The Seventh Seal (Ingmar Bergman, 1957)

The importance of Ingmar Bergman's The Seventh Seal cannot be overstated. It was not the first film to set off the art-house movement of the '50s (Rashomon did it at the turn of the decade seven years earlier), nor was it even the first of the European art films (the Italian neo-realist scene was already thriving). Nevertheless, it opened up the possibility of serious, philosophical work in cinema. The neo-realist films certainly lacked any melodrama, but their goal, like the Russian constructivist movement before them, stressed fact in their work. While films like Bicycle Thieves certainly contain themes that can applied to all or parts of mankind, The Seventh Seal dealt with philosophy and spirituality directly.

I watched The Seventh Seal about a year ago. The old Criterion copy was rough, with lines and scratches on the film and hisses in the audio. Recently, they used new digital technology to restore the damaged print, and the new Blu-Ray of the film is truly one of the few times I can say without irony that the result is like watching a different film. I couldn't spot a scratch anywhere, and the light hiss was replaced with a solemn quiet in the film's many moments of reflection. What had been a distracting copy was now transformed into the crisp, beautiful work of art it always was.

That is not to say, however, that the film is Bergman's defining masterpiece. Quite the contrary, it clearly displays the auteur's youth and inexperience. Themes are handled too explicitly, and Bergman's affirmation of God's existence seems a touch ironic when the knight Antonius renews his faith at his end when only Death comes to greet him. Nevertheless, it remains a masterpiece, not simply for its importance but because it survives the endless parody and the reams of critical and philosophical debate, and it feels every bit as affecting today as it must have been back then.

That opening scene, of Death coming to claim Antonius Block (Max von Sydow), remains one of the all-time great shots in cinema. Block is returning from the Crusades with his squire Jöns (Gunnar Björnstrand), and the atrocities of those wars has shattered Block's faith. He arrives on the shores of his native Sweden to find it covered in the plague. That Death should come in these circumstances is hardly surprising. Block tells the cloaked visage that his body is afraid to die, but he is not. Still, he wishes to see his wife, whom he hasn't seen in 10 years, so he challenges Death to a chess game to buy himself enough time to reach his castle.

Block's protracted game allows him to pass by a number of villages on his way home, all of which are devolving into mass panic from the wave of death sweeping through the country. Weeping men and women cry repents and flagellate themselves as they follow a group of monks. Jöns catches a robber attempting to rape a mute farm girl, only to discover that the man is the same theologian who convinced Block and him to join the Crusades in the first place. That might be the most unsettling implication in the film, though another scene, in which a girl condemned as a witch, who believes that she can see and converse with Satan, works herself into a silent terror at the stake not because of the flames, but because she sees, according to the atheistic and bitter Jöns, neither God nor Satan. She is alone in death, and that is far more terrifying that dying.

Block desperately looks for any sign of good in this terrible world, anything to prove that there is indeed a God, and that his life has not been a waste. If he finds only evil, then what was the point of fighting to spread Christianity? So, he fixates on a family of traveling actors (Nils Poppe and Bibi Andersson) and their newborn son, a picture of innocence in a world gone mad. Block requests that they accompany him to his castle, as much to give him a reminder that it's not all bad as it is to protect them from plague. When he at last does reach home, Death comes to claim everyone inside, and Block prays for help. The mute girl breaks her silence, and the next morning the actor family emerges alive to spot Death leading the knight and his followers in a solemn but slightly joyous dance of death.

For all its existentialist and religious struggles, however, I remain surprised at what a funny film this is. A cuckold finds the actor who stole his wife intent on revenge, but the two enter into nothing more than a shouting match, as Jöns feeds the simple farmer insults. Then it gets even funnier when the actor admits defeat and stabs himself with a prop knife; the farmer and his wife, unfamiliar with acting, believe him to be truly dead. "I was just starting to like him," the farmer moans. Later, that same actor climbs a tree, which Death casually saws down. "I have a performance," the actor feebly offers. "Canceled, on account of death."

That sense of humor and the undercurrent of creative passion make The Seventh Seal an enduring masterpiece even when Bergman went on to bigger and better things. Its affirmation of a God, compared to the almost imperceptible re-awakening of faith in The Silence, is too clunky and facile. Nevertheless, its renewal of faith comes via the realization of a man that some acts give life meaning, and they need not be grand gestures. That is a far better and more intuitive epiphany than a somewhat forced religious affirmation.

Still, the only other film to deal with a crisis of faith so effectively at the time is Carl Dreyer's (admittedly superior) Ordet, made two years earlier. It dealt with lad who appeared crazy because he believed himself to be Jesus, but in the end turned out to unsettle us only because he had true, unwavering faith, and that is frightening to those who don't have it. (Bergman's own Through a Glass Darkly veers closer to this plot than The Seventh Seal). Gunnar Fischer may not be Sven Nykvist, but his cinematography, at last appreciable thanks to Criterion's magnificent re-issue, sets the tone of the film as much as Bergman's contemplative dialogue and plotting. Even in these early stages, Bergman knew a great deal about camera placement and mise-en-scène, and it ensures that The Seventh Seal will live on forever as not just a leap forward in philosophical cinema but one of the most hauntingly beautiful films ever made.

Winter Light (Ingmar Bergman, 1963)

Ingmar Bergman's Through a Glass Darkly remains the weakest film I've yet seen of the director's filmography, which is less a reflection on that movie's quality than the overall brilliance of the rest of them. But that film has a lasting importance -- and a particular relevance to this film -- as the first installment of the Spider trilogy, Bergman's most intimate handling of his struggles with faith. Though there are no narrative and indeed only scant symbolic ties between the previous installment and this second act, Winter Light picks up Kårin's epiphany where it left off and moves forward in time, immersing us in a world of madness.

The first thing that you notice about this film is its stark, realistic photography. Bergman fans of course know this look all too well, but Winter Light marks the first time Bergman and Nykvist completely switched to this style. Through a Glass Darkly pushed the director away from the outright expressionism of such early masterpieces as Wild Strawberries, but there were still moments that hearkened back to the old way of shooting -- the rocky backdrop in particular calls to mind the craggy, intimidating shores of The Seventh Seal. But Winter Light lives up to its name: it's bright, but cold, unfeeling. We see extensive use of the close-ups that would form the bedrock of Nykvist's legacy, probing the characters hard exteriors for any glimpse of emotion or passion. Much of the film takes place in small rooms, only compounding the closed-in feel.

Filling the role of the wayward believer is Tomas Ericsson (Gunnar Björnstrand), a parish priest who delivers his sermons without conviction before a dwindling congregation who themselves are so bored that they only donate spare change. When a young fisherman, Jonas (Max von Sydow), meets with him after the service to discuss his growing despair, the priest dismisses him, sure that he cannot help the lad. Tomas' lover, Märta (Ingrid Thulin), arrives and criticizes his dismissal of Jonas. She gives him a letter, and departs as quickly as she came. As Tomas reads the letter, Bergman treats us to a nearly six-minute unbroken take of a close-up on Märta as she reads the contents aloud. It's practically Ozu-like, and just like Ozu, it's beautiful in its simplicity.

Jonas returns, desperate for guidance. At a loss, Tomas wings it and tells the man of his own experience with God and his time serving as a chaplain in the Spanish Civil War: the priest believed in a benevolent, loving God, but witnessing the various atrocities of wartime shattered his faith. He tells the young man that he saw God for what He really was: "A spider, a monster," echoing Kårin's mad epiphany. In the previous film, the image of God as a spider seemed little more than the hallucination of someone who had truly slipped into insanity; here, that is the cold reality, and to shy away from it, Tomas clings to his old image, the accepted image, of God to keep him together. Here, the two manifestations of Bergman's God have inverted, and the effect is even more unsettling. He then looks the boy in the eye and tells him that the only way to look upon the amorality of the human condition is to deny God, for without Him you no longer need to justify His actions. Jonas leaves dejected, and Tomas turns to face the giant crucifix in the room and declares himself "free."

But freedom offers no solace for the increasingly insular Tomas, and his relationship with Märta does not improve (though she herself is ecstatic about her lover's rejection of God). When she tries to speak to him, he launches into a verbal assault, telling her all the reasons why he does not care for her, ultimately comparing her unfavorably to his late wife. He must also drive out to Jonas' home when the man kills himself after his meeting with the priest. As uncomfortable as Bergman's unyielding close-ups can be, the long shots of Tomas driving to the scene and helping the police to cover the body are utterly chilling, an effect magnified by the near-silence.

Tomas and Märta return to the church for the next service, and find only the organist, Fredrik, and sexton, Algot. Fredrik reveals that Tomas isn't the only broken man in the church when he warns Märta to leave this desolate town before her dreams are crushed like everyone else's. Meanwhile, Algot speaks to the priest about the Passion, and wonders why so many focus on the violence inflicted upon Jesus as terrible torture and not God's silence when His son begged for Him on the cross. Tomas agrees that God's seeming rejection would be far more painful. Algot also mentions the betrayal of the disciples, subtly drawing a connection between their rejection of God and Jesus and Tomas'.

Every Bergman film seems to have, amongst the beautiful and evocative images and dialogue, one scene that sears itself into your memory forever. Usually the moment comes at the end, and here is no exception: after these revealing conversations, Tomas stands at the pulpit and begins his sermon to an empty room. The film earlier suggested a distance between the priest and his parishioners due to the orthodoxy of their practices, but that dogma has at last fully alienated the two groups instead of melding them. As Tomas has rejected God, he is now truly alone in the world.

Winter Light is the director's personal favorite of his works, and it's certainly one of the most daring films he's made short of Persona. Bergman's earlier spiritual forays ended with some sort of reaffirmation, if not necessarily of God then of the spark of the human spirit. But Winter Light ends in a flux: Tomas has flatly rejected God, and it seems to have brought him closer to despair instead of ridding him of his spiritual quandaries. The dialogue about God's silence during Jesus' suffering is particularly telling, and I don't think I deserve kudos for speculating that, just as this film extrapolated upon the imagery of God as a spider, the final installment of the trilogy -- named, wouldn't you know it, The Silence -- will likewise expand upon this. I've never seen a film take so bold a stance on religion, at least not one made by someone who isn't a borderline sociopath on YouTube. With the usual round of excellent acting, stark and beautiful imagery and endlessly layered dialogue, Winter Light stands as one of the great and boldest achievements from a director with perhaps the most daring catalogue of any major filmmaker in history.

Wild Strawberries (Ingmar Bergman, 1957)

The more Bergman films I watch the more I find myself arriving at one conclusion: Ingmar Bergman makes psychoanalysis in film redundant. Anyone who even thinks of examining part or all of the human condition is at least indirectly ripping him off if not outright stealing (see: Woody Allen, though this isn't meant as a slight). Anyone who doesn't almost certainly made a terrible film. His films do not so much examine the existential quandaries of existence so much as dive head-first into the mind itself, and the results are often bleak. However, his 1957 masterpiece Wild Strawberries offers a rare and (unlike the tacked-on ending of Through a Glass Darkly) unforced nugget of hope.

Bergman uses the film to follow Professor Isak Borg (Victor Sjostrom, in a masterful performance) as he travels from Stockholm to Lund in order to receive an honorary degree from Lund University after 50 years of practicing medicine. At first he plans to take a plane, but at the start of the film suffers from a nightmarish vision of a driver-less wagon bearing his own coffin, and this prompts him to take a car instead. If this were made today we'd have to listen to the umpteenth joke about plane safety vs. car safety, but I can't say I blame him for being shaken.

Accompanying Isak is his daughter-in-law Marianne (Ingrid Thulin), who drives the car as Isak slips in and out of remembrances, dreams, and nightmares. The two speak about life and Marianne's relationship with Isak's son. Not long after, Marianne admits that she does not care for Isak very much. This moment of frankness hurts the man, and it only furthers his feelings of life wasted and depression.

Bergman presents Borg's dreams in a then-unique manner: he offers no visual clues to distinguish between reality and hallucination. "What if you could make a film about this that you just walk up in a realistic way and open a door," the director wondered, "and then you walk into your childhood, and then you open another door and come back to reality, and then you make a turn around a street corner and arrive in some other period of your existence, and everything goes on, lives." Isak interacts with figures from his childhood, bringing to light old joys and great regret.

The most prominent of these figures from his past is his cousin Sara (Bibi Andersson). The symbol of his youthful passion and vigor, Sara ultimately becomes the turning point in Isak's life when she informs him that she's marrying Isak's brother. We see the old man relive this conversation with his vision, and the pain etched on Sjostrom's face is almost unbearable. Sara ends up in the car later with two friends, and she brings with her all the freshness and exuberance of youth back into Isak's life.

Bergman never lets his metaphors and philosophical musings get too dense to be examined, but he certainly never condescends to us. After Sara and her friends join the ride, Marianne picks up a married couple after they two parties are involved in a near-fatal accident. But their vicious bickering eventually becomes too much, and Marianne dumps them out on the roadside. Near the end of the film, Isak suffers his most disturbing nightmare: he finds himself in a medical cross-examination lead by the husband. Suddenly unable to remember anything about medicine -- he even diagnoses the husband's conscious wife as deceased -- Isak is found incompetent and the husband harangues him for being passionless and crippled by regret. Where Sara and co. brought back a touch of Isak's youth, this couple only reminded him of the failures and misery of his life and marriage after Sara married another man.

Some of you might be wondering when that "hope" I mentioned shines through here. Isak and Marianne finally arrive in Lund, and Isak has a sort of epiphany. He sighs "I am dead. Although, I am alive," a reconciliation of his bright youth with the regrets of his adulthood and the fears of his twilight. It's not exactly a Hollywood ending, but it gives Isak a sense of inner peace without invalidating the dark personal quest that brought him here. It offers a sense of hope for the man, which is lighter than we normally get from the director. Bergman even throws in a joke or two this time: when Isak finally makes it to Lund after all of his visions and nightmares, a woman says to him warmly, "A nice drive is relaxing, isn't it?"

Through a Glass Darkly

Much ado has made of Ingmar Bergman's loose trilogy of films that pushed him into the 60s and away from the Baroque expressionism of his early masterpieces into the more personal filmmaker that earned him his legacy. Yes, his two most identifiable films are likely The Seventh Seal and Wild Strawberries, but as a whole we remember Bergman for his more minimalistic works. Through a Glass Darkly, the first of the so-called "Spider Trilogy" (also known as the Silence of God trilogy and the Faith trilogy), is the first example of his transformation into a more introspective filmmaker, and it remains important on that basis even if the film itself has not aged well.

Constructed as a chamber play, Through a Glass Darkly follows a family of 3 men and one woman over the course of 24 hours. The woman, Kårin (Harriet Andersson) has recently been released from an asylum and suffers from an unnamed condition, most likely schizophrenia. Her husband Martin (Max von Sydow) is a doctor who is kind and supportive of his wife but knows he can do nothing to cure her. Meanwhile her father David (Gunnar Bjornstrand), a failed novelist, secretly documents his daughter's illness for his next work. Finally, Minus (Lars Passgård), Kårin's younger brother, must deal with sexual awakening and disturbing feelings for his sister.

From these linked storylines comes a story of isolation, guilt, disappointment and spiritual longing. From the start we see a disconnect between the family; David has been abroad for some time and he gives out tacky presents to his children, who are visibly upset that he thought this meaningless display would impress them. Minus puts on a play that openly mocks his father's work and his aloofness. Martin feels utterly hopeless that he cannot do anything for his wife. That night, Kårin wakes up and goes up to the attic, where she has an episode that leaves her even more fragile.

Kårin's madness leads her to start flirting with Minus, who doesn't know how to respond. Eventually she corners him in the hull of a wrecked ship and it's strongly implied that they have sex (though I've heard an interpretation or two that says Minus is actually a homosexual). We see Minus' internal anguish over his feelings and his utter confusion at how to deal with these new developments. Before all of this, Kårin discovers her father's diary documenting her madness and learns that she'll never be rid of it. Combined with a moment of composure following her seduction of her brother, she asks to return to the hospital for her own good.

The final moments are certainly the most famous of the film, and one of the more memorable scenes I've seen in my (admittedly limited) exposure to Bergman: a helicopter flies overhead and lands to take Kårin back to the asylum, and she goes absolutely mad. She tells her family that she saw God, a "stone-faced spider" who tried to "penetrate" her. When "He" couldn't, the spider crawled up a wall. It leaves her utterly devastated: she spent the whole time waiting for God and, in her mind, was found unworthy. After spending 90 minutes searching for the light of heaven, she puts on sunglasses to block out the light and surrenders to the medics.

That the film continues after this moment with a concluding moment of facile spiritual discussion between David and Minus, in which Minus voices his torment to his father. David, finally concerned about the children to whom he's never shown devotion, reaches out to his son, comforting him with the notion that perhaps God and love are the same thing. It's an obvious moment of the Father finally speaking to the children, and the last line of the film comes from a suddenly reverent Minus: "Papa spoke to me." Even if it wasn't a sappy way to equate David's moment with his son as a connection between God and humans, it still brings down the shattering power of Kårin's final scene.

In his essay for the Criterion DVD, Peter Matthews offers an interpretation of God as a spider: to him, Bergman is saying "the pious consolations of the past no longer suffice in the era of Auschwitz and the atomic bomb." This film and its resultant "trilogy" would examine Bergman's spiritual doubt in the face of such travesties, and this doubt forms an endlessly complex existential drama that is not handled quite properly in this installment. However, the confessional tone of the film, particularly Bergman's harsh appraisal of David's--and therefore his own--art (perhaps he saw the same exploitative side in himself as he did in David) redeems the film. Supposedly Bergman himself came to view his ending as facile and tacked-on, and his subsequent entries in the trilogy reflect more of Kårin's nihilism than the too-cheap message of hope.

What struck me from the start was the tiny island where Bergman filmed the movie. Rocky landscapes and a general feeling of isolation do more to establish the mood of the story than any acting ever could. The film cemented Bergman's collaboration with cinematographer Sven Nykvist, whose stark and realistic photography contrasts beautifully with the existential and symbolist drama of the story. Bergman and Nykvist would continue to work together for the rest of their lives (Nykvist died before Bergman made his final film, Saraband), and the two form arguably the most famous and most rewarding director-cinematographer team in film history. Here, Nykvist uses the crags and bleak sea surrounding the island to underline each character's emotional isolation and their hardened outlook towards God.

So what do we have in the end? A good film, certainly, one that even has hints of greatness. Yet that greatness is tempered by moments of heavy-handedness and outdated notions of mental illness. Through a Glass Darkly is the third Bergman film I've seen (the other two being The Seventh Seal and Scenes From a Marriage), and it's certainly the least of these three, but I can also see it building the bridge between Seventh Seal and Scenes. I'm glad I watched it, and it's left me with a burning desire to move straight into the other two films of the trilogy, but this is one of those classics worth it more for historic or artistic importance than genuine brilliance.