. I’ll say this for the cast of the 1939 movie – at least they appear to be enjoying themselves.
And, surprisingly, this all works rather well – creating a variety experience in the days before channel surfing, in which a jumble of sketches and songs propel along a vague plot, and if there is something onscreen that you don’t like… just wait a minute. The reviewer for Uusi Suomi, a paper with a vested interest in promoting this movie, wrote that it was “a farce of the lightest species, the sole purpose of which is to produce harmless fun for its viewers.”
The Helsingin Sanomat agreed, noting that “a farce such as this hardly requires a logical plot, since its sole purpose is to entertain the audience, and in that respect the film fulfills its purpose well.” Decades later, particularly since it was shot in a square 4:3 format, it looks less like a film from the 1930s, and more like a sitcom from the early days of television.
Scenes in the café get their own separate billing in the opening credits as a “cabaret programme”, in which the likes of Alexander Saxelin, Mirjami Kousmanen (dressed like a refugee from Planet Mongo), “the Harmony Sisters” and a bevy of can-can dancers bring the story to a grinding halt for another ten minutes of song-and-dance. Chief offender is the apparently unstoppable ukulele-playing, tap-dancing Matti Jurva, who sings songs, juggles hats and hassles people trying to eat. And at the end of it all, the cast leap into one more rendition of the “Lambeth Walk”, dancing on the tables in the drawing room like a bunch of nutters.
Another film, Teuvo Tulio’s Vihtori ja Klaara was released only a few months later, in August 1939, and represents a thorny issue in film historiography, since it both was and was not a sequel. Finding himself without a script and a looming production schedule for the company Tarmo-Filmi, director Teuvio Tulio allowed himself to be persuaded by his already-hired leading man Eino Jurkka to rip off and change the names in an earlier script, Valentin Vaala’s If Father Says So (1935, Kun isä tahtoo), made for Bio-Kuva four years earlier. Jurkka, who had played the leads both in that film and in Kaksi Vihtoria, now played an entirely different Vihtori in this version, although inattentive viewers, of which Finnish cinema seems to have legions, might easily be fooled into thinking that the Vihtori Vuorenkaiku of this film was the same guy as the Vihtori Rantamo of the earlier one, or indeed the same guy as August Lampanpää in If Father Says So, all of whom were, of course, played by the same actor. I never said this would be easy.
Jonathan Clements is the author of An Armchair Traveller’s History of Finland.