The first photo is a still from the movie Incubus (1965) and it reminded me amazingly of another series of images from one of my favorite movies, Persona (1966). I wish I had better examples. I have only watched Persona so I wonder in actuality how many similarities these images share?

 “Embora eu seja um neurótico, minha relação com o exercício da profissão tem sido sempre, surpreendentemente, não-neurótico. Tenho tido a capacidade de atrelar o carro de combate com os demônios à frente, forçando-os a serem úteis, isto ao mesmo tempo em que eles, a sós comigo, se comprazem em torturar e envergonhar. Como se sabe, o diretor de um circo de pulgas deixa que seus artistas lhe chupem o sangue”.   A morte de Ingmar Bergman propiciou a mim um relativo balanço existencial, já que seus filmes estão entranhados na minha alma desde quando comecei a me considerar um “cinéfilo” e vi primeiramente O Ovo da Serpente, Sonata de Outono e o fascinante Da Vida das Marionetes; este último, mais do que os outros dois, me fez ir ao cinema três vezes (início dos anos 80, ainda um tempo sem vídeo ou DVD, tinha-se de guardar dentro de si as imagens de um filme, sua atmosfera, o que certamente explica a “aura” que muitos deles adquiriam, ao contrário de hoje, quando se pode assistir a um Bergman entre o Faustão e o Fantástico) e, embora tenha deixado a crítica da época indiferente, ajudou a revelar para mim o que era “o” cinema, apresentando um descarnamento, uma frieza cirúrgica –mesmo assim não isenta de dramaticidade, muito pelo contrário— extremamente atraente (se é possível utilizar um termo assim para a paulada na cabeça que é essa obra), numa indústria já então dominada por ênfases disciplinadas e direcionadas. Depois vieram as grandes descobertas confirmatórias: O Sétimo Selo, O Rosto, Morangos Silvestres, Sorrisos de Uma Noite de Amor; um pouco mais tarde, A Hora do Lobo, Persona, e o maior de todos, Gritos e Sussurros (sobre os dois últimos trabalhos, ele lucidamente escreve: “Com Persona e, mais tarde, com Gritos e sussurros, fui o mais longe que pude quanto à técnica narrativa. Isto é, com total liberdade toco em segredos para os quais não existem palavras e que só a cinematografia pode patentear”).

    Quantos criadores deram origem a um adjetivo próprio (bergmaniano), o qual agrega toda uma gama específica de sentimentos e uma visão do mundo fundada na angústia?

    Não bastasse isso, Bergman fascinava também pela palavra: seus roteiros foram publicados no Brasil pela Nórdica e tornaram-se tão cruciais para mim quanto qualquer grande autor literário, e às vezes funcionavam mais do que os filmes (caso de Face a Face, Cenas de Um Casamento ou A Hora do Amor). Por isso, nada mais justo do que uma despedida mediada pela palavra, no caso seu livro Imagens, publicado em 1990, no qual comenta sua extensa produção (iniciada em 1945) valendo-se de uma forma muito pessoal, caleidoscópica, recusando o critério da linearidade cronológica, aproximando filmes distantes por obsessões recorrentes.

    As cinco seções (“Sonhos/sonhadores”, “Primeiros filmes”, “Farsas/farsantes”, “Crença/descrença”, “Comédias/divertimentos”, “Outros filmes”) são frutos de longas conversas com Lasse Bergström, o que justifica um pouco a forma descontraída, aparentemente descuidada, da prosa de Bergman, enriquecida e ampliada por anotações de agendas de trabalho e trechos de sua autobiografia, Lanterna Mágica.

“Quero que me tomem como pessoa adulta, mas surpreende-me continuamente que as pessoas me levem a sério (…) Não penso, é claro, que toda essa gente são crianças que representam o papel de adultos. A única diferença entre mim e eles é que já esqueceram ou nunca pensaram que, no fundo, continuam sendo crianças.”

    E é muito belo esse vai e vem que, apesar de toda a pluralidade da produção bergmaniana (cerca de 50 trabalhos, entre obras-primas, experiências personalíssimas, filmes comerciais e de encomenda, comédias), dá uma tremenda idéia de unidade e ajuda a entender o brado de Peter Egerman, em Da Vida das Marionetes: “O espelho está partido, mas o que refletem os pedaços?” Um ponto alto nessa reunião dos pedaços é a discussão do processo de descrença crescente que culminará com a realização de Luz de Inverno (1963), logo após o desmascaramento do deus que Harriet Andersson encontra no papel de parede, em Através de Um espelho (afinal, esse mesmo homem conseguiu encarnar a morte num ator, em O Sétimo Selo, sem cair no ridículo). Nessa discussão metafísica não se perde o bom senso que lhe permite discutir sua carreira com os pés do chão. Em meio às dúvidas e tormentos do seu pastor sem fé, ele observa: “é um filme sobre o homem sueco em termos da realidade sueca e, meteorologicamente falando, no período mais difícil do ano”. É o mesmo homem que afirma sobre suas comédias: “era imprescindível que elas me dessem dinheiro. E não me envergonho de confessá-lo. A maior parte das coisas que acontecem no mundo do cinema acontecem devido a esse fator.” Ou ainda: “me sentia, com freqüência, envolvido numa prostituição profissional contínua, ainda que bastante divertida. Trata-se, evidentemente, de atrair público. Não era outra coisa senão show business de manhã à noite”. E é o mesmo homem que se recrimina, por ter, em Sonata de outono, realizado um filme “à Bergman”.

    E que bonito esse grande homem nunca chegar a um acordo consigo mesmo. Pois é capaz de afirmar sobre a “magia do teatro da ilusão” propiciada pela Flauta mágica: “Nada é. Tudo está representado. No momento em que o pano sobe, faz-se um acordo entre o palco e o salão: agora vamos soltar a fantasia!”; e em outro passo, “isto de criar uma ilusão, de representar! Os atores representam comédias e eu os incito a isso. Por vias tortuosas tentamos conseguir impulsos emocionais que o público irá toma por sentimentos, até por verdades. Ora, isso começa a ser difícil. Sinto uma aversão crescente perante o próprio milagre da interpretação teatral”. Essa oscilação impregna a tessitura de Imagens: trata-se de uma vida reconstruída com palavras de antes e de agora. O velho e bom Henry James já escrevera: “Trabalhamos no escuro, fazemos o que podemos, damos o que temos. Nossa dúvida é nossa paixão e nossa paixão é nosso dever. O resto é a loucura da arte.” O velho e bom Ingmar Bergman, esse pedaço importante do meu próprio espelho quebrado: “Nós caminhamos passo a passo em direção às trevas. A única verdade existente é esse movimento”. E quem assistiu a uma de suas obras-primas, que em 2007 torna-se cinqüentenária (apesar de ser mais jovem que todo o cinema atual), Morangos Silvestres, sabe como isso é verdadeiro.

 (resenha publicada, de forma ligeiramente condensada, em outubro de 2007)  

____________________________________

So, I’ve been attempting to start this 12-page research paper on Ingmar Bergman, Swedish film-maker extraordinaire.  Here’s what I have so far:

Ingmar Bergman was a cool cool cat.  He made movies.  And plays, too.  He created his own cinematic universe by reusing a lot of themes throughout these works.  For instance, think about The Silence, Persona, and Cries & Whispers.  Case in point.  Makes a lot of sense, right?  The end (’cause he’s dead).

So, uh, what do you think?  Good enough, yeah?

Listening to: people mill about in the coffee shop.

Wild Strawberries (1957)

Sara (Bibi Andersson) shows Dr. Isak Borg (Victor Sjöström) his reflection.

It is certainly fair to say that much of Ingmar Bergman’s work (The Seventh Seal, Fanny and Alexander) takes an experienced mind to fully appreciate. As elitist as I’m in danger of sounding for writing that, I do believe it, but I will also concede that I am by no means experienced enough in life to appreciate Wild Strawberries fully. It makes me wonder why a film like Wild Strawberries would be shown in film classes to budding and perhaps talented artists, but not unlike me, they are most likely novices at life. Dr. Isak Borg (Victor Sjöström) is not a novice. He knows what it is like to lose love and surrender to something less. He knows exactly what it is like to be lulled and deceived by life’s trials. For so long he was dead in life and would become alive again during the process of his death. It is a bittersweet and profoundly beautiful realization that Dr. Borg is compelled to find in this truly amazing film.

From left; Ingmar Bergman with cast members Jullan Kindahl, who plays Adga, and Sjöström.

Wild Strawberries follows the one day journey of 76 year old medical scientist Isak Borg. Isak was born into a family of ten children and he is the only one alive today. He has been a doctor for fifty years, a father for probably more than thirty years, a widower for some time, and socially he has withdrawn quite a bit. He is being rewarded for his professional accomplishments and he travels to his destination to receive his honors. Through interactions with various characters, through triggered memories, and sometimes through horrific dream sequences, this film turns out to be a meditation on Dr. Borg’s life. It is ultimately about a man in the twilight of his life gazing into the mirror, perhaps for the final time, to find some level of resolution and comfort.

Surreal scene from one of the film's dream sequences.

There are so few filmmakers today making existential road films like this. Alfonso Cuarón (Y tu mamá también, Children of Men) comes to mind. It’s so rare to find something so deep and succinct. Most films that rely to any degree of making philosophical statements through dream sequences and similar devices are often reduced to being vague, cryptic, and sometimes even pretentious. Wild Strawberries provides both a glimpse into the psychology of Dr. Borg as well as a more macrocosmic spirituality some viewers will empathize with and find endlessly rewarding. It is a film about nerves and dread but at the same time it is a film about authentic self-identity, satisfaction, and peace. There’s a lot to learn here. This is a film to enjoy multiple times for sure.

My rating is 5 out of 5 stars.

The Seventh Seal (1957)

"You all say that. But I give no respite."

Crusader, Antonious Block (Max Von Sydow) and his squire Jöns (Gunnar Björnstrand) have returned home after ten years. Unfortunately, thorough chaos and the black plague await them. Block himself comes face to face with a human manifestation of Death (Bengt Ekerot). Death has come for him and during Block’s trials over the last ten years he has felt his faith in God diminish. Block challenges Death to a game of chess that plays on throughout the entire film. We wonder if his expectations are to actually outwit Death and survive. During his many interactions with Death he asks for true knowledge of God’s existence and therefore some guidance as to his own. He is conflicted and to some degree he views the concept of God as merely an idol created to pacify fear and doom. These are just a few of the many insights that make their confrontation so enticing. Block’s squire Jöns seems to acknowledge and exist in this oblivion and acts as humanity’s voice of helplessness to Block. Block likely knows his death is forthcoming but is playing his game of chess as a way to delay the inevitable. The delay allows him to reunite with his wife and to further ponder on the existence of God. But most importantly, it is all a way for him to express and examine his utter dissatisfaction with the possibility that life has absolutely no meaning at all.

"I want knowledge. Not belief. Not surmise. But knowledge. I want God to put out His hand, show His face, speak to me."

I was first exposed to some of Ingmar Bergman’s work when I was in my teens. Back then I only thought I understood Bergman. I was wrong; with Bergman there is always some new guidance to provide further appreciation for life. Unfortunately, this outstanding director passed away in July of 2007. I felt obligated to buy Criterion’s release of Bergman’s masterpiece The Seventh Seal. I’ve seen the Seventh Seal three times. The first time without really paying attention but just kind of suspecting it was something special, this was years ago in my late teens. The other two times I watched it alone and both times I became consumed by it; once as a pious Christian and once as a skeptical agnostic. I saw the film in a dramatically different light with each viewing but yet it was still a great experience. Needless to say, if you’ve seen The Seventh Seal and not felt that your faith or lack thereof is being questioned and tugged at then you may need to watch it again. In the end, I found a satisfying resolution either way and the film is both personal and universal in it’s commentary, so you may too. It is interesting to note that The Seventh Seal never tries to directly answer Block’s questions and almost anyone could walk away satisfied with the conclusion. The Seventh Seal isn’t necessarily about God and faith directly, but really just the aspects that produce them. The experience of life and finding comfort in our own personal existence is something only the ignorant or indifferent could look away from, and they may be the only ones unsatisfied with The Seventh Seal’s conclusion. As a character Block is anything but ignorant or indifferent. He is more alive and passionate throughout the film because he knows full well he is in Death’s grip and he wants to know if his actions in life are worth anything. This is a hugely significant film that tackles hugely significant subject matter and does so without preaching at us. It even uses some humor in doses at just the right time. I’m hopeful that one day a film like this could be produced again but somehow I see cinema going in a very different direction.

"Mia! I see them, Mia! I see them! Over there against the stormy sky. They are all there. The smith and Lisa, the knight, Raval, Jöns, and Skat. And the strict master Death bids them dance. He wants them to hold hands and to tread the dance in a long line. At the head goes the strict master with the scythe and hourglass. But the Fool brings up the rear with his lute. They move away from the dawn in a solemn dance away towards the dark lands while the rain cleanses their cheeks of the salt from their bitter tears."

The DVD release itself is a very good one and I definitely recommend the Criterion release. The film has been restored enough to appreciate the cinematography for the time and budget, and there are also some great extras that really help to put Bergman’s film career in perspective. I can honestly say that no film affected me like The Seventh Seal and I am a Bergman fan for life, with still much of his filmmography left to discover and enjoy. He will be sorely missed.

My rating is 5 out of 5 stars.

Good news! As of this morning we’ve just added tickets to ShowBus Tours to see Catherine Zeta-Jones and Angela Lansbury in Stephen Sondheim’s A Little Night Music, which begins previews tonight at Broadway’s Walter Kerr Theatre.

Based on Ingmar Bergman’s film, Smiles of a Summer Night, A Little Night Music is a witty and urbane musical set in waltz time. The action takes place in a weekend country house in turn-of-the-century Sweden, where surprising liaisons, long-simmering passions and a taste of love’s endless possibilities are all brought to light.

Take a look at this video featuring the cast of A Little Night Music, including Catherine Zeta-Jones and the legendary Angela Lansbury:

This show is sure to draw crowds! Lock your tickets in now at ShowBus Tours.

The ShowBus Team
http://ShowBusTours.com
info@showbustours.com
(800) 882-6400

Revisitando a Bergman… sufría de desórdenes estomacales, afición desmedida a las mujeres (las martirizaba sin que él mismo disfrutara de ello) y de algo como un vago odio al mundo en general

oakville, indiana

another bergman moment for me. too bad i didn’t think to  take it in b&w .

more harvest pictures coming soon…..

I was having trouble accessing the Seattle Public Library database this week, so I wasn’t able to find the original clipping of this Vincent Canby review, but you can read it online here:

The Passion of Anna (1970)

The Times’ website requires registration (free), but here’s a small excerpt:

“The Passion of Anna is one of Bergman’s most beautiful films (it is his second in color), all tawny, wintry grays and browns, deep blacks, and dark greens, highlighted occasionally by splashes of red, sometimes blood. It is also, on the surface, one of his most lucid, if a film that tries to dramatize spiritual exhaustion can be ever said to be really lucid. However, like all of Bergman’s recent films, it does seem designed more for the indefatigable Bergman cryptologists (of which I am not one) than for interested, but uncommitted filmgoers.”

See all you “indefatigable Bergman cryptologists” this week!
The Passion of Anna plays November 20-25 daily at 7pm.

A Serious Man, Joel Coen, Ethan Coen, 2009

shrink-wrap for the soul

HOOK: Is the cat in the house, dead or alive?

 LINE:  “Even though you can’t ever figure anything out, you will be responsible for it on the midterm.”

 SINKER: How can someone ‘who hasn’t done anything’ be blamed for everything? A Book of Job treat with a razor hidden in it. 

JOHN: As our friend Bob (at Coffeespew) points out the new suburbs of the fifties and sixties are old territory for authors like John Updike. So why do the Coen brothers revisit them (other than the fact that this is where they grew up in one around Minneapolis)? I think there’s a broader question concerned with the difference between comedy and drama—a line they’ve crossed with mixed results in the past. In drama we in the audience want to identify with the protagonist, feel that what is happening to him is happening to us. We are curious and relieved (even if things turn out badly, “It is only a movie.”). Comedy requires more distance. We recognize the situations but want to laugh at the characters, not ourselves. Whether or not the Coens relate to the Larry Gopnik character (superbly played by newcomer Michael Stuhlbarg in a career launching performance), we don’t, even if the fact that this involves his Jewishness makes it a bit of an uncomfortable laugh. The genius of this film is that it doesn’t stay in the mid sixties. The last moments, like impending doom, roll out at us today. I found the movie funny, at times stereotyped and slow, but ultimately a masterpiece that leaves you gasping.

GO GO GO GO (4 GOs out of four) 

SPANKY: The fact that you have to do all this rationalizing, John, seems to me to indicate that the film isn’t making it on its own terms (like Fargo). We can debate great films, like those of Bergman and Fellini, all night, but whether or not we do they stand as great films. This one has some magical moments: the sequence with the young rabbi, the tale of the message on the teeth of the Jewish dentist’s client, Sly Abelman—beautifully played by Fred Melamed—even the dark, sub-titled prologue. And I agree, the shift of vantage point from the father to his son toward the end gives the conclusion knock-out power. But it also seems to me the movie has to work a little harder than it should have to. And we in the audience do too. Plus the two-dimensional, hair-washing daughter, the Jewish lawyers, the Nazi-like neighbors and the desperate housewife next door…com’on. This may be much better than their other recent movies, but the Coen boys are still a long way from home.

BARK, BARK (2 BARKs out of four)

Michael Stuhlbarg, Fred Melamed, Richard Kind, Aaron Wolf, Sari Wagner, Jessica McManus, Joel Coen, Ethan Coen,  Sari Lennick , A Serious Man, Fargo, Comedy, Drama, Coen Brothers, No Country For Old Men, Man Who Wasn’t There, Woody Allen

For Ingmar Bergman, most of his visions came in black and white and, therefore, most of his films were reflected in black and white. An exception is 1972’s heart-wrenching Cries and Whispers. The use of saturated crimson speaks volumes in this generally quiet motion picture. It is, according to Bergman, the colour of the interior of the soul.

Without question, Cries and Whispers is no easy experience. The markings of Bergman are present, but this picture is almost exceedingly bleak. There is a sense that the movie is coated in despair and in suffering, as though Bergman is pressing these themes harder than ever before. Hope appears but seems fleeting, as though it has long since been abandoned by both the characters and the man behind the camera.

Cries and Whispers revolves around four women. There is Agnes (Harriet Andersson) and she is dying a painful death. Her pain is excruciating to watch, as she struggles for air and writhes in continual anguish as she essentially waits to die. Tending to her are her two sisters, Maria (Liv Ullmann) and Karin (Ingrid Thulin), and her maid, Anna (Kari Sylwan).

Bergman uses flashbacks to return to the lives of the characters as they deal with the inevitable passing of Agnes. We learn about the rift between Karin and Maria, of the anguish of their individual lives as borne out through bizarre and violent action and stifled emotional distress. Neither sister is particularly close to the dying Agnes nor can neither offer much comfort. It is only Anna who, in her selflessness, can bring peace to Agnes.

In essence, Cries and Whispers is a film about suffering. Each woman encounters it in her own way and each deal with the emotional and physical impact in her own way. The male characters are on the sidelines, for the most part, serving to only torment or ignore the female characters. The women, despite Bergman’s basic honour towards them, represent varying degrees of monstrosity. Purity is hard to find in Bergman’s vision here, save for the elegance of Anna who manages to remain innocent due to her faithfulness and compassion.

When one considers Karin, for instance, and the vile act of mutilation she performs on herself as revenge against her husband, the painful selfishness is exemplified in the most grotesque of fashions. And Maria, too, drives her husband to suicide due to her own sexual issues. It is suggested that Agnes has cancer related to her own sexual anatomy, which is another sign of Bergman’s designs towards impurity in his characters.

What the characters do share is agony and anguish, of course, and Bergman’s picture is very clear as to how poisonous this concept is. His use of colour paints the soul a vicious, sudden red. His use of carefully designated camera angles further sets up his exploration, illustrating closeness to Agnes’ tortured existence or distance between Karin and Maria.

Religion, too, remains one of Bergman’s points of exploration. Cries and Whispers holds Anna’s faith in the highest regard, but there appears to be a sense of resentment towards her faithfulness in the darkest and bleakest of hours. As a director, Bergman often dealt with the theme of religion’s inability to offer legitimate comfort in true hours of need. Cries and Whispers makes this point clearly and then some.

Cries and Whispers is a difficult motion picture. It is excruciating to watch at times and is exceptionally shot and performed. Nominated for five Academy Awards including Best Picture, marking an unusual moment for a foreign language picture, this is a film that takes attention, time and emotion to fully appreciate. It is bleak and painful, just like the lives and deaths of Bergman’s core characters. Finding a glimmer of hope, while difficult, is not impossible here.

It should be noted that Cries and Whispers isn’t a depressing piece of work, but rather that it requires a deep emotional well from which to draw. Films such as this are never depressing in that they represent such terrific filmmaking and performing, so it’s hard to walk away from this piece feeling anything but flabbergasted as though having spent time in the presence of something truly great.

9.8/10

done

Escena magistal del film  de Ingmar Bergman Aus dem Leben der Marionetten, donde está presente la angustia y la soledad de Peter Egerman, en un escenario sórdido y agobiante.

Ingmar Bergman. Que sujeito fantástico. Há quem o considere o melhor diretor de todos os tempos. Não retruco, mesmo com meus preferidos conheço a dimensão do seu trabalho no cinema e tenho certeza – se Bergman fosse norte-americano o reconhecimento seria muito maior. O primeiro filme que vi do mestre sueco foi O Sétimo Selo, um dos melhores filmes que vi na minha vida. Além de inteligente, a obra é bárbara tecnicamente. Eis um dos poucos diretores que consegue manter  nível elevado nos quesitos quantidade e qualidade. Devo agradecer já que meu contato com tal cinema ocorreu por conta de uma amiga apaixonada pelas temáticas desenvolvidas pelo diretor.

Com tantos adjetivos, algo deveria ir mal na jornada de Bergman. Aos que tiverem a oportunidade de assistir ao belo A Ilha de Bergman perceberão que muitos filmes do diretor refletem experiências próprias. Bergman sofreu durante a infância com uma educação extremamente rígida (o pai era pastor). Porém o choque inicial ocorre quando entramos na casa do diretor que nos apresenta diversas referências aos pais, através de móveis, relógios e outros objetos. Não há ódio pelos pais, pelo contrário o sueco nutre um sentimento de saudade através de objetos que pertenceram a sua infância e família.

Bergman é o Rousseau do século XX, abandonou os próprios filhos para morar sozinho e desenvolver a carreira. Os problemas de relacionamento que vemos em seus filmes condizem com a vida real do diretor que na velhice prefere se isolar na ilha que por muitos anos habitou. A Ilha de Bergman nos traz os últimos anos de vida de um artista fantástico mas que na curiosa obra parece mais próximo de uma análise pessoal ao invés de artística. Quem não gostaria de conhecer o cantinho que o gênio habita?

Lembro-me de uma visita a Casa de Pablo Neruda em Valparaíso, Chile. Um lugar maravilhoso com um quarto com uma janela em forma de meia lua que dava para ver todo o porto da cidade. Pensei com meus botões que deitado ali, eu  poderia desenvolver melhor minhas noites poéticas. Mas ocorre algo diferente com Bergman, o isolamento não me interessa, mas para o sueco talvez tenha sido a forma mais adequada de lidar com tantos sentimentos ambiguos. Com tanta fama e tantas dores, Bergman encontrou refúgio em uma ilha com poucos moradores.

O documentário faz bater aquela saudade de pegar um filme do mestre para assistir. Ainda bem que ele fez tantos que ainda estou longe de conhecer todos. A Ilha de Bergman apresenta um sujeito simples, com uma rotina normal pela idade, é o espaço de repouso para quem fez muito. Seria apenas um pedaço de terra cercada de água por todos os lados. Mas não é só isso, é a Ilha de Bergman, nome que é sinônimo de Sétima Arte.

Brilliant. Time to talk about our Ten lists once more, so settle in for the long haul and try and keep up. Much discussion ensues as Sam tries to extol the virtues of Ingmar Bergman, praise the magical realism of Billy Liar and attempt to make sense of All About Lily Chou-Chou. John continues the theme, causing slight, though understandable, consternation with his uncensored views on Raging Bull and confessions of multiple tears during Schindler’s List. Tom rounds the night off in business-like fashion with praise for The 400 Blows, controversial dislike for the second half of Stalker and man-crushed love for Le Samourai.

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Parlando di Bergman possono succedere diverse cose: il timore reverenziale per un inquilino dell’Olimpo rischia di pesare fuori misura ogni parola spesa a riguardo, e la scontatezza di alcune fra queste – a maggior ragione se chi le scrive nasce venticinque anni dopo ‘Il Settimo Sigillo’ – potrebbe scoraggiare cinefili navigati o studenti ben più formati del presente scribacchino per disquisire sul significante/significato relativi ad un capolavoro imprescindibile come questo. Da profano e da laico – due presupposti che in altre circostanze basterebbero a prendere le distanze con un regista profondamente interessato alla religione e cinematograficamente colto -, confermo la tesi sostenuta da chi ritiene sia uno dei dieci più grandi film della storia. La tradizione critica ci dice che è poco meno che la rappresentazione del travaglio che conduce l’uomo a Dio, in un mondo dove l’unica certezza plausibile e desolante rimane la Morte. I pellegrini incappucciati pontificano sui rostri degli avvoltoii; al riparo, invece, le visioni di artisti e giocolieri collimano gli excursus dell’Eroe vagheggiante e tragico, il cui calvario spirituale – che scomoda il Deus Absconditus pascaliano pur non affogando nella plumbea chimera di Kirkegaard – viene sancito dall’esito dialettico di scacchisti indefessi: Vita e Morte, dirimpettai sospettosi di quello stesso isolato, dicotomia eterna del b/n, pianificano le rispettive strategie operazionali, offensiva e assedio, penetrazione e resistenza. Ora, la seconda di queste si adopera anche costruttivamente per gli stralci di spiegazione richiesti, o almeno per limare le puntigliosità di un cesello addirittura amletico ma non sfacciatamente shakespeareiano; dal canto suo, la controparte, perennemente sotto scacco e consapevole di quanto il gioco si faccia tragico, persevera nell’anelito inestricabile, rimugina ed incrina, sobillando. Al di là di tutte le confabulazioni – timorate o scettiche, poco importa -, di Bergman ci delizia la sua  vena espressionista, che pompa il sangue nel concomitante realismo milletrecentesco di Svezia, dove bighelloni, fanatici, deliranti e monaci riverberano gli echi lontani dalla Terra Santa. Persino Antonius Block, testimone ed artefice, è tutt’al più una eco del conflitto insopprimibile. Il suo rispecchiarsi con la Morte, ulteriore testimonianza di un Dio assente e menefreghista o, al più, capace di indurre gli uomini a giocare una partita letale senza chiedere le scuse. La Risposta non è univoca, anzi tutt’altro. Le potenti allegorie, le diatribe metafisico/esistenzialiste, le digressioni ontologiche sulla natura umana e – questa volta per davvero! – sul Senso Stesso Della Vita, con tanto di rassegnata accettazione per la cenere che saremo, ci giungono dalle bocche degli svariati comprimari: meiosi, forse, dell’unica voce di un Bergman filosofo confrontantesi con l’eredità spirituale del padre e cineasta abile nel dirottare i meccanismi formali del teatro in un cinema scarno ma pregno di simboli e geometrie. Capace, tra le altre cose, di leggere tra le righe di un epoca a metà di una guerra giusto conclusasi poco più che un decennio prima e di un terrore per qualcosa se possibile ancor più agghiacciante: così come la peste, l’allarmismo atomico.

Chroniquer ce film de Bergman m’aurait tout simplement été impossible sans le travail merveilleux de quelques éditeurs de dvds consciencieux et passionnés (ici Carlotta) que je me dois de remercier chaleureusement. Car L’œuf du serpent est un des films les plus méconnus du réalisateur suédois, et – voyez-y une corrélation si vous le souhaitez – certainement le plus sous-estimé. Plusieurs raisons à celà: Bergman ne filme pas en Suède (le fisc au cul il est obligé de se retirer quelques temps), Bergman filme en anglais (et en allemand) et enfin, Bergman est produit par un Italien (Dino de Laurentiis, un ami) avec des sous américains.

L’œuf du serpent déstabilise le cinéphile dès son générique. Ça ne ressemble pas à du Bergman. Ça ne peut pas être du Bergman. Pourtant son nom est bien au générique. Liv Ullmann aussi. On est rassuré. L’histoire se déroule sur une semaine, au cours du mois de novembre 1923 alors que l’inflation et l’humiliation prennent de plus en plus les Allemands à la gorge. Comme paumé dans le Berlin des années 20, un trapéziste américain, Abel Rosenberg (David Carradine que je ne crois pas avoir déjà vu aussi bon) déambule bourré dans un quartier miteux. Alors qu’il rentre dans sa chambre d’hôtel il découvre le corps de son frère, suicidé d’une balle dans la tête. Désemparé, il décide de retrouver l’ex-femme de celui-ci (Liv Ullmann), elle aussi à Berlin avec laquelle il a toujours entretenu de bons rapports. Danseuse de cabaret et pute à mi-temps, elle décide de s’occuper d’Abel et de l’héberger quelques temps. L’inspecteur Bauer (Gert Fröbe dont les connaisseurs de James Bond se rappellent dans le rôle d’Auric Goldfinger) chargé de l’enquête de la mort du frère d’Abel invite celui-ci à se rendre à la morgue. Il lui présente les cadavres de plusieurs personnes qu’il se trouve connaître de près ou de loin. L’angoisse monte à mesure qu’il se sent menacé. Sa paranoïa est amplifiée alors qu’il pense être soupçonné du simple fait qu’il soit juif (on souligne à gros traits le contexte pour le moins chaotique de l’Allemagne de l’époque).

Passée la surprise des premières minutes, L’œuf du serpent s’avère être un film remarquable. Tourné dans les même décors que le Berlin Alexanderplatz de Fassbinder, il est un hommage non dissimulé à Fritz Lang. A son Mabuse d’une part (Heinz Bennent, terrifiant dans le rôle du professeur Vergerus), et au personnage interprété par Otto Wernicke dans M et le Testament du Docteur Mabuse d’autre part (en effet, on évoque un commissaire Lohmann). Deux histoires se mélangent dans le film, la grande et la petite. Mais ce n’est pas nécessairement une dénonciation d’un régime nazi en gestation à laquelle se prête ici Bergman. La petite histoire, celle de deux êtres broyés par la vie, cette grande machine qui va, l’intéresse bien plus. L’œuf du serpent (celui dont la coquille si fine permet déjà de distinguer le parfait petit reptile) obsède et terrifie à la fois. Un film éprouvant qu’on ne saurait mettre devant toutes les paires d’yeux.

Mye er utsolgt, men utpå nyåret er det ledige billetter, og du bør avgjort sikre deg noen til Fanny og Alexander på Nationaltheatret. For en som jobber med dramatiske tekster daglig, er det et under å gjenoppleve hvordan Ingmar Bergman inviterer oss inn til en saftig oppdagelsesferd – både med følelsene og hodet -  i sine mennesker og sitt univers. Og hvordan Kjetil Bang-Hansen med all sin erfaring og poetiske kraft gir dette universet  form på scenen.

Hva handler Fanny og Alexander om? Enkelt sagt er det en klassisk fabel om voyage and return.  Uppsala i 1907, den storborgelige familien Ekdahl i full utfoldelse med julefering. Raskt oppdager vi alle sprekkene i fasaden, men det forførende med familien er at det finnes ingen hemmeligheter. Alt tøv, alle svakheter, utroskap, pengesøl, kjærlighetshat, impotens – alt det som i andre familier vi kjenner, ville vært nevrotisk usagte kramper og anklager - utfolder seg fritt i en slags varm forsoning med menneskelivets meningsløse underfundighet. Ikke rart vi blir dønn sjarmert.

Så begynner dramaet. Oscar (Kim Haugen), en av de tre brødrene dør, og hans enke Emilie (Kjersti Holmen) søker mot det mørke, livsfornektende i biskop Edvard Vergérus (Bjørn Skagestad). Hvorfor? Hun orker ikke mer av tilværelsens uutholdelige letthet? Hennes begrunnelse er den samme som Solveig i Peer Gynt bruker, når hun forlater alt for å oppsøke den fredløse Peer i storskogen:

Jeg kunne ikke forstå hvorfor ingen ting gjorde ordentlig vondt, hvorfor jeg aldri følte meg ordentlig glad. Jeg tørstet etter sannheten, og jeg syntes jeg hadde levd i løgn.

Slik Kjetil Bang-Hansen former fabelen, blir det tydelig for oss at Emilies reise mot det mer brutale ikke først og fremst er eksistensiell eller psykologisk, men driftsstyrt – seksuell. Oscar er ikke far til hennes to barn Alexander og Fanny, og sex har ikke vært del av kjærligheten mellom ektefellene.  Når hun søker mot en mann med sadistiske trekk, er det kanskje for å bli virkelig, kjenne grensene, kjenne smerten fysisk.

Emilie presses lenger ned i avgrunnen enn hun makter, hun frir seg til sist fra monsteret, kommer seg ut fra det bergtatte og hjem igjen til familien Ekdahls frodige livsmestring.

Hvilken erkjennelse har denne reisen gitt henne? Ingmar Bergman lar henne ikke formulere det. Han gir oppgaven til Oscars bror Gustav Adolf (Nils Ole Oftebro), som holder en fantastisk tale til forsvar for den lille ekdahlske verden:

Vi Ekdahler er ikke kommet til verden for å gjennomskue den. Det er like godt å gi blaffen i de store sammenhengene. Vi skal leve i det lille, i den lille verden. Den skal vi holde oss til, og den skal vi dyrke og gjøre det beste ut av. (…) Verden og virkeligheten skal være til å fatte, slik at vi med god samvittighet kan klage over dens ensformighet. (…) Menneskene må for faen være begripelige, ellers tør man verken elske dem eller snakke stygt om dem. (…) Verden er en røverhule, og det mørkner mot natt. Derfor er det nødvendig, og ikke det minste skammelig, å glede seg over den lille verden, den gode maten, det milde smilet, fruktrærne som blomstrer, valsene.

Plutselig slår døden til, plutselig åpner avgrunnen seg, plutselig brøler stormen, og katastrofen er over oss, alt dette vet vi. Men vi vil ikke tenke på de ubehagelighetene. Vi elsker det vi forstår, vi Ekdahler. (…) Derfor er det all grunn til å være lykkelig når man er lykkelig, å være snill, gavmild, øm og god.

Denne talen har Kjetil Bang-Hansen skåret kraftig ned på, og i den forestillingen jeg så, nådde den ikke ut – den fikk ikke det rom og den samling den fortjener – etter min mening. En grunn er kanskje at Kjetil Bang-Hansen legger innsikten i en annen karakter, som han selv har skapt – den voksne Alexander (Kåre Conradi). Hvordan denne rollen fungerer, har anmelderne mange og ulike synspunkter på. Rollen ivaretar Bang-Hansens grep om stoffet  – som en voice-over når det trengs. Han løser blant annet Oscars dødsscene godt på denne måten. Men først og fremst tjener kanskje den voksne Alexander Kjetil Bang-Hansens eget prosjekt med forestillingen: et slags kunsterisk og menneskelig regnskap etter et langt liv i teatret. Det forunderlige er at når Kåre Conradi til sist kommer inn for å ta applaus foran alle skuespillerne, kjennes det helt feil. Han skulle stått på siden eller blant publikum og applaudert.

Dette er bare en ørliten brokk av alt som kan sies om denne forestillingen. Ikke minst ligger det en diger virkelighet i det tredje universet Ingmar Bergman tegner opp i tillegg til den ekdahlske livskraft og biskopens livsfrykt kledd i religiøs strenghet. Det er jøden Isaks (Sverre Anker Ousdal) magiske verden – som virkelig spenner opp himmel og helvete. Og som Kjetil Bang-Hansen gir rom og kraft.

Nå er Nationaltheatret stedet. Har du ikke vært på teatret før, skal du gå der nå.

Mer på Dyadebloggen: Umiddelbare reaksjoner etter en publikumsforestilling før premieren. Mer om Fanny og Alexander i Dyade: nr 1 1992: Den store og den lille verden.

I sorted out my bus ticket for Madrid in the morning, I’m getting the 10:45 getting in at 14:30 and it cost 15 Europeans. The lady didn’t speak any Spanish so I wrote down what I wanted, it then occurred to me that tomorrow is Friday 13th. Crikey.

After a bit more lazing about I done a fair bit of walking this afternoon. The highlight was a visit in the Basilica-Cathedral of Our Lady of the Pillar. I suppose it is no more impressive (that’s not to say that it isn’t impressive) than many of the other Cathedrals I’ve seen on this trip but this one affected me in the same manner that the one in Napoli did. I think the difference is the lack of tourists. The overall grandeur, power and atmosphere resonates much more in such buildings without a huge Japanese tour group clicking away at anything and everything. I’m obviously a tourist myself so that sounds hypocritical and I suppose it is, it doesn’t make it any less true though.

The pattern on the exterior of the Cathedral turrets remind me very much of the Brazil flag, here is the best example I can find for you to judge for yourselves.

I’m absolutely dying to watch a decent film now, when I get back in Blighty in December there will be a full on cinematic blitz on the go in the Bowen household. To ease my cravings I found the street in Zaragoza’s city centre that I thought most likely to have a cinema on it and proceeded to walk down it, my instincts proved correct as within a quarter mile I’d found one.

‘The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus’ was the only thing that I remotely fancied. I queued up for a ticket and then enquired if the film was dubbed or with subtitles, dubbed! Philistines! Just like the French and the Italians! I don’t understand why anyone would want to watch a film in that capacity, it completely ruins it. I thought we were supposed to be the uncultured ones.

I once bought a cheap copy of the ‘The Seventh Seal’ not realising it was dubbed, some dodgy American accent not remotely in sync with lip movement of the Swedish dialogue kind of spoilt the mood just a tab. Just say no!

Anyway, as much as I’m curious to see Heath Ledger’s last film, it was propably a lucky escape. I’m not that big a fan, ‘Brazil’ never done it for me and I think ‘Twelve Monkeys’ is overrated.

I had a €5 spaghetti carbonara at a little joint on the same street as the hostel called El Papeo. It was standard fare really but nice enough.

The authentic Tapas experience I’m after can wait until Madrid where I will have mates to share the embarassment of making a complete pig’s ear of the order (though you can probably actually order pig’s ears). I’ve been tempted a few times but not that many people seem to speak English so I never know how much anything is and it’s bad hobo style to just point and order without knowing the price of stuff, that path leads to early flights home. My mate Topi used to go out with a Spanish girl so he must know the score, I hereby appoint him the ‘Tapas Sheriff’ for the Madrid trip.

Dr. Dog (who I first discovered earlier in the year when I saw them at a free festival in Brooklyn) have been providing my musical enjoyment today. Specifically the 2006 EP ‘Takers and Leavers’ and their 3rd full lentgh album from 2005, ‘Easy Beat’. The mood, style and tone are all pretty similar in both and though from what I’ve read they see to be have been received pretty poorly in the music press, I like them. The Beatles influence is obvious but there’s more to it than that, it’s just good time rock ‘n roll with a bit of Americana and psychedelia mixed in for good measure. For my money they do the Ben Folds Five thing better than Ben Folds Five themselves. I’ve another 2 albums of theirs to listen to and I will do so with relish.

Oh yes, I discovered that the large group of Germans I suspected of being some sort of youth group are actually an amateur theatre group here to learn Spanish. The way they seem to learn Spanish is by hanging about the hostel all day acting like tools while talking in German to each other. I’ve met some very slick Germans in my time, but I have to say that no one does uncool and gimpy quite like the folks from the Deutsche-Land.

Search of the day: ‘jewish boy eating a sausage’. Come one Google, what’s that about!?!

The photo is of the Cathedral which I took from a bridge overlooking the River Ebro.

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Lataa Ohjelma (MP3)

Fuskausjaksot jatkuvat, tällä kertaa sukellamme palautteiden ihmeelliseen maailmaan.