Tag: ingmar bergman

Film by Ezekiel Yu
Read More
A shot from Ingmar Bergman's "After The Rehearsal," featuring Erland Josephson's character asleep over his notebook, as reviewed and analyzed by poet Ezekiel Yu.

Not A Rack Behind: On Ingmar Bergman’s “After the Rehearsal” (1984)

Right around the midpoint of Ingmar Bergman’s After the Rehearsal, a woman walks onstage, interrupting the conversation between Henrik, an old stage director, and Anna, the much younger actress who is to star in the director’s production of Strindberg’s A Dream Play.

As the woman interjects, two things become progressively clear: 1) her name is Rakel, Anna’s mother and a former lover of Henrik’s, an actress herself who is horrified by her aging body, as well as by the onset of public irrelevance; and 2) her appearance may very well be a figment, a production of Henrik and Anna’s subconsciouses rearing from the depths to disgorge insecurities, anxieties, etc., for as Henrik and Rakel converse, Anna periodically morphs in her mute sitting position, changing from her adult, twenty-or-so-year-old self into a mere girl, and back again. Or is it all simply a dream of Henrik’s, and every single persona onstage exists only in that sub-real world? (More on that, later…) […]

Film by Ezekiel Yu
Read More
A shot from Ingmar Berman's "Persona", depicting silhouetted faces upside-down, as reviewed by poet and critic Ezekiel Yu for the automachination literary magazine.

Silence as Substance: Reviewing Ingmar Bergman’s “Persona” (1966)

The interior of the projector at the beginning and the end of Persona—and, at the midpoint, the celluloid disintegrating around a still shot of Bibi Andersson’s icy mien—signals to the viewer a self-awareness that is the raison d’etre of the entire work; a trickery on the part of the filmmakers that beguiles in practically every frame, inviting one’s study while at the same time rebuffing the kinds of analyses that attempt to freeze its “meaning” into some monolithic interpretation.

The director, like Prospero parading his illusive stagecraft to a captive audience, is making it clear that this film is literally that: film, whole spools of it being fed through the projector and kindled into motion by carbon arcs. Also shown, at the very end, are cameramen operating the machinery capturing the material out of which the film is made. Any discussion of the “inner” narrative—that of Andersson’s nurse, Alma, caring for the famous and willfully mute actress Elisabet Vogler, played by Liv Ullmann—must, therefore, be contextualized by this structural decision.

With Persona, then, it is important to keep in mind that surface is key, working in a top-down manner upon the narrative(s) it conforms; just as a mask conforms one’s perception of the mask-bearer, while all the while concealing the bearer’s true nature from the perceiver, whose speculations are circumscribed by whatever the mask presents. So it is that the face of the Other allures, and disquiets. […]

Film by Jessica Schneider
Read More
A stylized shot from John Waters's "Hairspray" (1988) where a smiling Tracy is called "the baddest white dancer in town".

Forget Bergman, Eat Éclairs: on John Waters’ “Hairspray” (1988)

I remember the first time I saw Hairspray. I was in high school and living in a suburb of Baltimore (the setting for all of Waters’ films), and I remember thinking about how it reminded me of Grease (1978), but better. For those ‘hard-core’ Waters fans (he would probably chuckle at my saying that), they would likely lean more towards recommending his early works that, while not necessarily ‘great’ in the classic sense, ever challenge the status quo. Films like Pink Flamingos, Multiple Maniacs, and Female Trouble (all featuring Divine) rank among the most cult-like. In a sense, when you watch a John Waters film, you can’t help but think, ‘Oh no, he’s not going to do that…’ and then he does it.

Hairspray is a fun, endearing film that shows that Waters can thrive in the mainstream every bit as underground. The film stars Ricki Lake as Tracy Turnblad, an overweight teen who loves to dance to 1960s music played on The Corny Collins Show. Her mother, played hilariously by Divine, is Edna Turnblad. Now, if you know anything about Divine, you know that his real name was Harris Glenn Milstead (he went by Glenn in his personal life) and that he is an overweight drag queen who knows more about walking in women’s heels better than most women. Fantastic in his use of comedy, the Waters films I most enjoy are those that feature him. Hairspray was Divine’s last film, as he died suddenly of a heart attack eight days after its release, at age 42. ‘Can you turn that racket down? I’m trying to iron!’ Edna asks. ‘Can you get me my diet pills?’ […]

Film by Jessica Schneider
Read More
The priest in Robert Bresson's "Diary of a Country Priest", played by Claude Laydu, looking down in his room with a crucifix hanging to his left.

A World of Green Trees: Robert Bresson’s “Diary of a Country Priest” (1951)

Robert Bresson is a director who does not veer from the suffering a character must undertake at the cruelty of others. This is most prominent in The Trial of Joan of Arc, Mouchette, and Au Hasard Balthazar where we witness some being—be it person or animal—that is beaten under the brunt of some hostile society. Within all three films, each ends in dying or death. No one seems to have any empathy for the one suffering. Yet within Diary of a Country Priest, the ‘little priest’ as he is condescendingly referred to, undergoes very much the same. Unlike the pastor in Ingmar Bergman’s Winter Light, the priest’s faith remains unwavering, as he desperately claims to need prayer like ‘oxygen in his blood.’

The priest, played by Claude Laydu, is somber, morose, and moves about quietly and helplessly. His illness leaves him physically weak. He only smiles once in the film, and that is when he is on a motorcycle. Roger Ebert notes that this is the moment that perhaps rekindles his childhood. Memories of his youth, when there must have been an earlier joy. He has chosen this vocation on purpose, but for what purpose is this? Has Christ abandoned him just as well, as he remains in this otherwise small, petty, country town? Meanwhile, the locals leave threatening notes ordering him to leave. […]

Film by Jessica Schneider
Read More
A shot of piano-playing from Ingmar Bergman's "Autumn Sonata"

Love’s Demands: Ingmar Bergman’s “Autumn Sonata” (1978)

Often, we sit apart from another—presuming to know what that person is thinking. We imbue our motives into them, where we admit to not understanding why someone else has chosen the life they have. Why are they not more ambitious? More career-driven? What is ambition, anyway? Before we begin, we at least need to define ambition, and how goes this definition that varies person to person? For some, a career and kids are enough. Yet others might long for artistic success and recognition. Yet what does that entail, exactly? And where and how does that person become? I’ve often traveled to old towns and have marveled over the abandoned—be it buildings, forts, roads. Who lived then? Who defined those now expired standards? And where are those standards now?

Ingmar Bergman’s 1978 film, Autumn Sonata, is what most closely resembles a play by Chekhov or Strindberg. The words and the women are intense—feelings are felt and painful and abrupt, and moments have been brushed aside, but are not forgotten. Liv Ullmann plays Eva, a quiet wife married to Victor. She has an inner intensity brewing. Charlotte (Ingrid Bergman) is her mother. She is a self-centered concert pianist who is paying a visit upon Eva’s request. The shadow amongst them is Helena—Charlotte’s ‘other’ daughter who is suffering from a debilitating disease. Charlotte does not deeply care for either of her daughters and yet she makes an appearance for the sake of convenience. When Eva informs her mother that Helena is here, Charlotte is not pleased. […]

Film by Jessica Schneider
Read More
A stylized shot of Tomas, the protagonist in Ingmar Bergman's "Winter Light"

Silent and Sunday: Ingmar Bergman’s “Winter Light” (1962)

There are some who embrace suffering—who endure it, and they do so with sanctimony. Hence, they believe others should not only endure it, but should also welcome it. To suffer is to attain salvation, and to reject it is nothing short of selfishness. I once had an employer who, upon hearing my unhappiness vis-à-vis my career, would reply, ‘Well, what can you do to change your attitude?’ My admission of misery was, in her mind, ‘bringing down the team’ (even though the team was already down). Overworked, just because one group was able to scrape by on limited resources doesn’t mean that another should be forced to undergo the same: i.e., ‘Well, they were able to suffer through it and so should you.’

Alas, I digress. Rather, this is Ingmar Bergman’s film, and what a great film Winter Light is. In 80 minutes, he manages to encapsulate an existential crisis, the rejection of love, the rejection of faith, and the rejection of self. Those who believe in God are still bound by their bodies, by their emotions. This limits the amount of suffering they are able to undertake. Within this filmic world, it is always Sunday and it is always cold. […]