In the final scene of Ingmar Bergman’s The Virgin Spring, a man falls down to his knees and cries out to God. The ground on which this man has fallen, is the very same ground on which his daughter was previously raped and murdered. In an accusatory manner, this middle-aged father derides God for being an idle witness not only to his daughter’s murder, but also to the resultant act of vengeance that he inflicted on her perpetrators. “You saw it. God, you saw it. You allowed it to happen. I don’t understand you. I don’t understand you.” These words not only act as the focal point of this man’s prayer (and of the movie itself), but also operate as a reflection of both Ingmar Bergman the filmmaker, and Ingmar Bergman the human being.
“The fear, the anxiety, the shame. The humiliation. The rage...I want to agree; I want to confess; I want to be good; I want to pay for what I’ve done.” Although these words were written by Ingmar Bergman himself (from his autobiographical book Images), in direct correlation with his being an accused tax evader, they stand strong as a true reflection of Bergman’s exceptional honesty. Many filmmakers try to sugar-coat the tragic side of life, especially when it comes to the notion of death and the inevitable mortality we must all face. The cinema of Ingmar Bergman, on the other hand, makes certain that its audience never forgets this inescapable fact of life. In his book Images, Bergman wrote, at length, about his ‘monumental fear of death’, and the countless anxieties he had to endure as a result of this most foreboding feeling. There is hardly a single frame in any Bergman film that does not deal with this personal dread. The remainder of this essay will focus explicitly on two contrasting ways through which Bergman dealt cathartically with his own fears: his 1972 masterpiece Cries and Whispers, and his ‘swan song’ film Fanny & Alexander.
“It’s but a tissue of lies. All of it.” These are violent words, spoken within a scene of violent physicality. It is this precise balance of inner and external suffering that makes up the heart and soul of Cries and Whispers. In Images, Bergman stated that the colour red was the definitive symbolic colour for representing the “interior of the soul”. Since the colour red is not only the colour of blood, but is also a symbolic colour for the emotions of the human heart, it becomes fitting that one can see it, in some form or another, throughout every single scene of Cries and Whispers. There is one scene in particular which brilliantly demonstrates this thin line between inner human battles and their consequential acts of external violence. Bergman tells the story of Cries and Whispers through an unconventional use of flashbacks, with one of these flashbacks depicting a brief scene between one of the film’s three sisters (Karin) and her husband.
The two are seen sitting across a dining room table, as they eat their supper in near-total silence. Rarely do they even look each other directly in the eye, as Karin’s husband eats his meal in a most cold and methodical-like manner. Finally, Karin poses a simple question: “Do you want coffee or are we going to retire immediately?” Without looking at her, her husband replies: “I don’t want coffee. Thank you.” Before he has even finished saying his ‘thank you’, Karin has broken into pieces the glass of red wine she was holding in her hand. Her husband looks up at her and smirks ever so subtly, and without a word, promptly continues eating his dinner. After the meal is over, and her husband has left the table, Karin picks up one of the broken pieces of glass and repeats her mantra: “It’s but a tissue of lies. All of it.” The scene transfers to their bedroom quarters, as Karin holds this same broken piece of glass in her hands, and stares at it blankly. Altering her mantra ever so slightly but significantly, Karin elaborates: “It’s but a tissue of lies. It’s a monumental tissue of lies.” She then gets up and sits down on a nearby chair, and taking the piece of glass in her hand, begins to cut open her vaginal area. In any other movie from any other filmmaker, this would be misogynistic filmmaking at its worst. However, thanks to Bergman’s meticulous attention to his characters’ emotional scars throughout the full hour before this moment, it actually becomes an authentic statement on the sheer rawness so often found in human behaviour.
This particular scene is not only important in formulating the cathartic climax of Karin’s suffering, but it also discloses Bergman’s self-exorcising, as he tries to weed out his own demons through the creative process of his brooding yet honest brand of filmmaking. In Cries and Whispers, Bergman introduces each of the main characters and their respective flashbacks through using half-lit/half-shadowed close-ups of their faces. It is Karin’s introductory close-up however, that is perhaps the most poignant and self-illuminating of all the others. Just like in the other close-ups, Karin is looking directly into the camera with half of her face seen in the light, and the other half covered in shadow. She looks nervous and distraught, and gives the impression that she is ready to explode at any given moment. All of a sudden, she opens her mouth through an intense gasp and begins to silently mutter a few gibberish words. As though giving the impression of needing a momentary sense of release, she then closes her mouth and eyes and the screen fills up entirely with the colour red. This single shot embodies the entire thematic core of Cries and Whispers, as well as a possible declaration from the heart of Ingmar Bergman, himself. Through this one gasp, it seems like Bergman was trying to visually express, and thus better understand, that which he never could fully realize: his own personal pain and suffering.
Fanny & Alexander was made by Bergman as his swan song and he described the movie as being “the sum total of my life as a filmmaker.” Since Bergman made this film his most earnest acknowledgement of the triumphs and disappointments that he had experienced both as a filmmaker and a human being, many critics have described Fanny & Alexander as the movie in which Bergman finally found some peace with God. In short, the movie’s story is told through the eyes of two young children (Fanny and Alexander), as they weave in and out through life’s endless thread of ups and downs, joys and sorrows, births and deaths, and many other of life’s numerous cycles. Bergman had long established himself as a true master of film through making a career out of brooding, meditative, and utterly candid cinema. Through making Fanny & Alexander however, it seemed like all of Bergman’s ideas, beliefs, anxieties, and hopes were coming together in one giant ‘spinning wheel’ of a movie.
At one point in the film, the children’s father becomes gravely ill and dies. Not long after their father’s passing, their mother (Emilie) decides to marry a priest (Edvard) and they all move out to the countryside where he lives. Moving in with a new parent is a difficult scenario for any young child to have to endure. However, it isn’t long after moving into Edvard’s home that Fanny and Alexander realize just how horrific a man their new father truly is. Not only is their stepfather an extremely rigid and strict man, but he is also verbally and physically abusive towards the children and their mother. If this movie was made in Hollywood, there would have been a great risk of stereotyping the priest’s persona. But through the visionary mind of Ingmar Berman, Edvard stands for something far greater than just mere stereotype. As has been the case with many practising Catholics, Bergman (who grew up in a family of devout Lutherans) had suffered a long-lasting battle with what has become known as ‘Catholic guilt’. If one were to approach the cinema of Ingmar Bergman from an emotional standpoint alone, one may feel this sense of Catholic guilt percolating right through the frames of Bergman’s camera. Thus, it almost seems as if the priest from Fanny & Alexander is a direct personification of Bergman’s own life experience with this profound spiritual guilt.
In her review of the Criterion Collection’s Fanny & Alexander dvd release, film critic Katherine Monk headlined her article with a profound yet simple declaration: “Bergman makes right with God”. Granted, this declaration of sorts could be applied to many of Bergman’s other masterworks, yet what makes this statement especially applicable to Fanny & Alexander, is the way through which Bergman surrendered cathartically to his never-ending battle with guilt and anxiety. There is a scene towards the very end of the film in which (after Edvard’s ‘accidental’ death) Alexander believes he has seen the ghost of his abusive stepfather. The scene begins with Alexander eating a fruit biscuit in relative calm and serenity, as he walks down the hallway of his original childhood home. Suddenly, the camera reveals a cross dangling behind Alexander’s shoulder, which, we realize soon enough, is hanging from Edvard’s ceremonial cassock. Before the audience even has time to digest this frightening image, Alexander has been shoved to the floor. While still lying on the floor, Alexander raises his head and looks directly at Edvard. Edvard turns around and enlightens Alexander with a horrifying proclamation: “You can’t escape me.” Those four simple words, as terrifying and powerful as they were, ended up being the prescription for Ingmar Bergman’s greatest cinematic redemption. It is an epiphany that can only be revealed through experiencing a lifetime of portentous emotional suffering. Now that Alexander has come to a better understanding of Edvard’s inescapable presence, he will no longer need to resist the pain of his own abusive past.
Bergman passed away on July 30th, 2007 at the age of 89 years old. He was labelled by Woody Allen as “probably the greatest film artist, all things considered, since the invention of the motion picture camera”. It is all the more significant a tribute that these words would came from Woody Allen, since he is generally recognized as one of the greatest comedic directors American cinema has ever known. Upon closer reflection however, one may better understand how this paradox of filmmaking styles could lead to such towering words of admiration. On superficial levels alone, joy and laughter are two conditions that are bound to be short-lived. A more substantial state of happiness however, tends to arise from one’s ability to become more mindful and conscientious of life’s inevitable falls and disappointments. It is only through learning this life long lesson of embracing the numerous emotional scars of life, where one’s darkness can truly be reflected into a reality of light. If all of life’s real joy and laughter are rooted in this painful lesson, then the films of Ingmar Bergman are the funniest lectures one will ever attend. Bergman was a true master in the art of finding light in the darkest recesses of the human heart. Even if he had to suffer a lifetime of heartache in order for this to be realized, his suffering was not lived in vain. Through viewing the countless works of art he created onscreen, we can only send up a prayer of hope, that one day all of us will bask in the full summer light that Ingmar Bergman now calls home.
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