The Silence

Bergman's gone. And as awed as I am by much of his work, I keep thinking of something Jonathan Rosenbaum wrote in his review of Bergman's final film, Saraband: "I wouldn't dream of contesting Bergman's status as a film master. But I find a neurotic spitefulness and puritanical narrowness in the films he made after the 60s, and I think one would have to be as misanthropic as Woody Allen or critic John Simon to consider him the greatest of all filmmakers." I said as much in my own review of Saraband: "Bergman's an old hand at revealing the darkest elements of human nature, so you can get off on the exposure to unwelcome truths. But underneath is an undeniable coldness and cruelty … The characters don't merely suffer for their weaknesses; they are punished for them." I find myself agreeing with, of all people, the professional irritant Joe Queenan, who earlier this year watched Bergman's entire oeuvre in six weeks:

After a while, the films tend to run together; after a while the names tend to run together: Anna plays the Bach cello suites in front of a mirror while Henrik tells her that he really loves Marianne, whose mother Karin forced her son Johan to commit suicide. Henrik rants about his unhappiness for about 20 minutes — no one ever gets interrupted in mid-rant in Bergman movies; even characters absorbing the most virulent abuse seem content to let their partners run their mouths, hoping this whole thing will blow over — then reads from a letter that his father sent him when he was eight years old, telling him that he never liked him, that God does not exist, and that even if God does exist, his mother is still a whore. Anna goes right on playing the cello, listening to the voices of the dead emanating from behind the wallpaper, then suddenly stops, lights up a cigarette, poses her head diagonally behind Henrik's so that both actors are visible in the mirror, and confesses that she's been sleeping with Stig, Gunnar, Erland and Björn since Henrik forced her to have her third abortion 18 years ago. Henrik commits suicide, but not before slapping Anna's face, seducing Marianne's daughter, and having one last cigarette. Roll credits. Yes, while certain themes and visuals may vary from one film to the next, the one thing that all Ingmar Bergman movies have in common is this: when Eva Dahlbeck or Ingrid Thulin or Liv Ullmann or anyone named Andersson reach for their cigarettes, you can bet your bottom dollar that the recriminations, threats, busted furniture, and vaginal blood can't be far behind.

Of course, this doesn't apply to something like Smiles of a Summer Night, which is simply delightful. And it probably doesn't apply to All These Women — Bergman's 1964 "slapstick comedy," which Queenan describes as the real inspiration for Woody Allen's films: "It's all right there: The flapper era setting, the 'Yes, We Have No Bananas' theme song, the Groucho Marx impersonations, the bevy of beauties hopelessly smitten by a middle-aged scumbag." That I've got to see.

Comments

[gkenny]

What, no PBS tote bags or baguette and chardonnay? What's the matter—lost your nerve?

[Looker]

For anyone perplexed by Mr. Kenny's comment, I'll explain. He's referring to the introduction to The Film Snob's Dictionary, in which David Kamp and I say that "Watching a Bergman film is so PBS tote-bag, so Mom-and-Dad-on-a-date-in-college, so baguettes-and-Chardonnay." But as you can see when you read that line in context…
http://snobsite.com/fs_explained.php
…those aren't our feelings regarding Bergman; they're those of the film snobs our book mocks.

[gkenny]

My bad. That's what I get for taking Jeffrey Wells' word on something. I apologize. To you.