A Jungle Tale
The Boy Remembers Home
In December of 1957, Arne Sucksdorff, a Swedish filmmaker, released a film that in Swedish was called En Djungelsaga—which translates to English as A Jungle Tale. When later released abroad, it was given the English name The Flute and the Arrow and as such was entered at the 1958 Cannes Film Festival where it won a technical award.
This film found its way to my little northern hometown in the early spring of 1958 where it played at a movie house called the Red Windmill (Röda Kvarn, a common name for Swedish movie houses at that time, along with Saga, which means Tale or Fairy Tale—a perfect name for a movie house, if you ask me).
Nine years old, day-by-daying it toward ten, I grew obsessed with this film.
To put it mildly.
It all began with Dad taking us to an early Sunday matinée. Me, Mom, and my then 4 years old sister Lili-Ann. They all liked it, or so they said. I not only liked it, I LOVED it. I was entranced, captivated, enchanted by it. The best film ever, ever, ever. Absolute magic.
I am not sure for how long the film played at our local the cinema, a couple of weeks would be my guess—after all, the film had made a big splash domestically—and to meet demand I am sure they also put on daily matinée showings, i.e., not just on Sundays, because each afternoon after than first Sunday, I talked my Mom (Dad was at work) into taking me to see it again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
She would drop me off at the cinema and then ran whatever errands she had to run or visited friends to then pick me up after the show.
And again.
Bottom line: I believe saw this film seven (some memories come up with nine) times, twice the second Sunday. Yes, every chance I got, I seem to have pleaded, begged, promised Mom anything if she would please, please, please take me to see it “just one more time” and then “just one more time” and then… you get the drift.
In the end, I went to see this film so many times that a standing joke took hold and grew our household. It started with me. Lili-Ann or Dad would ask, “Where’s Ulf?” Mom, who came up with it, would answer (whether I had or not), “He’s gone to see A Jungle Tale.” After a while this started to involve other members of the family as well: “Where’s Dad?” “Don’t know, probably gone to see A Jungle Tale.” “Lili-Ann?” “Off to see A Jungle Tale.”
Then our animals. “Where’s Grip?” (our German Shepherd). “Oh, he went to see A Jungle Tale.” Then all the way to inanimate objects, “Mom. Seen my skates?” “Oh, they’ve gone to see A Jungle Tale.” This, I am not pulling any legs here, went on for years.
It grew an often-deployed part of the family vocabulary.
Now, why had I grown so obsessed with this film? I looked at this a while back, just really curious. This is what I discerned.
The film itself was both an adventure and a documentary about the Indian Muria tribe of the north-central part of India’s Bastar district, north of the Indravati River. Filmed, in beautiful color, closing in on 70 years ago now, it featured a wonderful, though very primitive people and their day-to-day lives, accented by the adventures of the young boy Chendru who is given a tiger cub to look after and raise.
Add to this mix some wild and dangerous animals, like leopards and such, and it makes for 90-odd minutes of a Swedish boy’s dream. I was smitten by Chendru and equally captivated by India. Though I could not put my finger on it at the time, looking back it felt like home: I was watching where I had once lived, that was the spiritual pull that asked me back time and again to see more of this long lost home.
I missed the place. Yes, I am sure of it.
:
Astrid Sucksdorff, Arne’s wife, who accompanied him on this filming expedition, took many photographs of their adventure and eventually put them all together in a book she called Chendru, The Boy and the Tiger.
I now own this book. This is how it opens:
“Far away in the middle of India lies the jungle village of Gahr-Bengal. The people who live there are called Murias, and they believe their many-colored land to be more beautiful than any other in the world. They are content, they laugh, they are a singing people.
“Gahr-Bengal rests on the edge of a vast jungle. Where the earth lies open, the Murias tend their green, well-watered rice fields. Beyond, far away on the horizon, the towering shapes of mountains rise. These are called the Blue Mountains. Sometimes the bravest of the men go there to hunt.
“In the jungle lives the tiger, lord of all beasts, beloved enemy of the Murias. In the dark of night, his roaring comes close. The other animals tremble with fear. But the village huts are built of thick clay and plaited bamboo—they are safe.”
This introduction ends, “Chendru was born during the night when the tiger stole two buffaloes from the village chieftain.”
As all good films do, A Jungle Tale manipulates time; or did for me at any rate—ninety minutes went by in about ten.
Where did those missing eighty minutes go?
They went to see A Jungle Tale.
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