Film Name: 丹麦诗人 / The Danish Poet
“The Danish Poet” is a thoroughly original love story, yet it was not written by director Torill Kove herself, but rather “scripted” by her parents through their own lived experiences. Perhaps this is precisely why “The Danish Poet” possesses such a mysterious and moving quality. It was this love story, brimming with miracles, chance, and coincidence, that touched the hearts of the Academy Awards judges, earning “The Danish Poet” this year’s Oscar for Best Animated Short Film.
What kind of extraordinary tale is this?
In Denmark lived a poet named Kasper. One day, he suddenly lost all inspiration for writing. While most poets might have despaired and taken to their beds, Kasper chose to seek out a psychiatrist, knowing they often have remedies for artists suffering from creative block. One doctor advised him he needed a journey. Since Kasper didn’t speak French, he decided to head north—perhaps toward Norway, the homeland of Torill Kove. Kasper visited the library to research his journey. There, he came across an article about Sigrid Undset, a Nobel Prize in Literature laureate whose work included the Kristin Lavransdatter trilogy. In the novels, Kristin, a medieval peasant girl, defied an arranged marriage to wed her true love. Yet this choice cost her her father’s affection, and she ultimately perished from despair and shame. Kasper read the entire novel and wrote to Sigrid in Norway expressing his strong desire to visit her. Soon he received a reply; Sigrid agreed to his request. Thus, he set off joyfully.
Kasper took a ferry to Norway. While walking through the countryside, a sudden downpour forced him to seek shelter at a farmhouse. He told the farmer he’d continue his journey to find Sigrid once the rain stopped—though in truth, it never did. Unconsciously, Kasper had stayed at the farm for an entire summer. During this time, he fell deeply in love with Ingeborg, the farmer’s daughter. His love for her was so profound that he could not leave without proposing marriage. Of course, she loved him deeply too, but she could not accept his proposal because she was already engaged to a local farmer, with their wedding scheduled for August.
Kasper slapped his forehead. He tried to persuade Ingeborg, but she told him she had also read Sigrid’s novel and knew the consequences of defying her father’s command. Unable to convince her, Kasper left heartbroken. Before he departed, Ingeborg gave him a lock of her hair and promised she would not cut it again until they were reunited.
Returning home, Kasper could no longer write. Ingeborg stayed at her house, constantly thinking of Kasper. Until one day, a cow knocked over her husband, and Ingeborg was free. She immediately wrote to Kasper. The postman came, collected the letter, and placed it in his large pouch. But the letter slipped out along the way and was discovered by a hungry goat, which swallowed it whole.
Another year passed. Ingeborg never cut her hair, and the village children helped her comb it. Kasper couldn’t write joyful poems either; he could only pen sorrowful verses. Then, in 1949, Sigrid passed away, and the Norwegians planned to hold a funeral for her. At first, Kasper didn’t want to go, but eventually he decided to attend the funeral. At first, Ingeborg didn’t want to go either, but she felt connected to Sigrid and also decided to go. And so, these two people, separated by distance yet longing for each other for years, met again at Sigrid’s funeral…
This is a short film rich with coincidences, one that stands up to repeated viewing. The most obvious coincidence is the parallel between Kasper and Ingeborg’s love story and Sigrid’s fictional narrative. Though we’ve seen similar plots in other films before, we still can’t help but be moved by their simple, loyal love whenever we see Ingeborg’s flowing hair dancing in the wind or her and Kasper together aboard the ferry to Denmark. We know that without the psychologist’s suggestion for Kasper to travel, without the library’s introduction to Sigrid’s novel, without that downpour, Kasper might never have met Ingeborg. And without the careless postman, the hungry goat, or Sigrid’s funeral, Kasper and Ingeborg might never have had that profoundly moving reunion. When our parents’ love was ultimately realized through such a chain of coincidences, do we ourselves feel the preciousness of life and the wonder of existence?
As Torill Kove herself stated, she had initially been writing a biographical account of how her parents met. Yet she felt such a narrative was too personal, so she chose to express it through fiction. Presenting her parents’ love story as a fairy tale is an especially romantic gesture for her, as she herself seems to be the very fruit of that fairy tale. The character of the Danish poet serves as a fitting vessel for conveying this emotion. Indeed, the poet—more than any other profession—is inherently capable of embodying such romance. Of course, we might also seek deeper coincidences: Kasper found love while pursuing artistic inspiration. Is that not a coincidence? If that isn’t clear enough, perhaps we can shift perspectives: Kasper initially hoped to gain artistic inspiration through his interactions with the renowned writer Sigrid, yet he failed. Ultimately, he discovered inspiration within himself—an inspiration born of love. This is precisely why the director designed the Danish poet as a seeker of artistic inspiration, for artistic inspiration and the inspiration of love are ultimately “coincidentally” unified.
As we immerse ourselves in these endless reveries about coincidence and chance, we must not overlook another marvelous conceit by the director—a brilliant idea that infuses the entire love story with romance and fairy-tale magic: Ingeborg’s long hair. Without this pact of long hair, the Danish poet’s tale would lose at least half its color. I even believe it is this very long hair that transforms the Danish poet’s tale from an ordinary, live-action drama into a genuine animated film. In truth, animation is not the goal but the means—a tool to help us achieve what we wish to express. When considering whether a story deserves or suits animation, what is our criterion? It is whether we must greatly engage our imagination to convey a particular concept. There are two kinds of imagination in the world: the narrative imagination found in novels, which aims to depict scenes so close to life that we forget they are fictional; and the rhetorical imagination found in animation, which aims to depict scenes so unexpected that we know they are impossible yet choose to believe them. The charm of animation lies in giving the audience a psychological satisfaction of “knowing it’s fake yet choosing to believe it’s real.” For animation directors, imagination isn’t used to construct plots but as a means of expression: Ingoborg’s long hair is an imaginative symbol representing the fidelity of love. When the director wanted to convey the depth of affection between two people, she chose to employ this symbolic imagery of long hair. Though audiences know it must be fake, they willingly choose to believe it is real.
“The Danish Poet” also features other intricate details, such as a dog perpetually kicked by the farm owner and a cow perpetually unable to climb the hill. These elements add charm to the entire story, ensuring that every frame remains engaging and never dull.
In “The Danish Poet,” the ground-level scenes and all characters were created using traditional two-dimensional animation techniques: outlines were hand-drawn first, then colored digitally on a computer. The sky backgrounds, however, adopt an oil painting style, created by Montreal artist Anne Ashton, conveying a sense of depth and three-dimensional artistry. This fusion of two-dimensional and three-dimensional elements lends the entire short film a refreshing sense of harmony.
The characters in this film, with their pinhole-like eyes and slender builds, inevitably recall the comic creations for children by Ken Kirkwood in the 1970s. Director Kove attributes this minimalist line style to inheriting her architect father’s drafting techniques. Born in Norway, she received her education there before relocating to Canada. Prior to becoming an animator, she spent years working in urban design, which helped shape her clean, dynamic artistic approach. Kove received an Oscar nomination for Best Animated Short Film in 2000 for “My Grandmother Ironed the King’s Shirt.” She revealed that she handled nearly all the drawing for that film herself. In contrast, for “The Danish Poet,” she only created the keyframes, while the in-between animation was completed by the team at Mikrofilm AS studio in Oslo. Initially, she was uncertain whether the team could maintain her clean, concise, and unified style, but the final result left her thoroughly satisfied.
The music for “The Danish Poet” was composed by jazz writer Kevin Dean, who is also Kove’s husband. Featuring primarily cornet and piano, the simple polyphonic score incorporates extensive use of traditional Norwegian scales, its haunting melodies evoking nostalgic memories.
Norwegian actress Liv Ullmann was invited to narrate “The Danish Poet.” In an interview with a media outlet, Kove remarked: “Liv Ullmann’s voiceover is incredibly moving and perfectly suited to this film. I believe she is the voice of this story, and I am deeply grateful for her contribution.”
The 79th Academy Awards honored Torill Kove and her film “The Danish Poet,” which I believe holds at least several significant meanings: First, even as 3D animation sweeps across the globe and major film festivals like a tidal wave, traditional 2D animation still possesses its unique artistic expressiveness. As Mr. Philippe Moens, founder of the ANIMA Brussels Animation Festival, stated, 3D should evolve toward greater realism—to the point where viewers cannot discern it as computer-generated. Indeed, 3D technology emerged precisely to realistically mimic human subjects and environments. 2D animation will remain the dominant form for the foreseeable future and will continue to be the most suitable medium for animators to express their ideas and imagination. Because 2D is about creation—it is drawn. Humans will always need to draw, to create images based on their imagination. That is true creation. If you merely imitate a real person, it can only be a very realistic “play,” not creation. More importantly, 2D can depict actions and concepts impossible for real people to achieve. While 2D may decline in commercial films, it will undoubtedly remain prevalent in artists’ short films. Second, narrative-driven shorts still hold significant potential. Increasingly, animated shorts lean toward fragmented narratives set in unique contexts or experimental explorations of new media and techniques. Narrative shorts like The Danish Poet—which tell a complete story centered on a traditional theme like love—have become rare. This may stem from the immense challenge of crafting a cohesive tale within 10 minutes or less. Achieving a story that remains focused, engaging, conceptually fresh, and appropriately executed—without devolving into a mere chronicle—demands profound skill and exceptional control over the medium. In this regard, “The Danish Poet” stands as a truly outstanding work.
Finally, a brief note on the director:
Torill Kove was born in Norway and later relocated to Canada. She developed a passion for drawing from a young age. After several years working in urban design, her interests shifted toward animation. She studied animation design at Concordia University in Montreal, where she won awards from Kodak for her student films “All You Can Eat,” “Fallen Angel,” and “Squash and Stretch.” Kove held various roles—including scriptwriting and key animation—on numerous animated films funded by Canada’s National Film Board (NFB). Her first professionally directed animated film, “My Grandmother Ironed the King’s Shirt,” garnered numerous awards and an Academy Award nomination. “The Danish Poet,” Torill Kove’s latest animated short film, also garnered numerous accolades and won the Academy Award for Best Animated Short Film.
Perhaps we should remember these words from this talented and fortunate director: “In my view, the greatest charm of animation, from a technical perspective, is that it has no limitations whatsoever. I recently heard that some people are using melted chocolate to make animated films. Well, why not? People working in animation share an inherent character trait: the pursuit of difference—different appearances, different techniques, different approaches. But at the same time, I want to say that we should discard the idea of difference for difference’s sake. We should encourage works that are truly innovative.
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