The day Ingmar Bergman passed away, the first thing that came to my mind was his movie "Winter Light." It's weird because I haven't watched it since I taught film classes in the 70s. For the past week just now, I have felt the idea of rewatching this movie lingering in my head. What do I remember about it? It's the second in Bergman's God's Silence trilogy, about the bewilderment of a priest who can't soothe his suffering soul, and it was born when Bergman and his photographer Sven Nikovest sat in the countryside Chapel thought hard about how to get light through the space on a sunny winter day.
All in all, I hardly remember the movie at all, and the scattered memories of the movie didn't evoke my desire to look back. But now, I have a reason to rewatch.
In the end I took "Winter Light" off the shelf, watched it again, and was still struck by its courage in the face of bleakness.
First of all, the content of the movie is far more complex than I can remember. It expresses not only the silence of God, but the silence of a man. In the film, Pastor Erickson (Gunard Björnstrand) says a lot, but can't really say anything that helps himself or others. Fisherman Jonas, plagued by the evils of the world, finally kills himself in order to prove that God's existence is just a hoax. Teacher Marta (Ingrid Turin) loves the pastor with all her heart and cares for him, but is greeted with apathy and hostility. There are two dialogues between the pastor and the teacher in the film, which deepens the hurt to each other.
The film is also about the torture of faith. The pastor was assisted by two men in his duties. One of them is an organ player. He is used to looking at the clock and waiting to get off work. Whenever he is in a hurry to end the service, he has already packed the sheet music before playing the final movement. The other, a clergyman disabled by a railroad accident, was responsible for ringing bells, lighting candles and helping prepare ceremonies. There is a one-man show in the film about his understanding of the crucifixion of Jesus. He is the only person in the film who incorporates the idea of Christ into serious everyday thinking.
The visual style of the film is extremely simple. Nicovest does not do a single camera movement to achieve a certain effect. He just observes, shows. His shot creations are usually fixed and sometimes dramatic. He uses slow push-pull shots to increase the intensity of the dialogue. His gaze is so focused that some shots, such as the opening sacrifice and wine-giving ceremony, can be boring. Gradually the footage became intriguing, and more undercurrents flowed among the communioners, beyond the ceremony itself. In many close-ups and medium shots, faces are the first focus of Nikvist, and they are even the real subjects in some long shots. This approach also echoes Bergman's view that the most fascinating subject in film art is the human face.
Pastor Erickson was never stern. He got sick for something (Peter Cowie revealed that actor Bjorn Strand did get the flu during filming). But more importantly, he was indifferent and withdrawn, unfriendly. In contrast, Marta in close-up will suppress her tenderness and sadness. Young actor Gunnell Lindblom, who plays the fisherman's pregnant wife Karen, looks vulnerable and helpless. Fisherman Jonas seems to have known his end.
The disabled clergyman had a devout face, and he read the Gospels and believed that the point of Christ's crucifixion had been misunderstood. Christ suffered only a few hours, and he suffered far more than Christ, but the sufferings were not as bad as imagined. The real suffering of Christ should have come from the betrayal of his disciples in distress, from the moment when he wept to a father who seemed to abandon him. He was distressed because he was afraid that no one would understand his beliefs, and because of the silence of the Father.
Pastor Erickson's expression was stiff and stern as he recited prayers in front of a congregation of about eight people, including two hired men and Marta, who didn't believe in God, and he recovered after the ceremony. into the usual indifference. But when Karen begged him to talk to her husband, despite the constant fear, the priest agreed, pledging Jonas to send Karen home and return. More than once, the pastor said, "I really hope he comes back."
As he reads the letter Marta had left him, the scene suddenly changes to a close-up of Marta's face, as she recites the entire letter, and the footage appears real and sad, hinting at the ruthlessness of the priest.
Later, when Jonas returned to the church and confided to the pastor of his fear that the world would be destroyed by a nuclear explosion, all the pastor could say was "We must believe in the Lord." Later when he stood up, Nikovest's camera was slanted in front of the fingers on his desk, recording its hesitation and trembling. The pastor confessed to Jonah that he was not a good pastor and that he was suffering from God's silence and almost lost his faith. Shortly after Jonas left, news came that he had driven to the river and shot himself.
The pastor decides to meet Karen and her children. Marta persuades him to go back to school and take cold medicine first, while she opens up to the pastor and tries to get him to accept her feelings. The pastor rejected her, claiming that his only true love had gone with his dead wife four years ago. Then, in a heartbreaking slur, he recounted as best he could the things that Marta detested: her over-indulgence, her wailing, the rash on her hands and face (reminiscent of Christ scars). He was so ruthless that he hurried to the door, but after hesitating, he unexpectedly invited her to meet the fisherman's widow with him.
It should be said that the silence of this film is more than the silence of God. The priest's deceased wife is wrapped in the silence of the tomb. The priest fell into silence, unable to respond to the fisherman. He didn't know how to respond to Marta's love other than silence and rejection. The organist's silence is his indifference to the ritual and his longing for its end. And those who were not silent, such as the fisherman and his wife, longed for help but found nothing.
But there was also a clergyman, who seemed to be the only one in the group who thought more about the sufferings of Christ than his own. His insight into the passion of Christ was convincing, but the pastor couldn't hear it, and he chose to wrap himself in indifference.
Peter Cowie mentions a clip when Marta and the pastor were parked on the road waiting for the train to pass, and he told her, "My parents wanted me to be a pastor." Gehman himself, the son of a stern Lutheran pastor, had to listen to his father's sanctimonious sermons in church while being severely punished when he returned home.
I wonder if Bergman has any other way of portraying the pastor role. We all know that he has been married many times and is often introspective on women's issues. In his screenplay, Wrong Love (directed by Liv Ullman in 2000), he casts the role of an old director, in which he hires an actress to help complete his story— —A story about how he abused women and wanted forgiveness. Is "Winter Light" a portrayal of this kind of man? Or the weeping of an artist who fears not being understood? Or is his art a story of being forsaken by God? Or is he lost in his prestige and powerless to help those who really need him?
We'll never know for sure whether Winter Light is his autobiography in any way. Only know that he created an artistic image that tried to think of himself as God, but failed.
original:
On the day Ingmar Bergman died, the first film of his that came into my mind was "Winter Light." Odd, because I had not seen it since teaching a film class in the 1970s. In the weeks that passed, I found it lingering there, asking to be seen again. What did I remember about it? That it was part of Bergman's "Silence of God" trilogy. That it was about a pastor who was unable to comfort a man in dread of nuclear holocaust. That the pastor rejected a woman who sought to comfort him. That Bergman and his cinematographer, Sven Nykvist, sat in a rural church for a winter day to note how the sunlight moved through the space.
In short, I hardly remembered the film at all, because those sparse memories were not enough to ignite a need to see it again. Yet I felt one.
Finally I took "Winter Light" (1962) down from the shelf, watched it again, and was awestruck by its bleak, courageous power.
It is, first of all, much more complex than the broad outlines I held in memory. It is about more than God, silent or not. It is about the silence of a man, Pastor Tomas Ericsson (Gunnar Bjornstrand), who speaks enough in the film but is unable to say anything of use to himself or anyone else. About another man, the fisherman Jonas (Max Von Sydow), obsessed by evil in the world, who calls God's bluff, so to speak, by killing himself. About Marta, a schoolteacher (Ingrid Thulin) who cares for the pastor, loves him, worries about him, and is thanked by coldness and hostility. And it is about two monologues in which the pastor and the teacher describe their real feelings, and deeply wound each other.
But it is also about faith. The pastor is assisted in his duties by two men. One, the organist, is a clock-watcher, eager to see a service over with, already packing away his music while playing the final notes. The other , Algot (Allan Edwall), a man whose body has been crippled by a railroad accident, is the sexton who rings the bells, lights the candles, helps with the vestments. He has a monologue, too, about the passion of Christ, and he is the only character in the film who seems to have allowed the Christ story into his meaningful daily thoughts.
The film's visual style is one of rigorous simplicity. Nykvist does not use a single camera movement for effect. He only wants to regard, to show. His compositions, while sometimes dramatic, are mostly static. He uses slow push-ins and pull- outs to underline dialogue of intensity. His gaze is so unblinking that sequences with the potential to be boring, like the opening scenes of the consecration and distribution of hosts and wine, become fascinating: More is going on here than ritual, and there are buried currents between the communicants. Nykvist focuses above all on faces, in closeup and medium shot, and they are even the real subject of longer shots, recalling Bergman's belief that the human face is the most fascinating study for the cinema.
Pastor Tomas never smiles. He is sick, for one thing (and Peter Cowie reveals in an introduction that the actor Bjornstrand really had the flu during the filming). But more than that, he is cold, detached, unable to care. Marta, in contrast, trembles in closeups with suppressed tenderness and grief. The younger actress Gunnel Lindblom, as the pregnant Karin, the fisherman's wife, looks vulnerable and confused. The fisherman Jonas looks as if he has already seen his end.
The sexton, the little twisted man, alone has a face that is alive with wonder at the mystery of faith. He has been reading the Gospels, he says, and thinks the emphasis on Christ's suffering on the cross is all wrong. Christ only suffered a few hours, he says, while he, Algot, has suffered more and longer, and it is not so bad. No, the real suffering of Christ came when his disciples betrayed him at Gethsemane, and when he cried out to a father who seemed to have forsaken him. He suffered because he feared no one had heard or understood his message. Christ suffered because he, too, was dismayed by the silence of God.
Pastor Tomas is stiff and harsh as he recites the words of the service, before a congregation of perhaps eight people, including two who are paid to be there and Marta, who does not believe in God. After the service, he is dismissive and curt . But when Karin asks him to speak with her husband, who has been troubled by his fears, the pastor agrees; Jonas will drive Karin home to their three children, and return. "I really hope he returns," Tomas says more than once .
He reads a letter Marta has left for him, and Bergman shows Thulin reciting the entire letter in a six-minute closeup that is true, sad, and hard upon herself, but by implication merciless about Tomas.
Later, when Jonas returns and describes his fears that the world will end in nuclear destruction, all Tomas can say is "we must trust in the lord." Then, when he stands up, Nykvist's camera tilts down to his fingers on the desk, hesitating, trembling, and then Tomas confesses to Jonas: He feels he is a bad pastor, he is anguished by the silence of God, he has lost his faith. Jonas leaves, and soon word comes that he drove to a nearby river and shot himself with his rifle.
Tomas resolves to visit Karin and the family. Marta drives him. They stop at her home for cold medicine, and she embraces him and urges him to accept her love. Tomas rejects her, citing his one true love, his wife who died four years earlier. And then, in a passage of lacerating cruelty, he enumerates everything he finds disgusting about Marta -- her fussing, her weeping, her rashes on hands and head (recalling the wounds of Christ). He is pitiless, then storms out, hesitates, and unexpectedly asks her to join him in going to the fisherman's widow.
There is more silence here than the silence of God. Tomas' late wife is wrapped in the silence of the grave. Tomas is silent to the need of the fisherman. He cannot respond to Marta's love except by stern silence and rejection. Fredrik, the church organist, is silent in the way he pays no attention to the service and wishes for it to be over. Those who are not silent, such as the fisherman and his wife, ask for help and receive none.
But then there is Algot, the crooked sexton. He alone of all these people seems to have given more thought to the suffering of Christ than to his own suffering. His insights into Christ's passion are convincing and empathetic, but the pastor cannot hear him, is wrapped in his own cold indifference
Cowie speaks of a moment when Marta and Tomas are stopped on the road for a train to pass. "My parents dreamed of me becoming a pastor," he tells her. Cowie thinks that the pastor stands for Bergman at that moment -- Bergman, the son of a strict Lutheran who listened to his father's sanctimonious sermons in church and then came home to cruel punishments.
I wonder if there are other ways in which Bergman speaks through the character of the pastor. We know that he was much married, and thought of himself before his women. In his screenplay for "Faithless" (2000), directed by Liv Ullmann, he plays an old director who hires an actress to help him visualize a story about how he mistreated women, and wants to be forgiven. Is "Winter Light" also not a portrait of a man who is cruel to a woman who only wants to love and help him? Is it not the cry of an artist who fears his message has not been heard? Is his art the father who has forsaken him? Has he been powerless to help those who came to him in real need, while focusing on his career and his reputation?
To the degree that "Winter Light" is autobiographical, and that we will never know, it is the portrait of a man who thought he was God, and failed himself.
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