I rarely had the chance to write something fun while I was an undergrad. Written for Barry Fockler's Scandinavian 115 course of spring semester 1991, the following was an exception because I finally got the chance to discuss certain films which had made a significant impact on me while I was growing up. As a teenager struggling to understand the films of Ingmar Bergman, I was obviously stating the obvious here. Everyone knows whose silence The Silence referred to. While I did enjoy writing it for the most part, the essay ultimately proved not to be an easy task for me by any means. In many instances, I was clearly fumbling for the right words; the diction in this essay feels painful. I reckon the world can feel grateful that I did not become a film critic. Since this paper was written before I became a jaded contrarian, it provides a telling snapshot of where I was and how far away from where I am now.

INTRODUCTION

n 1960 Ingmar Bergman published a mock "interview" with himself. He was asked by his alias, Ernest Riffe, "Where do you stand politically?"

Bergman answered, "Nowhere. If there was a party for scared people I would join it. But, as far as I know, there is no such party."

Riffe then asked, "Your religious leanings?"

Bergman replied, "I don't belong to any faith. I keep my own angels and demons going" (Cowie 195).

The struggles of those theological angels and demons form the leitmotif of his body of work.

e considers the world a scary place, and it's not difficult to see why by viewing virtually any of his films. The characters in them often lived in a frightening world where God rarely provided love, comfort, or most importantly, the validation of existence. As the son of a pastor, Bergman had always been fascinated by God and death, particularly the latter, which often occupied his mind even as a child (Bergman 22). Although Bergman had tackled numerous subjects throughout his long and prodigious career as a film director, the theme of fear overwhelmingly dominated the films in his oeuvre. While he had dealt with many aspects of fear in relationships and in existential terms, the foci of his concentration were the fear of death as well as the fear of God's silence and its unsettling implications. Consciously or unconsciously, the characters in his films were consumed by the forever formidable presentiment of death (and its uncertainties), of God, and of the meaning of life (or lack thereof). However, the ultimate solution these challenges which chronically tormented the lives in his universe always remained, obviously, love. While human beings may realise that they are alone in this world, they can ultimately seek solace in love. In Bergman films, love is salvation.

TRILOGY

he films Ingmar Bergman, along with longtime cinematographer Sven Nykvist, made during the early 1960s directly confronted these aspects of fear. All of them examined God's indifference to the suffering of humans. In addition to being exceptional technical achievements, the trilogy of films Through a Glass Darkly, Winter Light, and The Silence constituted a sombre, austere, and ostensibly pessimistic testament to an unforgiving world. Here the perennial Bergman themes lay naked. Bergman, however, always did provide a glimmer of hope amid the stark despair which permeated these films.

Through a Glass Darkly (Såsom i en spegel) (1961) depicted a dysfunctional family falling apart when as they struggled to deal with the incurable schizophrenia of one of their members. Thoroughly tormented, the protagonist Karin (Harriet Andersson) was a young woman who discovered that her schizophrenia was ultimately incurable. Neither her husband, Martin (Max von Sydow), nor her father, David (Gunnar Björnstrand), could adequately provide her with emotional support which she so desperately needed as she gradually descended into madness. Afraid to confront her frightening illness, Martin seemed content to give in to her worsening delusions. David viewed her illness with a sense of bewildered detachment. Though Karin's father truly loved her, David sacrificed his family life for a career as a novelist (cf. Ingrid Bergman's pianist mother in Autumn Sonata). As a result, the father was never really there for Karin, as well as for his adolescent son, who also desperately needed love and guidance. David was essentially a stranger to his family. Disillusioned, Karin faced her illness alone, and inevitably, she lost her battle. In a sense, she was abandoned by her family (cf. Harriet Andersson's Agnes in Cries and Whispers).

Karin's lack of a father to give her support suggested a metaphor for God's silence. Like the characters in the works of Jean-Paul Sartre, Karin (and humans in general) needed a God to have faith in. Without God, life becomes meaningless; faith (in God or in love or something) keeps us going. Faith gives us validation in life. In fact, during the film, Karin showed her vehement yearning for the beneficence of God by frantically begging her husband to kneel beside her and pray, "...even though you don't believe." She desperately needed something to hang onto. She obviously couldn't hang on to her cold and uncommunicative family. When God didn't answer as she suffered, she lost her faith. Her world essentially collapsed. God's betrayal was conveyed by her concept of Him at the end of the film-- an evil spider which would rape and devour her. What Karin ultimately needed was love, and in Bergman films, love is the God who would give life its meaning and sustenance.

While it was too late to save Karin, her family began to understand what was truly important in life. Like Isak Borg in Wild Strawberries, Karin's father, David, slowly acknowledged his failure in life. David discovered that he did not even know his children whom he loved. This could be discerned when he bought them presents which were either unsuitable or just duplicates of what they already possessed. Lacking in the ability to fulfill his role as father (since he really didn't even try), David was filled with remorse, and he had once even attempted suicide. His salvation required him to reconnect with his family. In the end and as a sign of hope, David began to reconcile with himself and with his family, particularly his son, Minus.

A confused adolescent, Minus was deeply traumatised by Karin's descent into madness, by his seemingly incestuous relationship with her, by the absence of his father, and ultimately, by the uncertainties and seeming meaninglessness of life. After Karin's demise, Minus asked his father in frustration, "Give me a proof of God." David, who finally realised that love is salvation, answered, "I don't know if love proves God's existence, or if God Himself is love... suddenly the emptiness turns into wealth, and hopelessness into life. It's like a reprieve from the death penalty" (Cowie 201). What David was trying to convey was the overwhelming power of love which was also felt by the character Stig in Bergman's earlier film, To Joy (Till glädje) (1950), in which love, against all odds, enabled him to find the strength to go on with his life despite the tragic death of his wife and child. Again, in Bergman's films, God is love, in all its forms.

Through a Glass Darkly ended with Minus, after hearing his father's answer, saying to himself, "Papa spoke to me." To Minus, the significance of the answer was not its content, but the utterance itself. Evidently David never really had a chance to talk frankly to his son, let alone to love his son and be there for him. Love starts with communication. The act of effective communication is essential to the fostering of love. This theme was further examined in Winter Light and in The Silence.

The next installment, Winter Light (Nattvardsgästerna) (1963) painted a bleak and uncompromising portrait of a pastor who, inconveniently enough, had lost his faith in God, and was troubled by the seemingly meaninglessness of life (again!). The stark winter atmosphere permeated the film. Like other features in this theological trilogy, Winter Light felt strikingly underpopulated, and its compositions remained spare throughout, Here the themes took centre stage. Presiding over a rural congregation, Pastor Tomas Ericsson (Gunnar Björnstrand) started to question his faith after the death of his wife Karin, who meant everything to him. After her death, Ericsson became a neurotic derelict who was always concerned with "God's silence." He was drowning in his misery, and he felt abandoned by God. Like the single-minded Knight in The Seventh Seal, he desperately demanded God to reveal himself, but, as expected, God remained silent.

What was left of Ericsson's faith was further tested by Jonas Persson (Max von Sydow), a deeply tormented man in his diminishing congregation. Persson had contemplated suicide before, and he wanted to seek guidance from Ericsson to help him relieve his obsessive fear of the world, particularly the threat of a nuclear war. He begged the parson, "Why must we live?" Unfortunately, Persson was asking the wrong person since Ericsson himself was already tormented by the apparent meaninglessness of life, let alone being able to address Persson's question. Ericsson couln't give him an answer nor solace. Unable to find hope, Persson eventually committed suicide.

Ericsson's only probable salvation was (you guessed it) love itself. His former mistress, Marta (Ingrid Thulin), loved him unconditionally, but Ericsson just continued to reject her love until the very end of the film. His rejection of her love was a rejection of salvation. He was rejecting life and hope. When he began to accept Marta, Ericsson began to save himself. Despite his lost of faith in God and Persson's death, Ericsson managed to summon enough courage to get himself up to the pulpit for mass again. He was doing it for her, because she believed in him. He stood up in affirmation of love. Winter Light ended with a melancholy but somewhat hopeful note. As usual, the pews were completely empty, except for the ever-faithful presence of Marta who still had faith in him. Even though nobody else was present, he decided to start the mass. It did not matter that the church was empty. His faith was restored, and the person who mattered most was right there with him. Ericsson found his faith in Marta's love, his salvation which would enable him to keep going and not give up.

THE SILENCE

he Silence (Tystnaden) (1963), the last film in the theological trilogy, depicted a rather frightening portrait of two traveling sisters, Anna and Ester (Gunnel Lindblom and Ingrid Thulin, respectively), who were unable to communicate to (and therefore love) each other. As a result, their lives were filled with anguish and pain; by rejecting love, the sisters created hell for themselves. The Silence could be interpreted as a microcosm of the general malaise of the modern, godless world where individuals are unable or unwilling to make meaningful contact to tragic effect. The film was dominated by threatening suggestions of war, the ultimate failure in human communications. Ultimately, genuine love cannot be achieved without meaningful communication, the vital element which the protagonists of The Silence lacked.

The Silence clearly referred to the silence of God amidst human suffering. Its plot epitomised despair, fear, and alienation. Its world felt incomprehensible and completely lacking in any source of solace or meaning. It could be another planet. Again strikingly underpopulated by characters (or even a plot) and with a minimal of dialogue, the film was clearly a distillation of ideas and questions. It opened with the estranged sisters Ester and Anna, and Anna's son, Johan (Jörgen Lindström), traveling together aboard a train through an alien land ("Timoka"). Ester, the older sister and a translator by profession, appeared to be very ill (probably with tuberculosis). They later arrived at a strange town where the language is completely incomprehensible. Ester remained in her hotel room to recuperate while the restless Anna frequently ventured out and later engaged in a promiscuous relationship with a waiter. Johan, who seemed to get along quite well with his aunt, wandered around the hotel alone and experiences strange encounters with the concierge and a performing troupe of dwarfs who were also staying at the hotel. As an unassuming innocent, Johan was curious about the world, he seemed open to new experiences. Being polar opposites, Ester and Anna inevitably clashed as their mutual resentment surfaced and erupted. They were eventually unable to reconcile their differences. In the end, Anna took Johan to leave the strange town while Ester was left in the hotel room to die. The bleakness, the indecipherable language, and the utter strangeness of the episodes in the film would perhaps make the viewer, feeling adrift, alienated, and frustrated, cry out for something / anything that would make him feel more grounded (e.g., a God).

In the opening scene in the train constituted a distillation of the entire film-- a living hell. The purpose of the trip nor its destination was ever revealed. This apparent lack of direction of the trip suggested the emptiness of the lives of the sisters. (Later in the film, Anna would even angrily ask Ester why is she still living.) Ingmar Bergman used the train journey as a metaphor for the descent into the depths of living hell. He had used the concept of journey as a metaphor for life, more specifically, the soul's migration from fear and doubt, to exploration, and onto subsequent revelation. This journey can clearly be seen in previous works, particularly The Seventh Seal, Wild Strawberries, The Virgin Spring, and The Magician.

Here the journey began when Johan first woke from sleep in a cabin on a moving train. As a child, he represented innocence. Still vulnerable, the child sought the love and protection of his mother, Anna, who passionately caressed and kissed him. Like hell, the cabin appeared to be very hot and stuffy with a claustrophobic atmosphere. The passengers seemed tired, unhappy, and trapped. Anna proceeded to complain that the cabin feels unbearably stifling while her sister Ester seemed oblivious to the heat. As a matter of fact, Ester appeared to have an inability to feel and experience the world, while her sister wanted to lustily devour it. Anna proposed to open the window, but Ester rejected the idea. When they subsequently arrived at the hotel room, Anna and Ester would again disagree over whether to open the windows; Anna felt the stuffiness and heat, but Ester felt only the cold.

The speed of the train seemed excruciatingly slow, and the actual movement of the train could not be heard (only a low, humming sound). The passengers didn't seem to be going anywhere. The whole effect seemed surreal, and the viewer would experience a frustrating sense of futility. The train's lack of advancement could be read as the sisters' lack of development in communication and understanding.

Johan then looked out the window and saw a bleak and sterile landscape, which would prove to be as alienating as the language spoken by its frighteningly characterless inhabitants. The mood then turned sinister when he discovered row after row of battle tanks and artillery. Symbolising the ultimate failure in lack of understanding among peoples, the militarism was indicative of a corrupt, hostile world, ready for a war which may brake out at any moment. Here humans were clearly unable to love each other, let alone solve their differences.

The sisters themselves were not any different. As a translator, Ester's communication skills were ironically not only ineffective in Timoka, but also in relation to her sister. Her vocation was superficial and rendered meaningless. They refused to listen to each other; they didn't want to understand each other. Ester and Anna could never achieve meaningful dialogue between themselves, let alone with the people of Timoka. Needless to say, they couldn't and wouldn't reconcile their differences. Each of the sisters remained aloof and oblivious to each other. For example, when Anna was vehemently expressing her feelings towards her Ester after she discovered her assignation with the waiter, the latter simply reacted with denial. Both of the sisters seemed perversely uncompromising. They refused even to deal with reality. Anna once told the waiter, "Isn't it wonderful that we cannot understand each other ?"

As opposites, Ester represented the "Apollonian" aspect of human nature, which is intellectual, cerebral (even her profession is cerebral), and perhaps barren. Ester was an extreme introvert. She stayed in her room, masturbated (she didn't need anyone), and even repelled heat (since she obviously could not feel the heat in the cabin or in the hotel room). On the other hand, Anna represents the "Dionysian" aspect, which is sensual, hedonistic, lusty, and fertile. As an extrovert, Anna attracted heat, indulged in the sense of touch (e.g., her smothering of Johan), and was decidedly promiscuous. The sisters' lives were empty and tormenting because each of them was essentially incomplete; each lacked the other half. According to ancient Greek belief, a person is not whole without the achievement of balance of the two opposing characteristics. Ester and Anna were clearly not balanced. They needed each other, just like humans needed each other to survive, but yet they were forever unwilling to reconcile their differences and accept each other. In a world where God remains silent, humans have got only each other, and they must learn to understand and love each other. That is the only salvation. Otherwise, they create hell for themselves, similar to the characters of Sartre's No Exit (Huis Clos).

The Silence ultimately ended very ambiguously with another train scene. After they left Ester to die alone in Timoka, Anna and Johan travelled home. Anna opened the window, and ever the sensualist, drenched herself in the rain (purification?). Johan then proceeded to read the letter in which Ester had previously translated a few words of Timoka for him (finally, a sense of understanding!). Unlike the sisters, Johan was open to others. He wanted to understand the strange world and its inhabitants. The letter enabled him to understand at least something in this baffling place; this represented an achievement which nobody alse in the film can accomplish. Amidst all the nihilism, the glimmer of hope could be found somewhere in Johan's innocence and his willingness to learn.

BEFORE AND AFTER

he most famous expression of Bergman's feelings about death and the meaning of life amidst God's silence remains The Seventh Seal (Det Sjunde inseglet) (1956). Disillusioned by the futile Crusade which he had undertook and by the world of pain and suffering around him, the obsessive Knight, Antonius Block (Max von Sydow), went on a frantic, single-minded quest to find the meaning of life as Death followed him. Antonius's obsession eventually consumed him as Death successfully captured him and along with all the other protagonists. Antonius failed as a result of his neuroses. On the other hand, Bergman offered suggestions of where salvation may be found. Even though they had never tried to find the meaning of life, the content, humble, and amiable peasant couple of Mia and Jof (cf. Mary and Joseph?) and their child were the only ones who survived Death's onslaught because their lives were filled with genuine, unconditional love, the only salvation. Love immunised them against Death.

This theme continued in Wild Strawberries (Smultronstället) (1957), aging professor Isak Borg's (Victor Sjöström) selfishness, lack of love toward others, and his characteristic insensitivity brought only pain and misery for the people around him. As the prospect of his death approached, Borg also began to realise the full horror of his life through his frank conversations with his daughter-in-law Marianne (Ingrid Thulin). His reassessment of his life was also prompted by a series of profound dreams and bizarre nightmares he had experienced during a journey (again) to Lund to accept his honourary degree. Although he was successful in his profession as a doctor, Borg finally realised that his unwillingness to love and experience joy rendered his life essentially as a failure, empty, and meaningless. This acknowledgement ultimately enabled him to start reconciling with himself and his estranged family. Isak was saved because of his willingness to admit to the errors of judgement in his life.

Bergman continued to explore the overcoming power of love in the latter part of his career. Like The Silence, Cries and Whispers (Viskningar och rop) (1973) examined the tension between sisters, this time Karin, Maria and Agnes. They were played by longtime members of Bergman's own repertory ensemble: Ingrid Thulin, Liv Ullman, and Harriet Andersson, respectively. (The use of the name 'Karin' again and again in his films, from The Seventh Seal to The Virgin Spring, may indeed suggest Bergman's actually working out those afforementioned personal demons due to the fact that his mother, who had a tremendous impact on his uprbringing, was also named 'Karin'.) Bergman wanted to get under the skins of his characters, and straight to their souls. Along with red-tinted fades between scenes, the art direction featured a rich palette of reds which seemed to suggest flesh, blood, and the inner workings of human beings. The plot again used death as a point of departure. As Agnes painfully dies from terminal illness, the other sisters revealed their true (ugly) nature. Like Anna and Ester in The Silence, both Karin and Maria lived an unfulfilled and tormented lives, but they were also the ones who were ultimately responsible for the emptiness in their lives. Like the families in Through a Glass Darkly and in The Silence, the members had become strangers to each other as one of them struggled with terminal illness. They were selfish, self-absorbed, vain, impractical, hedonistic, and decidedly insensitive. Once Maria's lover, a doctor, bluntly confronted her with her sins-- coldness, indifference, and impatience. (Bergman once described Maria as "the kind of woman who never closes a door behind her" (Cowie 277).) Most importantly, they were without love; they were unable and unwilling to give or receive love.

In contrast to Karin and Maria, Anna (Kari Sylwan), the loyal maid, was a faithful, sincere, and completely selfless person who was not torn apart by self-absorption or by conflicts with other people. According to Peter Cowie, "Anna enjoys a simple, unquestioning belief in God, a belief shared by Jof and Mia in The Seventh Seal, which immunizes her against the fear of death" (277). (In one famous scene, Anna lovingly held the dying Agnes in a pose similar to that of the Virgin holding Jesus in the Pieta.) As the caregiver, she brought comfort and relief to the suffering Agnes, but was cruelly treated by Karin and Maria.

Anna acquired her strength through complete, unconditional, selfless love, and she was somehow able to briefly "resurrect" Agnes after her death. As a corpse, Agnes mysteriously responded to Anna's touch, the warmth and love which brought her life. When Anna had tried to touch Karin and Maria, who were in some kind of a strange trance, they, however, did not respond to her touch and remained unconscious. They were the ones who were truly dead, empty and soulless. They couldn't be saved. Bergman once said, "Love must be open. Otherwise Love is the beginning of Death." Later in the film, Karin and Maria's nature revealed itself as they flatly rejected the dying Agnes. Recoiling in horror, Karin even ironically complained, "She's decomposing already..."

Cries and Whispers also briefly dealt with the apparent meaninglessness and cruelty of life. The prayers performed by the priest after Agnes' death were rather unusual. He said, "Pray for us who are left... under a cruel and empty sky... Ask Him for a meaning to our lives." According to Cowie, "For Bergman, the only authentic priest remains the one who admits his ignorance and impotence: Tomas Ericsson in Winter Light and the James Whitmore figure in The Serpent's Egg are men like this" (278).

Bergman ended his film-directing career with Fanny and Alexander (1982), an ambitious and complex work which probed many subjects from the Oedipus complex, family relations, and adolescent angst, to religion, death, and existentialism, Most importantly, the film reiterated the importance of love and its life-affirming qualities. In a broad canvas, the film painted a colourful portrait of a happy and prosperous theatrical family, as seen through the eyes of young Alexander Ekdahl (Bertil Guve). Even though Bergman claimed that the film was not autobiographical, many elements and characters were obviously borrowed from his memories of childhood, which was vividly depicted in his autobiography, The Magic Lantern. When his father died, Alexander was tormented by the fear of death. He was afraid to even look at his father's body in the coffin. To make matters worse, his mother Emilie (Ewa Fröling) remarried a gloomy and somewhat sadistic priest, Bishop Edvard Vergerus (Jan Malmsjö). Alexander and his sister Fanny subsequently had to live in the inhospitable new environment of their step-father, which was cold, puritan, austere, strict, sinister, and downright depressing. The priest instilled fear and misery among his subjects (particularly Alexander and Fanny), similar to that of the clergy's role in The Seventh Seal. (Alexander, who was very close to his mother, also developed a sense of jealousy toward his mother's relationship with the priest.) Distraught and frustrated, Alexander began to ask metaphysical questions about God in relation to man, similar to that of the pleads of previous Bergman characters. More specifically, he felt that if there really was just world presided by a God, He would punish Vergerus for the unrelenting misery he was causing.

When Alexander, his mother and Fanny finally moved back to their paternal grandmother's house, joy, love, and life was brought back dramatically into their lives. In the end, Alexander overcame his fear of death, and the ghost of Vergerus did not seem to bother him very much. When he was in an atmosphere of love, he was able to concentrate on living, enjoying life, and growing up (it didn't hurt that he had his mother all for himself again). Death was no longer an issue. Again, love was the vaccine against death.

Throughout his career Ingmar Bergman dealt with a tremendous amount of issues, but he never gave definite answers to the questions raised. He did, however, reveal, again and again, his hope in the affirming power of love, which ultimately give life its meaning in a frightening world where God remains indifferent to human suffering. Many of his films were indeed depressing, but without fail, he always managed to shed a glimmer of hope.

NOTES

Bergman, Ingmar. The Magic Lantern.  
   Translated from the Swedish by Joan Tate.   
   New York : Viking  Penguin, 1988.

Cowie, Peter. Ingmar Bergman : A Critical Biography. 
   New York : Charles Scribner's Sons, 1982.

29 April 1991