Image My Life in Film

by Marianne Ruuth

  March 26 (early morning):

  This film was supposed to be small, fun, and unpretentious. What is it now; what will it become? Two mountainous shadows rise and loom over me. First: Who the hell is really interested in this kind of introverted mirrored aria? Second: Does there exist a truth, in the very belly of this drama, that I can’t put my finger on, and so remains inaccessible to my feelings and intuition? The failure came in our work method: we rehearsed for three weeks before shooting. I was sick to death of my lines. We should have thrown ourselves directly into filming. Then every day would have held the charm of novelty and excited anticipation. But no! Instead we rehearsed, discussed, analyzed, penetrated carefully and respectfully, just as we do in the theater, almost as if the author were one of our dear departed. The creativity was thus castrated or had its rump cut off, however you prefer to look at it.

  Erland Josephson with Lena Olin and Ingrid Thulin in After the Rehearsal.

  March 31:

  Having now gone carefully through all the takes, I feel that the work is rather mediocre, a partial failure. Nothing can be done now; much of what I wrote in the screenplay on ideas about the profession of filmmaking I no longer believe (there you see how fast it can happen, how damned fast: what I held as true yesterday, today I see as banality). Anyway, exhaustion is the main reason I have felt weighed down during the whole work period. Perhaps being tired has something to do with my perspective, I don’t know. Katinka* says, summoning all her mild authority, that I am wrong in just about everything I say right now about the film. Usually, I am a better self-critic and know rather well how I stand with my results. Oh well, it’s not the end of the world. To be honest: Sometimes I think that I ought not to have made it; then I realize that it was better for me that I didn’t stay away from it, that I tried.

  This evening we had a small farewell party. The atmosphere was tinged with friendly melancholy and tenderness.

  I have been thinking, on and off, that I want to quit the theater as well. But with that I’m more uncertain. Sometimes I think of how much fun it is; sometimes I don’t want to keep on doing it anymore. My hesitation has to do with my changed attitude toward interpretation.

  If I were a musician, I would have no problems. But the whole thing about illusion — all the pretense! The actors act, and as the director I entice them to act. Along the winding roads of creation, we try to elicit emotional impulses that the audience will perceive as emotions, even truth about the characters’ lives. It’s getting tricky to do this over and over. I feel a growing aversion toward the so-called miracle of creation.

  At the same time, certain plays still entice me, but that’s because I see specific actors in the roles, actors who possess the rare gift of deep artistic expression. I often find myself turning all this over in my mind, rather quietly. There is no sudden cease-fire. When I am at my desk, on the other hand, I am pleasantly diverted. I write for my own pleasure, not with an eye on eternity.

  Closer at hand, I need to reach a decision about how to organize the Epilogue.

  Notes

  *Bergman is referring to the end of his filmmaking career.

  *Katinka Farago, who has worked closely with Ingmar Bergman since 1954 and has produced some of his films.

  Miscreance Credence

  NESTLED INSIDE

  THE SEVENTH SEAL lies the one-act play Wood Painting, which I wrote for the graduating class of drama students in Malmö. I was teaching at the drama school, and we needed a play for the end-of-the-year student performance in the spring. It was hard to find a play with several equally important parts, so I wrote Wood Painting purely as an exercise. It was divided into several monologues, and the number of students determined the number of roles.

  Inside Wood Painting there are some visual memories from my childhood.

  For instance, as I wrote in The Magic Lantern, I sometimes accompanied my father when he went to preach in some country church:

  Like all churchgoers have at times, I let my mind wander as I contemplated the altarpieces, triptychs, crucifixes, stained-glass windows, and murals. I would find Jesus and the two robbers in blood and torment, and Mary leaning on St. John: Woman, behold thy son, behold thy mother. Mary Magdalene, the sinner, who had been the last to sleep with her? The Knight playing chess with Death. Death sawing down the Tree of Life, a terrified wretch wringing his hands in the top of it. Death leading the dance to the Land of Shadows, wielding his scythe like a flag, the congregation capering in a long line, and the jester bringing up the rear. The devils keeping the pot boiling, and the sinners hurtling headlong downward into the depths. Adam and Eve discovering their nakedness. Some churches are like aquariums, not deserts. People are everywhere — saints, prophets, angels, devils, and demons — all alive and flourishing. The here-and-beyond billowing over walls and arches. Reality and imagination merged into robust mythmaking. Sinner, behold thy labors, behold what awaits thee around the corner, behold the shadow behind thy back!

  I had acquired a huge record player, and I bought Carl Ferenc Fricsay’s recording of Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana. I used to let Orff thunder forth in the morning before I set off for rehearsal.

  Carmina Burana is inspired by medieval songs written by minstrels who, during the years of the plague and the bloody wars, joined the big, wandering crowds of homeless men and women traipsing across the lands of Europe. Among the crowd were scholars, monks, priests, and jesters. A few could write, and they created songs that were sung at church festivals and fairs.

  What attracted me was the whole idea of people traveling through the downfall of civilization and culture, giving birth to new songs. One day when I was listening to the final choral in Carmina Burana, it suddenly struck me that I had the theme for my next film!

  Then I thought that I would make Wood Painting my point of departure.

  In the end, Wood Painting wasn’t of much use. The Seventh Seal took off in another direction; it became a kind of “road movie,” traveling without constraint in time and space. It makes great big sweeps and takes full responsibility for these sweeps.

  When I turned in the screenplay to Svensk Filmindustri, I was met with a thumbs-down from every imaginable hand. Then Smiles of a Summer Night happened. It opened the day after Christmas 1955 and became, in spite of all overt and covert misgivings, a genuine success.

  Nils Poppe as J of. The vassal and the knight with Albertus Pictor, the church painter (Gunnar Björnstrand, Max von Sydow, and Gunnar Olsson).

  In May 1956 it was shown at the Cannes Film Festival. When it received the prize, I went straight to Malmö and borrowed money from Bibi Andersson, who at the moment was the richest one of us. Then I flew down to see the head of Svensk Filmindustri, Carl Anders Dymling. I found him sitting in a hotel room in Cannes, overexcited and out of control, selling Smiles of a Summer Night dirt cheap to any horse trader who happened to show up. He had never experienced anything like it. His innocence nearly matched his cockiness.

  I placed the refused screenplay for The Seventh Seal in his lap and said, “Now or never, Carl Anders!” He said, “Sure, sure, but I have to read it first.” “You must have already read it since you turned it down.” “That’s true, but maybe I didn’t read it carefully enough.”

  For him to agree to let me do the film, I had to promise to make the film quickly, in thirty-six days, not including days spent traveling to and from the exteriors. It had to be an extremely inexpensive production. When the high from Cannes had turned into a hangover, The Seventh Seal was considered narrow, exclusive, and a hard sell. Two months after the deal was made, however, our camera was rolling.

  We were given studio space in place of some other film that was supposed to have been made. It is remarkable with what merry lightheartedness I was able to start a shoot as complicated as this one back then.

  Everything was filmed at Film City with the exception of three scenes we shot at Hovs hallar: the prologue, the ending, and Jof’s and Mia’s supper in a wild strawberry pat
ch located there. For the outdoor scenes we moved within a very confined space, but we had good luck with the weather and were able to shoot from sunrise to late at night.

  All the other sets were constructed within the studio area. The stream in the dark forest where the wanderers meet the witch was created with the help of the fire department and actually caused some violent overflows. If you look carefully, you will see a mysterious light reflecting from behind some trees. That is a window in one of the nearby high-rise apartment buildings.

  The final scene when Death dances off with the travelers was, as I said, shot at Hovs hallar. We had packed up for the day because of an approaching storm. Suddenly, I caught sight of a strange cloud. Gunnar Fischer hastily set the camera back into place. Several of the actors had already returned to where we were staying, so a few grips and a couple of tourists danced in their place, having no idea what it was all about. The image that later became famous of the Dance of Death beneath the dark cloud was improvised in only a few minutes.

  That’s how things can happen on the set. We made the film in thirty-five days.

  The Seventh Seal is one of the few films really close to my heart. Actually, I don’t know why. It’s certainly far from perfect. I had to contend with all sorts of madness, and one can detect here and there the speed with which it was made. But I find it even, strong, and vital. Furthermore, in this film I passionately cultivated my theme to the fullest.

  Since at the time I was still very much in a quandary over religious faith, I placed my two opposing beliefs side by side, allowing each to state its case in its own way. In this manner, a virtual cease-fire could exist between my childhood piety and my newfound harsh rationalism. Thus, there are no neurotic complications between the knight and his vassals.

  Also, I infused the characters of Jof and Mia with something that was very important to me: the concept of the holiness of the human being. If you peel off the layers of various theologies, the holy always remains.

  I also added a playful friendliness to the family picture. The child brings about the miracle, and the juggler’s eighth ball stands still in the air for one breathtaking moment, a microsecond.

  The Seventh Seal doesn’t chafe anywhere.

  But I had recklessly dared to do what I wouldn’t dare to do today. The knight performs his morning prayer. When he is ready to pack up his chess set, he turns around, and there stands Death. “Who are you?” asks the knight. “I am Death.”

  Bengt Ekerot and I agreed that Death should have the features of a white clown. An amalgamation of a clown mask and a skull.

  It was a delicate and dangerous artistic move, which could have failed. Suddenly, an actor appears in whiteface, dressed all in black, and announces that he is Death. Everyone accepted the dramatic feat that he was Death, instead of saying, “Come on now, don’t try to put something over on us! You can’t fool us! We can see that you are just a talented actor who is painted white and clad in black! You’re not Death at all!” But nobody protested. That made me feel triumphant and joyous.

  I still held on to some of the withered remains of my childish piety. I had until then held a totally naïve idea of what one would call a preternatural salvation.

  With Death (Bengt Ekerot) in The Seventh Seal.

  My present conviction manifested itself during this time.

  I believe a human being carries his or her own holiness, which lies within the realm of the earth; there are no otherworldly explanations. So in the film lives a remnant of my honest, childish piety lying peacefully alongside a harsh and rational perception of reality.

  The Seventh Seal is definitely one of my last films to manifest my conceptions of faith, conceptions that I had inherited from my father and carried along with me from childhood.

  When I made The Seventh Seal, both prayers and invocations to something or someone were central realities in my life; to offer up a prayer was a completely natural act.

  In

  Through a Glass Darkly, my childhood inheritance is put to rest. I maintained that every conception of a divine god created by human beings must be a monster, a monster with two faces or, as Karin puts it, the spider-god.

  In a joyful scene with the painter of churches, Albertus Pictor, I present without any embarrassment my own artistic conviction. Albertus insists that he is in show business. To survive in this business, it’s important to avoid making people too mad.

  The character of Jof is a forerunner of the boy in Fanny and Alexander — the one who is so irritated because he is constantly being assaulted by ghosts and demons and must forever associate with them although they frighten him. At the same time he can’t keep from telling wild stories, mostly to make himself seem important. Jof is both a braggart and a seer. Jof and Alexander are in turn related to the child Bergman. I did see a vision or two, but more often I embellished my stories. When my visions ran dry, I made some up.

  As far back as I can remember, I carried a grim fear of death, which during puberty and my early twenties accelerated into something unbearable.

  With Inga Landgre and Max von Sydow.

  The fact that I, through dying, would no longer exist, that I would walk through the dark portal, that there was something that I could not control, arrange, or foresee, was for me a source of constant horror. That I plucked up my courage and depicted Death as a white clown, a figure who conversed, played chess, and had no secrets, was the first step in my struggle against my monumental fear of death.

  There is a scene in The Seventh Seal that used to fill me with fear and, at the same time, fascination. It is when Raval dies behind the tree in the dark forest. He burrows his head into the ground and howls with fright.

  Originally, I had planned to make this a close-up, but I soon discovered that the sense of the horrible was reinforced by distance. When Raval died, I let the camera keep rolling for some reason, and over the mysterious glen in the forest, there was a sudden pale sunlight. It looked like a stage set. The whole day had been overcast, but at the precise moment when Raval died, the light appeared as if previously arranged.

  My fear of death was to a great degree linked to my religious concepts. Later on, I underwent minor surgery. By mistake, I was given too much anesthesia. I felt as if I had disappeared out of reality. Where did the hours go? They flashed by in a microsecond.

  Suddenly I realized, that is how it is. That one could be transformed from being to not-being — it was hard to grasp. But for a person with a constant anxiety about death, now liberating. Yet at the same time it seems a bit sad. You say to yourself that it would have been fun to encounter new experiences once your soul had had a little rest and grown accustomed to being separated from your body. But I don’t think that is what happens to you. First you are, then you are not. This I find deeply satisfying.

  That which had formerly been so enigmatic and frightening, namely, what might exist beyond this world, does not exist. Everything is of this world. Everything exists and happens inside us, and we flow into and out of one another. It’s perfectly fine like that.

  At Svensk Filmindustri, The Seventh Seal suddenly became part of the pomp and splendor of an anniversary celebration focusing on the golden age of Swedish film. This was a catastrophe for the film; it was not made for such activities. The gala premiere held a murderous atmosphere for a serious art film, complete with a society audience, a flourish of trumpets, and a speech by Carl Anders Dymling. It was devastating. I did what I could to stop the onslaught but ultimately was powerless. Their boredom and their malice poured relentlessly over everything.

  “The image that later became famous of the Dance of Death beneath the dark cloud was improvised in only a few minutes.”

  Later, once it was released, The Seventh Seal swept like a forest fire across the world. I was met with strong responses from people who felt that the movie struck right at their own inner doubts and agony.

  But I will never forget that solemn gala premiere.

  IF YOU DON’T COUNT the epilo
gue that I tacked loosely onto Through a Glass Darkly, you could say that the film is above reproach both technically and dramatically. It is my first real small ensemble drama and leads the way for Persona. I had made a decision to compress the drama. This is immediately apparent in the first scene: four human beings come out of a roaring sea, appearing from nowhere.

  Even on the surface, Through a Glass Darkly is obviously the beginning of something new, perhaps not yet worked out here. The technical staging can hardly be faulted; it is rhythmically irreproachable. Every shot sits just right. The fact that Sven Nykvist and I have laughed many a time at our not always successful lighting is another story. At that point in our collaboration, we began to have intense discussions about lights and lighting. These discussions led to a totally different concept of cinematography; the results can be seen in the later

  Winter Light and The Silence. So, from a cinematographic point of view, Through a Glass Darkly marks the end of a stage, of earlier attitudes. For me, it stands as a conclusion.

  The epilogue has, with some justification, been criticized for being loosely tacked onto the end. In this scene between David and Minus, the boy’s final line is “Daddy spoke to me!” I suppose that was written out of my need to be didactic. Perhaps I put it there in order to say something that had not yet been said; I don’t know. I feel ill at ease when confronted with the epilogue today. Throughout the film runs a false tone, hardly detectable to others, which may account for the scene.

  It must be kept in mind that the preceding year (1959) I had made The Virgin Spring, a movie which improved my status, at that time, especially when it received an Oscar.