It begins not with a bang, but with a chilling stillness. A man stands in his apartment, meticulously vacuuming while recounting mundane details of his life – business trips, apartment renovations, a new Volvo. Outside his window, however, unfolds a scene of profound horror, treated with the same dispassionate gaze as the dust bunnies under the sofa. This juxtaposition, this unnerving calm in the face of the abyss, is the haunting entry point into Roy Andersson's 1991 short film, World of Glory (Härlig är jorden), a piece that might have been a stark, monochrome anomaly amidst the neon glow of the video store shelves back in the day.
Even at a mere 15 minutes, World of Glory feels less like a short film and more like a perfectly distilled shot of the cinematic language Roy Andersson would spend decades refining. If you've encountered his later masterpieces like Songs from the Second Floor (2000) or A Pigeon Sat on a Branch Reflecting on Existence (2014), the DNA is strikingly present here. We see the static, meticulously composed long takes, often employing deep focus to show simultaneous layers of action (or inaction). The colour palette is deliberately muted, washed-out, reflecting the emotional landscape of its characters. And the tone – that uniquely Andersson blend of profound sadness, biting satire, and unsettling absurdity – is already fully formed. It’s like discovering an early, potent sketch by a master painter.
The film follows a nondescript white-collar businessman, played with unforgettable blankness by Klas-Gösta Olsson, as he navigates his world. He narrates directly to us, his voice flat, detailing his successes and creature comforts. Yet, the tableaux Andersson presents tell a different story. We see him participating, passively yet complicity, in acts of profound cruelty – most notoriously, the infamous scene involving a truck, exhaust fumes, and a group of naked people, an image so stark and disturbing it burns itself into your memory. It’s a sequence handled with the same detached precision as a board meeting or a family dinner, amplifying its horror. Andersson forces us to confront the ease with which ordinary life can coexist with atrocity, asking uncomfortable questions about societal apathy and the banality of evil.
What makes World of Glory so powerful is its refusal to offer easy answers or emotional release. Klas-Gösta Olsson’s performance is key; he embodies a specific kind of modern emptiness. He isn't overtly malevolent, but rather hollowed out, his humanity seemingly traded for material comfort and social standing. His blank stare reflects not just his own inner void, but perhaps the void within a society chasing progress and profit while turning a blind eye to the human cost. Does his detachment make his participation any less monstrous? The film leaves that chilling question hanging in the air.
Interestingly, this wasn't just an independent art piece. World of Glory was actually commissioned by the Swedish Board of Health and Welfare as one of several short films intended to provoke discussion. Andersson, however, delivered something far more potent and controversial than they likely anticipated. Its bleak critique of Swedish society, consumerism, and historical complacency (subtly referencing wartime neutrality and complicity) caused a stir. Yet, its artistic merit was undeniable, winning the prestigious Canal+ Award at the Clermont-Ferrand International Short Film Festival in 1992. The title itself, Härlig är jorden, translates from Swedish as "Lovely is the Earth" or "Glorious is the Earth," often linked to a traditional hymn, drips with savage irony when juxtaposed with the film's content.
Finding World of Glory back in the VHS era would have been a discovery. It wouldn't have been on the main display with the latest action flicks or rom-coms. It might have been tucked away in a 'World Cinema' or 'Short Films' section, perhaps on a compilation tape shared between friends who sought out cinema that challenged rather than just entertained. Watching it on a CRT, the stark compositions and muted colours would have felt even more pronounced, the hum of the VCR adding another layer to its unsettling quietude. It’s a reminder that the shelves of those beloved rental stores held more than just comfortable nostalgia; they held potent, sometimes difficult, works of art that demanded attention.
It’s not a film you "enjoy" in the conventional sense. It’s bleak, disturbing, and deeply pessimistic. Yet, its artistry is undeniable. Andersson’s control is absolute, each frame meticulously crafted, each silence loaded with meaning. It’s a film that burrows under your skin and stays there, prompting reflection long after the brief runtime is over. What does it mean to be a passive observer? Where is the line between bystander and accomplice? These aren't easy questions, and Andersson offers no comforting resolution.
This near-perfect score reflects World of Glory's incredible power and artistic integrity as a short film, not necessarily its "rewatchability" factor for a casual Friday night. It achieves precisely what it sets out to do with chilling efficiency and masterful control. Andersson crafts an unforgettable, deeply unsettling portrait of modern apathy and the quiet horror that can lurk beneath the surface of everyday life. Its themes are stark, its imagery indelible, and its critique remains bitingly relevant.
It’s a stark reminder, delivered with icy precision, that sometimes the most terrifying monsters aren't creatures from outer space, but the ordinary people who choose to look away.