The story that unfolds in Victory is lean but exciting. Major von Steiner is an officer in a Nazi propaganda unit and former professional footballer. While visiting a German prison camp, he observes POWs playing football as is almost immediately struck with a decidedly offbeat idea. To build morale and relieve boredom for both sides, he suggests a friendly match between Allied POWs and German soldiers from a nearby base.
However, von Steiner’s idea is soon twisted by his commanding officer into a devastating propaganda coup for the Nazis by having the prisoners play against the German national football team at the famed Olympic stadium, Stade Olympique de Colombes, in occupied France. Von Steiner bristles at these politicized, jingoistic changes intended to humiliate the Allied players. He may be a Nazi officer with a strong sense of duty and love of country, but von Steiner is not in lockstep with the Nazi propaganda machine. He is a man of honor, serving proudly as both an officer and a gentleman. As such, he promised a fair match and is aggrieved that he is unable to keep his word.
Despite this, he is tasked to ensure Colby and his team remain committed to playing the match. For his part, Colby must weigh the risks of the damning decisions confronting him, including whether he should use the game as cover for a mass escape attempt.
The role of von Steiner is not large. Nor is it flashy. Von Steiner is present to ignite the plot and prod it, with Colby, along a path strewn lightly with obstacles to The Big Match.
No matter; von Sydow clearly relishes his role. Indeed, he establishes an imposing presence from the outset of the film. Consider: After stopping an errant football kicked by American POW Hatch (Sylvester Stallone), he freezes a menacing glare on the prisoner as if he was about to unleash the full fury of the Third Reich upon the man for his sloppy ball control. Instead, he expertly—and quite unexpectedly—juggles the ball and passes it to Colby (Michael Caine), the team’s captain, all while holding eye contact with Hatch. But now a smirk purses his mouth that translates from German into “How do you like that, bitch?”
Von Sydow’s line delivery conveys the authority of his experience joined with the confidence of a professional who understands the DNA of his character. Stallone, Caine, and the rest of the cast, despite their best efforts, never rise above actors adopting character roles to 35mm film. In contrast, von Sydow has heard the voice of von Steiner and distilled it into his performance to enrich it. He becomes the major fully, and so provides a vitality and authenticity his costars lack.
For example, early in the story, Von Steiner recognizes Colby as a fellow pro player and is genuinely pleased to see him, leading to this simple but eloquent exchange:
Von Steiner: “It’s a shame the war has ended your career.”
Colby: “Interrupted.”
Von Steiner: “Let’s hope so.” Ever the epitome of both officer and gentleman, von Steiner salutes and leaves. As he does, the audience is left with an indelible impression of von Steiner: He is a man of honor, and perhaps, not the villain his uniform suggests.
Later, von Steiner returns to the pitch to speak with Colby again, and the two have a brief, heated exchange regarding the value of war. Von Steiner then asks, “If nations could settle their differences on the football pitch, wouldn’t that be a challenge?” He speaks with sincerity and an understated strength that makes the answer to his question closed to debate. Given how von Sydow so ideally embodies his honorable Nazi, I am hard-pressed to think of another actor who could deliver such dialog with the weight it requires while using a German accent (or acceptable approximation) without those words landing with a thud or him sounding like a refugee from Hogan’s Heroes.
During the climactic match that comprises the final act of the film, von Sydow has no dialog and little to do. Yet, like the stars of the silent film-era, he draws the viewer’s attention to himself and conveys his character’s thoughts through a purely physical performance. He studies the action with an academic’s intensity, eyes fixed on the pitch, chin in hand, engrossed.
When the Allies score a spectacular goal, he explodes to his feet, cheering, a wide smile blooming across his face—all to the visible chagrin of his peers but the delight of the audience. Then, as the overjoyed French crowd begins chanting, “Victoire! Victoire!” he glides down the stadium steps, listening intently, transfixed at the spectacle before him like a penitent seeking God.
Minutes later, when the German’s tie-breaking, game-ending penalty kick is denied by Hatch, and the POWs have won a bruising symbolic victory over the Germans, von Sydow descends from his euphoria. Recognizing who actually won the match, he allows a wisp of pleasure to fan across his face.
But the most memorable and satisfying performance is yet to come. When the game ends, the French spectators stream from the stands, overrunning the German guards to swarm the pitch. Reacting to the chaos, von Sydow softens his face with a quiet awe. As the roaring French continue to mass, and are clearly helping the POW players to escape, he is caught in the midst of an unexpected adrenaline rush. He takes two visible deep breaths as he watches the mob rush the stadium gates, and sits on a bleacher to steady himself, his face now transformed to a growing joy. All done wordlessly. Von Sydow delivers a masterclass in acting and it is a joy to behold.