Ebert's Greats #13: Cries and Whispers (1972)

* * * *
Director: Ingmar Bergman
Starring: Liv Ullmann, Ingrid Thulin, Harriet Andersson, Kari Sylwan

In his opening of Anna Karenina, Tolstoy wrote that "all happy families are the same; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." It might be added that every member of an unhappy family is unhappy in his or her own way. Cries and Whispers, a celebrated film from noted humorist Ingmar Bergman, is about the unhappy members of an unhappy family forced to contend with mortality. Like many of his films it explores themes of faith and the female psyche and, let me tell you, it is a laugh riot.

Review: Wild Strawberries (1957)

* * * *
Director: Ingmar Bergman
Starring: Victor Sjostrom, Bibi Anderson, Ingrid Thulin

For a film that is ostensibly concerned with emptiness, Ingmar Bergman’s Wild Strawberries is a deep and enthralling film experience. Unfolding in a dreamy, lyrical fashion, the film follows Isak Borg, a professor of medicine who realizes that his life has been meaningless and tries to create some meaning for it before it’s too late. Chances are that this is a film that you’ll either love or be utterly bored by, but if you’re looking to make your first foray into Bergman’s work, this one is pretty easily accessible.

Dr. Borg, played by Victor Sjostrom, is an old man, a widower with one son who is about to receive an award to celebrate his 50 years of medical practice. Forced to acknowledge that he’s closer to the end than he is to the beginning, he starts to reflect on his life and the reason for the loneliness he feels at his core. His daughter-in-law, Marianne (Ingrid Thulin) joins him on the drive to the ceremony, during which they discuss his son, Evald (Gunnar Bjornstrand). Marianne insists that Evald is a lot like Isak, which has created problems in the marriage, particularly where the subject of children is concerned. Much is made by others of the fact that Marianne and Evald have been married for some time and have no children and Marianne reveals to Isak that she’s pregnant. It’s the worst possible news for Evald, who wants no children because he doesn’t want them to have to endure the pattern of coldness and meaninglessness that has been established by his family. Marianne is determined that this time she will have a baby, even though it means she may have to choose between it and Evald, a concept which she finds impossible.

Isak and Marianne stop briefly at a house where his family spent summers during his childhood. While there Isak imagines the day of his uncle’s anniversary celebration, when his cousin Sara (Bibi Anderson) gathered wild strawberries for him as a gift. Isak and Sara were secretly engaged - though in fact the engagement was common knowledge thanks to family gossip - but Isak’s brother, Sigfrid (Per Sjostrand), also had designs on her. Though she knows that Isak is the good brother and Sigfrid a scoundrel, Sara is nevertheless attracted to Sigfrid and eventually he is the one she will marry. What is interesting about these memories is that they aren’t really memories at all, given that what unfolds are scenes at which Isak was never present. During the day of the anniversary celebration, Isak was out in the boat with his father and so these scenes are constructions based on second-hand knowledge and hindsight. Later Isak will remember a scene to which he was a witness – his wife’s tryst with another man – but once again the younger version of Isak does not figure into the scene. Even in his own memories, Isak is a distant figure who does not actively participate.

As a director, Bergman is well-known for symbolism, for the almost relentless way in which each shot tries to impart meaning. This film certainly relies on symbolism – particularly in a dream sequence towards the beginning – but I found it less symbolically aggressive than the other Bergman films I’ve seen (The Seventh Seal and Persona), and while it starts off a little slow, it quickly becomes an absorbing meditation on the meaning, or lack thereof, of life. The film aspires to be high-brow art with a capital "A" but it manages to do so with minimal pretensiousness.

While the film is, for the most part, quite dark in its subject matter, it is told with a lightness of touch that is appropriate to its dreamy structure. It also, surprisingly, ends on something of a light note. Isak, having realized that his coldness makes him not only stand out but stand apart from all those around him, tries to forge a connection with his long-suffering housekeeper. He suggests to her that they begin calling each other by their first names, a suggestion which she immediately turns down. What would people think if they suddenly started speaking to each other with such familiarity? Besides which, in their shared routines, the gentle way in which they bicker and depend on one another, they have already gained a level of intimacy that he has never before shared with anyone. Coming from a director best known for exploring existential crises, this is a surprisingly optimistic ending and, in its way, quite sweet. I certainly didn't expect that, but it was definitely a nice surprise.

Review: Persona (1966)

* * * *
Director: Ingmar Bergman
Starring: Liv Ullmann, Bibi Andersson

Continuing on yesterday’s theme, today I’m focusing on another Bergman classic: Persona. Like The Seventh Seal, this is a deeply psychological film concerned with heavy and ultimately unanswerable questions. However, this isn’t simply an academic exercise, it’s also a totally enthralling film. Long story short: I can’t wait to see more Bergman. Short story long:

Liv Ullmann stars as Elisabet Vogler, a famed actress who has suddenly, and without explanation, stopped speaking. Her doctor (Margaretha Krook) suggests that she and her nurse, Alma (Bibi Andersson), spend some time at her summer home, hoping that the seclusion will help draw Elisabet out of herself again. However, the more time that Elisabet and Alma spend together in isolation, the more Alma is drawn out and, perhaps, into Elisabet. Elisabet remains silent, watching, listening, as Alma talks about herself, revealing deeply personal secrets, exposing herself completely.

In a letter to the psychiatrist, Elisabet confesses that she’s studying Alma – “devouring” might be a better word. There’s something vampiric about the way she relates to Alma, taking in Alma’s words while giving up none of her own. The two women are slowly becoming one, merging into each other. There is a scene which plays twice in which Alma exposes Elisabet’s greatest secret: the disdain she feels for her own son. During the first reading of this monologue, the camera focuses exclusively on Ullmann listening. During the second, it focuses on Andersson as she watches Ullmann’s reaction. And then there is a scene where the two faces are literally merged into one.

The quest in Persona is to find an authentic voice. Elisabet is an actress who is constantly taking on roles, immersing herself in artificial personas even in her personal life. Her decision to have a child, for example, is borne not of desire for a child, but in response to a challenge when it is suggested that the role of “mother” is one for which she is not suited. She is accustomed to wearing many masks, but knows that none of them are genuine and her sudden voicelessness is a direct result of her realization that the falseness of her words and actions make them meaningless in the face of real crises in the world. She lacks substance because she can become anyone and has no “self” to act as an anchor. Isolated with Alma, she does not attempt to become her but manages instead to absorb her, seeming to take the other woman completely into her consciousness.

In discussing these elements I’m only scratching the surface of what the film has to offer. Persona is a film very much open to interpretation and multiple readings, which makes it both fascinating and a little infuriating. On a technical level I’m completely enamoured with the way that Bergman constructs his shots, often using the actresses to frame each other, blocking scenes so that the profile of one is cutting off the other, so that the two actresses seem to occupy the same space at the same time. The ways that Bergman finds to visually express the idea of identity leave a lasting impression, as do the performances by Ullmann and Andersson, one so strongly silent and the other excessively vocal.

Review: The Seventh Seal (1957)

* * * *
Director: Igmar Bergman
Starring: Max von Sydow, Bengt Ekerot, Gunnar Bjornstrand

I suppose I can now officially call myself a cinephile without hesitation because I’ve finally seen a film by Ingmar Bergman (two, actually, but more on that tomorrow). I wasn’t entirely clear beforehand about the plot of The Seventh Seal, although I knew that it featured a game of chess between a Crusader and Death and that I should be prepared for plenty of symbolism and meditation on the existence of God. What I wasn’t prepared for was how engaging this film would be, how easy it would be to lose myself in it.

The first scene is stark and bizarre, setting the tone for the rest of the film. Antonius Block (Max von Sydow) and his squire, Jons (Gunnar Bjornstrand), are sleeping on a beach. They have been away from home for a long time, fighting in the Crusades, and now Antonius has begun to question the existence of God. A man shows up on the beach and Antonius recognizes him as Death (Bengt Ekerot). He asks Death to join him in a game of chess, reasoning that as long as they’re playing, he remains alive to seek the answers to his questions about God. Elsewhere a trio of performers is also waking and preparing to continue their journey to the next village where they will perform. One of the performers, Jof (Nils Poppe), has an otherworldly encounter of his own, convinced that he’s seen the Virgin Mary crossing the field in the distance.

The Crusaders and the performers will cross paths in a village where the plague is taking a heavy toll and religious fervour dominates. The first real demonstration of this religious fervour actually interrupts the scene being played out by the performers, who find themselves transformed into members of the audience in mid-performance as the fanatics come moaning and flagellating themselves through the square. Religion figures in the film as performance, as something superficial and devoid of meaning when compared to the genuine anguish felt by Antonius and the serious questions he is asking.

Shortly after this religious demonstration, the performers opt to join the Crusaders as they carry on their way, travelling through the woods towards Antonius’ castle. The group is followed all the way by Death, who assures Antonius that time is running out not just for him but for everyone, including a girl from the village who will be burnt at the stake because the authorities are convinced that she has been in contact with the devil.

From a technical standpoint, the frequency of close-ups and the composition of certain shots reminded me a lot of The Passion of Joan of Ark, which also explores questions of religious fervour. However, the film is in no way derivative. It is distinct and original and totally absorbing. As Antonius and Death, von Sydow and Ekerot are probably the film’s most recognizable figures, but my favourite performance belongs to Bjornstrand. As the squire, Bjornstrand acts as a counterpoint to Antonius: where Antonius represents the high, Jons represents the low; where Antonius has questions, Jons is always ready with answers – though even he admits that he doesn’t necessarily believe what he says as much as he just loves having something to say, which is a good thing since he has some of the film’s most memorable lines. I think the performance by Bjornstrand is one of the reasons the film is so accessible even though it’s so heavy with symbolism and existential questions.