My, my, at Waterloo Napoleon did surrender.

It is often assumed that smart culture is better than dumb culture. Go into a bookshop to buy the latest Thomas Pynchon, and you might get a bit of respect from the people behind the counter. Try to hustle out with the latest Tom Clancy and the odds are you won’t. Likewise, if you go and see an Abbas Kiarostami film, you know that you’ll probably have something to talk about in the bar afterwards. Go and see a Michael Bay film and your conversation might be a little more limited.

But is this fair? Is smart culture really better than dumb culture? To find out, I decided to perform a little experiment. Firstly I watched a DVD of the Abba-themed movie Mamma Mia! then, later in the day, tuned in to Film 4 to see Ingmar Bergman’s Persona. These two films seemed apt for comparison in the dumb-smart stakes. The first is based on a stage musical and has been pretty universally dismissed (and celebrated) as a shallow, feel-good movie, whereas the second is perhaps the most serious and experimental work by a famously serious and experimental auteur.

The Raw Data  

At 6pm, I began to watch Mamma Mia! The film opens with some rather nice shots of a midnight boat trip on a glittering sea. There is singing, almost immediately. The person doing the singing is Sophie, played by the actress Amanda Seyfried, who I’ve never heard of. We see her posting three letters.

In the next scene, we see Sophie welcoming two bridesmaids to the Greek island where she lives and where she is soon to be married, at the age of twenty. She tells the bridesmaids that she has recently unearthed her mother’s old diaries and, from the clues contained therein, has identified three men who could be her father. Without her mother’s knowledge, she has invited all three to the wedding. She is excited because she has always wanted to know who her father is. She expresses this excitement in the music of Abba. Upon hearing her news and her song, the bridesmaids say “Oh my God!” a lot, in the manner of irreligious young people everywhere. 

We next meet Sophie’s mother, a guesthouse proprietor played by Meryl Streep in dungarees. There is some more singing, then Julie Walters and Some Other Bird turn up. These two, we learn, used to be in a band with Streep in her young, carefree days. Streep complains that her guesthouse business isn’t doing very well. In sympathy with this, her friends join her in a rendition of Money, Money, Money. Then, just as abruptly, everyone seems to forget about Streep’s financial problems, including Streep herself. 

Pierce Brosnan, Colin Firth and Some Other Bloke turn up: they are the three potential fathers. Sophie hides them away in an old goat shed (how appropriate). Maybe I wasn’t paying attention at this point, but for some reason Meryl Streep in dungarees decides to go to the goat shed where, peering through a trap-door, she discovers her old flames. She imagines them as they were twenty years ago. We see Colin Firth as a punk, The Other Bloke as a stoner-type in a colourful shirt, and Pierce Brosnan as a hippie. This last costume doesn’t seem to make much sense, as surely she must have dated all three men in the late 1980s… But before we have time to worry about such matters, Streep has launched into another Abba song (Mamma Mia!) and everyone dances around for a bit. Then she tells the men to bugger off.  

Acting is reacting. Brosnan, yesterday.

The three men are on the verge of leaving the island when Sophie pleads with them to stay and, already a little paternal, they all agree. That night they gatecrash the hen do and there’s much singing of Abba songs. Pierce Brosnan is particularly weak in the vocal department, but makes up for this with some weak acting.

Somehow (again my attention may have wandered at this point) all three men independently come to conclusion that they are Sophie’s real father and make her promise that she’ll let them give her away at the wedding. The next day she is stressed. She hates having three dads! She confides in her under-characterised fiancé who, for no apparent reason, flies off the handle. She then talks to her mother who accidentally reveals that she’s not too happy about her daughter settling down at the age of twenty. This provokes a heated debate.

Pierce Brosnan tries to comfort Sophie with some wooden acting then, when this fails, he tries to comfort Streep. They sing S.O.S. together, which seems to help. Streep and daughter make up and do some girly bonding things, which leads Sophie to ask her mother to give her away.

The next day, the three dads turn up for the wedding, which is due to be conducted by a strangely un-Orthodox looking priest (no beard, no hat, quite pale, speaks English. Have they shipped out a Church of England vicar for the ceremony?). Streep confesses to being a slapper in front of a shocked congregation. An elderly Greek man crosses himself. The three dads agree that they’d all be happy to have one-third of Sophie in a non-sexual, father-daughter kind of way. The young couple decide not to get married, so rather than let a good wedding go to waste, Brosnan and Streep get married instead. Sophie loves having three dads!

At the reception, there’s much merriment and singing of Abba songs. Julie Walters chases the guy who’s not Pierce Brosnan or Colin Firth around, singing Take a Chance on Me. At first he runs away from her with a horrified look on his face, but eventually he gives in to her advances.      

Streep in dungarees

With the cockles of my heart thus warmed, I settled down later in the evening to watch Persona, Ingmar Bergman’s 1966 identity crisis drama.

The film opens, intriguingly enough, with the image of film running through a projector. A series of startling images follows: A spider! A penis! A slaughtered sheep! We see nails being driven into somebody’s hands and bodies lying in a mortuary. That warm fuzzy feeling left over from Mamma Mia! is disappearing fast.   

One of the bodies in the mortuary sits up. It belongs to a skinny young boy. He puts on his glasses and turns towards a screen on which is projected an ever-changing, indistinct image of a woman’s face. He reaches out towards the screen.

We then meet Alma, a nurse in a psychiatric clinic played by Bibi Andersson. Alma is charged by her superiors with looking after Elisabet Vogler (Liv Ullmann), an actress who has not spoken since falling silent on stage three months previously. The nurse fusses around the actress, but cannot get a peep out of her. One night, unseen by anybody, the actress freaks out while watching footage of burning bodies and violent demonstrations on TV. Has the horror of the world led her to retreat into herself? Hmmm…

The next day Alma reads Elisabet a letter from her husband. Elisabet tears up the photo of her son that has been sent with the letter, with not even a short burst of Abba to explain herself.

A psychiatrist suggests that nurse and patient should go and stay for a while at her seaside cottage (this seems to be a pretty cushy clinic). They do this, spending their days sunbathing and shell-collecting on an artfully over-exposed beach. Alma slums around in a bathing costume not doing much work and jabbering on at her still-silent charge. She reveals all sorts of things about herself and her relationship with fiancé Karl-Henrik. One night, she tells Elisabet about an angst-ridden bout of summer holiday sex, then cries on her shoulder. Later, while she’s sleeping, the actress sneaks into the nurse’s room and messes around with her hair, giving her a creepy side-parting.

'Persona'

The next day, Alma offers to take some letters of Elisabet’s into town to post. She sneaks a peek at an improperly sealed missive and discovers that Elisabet has been analysing her and making notes about flaws in her character. The cow! Her faith in the acting profession is shaken.

Alma confronts Elisabet about this and, after a slappy match, threatens to throw a pot of boiling water over the actress. “Stop!” Elisabet responds, not unreasonably. So, the cat hasn’t entirely run off with her tongue! Elisabet runs off down the beach and Alma takes off after her, belatedly realising that she’s not paid to slap her patients around.

But it’s too late. There is a breach between the women. They take to wearing black, and skulking around the house smoking. If this were an Abba-themed musical comedy they might consider a duet on S.O.S. at this point. But it isn’t, so they don’t.  

One night, Elisabet gazes intensely at a wartime photo of Jewish children being rounded up by Nazis. Was she one of these children? Is this the source of her horror and silence? Who knows?

In the next scene, who should show up but Elisabet’s bloody husband! He’s blind and doesn’t seem to have a very heightened sense of hearing or touch either, as he soon mistakes Alma for his wife. At a vague prompting from Elisabet, Alma takes on this role, telling the husband that she loves him and that she’ll be back soon. They sleep together too, I think, although they seem to keep their clothes on (those Swedish summer nights can be a bit chilly). Then she tells him to bugger off.

The confusion of identities extends into the next scene. Alma sits down opposite Elisabet (who now looks a bit like Charlize Theron in Monster) and guesses that she is secretly repelled by her child, telling her things that imply an insight into the other woman’s very soul. But who is revealing themselves to whom here? Alma becomes more confused about who she is, and the scene ends with a weird face-meld thing happening.

Happy slapping - the way forward?

Just to clarify matters, Alma puts her nurse’s uniform back on but then, in a moment of self-lacerating angst, scratches her arm, drawing blood. The actress starts sucking her blood, vampire-like, and is rewarded with another bout of happy slapping.

Now the boot shifts to the other foot. It is the actress who appears vulnerable and weak. Who is absorbing who? Alma rocks Elisabet to sleep getting her to repeat the word ‘nothing’. The next day, the nurse tidies the place up, gives herself the side-parting of doom and leaves.

Analysis

Below I’ve tried to summarise the information gained from watching both Mamma Mia! and Persona.

Information gained from watching Mamma Mia!

-         Abba songs are fun.

-         There’s an Abba song for almost every occasion.

-         Having three dads can be stressful, but it can be a lot of fun too.

-         Pierce Brosnan can’t sing for shit.

-         Pierce Brosnan’s acting isn’t much to write home about either.

-         Pierce Brosnan is remarkably well-preserved for a man of 56.

-         Getting married at twenty can be a good thing or not such a good thing.

-         People still went around dressed as ‘60s hippies in the late 1980s.

-         Greek people cross themselves when something untoward happens.

-         Just because your mother used to be a slapper, that’s no reason not to love her.

-         Meryl Streep is more attractive than Julie Walters.

-         After a few drinks, Julie Walters isn’t a bad consolation prize if Meryl Streep turns you down.

-         Young people say “Oh my God!” a lot, without much religious feeling. Middle-aged people say it sometimes too.

Information gained from watching Persona

-         It’s not easy being an actress.

-         It’s not easy being a nurse either.

-         Sex on the beach can be traumatic.

-         Swedish summer evenings can be chilly.

-         Blind people cannot distinguish one person’s voice from another.

-         If you’re Sven Nykvist (the cinematographer here) you can get away with over-exposing stuff.

-         A side-parting can get you into all kinds of trouble.

-         Hell is other people, especially when they start face-melding with you.

-         A good bout of happy-slapping will relieve all kinds of angst.

* With apologies to P.J. O’Rourke

- por Bernardo Brum

Por esse filme, que fique claro: ninguém filmou ou filma, atualmente, o inferno astral da forma que Roman Polanski faz. Saído do sucesso de Chinatown, o atormentado Polanski, com o recente brutal assassinato da sua esposa, Sharon Tate, praticamente prenunciou o novo escandâlo que iria abater sobre a sua carreira em 1977 envolvendo substâncias ilícitas e pedofilia com o esquizofrênico O Inquilino. Adentramos aqui, as dimensões retorcidas, claustrofóbicas e invariavelmente depressivas da mente genial do diretor franco-polaco.

Mas claro que, além de errôneo, é um tanto castrador reduzir a obra a uma previsão de desgraça vindoura – apesar que não deixa de ser tentador ver como perdura em sua obra um sentimento de fatalismo poucas vezes igualado no cinema. A história de Trelkovsky, um corretor de seguros polonês que consegue um emprego novo na França e aluga um apartamento de uma moça – Simone Choule – que havia se jogado da janela de seu prédio, que lentamente entra em um ciclo de esquizofrenia e neurose não é nada mais que uma desculpa de Polanski para jogar o espectador em um universo sinistro, incoerente e incompreensível, de dar orgulho a cineastas italianos como Mario Bava, um mestre na arte de usar o desconhecido para elevar tudo ao mais puro e  perturbador surto desassociativo.

Mais do que  sua preferência temática pelo apartamento, pelas grandes cidades e a forma que afetam seus indivíduos – seja no tocante ao desejo reprimido, em Repulsa ao Sexo, quanto à velha fascinação pelo obscuro em O Bebê de Rosemary, o diretor fez de O Inquilino algo que conjuga tudo isso ao mesmo tempo – o sexo, o demônio, Sigmund Freud e Aleister Crowley infectam cada milímetro de película de forma irremediável e violadora. Pouco a pouco, Trelkovsky se vê obrigado a fumar os mesmos cigarros que Simone Choule, andar com as mesmas companhias, tomar o mesmo café da manhã, enfrentar as mesmas adversidades, aguentar os mesmos vizinhos suspeitos… Estaria ele lentamente tornando-se outra personalidade?

Esse é outro ponto importantíssimo da obra – talvez o principal: a desconstrução da personalidade, a certeza terrível que não sejamos tão únicos como pensamos, e que sim, grandes traumas são capazes de deixar personalidades em migalhas, devolvendo o “ser” humano ao aspecto de carne e nada mais, e explorando uma questão importante para muitos artistas: já que não somos únicos, deve haver o duo, nosso oposto assustadoramente próximo, sempre perto de nós, oculto nas sombras da mente.

A partir de certo momento, o trabalho que vai além de psiclogização pesada – está mais para desassociação pesada – acaba por invadir o espectador: onde termina Trelkovsky e começa Simone Choule? Onde termina Polanski e começa Trelkovsky? Até que ponto nós somos nós e Polanski é Polanski? Outro terrível recado do pessimista diretor – após anos e anos de papo de “paz e amor”, “comunhão espiritual”, descobrimos uma terrível verdade: estamos mais próximos do que gostaríamos.

E é naquela hora, na mais escura das noites, sozinhos em um quarto, que um simples olhadela lá fora nos transfigura – no bizarro, no desejo repulsivo, na carne que não faz distinção. No inquilino não de Monsieur Zy, mas o inquilino, o hospedeiro da encarnação de Simone Choule – a desgraça como um parasita irresistível. E se, talvez, só nos reste o mesmo destino?

5/5

Ficha técnica: O Inquilino (Le Locataire/The Tenant) – EUA/França, 1976. Dir. Roman Polanski Elenco: Roman Polanski, Isabelle Adjani, Melvyn Douglas, Shelley Winters

Ingmar Bergman é a essência do cinema autoral como o conhecemos hoje. O diretor sueco, que viveu e trabalhou até os 89 anos, possui uma filmografia que sintetiza o espírito do cinema europeu e que deve continuamente ser reverenciada. Uma de suas obras mais perturbadoras é “Da Vida das Marionetes” (1980).

No filme, Peter Egermann é acometido por uma estranha necessidade de assassinar sua esposa, Katarina. Como uma alternativa a essa tentação, ele acaba por matar uma prostituta. Os acontecimentos se desenrolam antes, durante e depois do crime e mostram a instabilidade de Peter e das pessoas que o cercam, pontuando a decadência emocional de cada uma das personagens.

Bergman trabalha com planos que excedem a capacidade de imagens como conhecemos normalmente no cinema. As cenas as quais estamos acostumados são balizadas em sua maioria por closes ou planos abertos – e cada diretor é inventivo a sua maneira com essas possibilidades. Já o sueco consegue trabalhar também com três planos, o que dá a impressão ao espectador de estar vendo uma peça de teatro ou mesmo uma fotografia.

Esse trabalho é realizado em conjunto com o melhor diretor de fotografia de todos os tempos: o mestre Sven Nykvist. Neste filme em particular, que mescla o preto-e-branco com a cor, Sven consegue transmitir os conflitos do roteiro em suas nuances de luz sobre cada momento da trama, o que torna a película uma obra de arte do início ao fim.

Além de todas essas qualidades também são memoráveis o roteiro e as atuações. Bergman é um dos artistas que mais bem exploram a miséria humana em seu espectro da inadequação social e consequente depressão. E esse tema foi muito bem transmitido pelo elenco com especial destaque para Walter Schmidinger, um ótimo ator coadjuvante que surpreende num dos momentos mais avassaladores do filme.

Pela delicadeza e força de seus textos, pela qualidade técnica de atores, fotografia e ambientação, Ingmar Bergman é definitivo e primoroso, assustador e compreensivo. Tratá-lo como gênio seria pouco, então melhor colocá-lo entre os imortais.
    

Filme: Da Vida das Marionetes (Aus dem Leben der Marionetten)
Diretor: Ingmar Bergman
Elenco: Robert Atzorn, Christine Buchegger, Martin Benrath, Walter Schmidinger, Rita Russek
Duração: 104 minutos

Não pisque: Quando Tim conversa com Katarina olhando-se ao espelho.

Veja também:

Persona (1966)

Gritos e Sussurros (1972)

Cenas de um Casamento (1973)

* Meu amigo Woody é um grande admirador de Bergman e Sven. Inspirados no diretor, ele realizou dois ótimos filmes: “Interiores” (1978) e “A Outra” (1988). Já com o diretor de fotografia ele teve a oportunidade de trabalhar em “Crimes e Pecados” (1989) e “Celebridades” (1998).

Un’altra donna è un film in cui c’è Sven Nykvist come direttore della fotografia. Secondo te quali sono le sue principali qualità ?

Credo che Sven sia uno dei pochi grandi direttori della fotografia del mondo, e ciò che lo rende grande è il fatto che mette del sentimento nel proprio lavoro. Si può sempre cercare di analizzare cosa rende grande un direttore della fotografia. Uno usa le luci come Carlo Di Palma, facendo prevalere il chiaro. Un’altro, invece , preferisce le ombre come Gordon Willis. Hanno tutti la loro filosofia su come lavorare. A uno piace molto muovere la macchina da presa, a un altro, invece non piace muoverla troppo. Ma, alla fine, ciò che conta è il sentimento. E Sven mette del sentimento nel suo lavoro. Voglio dire, i film che ha fatto con Bergman sono straordinari. Persona è una bellissima opera d’arte, molto poetica anche per quanto riguarda la fotografia. Sussurri e grida è bellissimo, Fanny & Alexander è bellissimo. Sono tutti meravigliosi, ma questi tre particolarmente affascinanti.Cosa ti piace specificatamente nelle sue fotografie ?

Bè, l’estetica che è alla base. Come per qualsiasi direttore della fotografia, si può scomporre il suo lavoro e parlare di luci, della composizione e del movimento della cinepresa. Ma in realtà non si tratta affatto di questo. E’ un qualcosa che non si può davvero definire. Molti direttori della fotografia fanno delle buone composizioni e illuminano bene la scena, ma in ultima analisi esistono delle componenti indefinibili. E’ come dire: ” Come mai Charlie Chaplin fa così ridere ed altri comici meno ?” Sven ha portato questa dote naturale, punto e basta. Lo stesso vale per Carlo. E’ una capacità intangibile che certe persone hanno. E Sven ce l’ha.

Naturalmente, Sven è stato un collaboratore importante in Un’altra donna. Un’altra collaboratrice , e forse anche più importante, è stata Gena Rowlands. Per me, lei e la storia sono quasi la stessa cosa. E’ difficile immaginare il film con qualsisi altra attrice. Mentre scrivevi il copione, avevi in mente proprio lei ?

No, non lo scrissi con lei in mente, ma fu lei che scelse per prima la parte. A suo tempo, le avevo chisto di interpretare il ruolo della madre in Settembre, ma lei non si sentiva adatta. Riteneva di non essere abbastanza esuberante. Poi temeva che, siccome aveva rifiutato quella parte, io non le avrei più nulla offerto in futuro. Talvolta glia attori pensano che i registi si arrabbino con loro se rifiutano se rifiutano il ruolo che gli offrono. Ma naturalmente è una sciocchezza. Perciò per Un’altra donna le chiesi di recitare la parte della protagonista, e lei accettò. Anche lei è una delle nostre grandi attrici, ha un enorme talento ed è assolutamente professionale.

Come é nata questa storia?

E’ una cosa interessante. Molti anni prima di scrivere la storia di Un’altra donna, cominciai a pensare a un film in cui abitavo in un appartamento e, attraverso il condotto di aereazione, sentivo quello che succedeva nell’appartamento sotto il mio.  E sentivo uno psichiatra che curava i suoi pazienti. Comincia  curare una donna e lei parla dei suoi segreti più intimi. Allora guardo fuori dalla finestra, perchè la sento parlare, e vedo che è bellissima. Perciò vado al piano di sotto e faccio in modo d’incontrarla. So esattamente cosa sogna in un uomo e cosa vede in lui, perciò cerco di essere così. Pensai per un pò a quell’idea e la tenni da parte. Poi un giorno mi dissi: “Non sarebbe interessante usare quest’idea per un film drammatico ? con una donna che ascolta una conversazione dell’appartamento accanto. Ma cosa dovrebbe sapere ?” Allora pensai: ” E se fosse una donna forte dal punto di vista intellettuale e bloccata dai sentimenti ? E arrivai a capire che suo marito ha una relazione con un’altra donna, che suo fratello non trova simpatia per lei e che i suoi amici non l’apprezzano davvero “. Sarebbe stata un’insegnante di filosofia, che aveva sempre voluto tenere lontana dalla vita tutti i suoi sentimenti personali. E finalmente arriva al punto della sua esistenza che non può più continuare a comportarsi in questo modo. I sentimenti cominciano letteralmente ad arrivarle attraverso le pareti, i suoni della sua inquietudine interiore cominciano a trapelare dalle pareti per parlarle. Ecco come cominciò a prendere forma la storia.

INTERVISTA TRATTA DAL TESTO

IO, WOODY E ALLEN

Un regista si racconta

Marion, è una donna di cinquant’anni e da pochi giorni ha preso in affitto un piccolo appartamento per poter scrivere un testo di filosofia. E’ una persona afferrata, tenace, caparbia. Docente all’università è sposata con Iam un cardiologo conosciuto, sicuro di sè, ma freddo nei suoi confronti. I due navigano nella routine abitudinaria alto borghese, assuefatta nei ritmi e nei tempi dei salotti.

Si spostano ed incontrano quotidianamente amici, sopratutto la sera, per cene oppure feste. Fino a qui abbiamo ricostruito la vernice dell’apparenza, ritoccata giorno dopo giorno. Dietro si nascondono crepe, sottostorie, frutto di esperienze passate, vizi, piccole e grandi bugie, ipocondrie. Un’ Altra Donna è un film che ruota attorno alla vita di Marion (Gena Rowlands), filtrando dentro la sua personalità di base robusta, affascinante e carismatica. In Marion la vernice dell’apparenza si scrosta pochi giorni prima del 25° anniversario di matrimonio in modo atipico, quando all’interno dell’appartamento riesce a sentire attraverso un condotto dell’aria, le sedute di psicoanalisi di una signora misteriosa (Mia Farrow). La voce tremante è un calavario di parole terrorizzanti e terrorizzate nei confronti della solitudine, i rapporti di coppia, la felicità. Parole che si impregnano nell’immaginario di Marion, sommandone le esperienze passate e  momenti presenti.

Le sedute, così destabilizzanti al punto tale di farle interrompere la scrittura, esplorano interiormente un essere umano che si rileva poco alla volta isolato dinnanzi se stesso e al mondo circostante. Marion negli anni ha costruito un personaggio attraverso scelte razionali e non astratte, ma ora necessita di ascoltare quella voce,  pronta a farla vagare fra realtà, sogni e ricordi. Si è costruita, inoltre, una corazza rafforzata nei lunghi giorni, in relazione alla carriera professionale  e quiete familiare (..). Le regole del gioco sono state accettate, il contratto con il buon costume borghese firmato. Come ogni passato, anche il suo rivela segreti, amori mancati, passioni, in parte rimossi e in parte no. Esistono nella vita di Marion dei clichè guadagnati negli anni che hanno cresciuto un comportamento logico e professionale.

Il substrato della donna poco alla volta emerge, in concomitanza alle rivelazioni che dalla parete divisoria Hope confessa al suo analista. Confessioni ad effetto scatenante per  gli equilibri della donna.  Ora la professoressa si invaghisce, mette in discussione se stessa, percorre un background, diventa curiosa, spala senza sosta il terriccio davanti gli occhi. Ciò avviene in assoluto silenzio e lo osserviamo grazie a dei primi piani parsimoniosi che il regista Woody Allen riprende. Una storia oscura ci colpisce dentro, come ogni dettaglio espressivo in Marion.

Il viaggio interiore procede regolarmente ai racconti di Hope, si sofferma e continua in solitudine. Una simbiosi nasce percorrendo due binari in opposte direzioni. Hope risveglia i ricordi, la mente fluida, il corpo sinuoso di Marion, ora sempre più raggelato a respingere le avances di Larry,un uomo non formale, sensibile ed artista. Un personaggio completamente in antitesi al marito.

Larry è un uomo colto, pronto a mettere in guardia Marion di fronte al pallone gonfiato della borghesia e l’adulterio del marito. Il percorso della donna incontra attimi di risveglio: una sua ex allieva di Filosofia la riconosce, ringraziandola per le sue idee sbalorditive, capace di cambiarle la vita grazie al corso di “Etica e reponsabilità morale”. Questi attimi di risveglio la inducono a seguire Hope fino a raggiungerla per poi sbagliare persona ed imbattersi un Claire, una vecchia compagna la quale, di fronte agli occhi interessati del marito, un regista teatrale, al commento di Marion sulla rappresentazione di “Madre Coraggio” di Brecht, la accusa per il suo passato fitto di civetteria, particolari ed eloquenti sguardi e piccoli inviti seducenti. Il percorso raggiunge vette alte quando in un sogno, laboriosamente ricostruito con una messa in scena esemplare in veste teatrale, il padre di Marion, un uomo dai forti principi, rivendica i suoi rimpianti  per l’educazione errata data ai suoi figli: severa ed esigente verso Marion, lasciva nei confronti del fratello. Nella scena successiva Claire rappresenta Marion e le parla di un matrimonio senza passione, ordinato e di routine. In un’altra scena vediamo Sam spegnere l’amore di Marion e la propria vita.

In un negozio di antiquariato, il giorno prima dell’anniversario, la donna ha l’opportunitàdi conoscere Hope, distrutta dalla stanchezza e spossata dalla tristezza. Marion la distrae tenendola su di morale e l’invita a pranzo in un locale fuori zona. Durante il pranzo Marion parla di sè, trovando nella donna l’unica con la quale confessarsi. In un locale lontano dalla ritualità borghese, scopre il proprio marito in compagnia di una ragazza.

Un’altra donna percorre ora la strada, ritrova la freschezza nel dattilografare il suo lavoro. Ma il tempo tradisce le aspettative, i sogni.. Quel tempo necessario per ascoltare nuovamente nel condotto di aereazione le ultime parole di Hope al dottore:

” Ho conosciuto una donna triste. Pensa di aver tutto e non ha niente. Mi sono spaventata. Se non mi fermo con il passare degli anni diventerò fredda.. allontanerò chiunque. Ho finto per tutto quel tempo sperando che tutto andasse bene.  Ebbe un aborto ”

Un’ altra donna (1988)

Scritto e diretto da: Woody Allen

Fotografia: Sven Nykvist

Scenografia: Santo LoQuasto

Montaggio: Susan E. Morse

Con: Gena Rowlands, Mia Farrow, Blyte Danner, Sandy Dannis, Gene Hackman, Iam Holm, Philip Bosco.

by Andrew Bowcock

It wasn’t until about a couple years ago that I was introduced to Ingmar Bergman’s films, and I regret not ever being familiar with his work beforehand.  Many top film critics place him as one of the greatest directors of all time (up there with Akira Kurosawa, Stanley Kubrick, Alfred Hitchcock, Steven Spielberg, Martin Scorcese and the like).  After now seeing more than 20 of his movies and becoming a bit of an addict to his incredible craft, I can safely say that I find him to be (in my not-always-so-humble opinion) the greatest director to ever live.

When someone studies the history of cinema and runs across the name of Ingmar Bergman, the film that always comes up is the medieval classic, The Seventh Seal.  Perhaps they will watch it, not be sure what to think…possibly like it, or love, then think “oh, that film was interesting” or “thought-provoking” or [insert stale adjective in italics].  Maybe a person is unfamiliar with the title, but recognizes the image of a knight playing chess with the grim reaper.  Either way, it’s a common trait among the layman to view one film by a director and think they’ve grasped the range of that auteur.

Perhaps if you’re more in tune with film history and run across Bergman you’ll hear buzz about his magnum opus, Fanny and Alexander, a wonderfully epic semi-autobiographical drama which also turned out to be his directorial swan song (as far as theatrical films go).  This film is considered by some to be almost like a “Bergman’s greatest hits” (thanks Nate Bell) because it contains examples of his directing style from basically every era since he started directing films and plays in the 1940’s.  Of course, there are several other films of note throughout his canon that people may have run across by title and brushed off, i.e. Wild Strawberries, Through a Glass Darkly, Cries and Whispers, Persona, etc. – which are all in my opinion mandatory viewing for lovers of film.

However, to kick off my first review for the Forgotten Film series, I would now like to explore what I personally find to be Bergman’s most incredible, most emotionally-affecting, and arguably most under-rated work.  I first saw The Virgin Spring about a year ago after renting it from my local library.  I had been watching several Bergman films before this, and realized I was increasingly becoming a bigger fan with each film (it was when I saw Autumn Sonata that I finally gave in and admitted him as my favorite director).  It wasn’t long before I admitted this as one of my favorite films, and upon repeat viewings, it holds up incredibly well.

The film, like The Seventh Seal, takes place in a medieval setting.  It tells the tale (based on a Swedish folk poem) of a well-to-do Catholic landowner named Töre (Max von Sydow) and his family in the midst of a barren society where the Christianization of Scandinavia was underway, and the conflicts with Paganism were still very prominent and real.  Within the first several minutes we understand the family’s relationships with one another and the tensions that lie therein (although the relationship of the Pagan Ingeri with the rest of the family is often debated as it is only alluded to).

Töre’s charming, beautiful and naive daughter Karin rises later than the rest of the family and puts on her finest garments to bring candles to the church (which is apparently a good distance from their home) before it gets too late in the day.  As Karin sets out on her journey she encounters three men who claim to be herdsmen in the hills, but it doesn’t take a genius to realize that these men (actually two men and a boy) are not who they claim to be.  From this point on, I won’t explain anymore of the plot for fear of spoiling the events and impact of the film.  But trust me, you would have to have a heart of stone not be moved by the equal parts intense, heart-breaking, and powerful events which ensue from then on out.

This is one of Bergman’s most symbolically rich films, using a great deal of visual symbols in a graceful but organic, unpretentious yet unrelenting manner.  Although it takes place in a setting demonstrating conflicts of religion, it also explores some very disturbingly violent themes of justice, vengeance, and the moral spectrum therein (and was thus banned by several countries upon its initial release for certain graphic sequences).  Of course what we see in this film isn’t as graphic as a lot of the places cinema has gone today, but Bergman was an auteur in every sense of the word who continuously pushed the boundaries of what was artistically acceptable in cinema.

The internal conflicts of the individual characters in this film are just as prominent as they ever are in Bergman’s work.  Sometimes a shot will resume for minutes on end without a cut or a person even speaking a word, but the suspense and raw emotion remains just as present as ever.  Needless to say, the cinematography is chilling and brilliant.  This was Bergman’s first full collaboration with Sven Nykvist (Nykvist was assistant DP on Sawdust and Tinsel), who would go on to photograph pretty much every Bergman film from this to the end of his life.  Nykvist added something new to Bergman’s style – a very naturalistic visual style that used a lot less artificial lighting and often more intimate and longer takes, emphasizing a character’s mood by the depths of the shadows or position of the camera.  Call me biased, but Nykvist also happens to be my favorite cinematographer – he would eventually go on to shoot films for Woody Allen, Roman Polanski, Andrei Tarkovsky, Richard Attenborough, Nora Ephron, and more.

By the end of this film, it feels like an emotional journey.  A definitive experience not to be forgotten.  When I was watching the final scene for the first time, my heart felt like it was in a literal knot (and this is a rarity for me), and when the impact of the scene hit its crescendo, the tears flowed…appropriately (if you’ve seen it you understand what I’m alluding to).  Amidst the intense despair that this family has experienced, at the end of the film we get a glimpse of redemption and what felt very much (whether or not Bergman intended in his existential agnosticism) like the hand of God pulling the family out of the gutter.

I can’t express the brilliance of this film enough – although I recommend everybody who has even the slightest interest in film to watch it (as it does deal with universal themes) it’s especially important for people of faith.  Although Bergman doesn’t claim this film as one of his best, many like myself respectfully disagree.  In his autobiography, Bergman said that to him it feels too much like a vain allusion to Kurosawa’s style, since he was enamored with Japanese cinema at this point in his career (and critics will often tell you that great artists often are hardly fair when judging their own work).  The comparison to Kurosawa can easily be drawn, especially from the tracking shots in the woods and the desolate, quiet setting many characters often find themselves in.  However, I still think this film stands completely on its own and can rarely be matched, especially by the Americanized horror remake of this film that launched Wes Craven’s career, The Last House House on the Left – which dare I say is not a horrible film, but feels cheap and pointless in comparison.

If you see one film by Ingmar Bergman in your lifetime (although I highly suggest seeing as many of his films as you can find) I would say this is the one to see.  I can’t help but give it a perfect rating.

The Virgin Spring is Not Rated, but contains some disturbing sequences involving traumatic violence and sexuality.

NOTE:  I caution researching this film further until you have actually seen it.  Some reviews have major spoilers even in their synopses.

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photo sources:

http://nighthawknews.files.wordpress.com

http://sfist.com/

http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_20YCK6YlZJM/SCgf-BgH37I/AAAAAAAAAGo/bU3K8Oh0OXU/s320/virginspring0cx.jpg

http://www.moviemail-online.co.uk/

other resources:

http://www.imdb.com/

http://en.wikipedia.org/

http://modium.blogspot.com/2006/12/sven-nykvist-memorial-part-4-virgin.html

http://www.theauteurs.com/topics/1696/comments

This is the saddest, bleakest Woody Allen film I’ve ever seen. It’s got both tragedy and comedy: Tragedy as Martin Landau seeks to escape infidelity by having his mistress murdered; comedy as one of Allen’s trademark characters seeks to enter into infidelity with a documentary producer. The material with Landau is stunning, and shows Allen’s clear Bergman influence (not to mention the fact that frequent Bergman cinematographer Sven Nykvist brilliantly shot the film). It is emotionally devastating, but in a calm and quiet way, and there’s a fantasy sequence where Landau confronts a family dinner table from his childhood that’s terrific. The stuff starring Allen himself feels relatively familiar, insofar as he plays the same neurotic ne’er-do-well that he usually does, but it’s got his same great wit and sharp dialogue. Plus, as with everything else in Crimes and Misdemeanors, it’s a lot sadder than usual. I really like Melinda and Melinda, but this earlier effort at countering tragedy with comedy is more observant, profound, and poignant.

A

The Auteurs is now showing Andrei Tarkovsky’s Sven Nykvist shot late career film The Sacrifice. I want to go to there (admittedly a film about sacrificing your child is kinda sorta really ridiculously sad, but still).

http://www.theauteurs.com/films/401

Woody Allen is up-front about the themes of his 1989 comedy-drama Crimes and Misdemeanors, but so clear and insightful about them that we don’t mind the direct approach. It is an argument about God. Where is He? Does the world adhere to moral certitude according to His laws? Or is it chaos, a nihilist mash-up of mankind’s basest, most cynical impulses? … Read the rest of my review at Culturazzi.org

Persona (1966)
Ingmar Bergman
Swedish

“When I came home I saw myself in the mirror and thought: we’re alike. Don’t misunderstand me, you’re much prettier, but we are alike in a way. I think I could turn myself into you, if I made a real effort.“

Ingmar Bergman’s Persona (1966) isn’t like anything I’ve seen of his other works – perhaps the first time I’ll replace the word ‘meticulous’ with ‘avant-garde’ when describing his films.  The film follows two women – Elisabet Vogler (the luminous Liv Ullman), an actress who has deliberately pushed herself into a shell of silence and Sister Alma (Bibi Andersson), her young nurse – on an isolated island where each others’ desires, fears, agonies and memories unfold. Although fraught with elements apt for traditional character analyses, including the famous character switch trick that scriptwriters love, Persona manages to avoid the trap that the Bergman has partly set for himself through his previous films. Suitably imbibing elements of the modernist mode of cinema championed by the New Wave, Bergman creates a confounding work that is as rich in its implications and as cinematic in its execution as his previous films.

Bergman frequently crosscuts between images of natural landscapes and those of the characters’ faces. Bergman presents a simple analogy between the faces of landscape and landscapes of the human face. These landscapes keep changing the film as the film progresses, much like the very many faces the characters assume. Bergman seems to underscore that we are all actors in a way, taking up one face or the other throughout our lives. Although by profession it is only Elisabet who is an actor, Alma, too, turns out to be one in the film. Alma and Elisabet are like two mirrors placed in front of each other. Elisabet is an actor who has assumed another role – that of a silent spectator of the world. She watches Alma as if she were a movie character and psychoanalyzes her once she gets to know her past. She may even be feeding on Alma for her next role. Alma, on the other hand, feels closer to Elisabet, yet acts like a film character herself. She too tries to pull down Elisabet’s new-found mask, in an attempt to expose the fakery of her being. But all such textual inferences sum up to nothing, for, as the first few frames of the film suggests, Persona is more self-referential than referential (In a fascinating shot, the camera photographs Elisabet photographing the camera!).

This perplexing shift of Bergman into the modernist trend (along with his notorious comments on Godard) presents a whole new dimension to the film. Alma and Elisabet may very well represent the whole of traditional cinema and the modernist wave respectively. Bergman drops enough clues to this. Early on, Alma tells the doctor that she may not be able to “cope up” with the tough nut Elisabet. She laments aloud when she is alone. On the other hand, Elisabet is sober and detached (Later, the doctor tells her: “Your hideout isn’t watertight. Life seeps in everything. You’re forced to react.”). When Alma turns on the radio to listen to an exaggerated melodrama, she laughs. Elisabet is visibly affected by the violence of the outer world whereas Alma is disturbed by her inner world, much like the two cinemas they stand for.  Bergman presents them as the two definitive – and necessary – halves of cinema with a “can’t life with, can’t live without” relationship with each other.

Furthermore, they act as the audiences of the respective cinemas as well. Elisabet watches Alma dispassionately, never reacting even to the most dramatic gestures and words of the latter. She seems completely devoid of external emotions. She alienates both herself from Alma and Alma from her. Alma, however, complements Elisabet with her excessive sentimentality and expressiveness.  Contrary to Elisabet, she tries to involve herself with Elisabet and even expects her to react to her misery. Alma’s need for an emotional response is indeed adversarial to Elisabet’s intellectual reply. This complementarity is more than just literary. Bergman often cuts from one character to the other in a pattern that establishes them as mirror images, obeying eye-line matches. The characters wear opposite coloured clothes. Bergman frames his shots in such a way that one of the characters superimposes over the other as if obtaining a hybrid. In a notable scene, Alma threatens Elisabet with a bowl of boiling water, upon which the latter reacts with the only words she ever speaks in the film. Alma, like many who disapprove of the modernists’ self-indulgence, even tries to expose Elisabet’s “pretentiousness” (“You’re acting healthy. You do it so well everyone believes you. Everyone except me, because I know how rotten you are.” she says).

Not everyone thinks that Bergman’s self-reflexive endeavor is a success. Robert Kolker presents a dissenting view of Persona in his book, The Altering Eye:

“In any given sequence, once Bergman begins to concentrate on the interaction of the two women, the devices used to create distance disappear, and we are invited to partake of immediate emotion and psychological mysteries. The characters’ fears and agonies and Bergman’s fascination with them overtake any desire he might have to examine the way they are created. His desire to communicate the perverse pleasures of emotional confrontation outweighs his need to confront the intellect by denying narrative desire and its fulfillment.”

But, this narrative instability, I think, is precisely the intention of Persona. Bergman extends the interplay of his characters on to the audience as he places them in the shoes of Elisabet and Alma, in tandem. He first engages us emotionally and tempts us to do the conventional character analysis in every sequence and suddenly, by exposing the material nature of film or having an extremely perplexing sequence, pushes us into the modernist mode, thus distancing us. Ironically, the screen burns midway in the movie (as if someone has poured boiling water on it) to chop off any emotional connection that it may have built. Neither does Bergman embrace the modernist style completely, nor does he indulge himself in literary analyses or excessive sentimentality, perhaps because he believes both of them to be vital, as he stresses in the film.

But, such a reading (or any particular reading for that matter) of the film may be downright speculative, however concrete the evidences are. But that is because the film itself is both elusive and tantalizing at the same time. Persona presents us an easily digestible narrative but one that is also extremely difficult to penetrate. Bergman puts us in a limbo wherein we are neither allowed a clear view of the characters’ psyche nor are we made capable of realizing that what we see is just a two-dimensional entity. Persona may be a grand confusion of filmmaking styles, but it is also a film that attempts to absorb the best of both worlds, illustrate the drawbacks of traditional and modern cinema, examine the role of the artist  (Elisabet apparently stops speaking during a performance of Elektra – a tale of revenge – and continues to do so even when the world burns) and, most importantly, study the relationship between cinema and its audience through the ages.

já não vejo a minha vida sem a fotografia. é uma maneira de estar no mundo, de se relacionar com o mesmo que nos absorve, encanta, espanta, fascina, seduz, e que durará para sempre.

segundo a informação encontrada, e algo que já sabíamos, a “palavra fotografia vem do grego φως [fós] (luz), e γραφις [grafis] (estilo, pincel) ou γραφη grafê, e significa ‘desenhar com luz’”.

permite-nos descobrir tudo a nossa volta de uma forma intensa, vemos os acontecimentos com olhos diferentes, ficamos mais atentos, mais abertos, mais acordados, mais perspicazes, também em relação aos pormenores e detalhes.

torna-nos pessoas com mais energia, mais ideias, mais criatividade, e com melhor percepção e compreensão. para tudo. nunca pararemos.

citando o grande sven nykvist:

“light can be gentle, dangerous, dreamlike, bare, living, dead, misty, clear, hot, dark, violet, springlike, falling, straight, sensual, limited, poisonous, calm and soft”. 

mantém-nos vivos.

COME IN UNO SPECCHIO (1961)

A cura di Alessandro Dionisi

L’isola di Farö è nuovamente il paradigma del regista Ingmar Bergman per questa sua opera. Farö è Il luogo della fuga, delle velleità artistiche, della morte e dell’amore; l’isola degli equivoci sentimentali e trascendentali.

Davide è uno scrittore di romanzi che si è affermato negli anni. Nella sua vecchia e maestosa casa, tra le rocce e le onde del mare, ospita per alcuni giorni insieme all’adolescente Minus la figlia maggiore Karin e il genero Martin di professione medico. Fin dalle prime sequenze si nota una tensione inconscia, un’intenzione plastificata di riconciliazione familiare. Siamo di fronte a personaggi che vivono la vita interiormente nascondendo qualcosa, personaggi che ingoiano malesseri incapaci di esternare i sentimenti.

Ognuno insomma lascia liberi i propri pensieri in un abissale deserto arido. Di fronte abbiamo due stereotipi di persone: Davide e Martin indaffarati per affermarsi socialmente, Karin e Minus invece con chiare difficoltà di inserimento, misteriosamente regressi dai primi due in atteggiamenti infantili ed ora, per circostanze diverse, costretti a vivere le propria esistenza in un’ampolla di vetro.

Dentro l’ampolla si genera il caos, il disturbo e la sofferenza. Karin è tenuta sotto osservazione da uno psichiatra sotto previa autorizzazione di Martin ma è cosciente sulla verità della malattia, verso i fantasmi che la circondano, mentre il suo udito carpisce voci esterne/interne che la rendono a volte lucida e spontanea ed in altre circostanze claustrofobica o impaurita. Non trovando voce di ritorno e sicurezza da Martin, indaffarato con la razionalità del lavoro, la sua attenzione ricade verso il fratello minore Minus, un ragazzo pronto solamente a vivere il suo mondo perché estraneo ai rapporti sentimentali celati dal superficiale affetto del padre . Minus è un adolescente ricco di sogni, uno scrittore di commedie, pronto ad improvvisare la sua piccola piéce intitolata L’arte dell’apparizione dei fantasmi o la tomba delle illusioni insieme a Karin, soli davanti al padre dopo la cena all’aperto. L’obiettivo principale dei due figli è quello d’attirare l’attenzione dell’uomo, poiché entrambi sono coscienti ed insofferenti della sua lontananza affettiva e fisica. Durante la recitazione manifestano un’improvvisa sinergia, specialmente Minus che fino a poco prima ha mostrato freddezza nei confronti di Karin e verso il mondo delle donne, definendole disgustose per come si muovono e si profumano, difendendosi quando Karin gli mostra curiosità ed affetto. Al termine delle piéce Davide si sforza nel fare i complimenti ai due ragazzi e addirittura palesa una certa insofferenza nel vederli recitare discretamente.

Cosa nasconde la solitudine e la freddezza espressiva di Davide ? Apparentemente può sembrare il richiamo dell’artista ad elevarsi o nascondersi dalla massa, ma dietro a sé occulta una forte perversione e un vampirismo verso la schizofrenia della figlia. La malattia è per l’uomo buon argomento, materia aggiuntiva e preziosa di ricerca per il romanzo che sta scrivendo. La notte stessa dopo la rappresentazione Karin, impaurita ed insofferente, richiamata dalle voci esterne e dai rumori distorti delle civette, balza dal letto dove il marito dorme sonni profondi e si accosta davanti la porta del padre prima di entrare e chiedere accoglienza per riuscire a conciliare il sonno dopo attimi di terrore. L’uomo, con il solito e gelido affetto, accompagna la figlia a letto e rimane con la mente indaffarato sulla scrittura del romanzo. Ma proprio quando Minus lo chiama per tirare le reti e partire, Karin apre nuovamente gli occhi e la forza della curiosità e del sospetto la portano a rovistare tra i cassetti della scrivania del padre e leggere una piccola parte del romanzo che mette in luce la perversione dell’uomo.

La sua malattia è senza speranza anche se ha dei miglioramenti. Lo sospettavo da tempo, ma la certezza è un insopprimibile angoscia. Con spavento constato la mia curiosità, l’impulso di prendere nota dei sintomi, di registrare giorno del graduale disfacimento di mia figlia, di usufruirne e sfruttarla.

Karin corre nella propria stanza e sveglia il marito raccontandogli l’accaduto e cerca immediatamente protezione. Martin rimane in parte basito, le promette di chiarire l’accaduto con il padre nelle ore successive, quando andranno a pescare. Ma Karin non nota la reazione d’istinto, l’amore cieco, una certa inclinazione o una reazione estrema. Karin aspettava questo. Gli occhi contrariamente notano prima la figura del medico e poi quella del compagno di vita. Ora è abbandonata in una malattia che hanno contribuito a farla espandere.

Il suo disprezzo, la sua coscienza, trovano terreno fertile nella figura di Minus, anch’egli intrappolato nelle angosce adolescenziali, nei turbamenti costanti provocati dalla figura estranea ed equivoca paterna. Tra i due si instaura un rapporto confidenziale sempre più stretto, fatto di confessioni, di rivendicazioni sull’incapacità dei più grandi a carpire i sentimenti. E’ la realtà:Karin e Minus non sono capaci di raccontare menzogne e vivono in uno stato di regressione infantile pur non avendone conosciuto la felicità nell’infanzia perchè costretti a crescere troppo in fretta.Le storie raccontate si sciolgono come parole di burro in una desertificazione totale e morale. Soli con la malattia, coscienti di vivere nell’emarginazione dentro una cella. Sulla barca nel frattempo Martin parla con Davide, ma il suo non è un attacco per disarmare il perverso uomo. Al contrario raccoglie risposte che dapprima vengono negate e poi giustificate con un racconto di un tentato suicidio In Svizzera capace di portarlo a riconoscere sentimenti forti i verso propri figli. Lo sguardo severo di Davide per un attimo brucia e l’eroico coraggio da scrittore mostra la stanchezza di una vita velata dal successo editoriale e dai viaggi in giro per l’Europa.

Voglio confessarti una cosa. Quand’ero in Svizzera avevo deciso di suicidarmi, Avevo affittato una macchina e scovato un precipizio. Mi sono messo in marcia molto tranquillamente. Era pomeriggio. La vallata riposava già nell’ombra. Mi sentivo vuoto, senza paura, senza rimorsi e senza emozioni. Ho diretto l’auto verso il precipizio, ho spinto sull’acceleratore. E il motore s’è spento. Ho frenato. La vettura è slittata per alcuni metri sulle pietre e si è arrestata in bilico sul vuoto. Ne sono uscito tremante e mi sono accasciato sulla pietra, all’altro lato della strada. Sono rimasto là per ore, cercando di riprendere respiro e provando.. non oso dirlo.. un amore, per Karin, per Minus, per te. Il disguido tra i due è cancellato dalla capacità performativa di Davide nel mettere a genio menzogne e nella precarietà di Davide alla reazione. Karin non trattiene la confessione a Minus sulla visione personale nei confronti di Dio: per lei non c’è ma lo cerca al di la della parete, dove voci imperanti la chiamano, in un ambiente dove tutto è bello e le persone aspettano che arrivi. Karin, a differenza di queste altre presenze, non trattiene desideri violenti e ammalianti percezioni. Si trova in mondi completamente diversi e nessuno può impedirglielo, neppure Martin da cui si sente oramai lontana ed accetta passivamente il suo ruolo di dottore. Fuggita all’improvviso da Minus, oramai sedotto da un mondo che lo accomuna, viene inseguita e trovata all’interno di un relitto di una nave portata dal mare sulla spiaggia non lontano da casa . Lì i due confessano ulteriormente le loro pene e si consuma l’amplesso incestuoso, che nella innaturalità ne sigilla l’affinità . La liberazione porta allo svenimento Karin , mentre Minus colto dal panico corre alla ricerca immediata del padre e di Martin per soccorrerla.

Karin una volta ripresi i sensi mostra ancor più passivamente la sua reazione verso le decisioni di Martin. Dopo aver confessato al gelido padre il rapporto incestuoso avuto pochi attimi prima con il fratello minore racconta il proprio rapporto con Dio visto come un ragno che ha sorvolato il suo petto, pronto ad impossessarsi di lei quando la porta si è dischiusa, ma incapace di riuscirci dopo che i suoi occhi hanno reagito..

La narrazione delle visioni porta ad un’agitazione ulteriore Karin, il suo corpo stremato prosciuga poco alla volta ogni tentativo di resistenza. Solo l’intervento terapeutico di Martin con un calmante la inibiranno completamente e salirà senza alcuna agitazione sopra l’elicottero chiamato poche ore prima da una clinica psichiatrica.

Il viaggio dei personaggi termina o riparte da qui. Tutti oramai sono dentro la loro cella d’isolamento, dove solo l’irriducibilità di Minus chiede al padre conferme e sopratutto una prova di Dio. Minus è il solo personaggio che difende la sua zona.

Dio è la certezza di ogni specie di certezza d’amore..

Miscredenza e fede. Desiderio e repulsione. Amore ed Odio .E’ il solo conforto alla mia miseria e alla mia disperazione. Di colpo la miseria è diventata ricchezza e la disperazione speranza. E’ come essere graziati in punto di morte.

Così risponde Davide.

COME IN UNO SPECCHIO (1961)

Un film scritto e diretto da Ingmar Bergman

Fotografia: Sven Nykvist

Montaggio: Ulla Ryghe

Scenografia: P.A. Lundgren

Con: Harriet Andersson, Max von Sidow, Gunnar Biörnstrand, Lars Passgard

Though Andrei Tarkovsky’s canon consisted of only seven features, three student films, one documentary and a couple of stage plays and there were more unrealized projects than filmed ones, each of the ideas that were completed were gems and remain unparalleled to date. Looking back, each one seems hand picked and “sculpted” second by second and without doubt, the experience just improves with multiple viewings. Of course, Tarkovsky means different things to different people and the section just attempts to give a universal outline of the projects.

Read the full article

“My discovery of Tarkovsky’s first film was like a miracle. Suddenly, I found myself standing at the door of a room the keys of which had, until then, never been given to me. It was a room I had always wanted to enter and where he was moving freely and fully at ease. I felt encouraged and stimulated: someone was expressing what I had always wanted to say without knowing how. Tarkovsky is for me the greatest, the one who invented a new language, true to the nature of film, as it captures life as a reflection, life as a dream.”

Ingmar Bergman (1918 – 2007)

Read the full article

Today I watched Louis Malle’s Black Moon. I have not a sausage what it was all about, so I’m going to have an overnight mull and then ETA it tomorrow.

*Tomorrow*

Right, so it’s all a bit arty. It starts off by obliquely establishing there’s some kind of gender war going on – a proper war, with guns and shit. A young woman/girl by the name of Lily (Cathryn Harrison, who was fifteen or sixteen at the time of shooting) drives along a country road dressed in ‘male clothing’ until stopped by a gurt big tank-type affair and a gaggle of armed men, who proceed to shoot the shit out of a bunch of surrendered women, firing squad-style. Then one of the men twigs she’s one Y-chromosome short of the right side, at which Lily floors it offroad to escape the ensuing fusillade.

So there’s the set-up; a nicely put together little post-apocalypse world we have on our hands, no expositional dialogue, just a very suggestive scene.

Except from here it all goes well wang. In fact, the very opening scene isn’t exactly Bruckheimer-Simpson either (though the subsequent tank/execution bit sort of rinses your brain of the idea it’s that anything other than a relatively orthodox near future dystopic SF jaunt); Lily runs over a badger. That’s the first of many animal-related moments in the film, none of which really make much sense to me, although it seems clear that they are meant to Be Very Significant.

Right, so Lily’s crashed the roadblock, drives her shot-up banger through the countryside, and happens upon a noisy flock of sheep. As Lily slowly realises it, so too do we: the (male) shepherd is hanging by his neck from a tree. Lily drives on until her path is blocked. She tries to clear a path. There is a snake in the undergrowth. She hears noises, and walks to a nearby hedge, through which she sees a group of armed women beating a (male?) captive. She is seen, so runs through the woods into a verdant forested valley. Next we see some stuff with her lying on the ground watching a millipede crawl over rocks, and then a praying mantis, and finally a pair of cockroaches, which appear to be playing kiss chase. Lily moves her arm, brushing a flower, and we hear as she does a wailing, childlike cry. It appears to be the flower. Now this is officially getting a bit Fucking Odd. Lily senses something behind her, turns round, and sees a unicorn. A short, tubby, dirty brown unicorn. Kind of like an alkie Shetland pony who got pissed in Blackpool and ended up with a Cornetto stuck to its noggin. Oh, and now there’s a bug on Lily’s cheek. WTF is it with the insects and shit? Breaking the spell of the unicorn, a woman on horseback rides in, circles Lily then fucks off again. Lily chases on foot, following the trail until she runs into a gang of naked children gamboling around with a fat sow on a leash. To repeat, WTF?! Oh, but it’s okay, Lily’s just spotted the farmhouse we eagle-eyed viewers saw in the background as she hotfooted it behind the equestrienne. At last – we’re fifteen minutes in, no audible dialogue (except songs on the car radio), and we’ve only just arrived at the location for the rest of the film.

To recap so far: battle of the sexes, animals, not big on dialogue. Oh, and the hint of sexualised childhood. Sheesh, this is knackering – I’m off to make a cuppa.

I just booked the ferry to Gotland. Probably most famous for the motion pictures made by the legendary Swedish director Ingmar Bergman. Some of them has that special nordic light that cinematographer Sven Nykvist captured in films like Persona.

The light of Gotland is special. The island of Gotland is the place in Sweden that get most days with sunshine.

My friend H and his family got a summer house in the old city of Visby.

Såsom I En Spegel (1961) (aka Through A Glass Darkly)
Swedish
Ingmar Bergman

“Papa spoke to me”
 

Ingmar Bergman’s Oscar-winning film is the first of the “Faith” trilogy and is followed by Nattvardsgästerna (1962) and Tystnaden (1963). The title refers to a biblical passage that means we (humans) have an imperfect interpretation of God and we will see clearly later (possibly after death).

The story revolves around 4 people on an island and spans about 1 day. Karin, played convincingly by Harriet Andersson, has just been discharged from a mental institution. She lives with her husband Martin, father David and brother Minus. Karin’s gradual mental disintegration, David’s indulgence in his writing more than family, Martin’s disappointment at the non-reciprocation of his love and Minus’ struggles with his sexual identity set up the atmosphere of constrained relations and developing sorrow. Karin’s shuttling between her visions and reality, which she knows but cannot do anything about, is known only to Minus who appears to be the only hope for Karin.

Conceptually, the film offers two interpretations of god - one that of love (which David sees and suggests to Minus to hold on) and one that of hate (which is seen by Karin when she views god in a spider form). It, however, ends on a hopeful note leaving the details to its sequels. Beautifully shot in black and White by veteran Sven Nykvist, the movie is characterized by strong performances and thematic costume work like all Bergman films. The film won the Oscar for best foreign film in 1961.

Incrivelmente otimista, embora seja o filme mais amargo e intimista de Allen. É um conto singelo e poderosíssimo sobre uma mulher que chega a um ponto determinante da vida: o princípio do terceiro ato – analogia muito bem construída em meio às referências dramaturgicas constantes, que culminam na simbólica e maravilhosa seqüência do sonho -, quando finalmente percebe a caoticidade em que se transformou seu mundo particular. A Outra pode ser considerado facilmente um dos filmes mais carregados já realizados. É angustiante, sufocante, uma experiência sadicamente claustrofóbica seguir os passos mortos daquela mulher solitária e insegura, que praticamente virou as costas para a sociedade – e, consequentemente, para a vida – ao perceber que o silêncio no qual se refugiava era simplesmente o grito de desespero que guardava bem ao fundo de sua garganta, enosado, incômodo e impotente. Talvez não exista nada mais cruel do que o momento em que a personagem de Mia Farrow descreve a protagonista para seu psiquiatra, enquanto ela, interpretada de forma indescritível por Gena Rowlands, engole tudo como se bebesse em uma só tragada uma taça cheia de vinho fermentado a ponto de ser considerado vinagre. E mesmo em meio a tanta dor, tanto penar, é admirável que o diretor consiga – proeza semelhante à de seu mestre, Ingmar Bergman, em sua obra-prima máxima, Gritos e Sussurros – concluir o filme de maneira tão bonita, concedendo à sua protagonista não a desejada redenção, mas uma injeção de esperança que a lembra de que ainda existem possibilidades de se transformar o futuro.

4/4

Daniel Dalpizzolo