Nordic Psychosis: The Bergman

By: DT

“Film as dream, film as music. No art passes our conscience in the way film does, and goes directly to our feelings, deep down into the dark rooms of our souls.” – Ingmar Bergman

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A select filmography of the works of Ingmar Bergman. Included with selected films are spin-off works – those directly or loosely inspired by the Bergman in question – with accompanying blurb.

Smiles of a Summer Night – Considered Bergman’s international breakthrough, yet The Seventh Seal arguably deserves that claim more fulsomely. This is more just a mishmash of soon-to-be institutionalised themes, and then some; a mess of ideas and technique running the gamut from screwball, slapstick, existential and bourgeoisie comedy of errors, as well as romance, satire and theology. Not to say it all doesn’t make for slight, caustic entertainment, but at most it remains a curiosity, a frivolous farce preceding far more engaging auteurist works. {+ A Little Night Music (Harold Prince, 1977); A Midsummer Night’s Sex Comedy (Woody Allen, 1982)}.

The Seventh Seal – Bergman’s sprawling look at life, death, faith and religion is in equal strains joyful and bleak: at times charming in its one guise of light-hearted existential romp, and at others haunting as a brooding philosophical allegory. The whole work isn’t something that qualifies as ‘tight’ in the traditional sense, but the sentiments comes through clearly and the unorthodox tonal blend develops surprisingly harmoniously. One that gets better with every viewing, it’s deservingly seminal.

Wild Strawberries – Like The Seventh Seal, another broad yet fleeting examination of life, flickering with the slightest feeling of capriciousness at times as a result of its sprawling leitmotif. Yet it also pervades such an effortless sense of charm and ease from the very first frame, not only with regards to its open, endearing character, but also in Bergman’s seamless, assured nuance over the work’s expansive insights. A film that indeed augured well for one of world cinema’s rising stars of the time. {+ Another Woman (Woody Allen, 1988); Deconstructing Harry (Woody Allen, 1997)}.

The Virgin Spring – Jungfrukällan: the parable of a medieval, puritan household shattered after its daughter – the lone beacon of love, innocence and joy in life – is savagely raped and murdered; an examination of the hopeless cling to religion – be it Christian, mythic or mere superstition – in the face of a squalid life that breeds jealousy, fear, hatred; and how cruel fortune can turn to cruel fate, and to rage. Bergman, Nykvist and a dynamic cast deliver this evocative study on humanity: clear-cut in subtext, thus powerful, chilling, yet ultimately beautiful. {+ The Last House on the Left (Wes Craven, 1972); The Last House on the Left (Dennis Iliadis, 2009)}.

Through a Glass Darkly – Although its setting across Bergman’s favoured isle of Faro initially belies the forwarded intimacy of its ostensible chamber piece, its solitude bears heavy heart yet: its lurking psychosis in tracking a family’s frayed ties, breeds fractured catharsis within pockets of thematic clarity, amidst heavy emotional baggage – redolent of sprawling guilt and despair, until absolution sees its faith tract finally advance.

Winter Light – A real crisis of faith: dwindling congregation, mechanical sermon – over which a carving of the crucifixion casts a sickly, everlasting pall – and Björnstrand’s ailing, loveless pastor; situated in a godless vale on the constant brink of its own annihilation, over which a remote, obscure God – and His rationale against chaos – becomes all the more powerless. Stark – a relatively clear portrait, cohesive over his Glass Darkly. Its finale – resolute in its confirmation of silence – concludes the film’s cycle, not bereft of power. {+ Ingmar Bergman Makes a Movie (Vilgot Sjöman, 1962)}.

The Silence – More than a dry run for Persona: what makes Tystnaden distinguished in the Faith trilogy is the cogency of its psychopathy above Såsom i en spegel, and its striking images, beyond ‘The Communicants’. In the internal plagues of two sisters and their tenuous bond, its title surfaces: disorienting stretches serving its heavy atmospherics, darkly sensuality stirred. Emotionally numbing, but there remains a striking formation – just as much Nykvist’s film – and the first signs of an artist moving into a new plane of maturity.

Persona – Radical cinematography in this reflection on film itself, one of both obliquities and immediacy: the purpose of art towards its subject and audience, the artifice and escapism, the moving image as a window to the human spectrum, its effect on individual psyche, so reflected in two women. The intimacies of Andersson’s agent fully bared, as Ullman’s trauma patient – an actor – listens, and as we observe both, before being herself torn apart by the voyeurism; the personas blurred, the plurality of the camera thence realised. Stimulating, bold study.

Hour of the Wolf – Sparse, as a work of atmosphere and psychology; sparse too in deliberate detail, and for that, one of Bergman’s more detached. Yet for all its paroxysms, its tension is superficial. Vargtimmen holds mildest interest for its context: as slight continuance of Persona’s self-conscious (patent zooms, dollies), and as forerunner to Anna’s social trifles, and his monologue. But it’s otherwise Bergman at his most scattered, without lasting imprint; for in all its hallucination and discord, it searches for originality, but merely finds Fellini and Cassavetes.

Shame – Ingmar Bergman Makes a War Movie. The pairing of Ullman and Sydow shows resilience in this emotive study on the human psyche during war, as seen through the deterioration of their relationship under such callous strain and duress: her assertiveness against his passivity; domestic conflict against intrastate conflict, and a wider deterioration of humanity – any prior warmth replaced by cold, numb confusion and destructiveness. The stark, inconclusive finale professes dim hope.

The Passion of Anna – Bergman’s leap to colour gives En passion a unique feel; his quartet as the fractured individuals whose connivings collide, in claustrophobic bourgeois social drama. Meanwhile, the spirit of Persona lives on, its blurring of narrative boundaries: interviews with actors discussing their characters, in lieu of inner monologue; omniscient narration from Bergman himself as author; testing of new colours, shadows, lighting, edits. Bare-naked as psychologia; more intriguing as deconstruction of the filmography, in varied experiment.

Cries and Whispers – Intense colour and emotions, while simultaneously detached, just as its characters live detached from feeling – all but numb to their surroundings – in a chamber piece centering on pain, loss and an inability to deal with such amidst indolent, sneering lives. Disengagement, detritus aside, it’s hard to not still acknowledge the bold artistry and advancement of such maturated drama in Bergman’s cinema at this point, including an exactitude in its visual framing, that deftly deflects its psychological states, all indicative of a sort of violent grace.

Scenes from a Marriage – A certain theatricality: relatively still camera, lengthy stretches of dialogue; specifically, scalding bourgeoisie scolding, of an idyllic marriage reduced to ashes as its couple witness relationships likewise disintegrated before them, with the potent realisation their own is but identical beneath the appearances. Outstanding immersion on the parts of Josephson and Ullman (in one of the best female performances one can recall), to which Bergman’s stripped back approach accentuates, results in gripping emotional release. {+ Scenes from a Mall (Paul Mazursky, 1991)}.

Face to Face – Soft, understated tone coupled with stark, graphic imagery; patient a match initially, but cutting in gradual effect. Recurring irony: Ullman in Scenes from a Marriage as a marriage lawyer undergoing marital breakdown; Ullman in Face to Face as a psychiatrist becoming slowly psychotic – moreover, with the doctor-patient interplay of Persona, and its exact gender conflicts. Surprisingly evocative as melodrama, while versatile in framing – the haute tension Hour of the Wolf arguably could’ve, should’ve been. Not to mention: shockingly underseen.

Autumn Sonata – One could argue Höstsonaten’s predominant monologues and soliloquies to be prolix, yet they turn out as anything but. Similar to Scenes from a Marriage, riveting in its emotional clout: potently cathartic while elegantly restrained a mise en scene, as Ullman holds her weight against Ingrid in a dynamite late role, as a self-seeking matriarch graduated straight from the chamber of Cries and Whispers (seems there’s ample room for two Bergmans after all). Gut-wrenching family laundry airing – truly; straightforward but deadly.

Fanny and Alexander – Innocence is what foregrounds Bergman’s sprawling narrative, through the eyes of young Alexander, amidst the yearly diversions of family theatre, household tradition – which Bergman infuses with a ramshackle joy – and against the daily insecurities and harsher reality which soon resurface, unto both resistance (from youth) and acceptance (of old). Its array of simmering emotions is never maudlin, but only ever framed with a subtlety and delicacy tantamount to Bergman’s growth as a storyteller by this period. A late humanist opus.

Saraband – Scenes from a Marriage 2: On Golden Pond. But it’s not really, as it feels closer to Hour of the Wolf in its domesticated atmosphere over argument, or at least, reflection over rhetoric, while also revealing the pain of broken relationships, and with its cinematic foreplay (docudrama fourth wall, etc) in grappling with the ghosts of the past – as well as Fanny och Alexander as culmination of themes, motifs. Softer, if still troubled, emotive in broaching senility, and the wrinkles may show, but a love remains, both in front and behind the camera.

See also:
Interiors (Woody Allen, 1978)
Faithless (Liv Ullman, 2000)