What happens when history becomes a game of chess played by the morally ambiguous? That’s the unsettling question at the heart of I Is Another, a film that doesn’t just recount a footnote of WWII but weaponizes it to dissect the fragility of truth. Claes Bang’s Felix Kersten isn’t just a physiotherapist—he’s a walking paradox, a man who claims to have saved thousands of lives while navigating the moral quicksand of Nazi Germany. But here’s the kicker: no one can agree if he actually did. And that’s where the real story begins.
Personally, I think this film is a masterclass in how cinema can turn historical ambiguity into a psychological thriller. The setup is simple: a train journey in 1952, where Kersten, accompanied by his wife, is heading to Oslo for a Nobel Peace Prize press conference. But the real drama isn’t in the destination—it’s in the passengers. Enter Valerie Pachner’s Hedda, a journalist with a past as murky as the secrets she’s chasing. Their dynamic isn’t just a conversation; it’s a duel of egos, truths, and half-truths. What makes this particularly fascinating is how the film uses this confined space to amplify the tension between two people who both want to be believed, even as they dismantle each other’s narratives.
Let’s talk about the historical context for a second. The White Buses incident—where Scandinavian prisoners were freed in 1945—is typically credited to Folke Bernadotte, a Swedish diplomat. But Kersten’s claim to have brokered the deal with Himmler? That’s a story that’s been debated for decades. The film takes a bold approach: it doesn’t just present facts; it weaponizes the uncertainty. By inserting a fictional journalist into the mix, director Felix Randau forces us to confront the uncomfortable reality that history is often written by the victors—or the ones with the best stories. A detail that I find especially interesting is how the script leans into the idea that truth isn’t a fixed point but a shifting target, shaped by power, memory, and the need to be remembered.
Bang’s performance is a revelation. He’s not just playing a man with a questionable past; he’s embodying the very essence of self-mythology. His physicality—towering, commanding, yet oddly vulnerable—creates a magnetic tension with Pachner’s Hedda, who’s all sharp edges and calculated charm. What this really suggests is that the film isn’t just about Kersten’s guilt or innocence; it’s about the human need to rewrite our pasts to fit a narrative that makes us feel heroic. In my opinion, this is where the film’s relevance to today’s ‘post-truth’ era shines brightest. When facts are malleable and trust in institutions is eroding, who gets to define the story? And what happens when the storyteller is as flawed as the subject?
The film’s structure—essentially a series of tense dialogues on a train—might seem gimmicky, but it’s a stroke of genius. It’s a metaphor for how we interrogate history: in fragments, with interruptions, and always through the lens of our own biases. Hedda’s investigation into Kersten’s past isn’t just about uncovering the truth; it’s about confronting her own complicity in a system that rewards lies. What many people don’t realize is that the film’s real villain isn’t Himmler or even Kersten—it’s the machinery of memory itself, which thrives on ambiguity and selective forgetting.
If you take a step back and think about it, I Is Another is less about WWII and more about the universal human condition: the struggle to reconcile our actions with our self-image. The fact that the film premiered at Locarno’s Piazza Grande isn’t a coincidence. It’s a reminder that stories like this—those that challenge the comfort of clear-cut histories—deserve to be seen, debated, and dissected. This raises a deeper question: In a world where truth is increasingly contested, what role do artists play in preserving the complexity of the past? And more importantly, what does it say about us when we’re so eager to believe the most convenient version of events?
In the end, the film leaves us with a haunting image: a man who may or may not have saved lives, sitting across from a woman who may or may not be a fraud, both of them desperate to be heard. It’s a mirror held up to us all. Because the truth, as the film so brilliantly illustrates, isn’t just elusive—it’s a choice. And that choice, more than anything, defines who we are.
