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Between 1864 and 1869, Karl Heinrich Ulrichs wrote a series of pamphlets advocating decriminalization of sex acts between men, in which he was candid about his own homosexuality. As noted by Liam Stack in his posthumous obituary of Ulrichs for The New York Times: “By the time the lawyer and writer Karl Heinrich Ulrichs took the podium at a meeting of the Association of German Jurists in 1867, rumors about his same-sex love affairs—and the subsequent threat of arrest and prosecution—had already cost him his legal career and forced him to flee his homeland. Standing in Munich before more than 500 lawyers, officials and academics—many of whom jeered as he spoke—Ulrichs argued for the repeal of sodomy laws that criminalized sex between men in several of the German-speaking kingdoms and duchies that existed in the years before the creation of a unified German state. …His speech was also deeply unwelcome at the 1867 meeting, where the audience erupted in shouts of ‘Stop!’ and ‘Crucify!’ that ultimately forced Ulrichs off the stage.”
His remarks helped inspire the rise of the world’s first gay rights movement, 30 years later in Berlin and preceded by more than 100 years the Stonewall riots in New York in 1969 (which are widely seen as the start of the modern LGBTQ+ rights movement). Historian Robert Beachy has said of Ulrichs, "I think it is reasonable to describe [Ulrichs] as the first gay person to publicly out himself.” But it came at a significant personal cost. Not only did he lose his career but was banished from his homeland. He published one final pamphlet in 1879 and then crossed the Alps by foot and settled in Italy, where his public advocacy for homosexuality ceased. He spent his remaining years editing a small Latin-language literary journal. In 1885, ten years before his death at the age of 69, Ulrichs published “Manor”. Set in the remote Faroe Islands, it tells the story of Har, who is saved from drowning by a young sailor named Manor. After Manor dies at sea, he returns as a vampire revenant to visit Har each night in a tragic, romantic tale of devotion. Ulrichs notably utilized the vampire trope as an early allegorical metaphor to explore homosexuality and societal rejection in Western literature.
Danish filmmaker Kasper Kalle competently adapts Ulrichs’s short story into an expanded full-length feature film, renaming Har as Baldur and Manor as Helge, but maintaining the story’s central dark romance, draping it in gothic trappings, and using the natural beauty of the Faroe islands to emphasize the isolation Baldur feels growing up as a fatherless fisherman. Egor Venned portrays Baldur as a taciturn yet sensually magnetic young man, who draws the attention of the slightly-older whaler Helge, flirtatiously enacted by Pilou Asbæk (known by most for his portrayal of the swashbuckling Euron Greyjoy in HBO’s Game of Thrones). Their affair builds slowly, shrouded—as Kat Ellinger describes in her program capsule for Fantasia—in “necessary secrecy, Baldur’s duty to family and community, and the oppressive atmosphere of devout Christianity that governs daily life” on the island, along with Helge’s unquestionable love for adventures at sea where Baldur longs to join him. When that opportunity arises he is held back by his mother Alsa (Sofia Nolsøe Mikkelsen) who guilt trips him into staying home to take care of her. Helge sails off and is drowned at sea, washing up on the shore of the island.
And that’s where the wickedness begins.
Appearing first in dense fog, then at his bedside, where Helge’s lips—as described in Ulrichs’s story—begins “looking for the gently swelling hill above the heart, which moves through the throbbing”; i.e., sucking blood from Baldur’s nipple. As Baldur begins to weaken from losing blood each night, his mother Alsa realizes what’s happening and convinces the local priest to stake the heart of Helge in his grave. Baldur, realizing he is about to die, pleads with his mother to have her bury him next to Helge, which of course she refuses to do when he does finally succumb.
Now here’s why I ask where the wickedness actually lies. Though it’s insinuated that the wickedness lies in Helge’s inability to relinquish his love for Baldur, isn’t it actually in the lack of compassion exhibited by the villagers and his own mother in not honoring his request? By not doing so, they unleash a watery revenge upon themselves, disturbing their communal rest. No rest for the wicked, indeed.
No Rest For the Wicked is a lovely, atmospheric, folkloric expression of vampiric lore, compellingly enacted, and as stated earlier, an immensely important reclamation of LGBTQ+ history. It startles me that in decades of uncovering queer history, I have never heard of Ulrichs and his story “Manor.” It’s a heartening experience to see it on cinematic display. Kudos to Kalle for this brave reclamation and strong contender for Fantasia’s Cheval Noir prize. It has my vote.
