Bergman Island

Dad often liked to talk about how he loved arthouse cinema when he was at University, and the director he remembered watching most frequently was the internationally celebrated Ingmar Bergman.

It was difficult to get dad to watch independent cinema as the years passed by, but he did start to enjoy traditional science-fiction which was a big most welcome surprise.

I admit to never having grown tired of either and to still enjoying the inordinate synthesis, I still find blending the arthouse and the mainstream makes for a more diverse constructive dialogue.

You have the individualistic rebellious insights independently crafted with subjective certainty, mischievously juxtaposed with august objective stately ponderous risk based analysis.

I don't recommend proceeding in this fashion if you want to occasionally communicate with others (about film), my humble experience at least has led me to believe that most people prefer one to the other.

I still find the blend much more intriguing, a wider spectrum, more robust confluence.

I'm too old to worry about categorical superlatives. 

In fact I find them most distasteful.

Ingmar Bergman's films are still fun to watch, as melancholically instructive as they are light and playful, at times showcasing eccentric enigmatic enlightenment somewhat lost with the ways of the world.

Bergman Island is a fascinating treat for curious fans of the prolific director, an extended interview patiently presented at his cherished home on Fårö Island.

His thoughts are still clear and descriptive as he discusses life with vivid detail, courageously holding nothing back, wholeheartedly concerned with unfiltered honesty.

There's a funny moment near the end where he mentions a lie he once made to the press, something spontaneous he said when he had no answer to a question that was suddenly asked and caught him off guard.

He was annoyed because the spur of the moment random response came to be taken as irrefutable fact.

I wonder how often that happens.

A somewhat comic reflection on truth (how often have I thought, "it's just something they said!").

If you're a fan of Bergman or auteurs in general Bergman Island is essential viewing.

Raw insights into sublime genius.

A passionate life.

Not without controversy.

Ansiktet (The Magician)

A different time, a feudal age, wherein which independent theatre was severely scrutinized, authoritative sadists ridiculing mystery applying cold-hearted principles to magical daring, inspired performance requiring sanction to entertain through fascination, the hard work sarcastically ignored the illusions castigated.

A tortured artist once proud of his talents travels from town to town, awaiting dismissive observations and outright refusals from obtuse officials. 

Happiness has been transformed into resigned melancholia, for even though he possesses great talent he's governed by austerity. 

Audiences wish to be amused by his tricks as he conjures and casts and calibrates, the integrity of seamless illusion widely sought after from age to age.

Star Trek may have never prospered.

There's no telling what would have become of vampires and werewolves.

The horrors of absolute control.

Far too concerned with practical reason.

It's not that practical reason is in itself a bad thing in fact it's obviously essential to daily life, the smooth flowing of robust commerce dependent upon its logical reckoning.

Practical film and reasonable books also generate compelling ideas, which fruitfully encourage thought and invention leading to progress and even more comfort.

But there's only so much rationality a person can take after working all week and taking care of a family, and if everything has a utilitarian purpose it may seem like work never ends.

Efficacious totalitarianism has no doubt spoiled many a relaxing weekend.

Comedy and the genres presenting absurd breaks.

Which congenially deconstruct obsession. 

Best if they don't get the upper hand either of course, surrealism best reserved for relaxed play, after work when there's nothing left to do but chill out sit back and dream.

Albert Emanuel Vogler cheats his haughty oppressors through an exceptional act of improvised dissimulation, their resultant angst increased ten-fold by the sudden news that they've been outdriven.

And a brilliant smile adorns Vogler's face as he prepares to perform once again.

The melancholia temporarily subsiding. 

As the middle-class emerges. 

Nattvardsgästerna (Winter Light)

I suppose when you're happy doing your own thing and you've generally created spiritually enriching films, according to improvised guidelines which imaginatively mutated over time, it may at some point occur to you to direct the saddest most despondent film ever conceived, to make a distressing point cloaked in sheer austere lugubrity. 

Pushing things past the strictly solemn to approach rarefied uncompromised misery, Ingmar Bergman's Nattvardsgästerna (Winter Light) distills utter complete hopelessness. 

It's unfortunate to shyly say that the lack of hope is derived from honesty, from a pressurized irreconcilable desire to share one's thoughts with imposing candour. 

Does such a truthful need reflect genuine social lucidity, inasmuch as the ability to freely express oneself is oft admired and sincerely celebrated?

Is the sharing of doubts and misgivings not encouraged by different cultures, to avoid pent up obtuse hardheartedness followed by shocking emotional explosions?

In Nattvardsgästerna, the individual under examination occupies a prominent position however, and people look to him for strength in difficult times of spiritual stress.

When he makes his own lack of faith apparent and expresses it with candid levity, the results are completely disastrous for his diminutive humble flock.

He attempts to ease troubled minds by modestly employing frank concern, but misjudges tortured temperaments who were seeking guidance not familiarity. 

The cultivation of ideals thus receives distraught import, through morose unrestrained melancholia blindly abandoning its lofty discourse.

It's an extreme example sheltered in woebegone obfuscation, utilizing provocative misjudgment to comment upon mortality.

If you could approach every social interaction like a French judge interpreting the Civil Code, socially, not judicially, each interaction adapted to specific circumstances, then perhaps through lauded perspicuity you could efficiently prescribe communal medication (one case at a time).

Populism has wildly challenged the establishment of wise decision making however, through realistic democratic loopholes which instinctually bewilder.

Those occupying positions of power must proceed confidently nevertheless.

As alternative rationalities clash and codify.

A bleak film.

Disposed noblesse. 

Sawdust and Tinsel (Gycklarnas afton)

It's difficult to discuss Ingmar Bergman's Sawdust and Tinsel without describing exactly what happens so lets just say it's a hard-boiled bucolic tale of a traveling circus's harrowing hardships. The principle theme is fidelity and how love transforms and evolves according to the designs of each distinct challenge it faces. Time, the grind, the future in mind. Bergman uses his profound sensitivity (in the form of a lurid tale of temptation and trust) to lure us into his narrative and adjust to its particular pace. Within, we live and breathe the trials and tribulations of the Alberti Circus as they try their best to make a buck. The politics of the performing arts are displayed as Albert Johansson (Åke Grönberg) must borrow costumes from a local theatre, and insights into an aging traveling artist's psyche are provided as Albert explains to his ex-wife (Annika Tretow) why he's never been able to settle down.

There's also a bear.

If looking for a glimpse of Bergman's early work or an examination of the realities interrogating a manner of life that often isn't the focus of a feature film, Sawdust and Tinsel is worth checking out. Playful and poignant, tragic and lucid, all the while reminding one of the importance of not taking their selves to seriously, it instills a romantic and dedicated cantoring caravan with a profound degree of vivacious sentiment, dealing with that which must be dealt, rolling on down the road.

The Hour of the Wolf

Finished my second viewing of Bergman's The Hour of the Wolf today and decided to read it platonically. In the end, artist Johan Borg loses his battle with insanity, his demons steadfastly claiming his reason. Borg is living upon an island where his imagination has conjured up a band of puerile aristocrats with nothing better to do than torture one another and whomever they happen to encounter. In years past, Borg had a sultry affair with one Veronica Volger, within which the passionate participants had to keep things hushed up to avoid arousing public shock and condemnation. Borg's desire for this icon of pleasure, the-worst-possible-treatment for his sanity, the best for his art, fuels his artistic integrity while ruining his drive. Eventually, Borg murders the living creating child within (whose vibrant presence inspires his texts) and confronts his appetite for Veronica within his manufactured hallucination. The aristocrats, functioning as perverted reason, cheer him on, producing an abject audience, reveling in their abomination, utterly humiliating Johan (platonically, passion united with the appetites leads to the flaking of wisdom). Afterwards, defenseless, his reason having abandoned him, he travels to the woods to perish, amongst the flowers and the fauna, the streams and the breeze.

Listen closely and you'll hear them coming, if you have any talent, any off-beat goals that you know you can achieve while they continually attempt to break your confidence. Just try not to hear what they say, crush the headaches, persevere.

Through the hour of the wolf.