What happens when a man’s life story becomes a historical enigma, wrapped in layers of self-aggrandizement and conflicting narratives? That’s the tangled web at the heart of I Is Another, a film that feels less like a period drama and more like a psychological chess match between truth and ego. Claes Bang plays Felix Kersten, a real-life physiotherapist whose claim to have swayed Heinrich Himmler into freeing concentration camp prisoners during WWII remains as controversial as it is unresolved. But here’s the kicker: the film doesn’t just retell this footnote in history—it weaponizes it, using it as a lens to dissect how we construct reality in an age where facts are as malleable as human memory.
Let’s unpack this. The film’s genius lies in its refusal to settle on a single version of events. Instead, it forces us to sit with the discomfort of ambiguity. Kersten, portrayed with chilling charm by Bang, is a man who claims to have manipulated one of history’s most monstrous figures, yet he insists he was never a Nazi. His story is a masterclass in self-mythologizing, and the film leans into that with a sly, almost complicit tone. What makes this particularly fascinating is how it mirrors our current cultural moment—a time when truth is often secondary to narrative, and heroes are as likely to be invented as they are to be remembered.
The setup is simple but brilliant: a train journey between Kersten and a journalist named Hedda, played with razor-sharp wit by Valerie Pachner. Their dynamic is a powder keg of mutual suspicion. Hedda, a woman with her own secrets, is determined to expose Kersten’s contradictions, while he, ever the performer, tries to maintain control of his story. The confined space of the train cabin becomes a stage for their psychological duel, and the tension is palpable. I can’t help but think of how many of our modern debates—about politics, identity, even personal relationships—play out in similar claustrophobic spaces, where every word is a calculated move.
Here’s where the film gets really interesting. The script doesn’t just present Kersten’s account; it interrogates it. Hedda’s probing questions reveal cracks in his narrative, but the film never gives us a clear answer. Is Kersten a manipulative egomaniac, or a reluctant savior? Or is he a victim of his own storytelling, trapped in a loop of self-justification? This ambiguity is what elevates the film beyond a mere historical curiosity. It’s a meditation on how we all, in some way, curate our own truths. And isn’t that what makes us human? To be honest, I think we’re all guilty of this to some extent. We edit our pasts, highlight the parts that make us look good, and downplay the rest. The film doesn’t judge Kersten for this—it simply holds a mirror up to us.
The historical context adds another layer of complexity. The White Buses incident, which Kersten claims to have orchestrated, is traditionally attributed to Folke Bernadotte. But the film’s fictionalized take on this—where Kersten publishes a letter implicating Bernadotte—raises questions about who gets to write history. It’s a reminder that even the most well-documented events can be rewritten by those with the power to shape public perception. This feels especially relevant today, when misinformation spreads faster than ever, and truth is often the first casualty of a good story.
And let’s not forget the performances. Bang is magnetic, his presence alone enough to make you question whether he’s the villain or the victim. Pachner, meanwhile, brings a sharpness to Hedda that makes you root for her, even as you suspect her motives. Their chemistry is electric, and it’s clear that the director, Felix Randau, knows how to harness that tension. The film’s structure—alternating between the train journey and flashbacks to WWII—is a masterstroke. It keeps you guessing, and the way the past and present collide is both disorienting and deeply engaging.
But here’s the thing: I Is Another isn’t just about Kersten or even the Holocaust. It’s about how we navigate the gray areas of life, where morality isn’t black and white, and where the line between heroism and self-interest is often blurred. In a world where everyone’s a storyteller, and every story has a hidden agenda, this film is a necessary reminder that truth is rarely what it seems. And maybe that’s the point. Perhaps the real lesson here isn’t about the past, but about how we choose to frame our own lives. After all, aren’t we all, in some way, trying to convince someone—or ourselves—that our version of events is the right one?
