INGMAR BERGMAN’S ‘SARABAND’ “I’ve never thought along these lines….”

 © 2020 by James Clark

     Saraband (2003), carries much of the charges of a long filmic disputation; and it carries much of the charges of the very unique.

To enter this gigantic, swift and subtle construct, I’ve chosen the film’s moment which avoids direct presentation, while being at the core of its revelatory bloodletting, figurative and literal. That being the discipline of art.

The watchword of two of the major players here, reaching back thirty years, to the film, Scenes from a Marriage (1973), was, “We speak the same language,” that is to say, the language of advantage, which  is to say, the language of pedantry. Marianne and Johan elect to follow two similar skills, she being a lawyer, while he being a medical researcher. They and their ilk live and die for information. They are typical in having a long family history of being committed to each of those disciplines. Their work requires heavy doses of pedantry, from which to earn large amounts of prestige and money. Soldiers of Fortune. The volatility of that action, that maximum of being masterly, had, in our players today, especially in the case of Johan, a pronounced leaning to promiscuity. Their divorce, in the face of that upheaval, brought about two changes: Marianne becoming far more cynical in subsequent couplings; and Johan, after several marriages, being involved with a woman (never given so much as a name in this story), having given birth to a son opting for music, instead of conclusions—someone not speaking his language! (“I never did like him. He looked so ridiculous. Overweight and meek. He surrounded me with a sickly kind of love. I admit I ignored that love. He was as devoted as a dog. I wanted to kick him. Figurately, of course.”)

As if Johan were ever uncomfortably situated, he comes into a fortune from “an ancient Danish aunt,” who—compounding the irony— had once been a world-famous opera singer. “When he became financially independent, he left the university. He bought his grandparents’ summer house… a ramshackle turn of the century villa in the wilderness near Orsa.” The speaker was Marianne, who, after many decades of silence between them, decides—in her own way—“I’ve been thinking that I ought to visit Johan.” Her invitation secured, she tip-toes into the quasi-bank like a cat-burglar, Johan, having fallen asleep on the veranda. (Here we receive one of the long-standing settings of those triads which Bergman scatters about in hopes of very rare aliveness: the rich forest outside the window; a row of potted plants along a ledge by that window; and Marianne, in nearly complete darkness. In quick succession, another gem being ignored: a clock on the wall, its face bathed in sunlight; Marianne in the dark; and a piano, her random touch meaning very little.) She whispers to her meaninglessness. “Maybe I should have ignored this completely irrational impulse… Actually, I’m not the impulsive type at all. Of course I could stand here a little while longer and let my confusion run riot…” Confusion running riot, being the heart of the matter of sensibility here, a heart which her upbringing has totally failed to touch. (But others in this catchment will show us, at least a trace, of something truly blessed.)

That the interaction of Marianne and Johan is stillborn becomes very clear; but lazy, sentimental resorts blur the prospect.  His being wakened by her is unequivocal. “Typical you, sneaking up on me… I said no. I still say no. I didn’t want this. No, but you didn’t give a damn.” She quotes from the Psalms. “Where such beauty is itself revealing/ In all life, in all creation stealing/ What must the source be the giver?” That surprises him. But it shouldn’t, actually. “Grandma taught me,” she explains. He, too, would have hopped to the bastardized sublime. “I didn’t know you knew the Psalms. Granddad rewarded me with tin soldiers.” Such nostalgia moves them to holding hands. “You certainly have a beautiful view.” Within that view, Marianne has noticed, coming in, that an outbuilding had been occupied. This, once again, unites them in the same language. There the hated son, Henrik, and his adolescent daughter, Karin, had settled in, where they work upon performing classical music. This mention of the invasion affords the multimillionaire to sneer, “My dear son, the associate professor. He took an early retirement. I’ve heard they we happy to get rid of him… He felt mistreated.” (Marianne, with a wry smile, similarly savoring this field of endeavor for an intrinsic frivolity, immaturity and lack of balls.)

On that trajectory, she needles Johan, “Like you, when you were that age.”/ “Me? No! But sometimes I look at my solitary isolation and think I’m in hell. [More of the Bible.] That I’m already dead, though I don’t know it. I’ve ransacked my past to have the answer sheet…” (Soon he’ll use the flourish, “My answer sheet says my life has been shit!”) What they don’t touch is how similar Henrik and Karin subscribe to academic pedantry, Karin being in a regime, driven by Henrik, to have the girl enrolled in a conservatory program by which to be a kick-ass cello soloist. Advantage run wild! Where’s the difference? The difference lies—over and above the very rare instance of anyone making impressive money in music—deep in the heart of artistic performance, its real and hard adversarial creativity.

Karin comes by the Big House when only Marianne is at the villa, and their tete-a-tete introduces something new. Soon she pours out an ardent complaint that the blue-chip repertoire Henrik has in mind is beyond her capacity, not only now, but forever. Karin had had a nightmarish day, exchanging blows with the idealist and racing in her nightgown into the forest. Such an account, however, requires another form of coverage, a coverage penetrating to the emotions of the crisis. (All the while here, she paces back and forth. Bergman’s first film, Crisis [1944], initiates the matter of do or die.) “He said that I was lazy! Then I got up and carefully put the cello aside…because I was shaking…  I said I was done for the day and I was going for a walk by myself.” Freed from the sterile advantage, she screams into the natural balance. “He turned pale…I’ve never seen him like that. And he said, ‘You’re not leaving this room.’ I just put on  my boots and headed for the door. I didn’t hear him coming after me, and he grabbed my shoulders.” (Shocks, to rip into a realm capable of fresh equilibrium. The actions of the fight produces a monstrous dance, a fiery kinetic. Her storm of hair and grabbed-upon jacket. A flailing of hands and fists. He cries out. She bites his face. Their grunting and gasping being another language. Then its Karin racing through the forest. The speed of her run combining power, depth, beauty and a dark, far from controlled love. She trips and tumbles, into a swamp. A bird calls out, happily. She screams in an unearthly outburst.)

Now back in the setting of the kitchen, she sits down and cries. “Never again, never again, never again…”  Her chronicling,  “I kept on crying until I was empty… I’ll beg Grandfather to help me get away from that lunatic. Now that old man can take care of his crazy son, and send him to the funny farm, or report him to the cops.”

Those last phrasings constitute her slipping into the ordinary. She rallies a bit by way of, “Then I realized that from now on I know nothing… I know nothing about my life. What I’m going to do or be.” In the midst of this chaos she thinks of Anna, her mother, now two years dead. “I can’t ask her about anything, anymore.” Had this rudder ever owned a clue? “Capsizing, she blurts out, I don’t know my papa very well. I just know that deep down he’s, well, nice…” All the while, there’s Marianne, a lost cause as if ever there were.

As such, after vague remarks that, “I guess I was a little shut out of that love [so wise?]… Mama was never much of a talker. Why can’t I express a love like my mama’s?” we get the lawyer’s talk, for what it’s worth: “Were you afraid your papa would kill himself after her death?” More arrested gambits: “One of her last days when I was sitting with her and her being half-asleep on morphine, she looked at me. She said very clearly, ‘I love you, Karin…My mama never used that kind of language… Papa once said jokingly, Anna never says I love you [she may have had a reason, relating to a profound ambiguity], but she continuously preforms acts of love…”

A quick cut finds the ponderings to be giddy on Marianne’s wine. (Candles but no light.) Whereas in Scenes from a Marriage, Marianne (long after her divorce from Johan) had credited one of her subsequent spouses with eliciting far more body language than she had ever understood, here she trashes the memory as to that husband’s death. “I remarried a boring glider pilot. One day he quietly flew away. He was never found.” (Big laughs all round.) Whereas the previous film discloses a series of gentle rendezvous when their spouses were out of town, the advantage maven leaves the matter with, “Then I found out he [Johan] was servicing another lady, a real slut! Moreover, he wrote poems. A collection was published but was never successful. Even love poems to me… I didn’t keep them.”

Later, back at the troubled cabin, Karin resumes her real education. Henrik feels nothing amiss, but Karin vows, “I can never, never be like this again… Never, never…” In their communal bed, Henrik (not as sanguine as he pretends) attempts to reveal the family resilience. Before Henrik was married to her, Anna had a night of realization that the musician would have to be watched closely. He comes home drunk in tandem with complaining about his academic duties. She says nothing for a long while. And then she remarks, “That’s not the man I plan to marry.” The fascination, here, is that she does in fact marry the stiff, while realizing his very minor strengths. That fateful night, Anna’s gambit is to put on her coat and announce, “I’m leaving. I’m leaving you.” As with Karin, many years later, he had threatened, “Nobody leaves me…” [the advantage swine, galloping through the centuries]. He, in fact, does prevail, with Anna turning around and preparing the coffee. “Maybe she wanted to sober me up. She didn’t say anything for the rest of the evening. Just sat sewing.” Incorrigible. But manageable. She didn’t say anything. And love was not in the cards. She had embarked upon the lion’s share of the iceberg. (Henrik would babble about “a miracle.”) “I know it sounds pompous but there’s no better word… If you leave me I’ll be destitute..”

The needy softie needn’t take much of our time, as to his seeking an advance on his fat inheritance in order to provide a great cello for Karin, supposedly thrilled about going to the best of conservatories to bring her to fame and fortune, the same track his weakling of a father had run into the ground. Nevertheless, during his entreaty, Johan’s library itself becomes a revelation of sorts. The moneybags, after routine pouring out of insult—“I wonder how Anna put up with you”—does relent on the basis of family advantage. “I don’t give a damn if you hate me. You barely exist. If you didn’t have Karin, who, thank God, takes after her mother, you wouldn’t exist for me at all.” Although the gauntlet of contempt closed the transaction with Henrik smashing the reading lamp, all that angst had its bright moment, in the form of the multimillionaire’s having been interrupted in the course of his study of the works of Danish philosopher, Soren Kierkegaard, he of the concern, “Purify Your Hearts, choose physical toil, over facile appetite.” Quite an excursion for the land of pussies.

On to Marianne visiting an empty, ancient church where Henrik is practicing on the organ for the Sunday service. Once again, it’s a race to the bottom, though interesting touches give us pause to see that surety of cogency has not disappeared entirely. The old church is a mystery, in being so old and fine in a wilderness. (In The Touch [1971], the protagonists fail to appreciate that the wonderfully crafted wooden sculpture Madonna in a crypt within a remote church is a startling singularity, a key to life itself.) Here Marianne gushes about the Bach trio sonata she heard, which garners a dinner at the cabin. “Karin is all that gives my life meaning. There wouldn’t be much meaning without her.” (Johnny Mathis had a song like that.) He goes on to imagine Anna coming to him in a reverie. “Anna is walking toward me.” (Roy Orbison.) “We spend our whole lives wondering about death and what comes after. And then it’s this easy…” But her hesitation infuriates him… “I see the old man would be upset. Why did you really come here?”/ “I don’t know.”/ “Can you tell me if I can take him to court? Are you here to squeeze out a little money?” (These mood swings derive from an elusive source. The two onscreen have barely a hope. “So long, Marianne.” (Leonard Cohen.) What does that mean for an athletic Karin? More pop sentimentality? The scene: Henrik and his musical score; a silver door; little lights. Doors shut. Marianne stands up from the pew. She walks slowly toward us on the way out. Then the sun blazes through the stained-glassed windows, with rays of energy awaiting an appreciation. Marianne beholding a volatile treasure. She returns to the altar, bathed in sunlight. Cut to a frieze of The Last Supper—clogged, freighted, escapist. Close-up to Jesus, and his fear. She clasps her hands, in fear. Her hands cover her face.

Cut to Johan, and his pounding, militant musical self-involvement. Karin makes a visit where the fury pours down the stairs. “Anna and you sometimes came by when you were at the Lake Cottage.” Karin recalls, “You used to smoke cigars.” (Advantage apparatus.)/ “I gave it up after reading a biography of Freud. He had 33 operations for mouth cancer. And still, he couldn’t give up cigars.” Then they pay homage to Anna in gazing at her photo, being enlarged by Johan. Speaking the same language, the language of Kierkegaard? They go on to annoying degrees—Karin needing a talisman; Johan out of sorts that he never managed to bed her. “I can tell you,” Johan declares, “that I miss her… painfully… We didn’t see each other very often because of Henrik and me.” He goes on—a (too) little lamp on the table between two dubious players—to account his concern for Karin’s career (the reason she had been invited to visit). Like the cigars, he can’t avoid bragging that he is a friend of the head conductor in St. Petersburg. “I happen to know him from my years in Leningrad.” The influential musician had heard a performance of Karin’s while on a tour (a tour that Johan had no doubt enjoyed seeing bringing to an end, an end of Henrik’s influence). Johan’s better way was Karin entering the Sibelius Academy in Helsinki, “one of the best schools in Europe.” (Henrik had already rudely refused to take that opportunity.) Johan’s friend, in bringing up this countermeasure, had also grasped a danger for Karin. “The young person’s partly deficient technique had drifted into risky habits which, in the future, could come to catastrophic consequences. Please reply as soon as possible.” Sure that he had handed her an offer she couldn’t refuse, she pretty much refused it. (He had also mentioned, “Perhaps I ought to add that I will, of course, take care of your expenses as long as you need. I’ve talked to the person with the cello and made a good offer, better than he asked.” Her, “I don’t know what to say. It’s all so overwhelming,” quietly infuriates him. “I’ll write and tell him that you are overwhelmed. I need my rest. Good-bye, Karin.”) Johan, his rest a sham, adds, “Marianne used to say I was a miserable judge of people… That I didn’t understand emotions. But even I understand this… that your mother lived on this earth to make it less unbearable…”(which is to say, from his myopic perspective, to claw to a pinnacle). The war music returns as soon as she leaves.

The “emotions expert” (seen in the midst of a crossword puzzle) becomes enlisted by Karin to get to the nub of a letter from Anna to Henrik, which fell from a book that was stuffed away to be never seen again. It had been hidden, by Henrik, because Anna, for all her aplomb, could see Karin becoming a prey to incest, as her mother’s cancer took over. “She writes about me and papa.” Papa has his plusses. But his plusses are swamped by his minuses. Anna writes, “I was always there. Then I got ill, and I wasn’t there anymore…I knew that Karin loves you… You mustn’t take advantage [that manic battle call] of your affinities…You must be aware of the danger surrounding Karin with the love that will be homeless once I’m gone.” (Karin interrupts that flow of self-control—“If I abandon him, he’ll die… Sometimes I’m so goddamn tired of him…” Marianne disagrees with Karin’s logic. The latter has cobbled a mad mix of disinterestedness and arrogance. The things we can easily do, and the things, like Freud’s deadly arrogance, that take guts. She goes so far, to her drinking buddy, to promise that only “for now” she’ll stay that stupid. (Bergman’s mastery of theatrical drama being a thing of beauty. And also a painful uprising transcending art.) Marianne declares, “This letter is what love is, isn’t it?” Yes, but more than that confronts our principle protagonist.

The term, saraband, covers a stately dance. Karin had been pushed into a far more flashy presence. Here was her moment to be truly herself, and truly comprehensive. Back from one painful declaration, she is made to perform, with papa helping, a Bach cello piece she knows she won’t do justice to. (She had, on coming away from  Johan’s proposal, pulled away from a French kiss from Henrik.)  “You’re crazy! This is too hard for me!” His view is, “It’ll be fantastic!” (Karin at left; Henrik at right; and between, the forest out the window that doesn’t insist, “It’ll be fantastic!”) Karin notes that to do the piece, a Bach Saraband, “takes a lifetime to master.” (A lifetime to show off, but another lifetime to live it.) She winds down like a clock. He slaps down his glasses. (He had called her Carrie. The rigors of Brian De Palma’s Carrie [1976] join the pop musical moments. “Hey Little Carrie, Sweety!” Henrik’s hope to put others in the shade amounting to cheap thrills. Hollywood!) He puts away the music stand with some pique. “I understand you’ve spoken to your grandfather… And with the bitch…” Karin manages to put into motion, “I have to make up my mind. I haven’t bothered to think. I thought, ‘Papa knows what’s best for me…’” (“Father Knows Best”) The ever-present cigars. The ever-present advantage. Henrik’s reign beginning to topple. “Maybe you’ve already come to some kind of decision,” he probes. “Are you going to take grandfather’s offer?” She puts on her coat and shows Anna’s letter. He, far from, “Father Knows Best,” tasks her for reading a letter addressed to him. Aggravation by the minute, Karin accelerates the inevitable. “Papa, it’s going to be painful… I’ve made up my mind. For the first time in my life, it’s my decision. I’m going to Hamburg next week with Emma (another virtual facilitator like Henrik’s mother). She and I are going to a school for young orchestra musicians…” Henrik appalled that advantage to Karin had evaporated, while he had become never so ironically close to his father. (The annoying arts never lucid per se.) Emma, the anonymous, had found the school of their dreams waiting for them a keyword away. “We were playing a video of Brahms. We sent it to the address for fun. Emma and I got a letter saying we were accepted to that school. That we’re welcome.” (Karin’s scream of joy. Tears down her cheeks. Body language.) “That’s exactly what I want to do. And that’s exactly what I’ve decided to do. And then there’s a paid internship [during the three-year course] and a German or Austrian orchestra…” (An orchestra in a small venue. Henrik exclaims, “Oh, God!”) “I don’t believe in myself as a soloist. I want to play in an orchestra. To be part of that common effort. Not sit on a stage, alone and exposed. I don’t want other people to tell me I’m not good enough. I want to decide over my own future. I want to live a simple life. I want to be at home. I want to live an ordinary life. Not as a surrogate for Mama. It has to stop. And now it’s over.” They play a familiar Bach Saraband, for old times’ sake. The deep, melancholy therein presages that saraband is, in fact, never “ordinary.” The flow of inclusion has, as the girls deep-down anticipated, its huge, dangerous adventure. Karin and her Crucifix.

Marianne receives the news that Henrik has attempted a particularly ugly suicide. His father meets the occasion by noting that his son would of course mess up the attempt. These final moments bring to us the long-ago quicksand so preferred by the protagonists in Scenes from a Marriage. (Another bungled suicide.) Etiquette to the fore, Marianne, the correct, scolds the rich man for “contempt.” “Sometimes you act like a forgotten character from some stupid old film. You’re just not quite real.” To this, he (in fact, well aware of his penchant to slanging) rudely posits, “I’ve never thought along those lines…” Which  opens the door to, “I’ve never thought.” He nails the ex, along lines of speaking to Karin about the mishap: “Money is no object.” Then they fatuously revive the memory of Anna. He growls, “It’s inconceivable that Henrik was given the privilege of loving Anna.” Her mystique of disinterestedness becoming a touch of the real which phonies like Marianne and Johan cannot digest. He tells her, “You have nothing to cry about.”/ “I do,” she argues. “But I won’t explain it.”

The end of the abortive rendezvous is shackled by a nocturnal facsimile of the insomniacs in Bergman’s Hour of the Wolf (1968). Rich and conventional haters of passionate art, kicking around the unfit and the sleezy. Johan comes to Marianne’s bedroom. “I can’t sleep. I’m sorry to wake you…” She, perhaps sensing,  a moment of profit, assures him, “That’s alright. I’ll fall back asleep.” Back to the “not quite real”: “I’m not sad… It’s worse It’s a hellish anxiety. It’s bigger than I am. I’m too small for my anxiety.”/ “Come lie next to me…” she invites. Unlike Karin’s ripping up the firmament in the cause of a pristine freedom, the joining of Marianne and Johan that night goes nowhere.

Back home in Stockholm, Marianne, as if taking up the spotlight of the celebrity magazine interview that opened, Scenes from a Marriage, treats the viewers with familiar hokum. “Our time together was pleasantly relaxing. We rarely spoke of more sensitive issues. The last night we celebrated. Nothing grand, but enough. We promised to keep in touch. I think we even fantasized about a trip to Florence next spring. The trip never happened, of course. Then phone calls ended. I wrote, but didn’t get an answer. Sometimes I think about Anna. I wonder how she dealt with her life. How she spoke, how she moved… Anna’s feelings.”

One last touch, from out of the farce and out of the mirage. “When I got back, I visited my (hitherto ignored) daughter, Martha, at the home” (a grey cell with bars). Martha ignores the visitor. Marianne touches Martha’s forehead—this apparently being a new departure, a gift of an Anna very hard to read on such sketchy evidence. She goes on to touch Martha’s cheek, and down to her mouth. Marianne takes off the unresponsive daughter’s glasses. Martha seen in close-up, being slightly responsive, slightly in a spotlight of touch never felt until now. The cello motif, given a care (a distant force, akin to Karin’s dash in the forest). Marianne, close-up, saddened for many reasons. Cut to Martha, seemingly attentive to a dovetail with her disabled mother. A field of patience, in and out the music world. Marianne closes her eyes. She opens them to state a mixed message, to somewhat return to the day when she was granted to be an example of genius in the eyes of those who supposedly can recognize such things. “But I thought about the enigmatic fact that, for the first time in our life together I realized… I felt… I was touching my daughter… my child.” (Close-up, Marianne covers her face. Does Martha matter now? Does Marianne matter now?)

At this end point of this saga, and this end point of Bergman’s career, there are still many struggles needing illumination. We’ll pour over the remainder of the films not yet engaged, in hopes that what was there can produce fruit, like the factor of “acrobatics,” in the early film, Brink of Life [1958]. The way he leaves actions in ambiguity comprises one of his touches of brilliance, acknowledging contemporary problematics few have ever noticed.. No one else in cinema can come close to this challenge. However, when such rigors of body language as strongly encountered and strongly being overwhelmed, there remains a dimension impossibly opaque, strangely and annoyingly tipping the scales toward a stringent melodrama. No satisfaction from courage nor deep reflection. The nuances of these works derive their forces by way of a root system which our helmsman had never seen fit to illuminate, perhaps because it transcends the bounds of theatrical and filmic drama. Being a consummate dramatist, his last hurrah, his last drama, would be to leave in mystery where his powers were based. But the sensibility of his logic affords a very wider and deeper domain.

However stunning the ironic crises of his would be, there would be those fertile hands and triads, in one sense, servicing the need for innovation. But by the same token, they were involved in a disservice. The output of hands and fingers (along with the syntheses of dialectic) sustain a simultaneous force of survival action of mortals and the embrace of being ushered into the creative dynamic itself—in the capacity of completing the powers of nature. A dialectic therewith, by which to plunge into the infinite ways of a loving cosmos. That far reaching hand of ours (when having the right knack), both embarks upon infinite industry and infinite sailing—both linked to a network wherein portions can be given or taken at will. The presence of the motions of the saraband is ideal in its steadiness and peril. Anna’s way, poles apart from the fascistic Anna in The Passion of Anna. That distemper finds us surrounded, means that our resources are both benign and contentious, not to mention the patience for striving even the slightest dovetail. Once again, I wonder why Bergman spurned the opportunity of knowledge? Perhaps he felt no one would ever care, since no one did care to take the time and effort to engage his deepest work. But yet, increasingly, millions strive to reach that acrobatic cogency along sightlines of art, athletics, construction—and   philosophy, of a renegade form (the standard form rapidly becoming obsolete. Unfortunately, the jackboots that have for millennia cheapened the planet, will never relent.)

On the cusp of such an adventure, there would be no home and native land to speak of. But when did planet earth become everything? The endeavors, which I am sure Bergman was very alert to, could have repercussions fated to completely disappear, just as we all will disappear. But being blessed to have lived.

(As if the well-known perversity of Bergman’s hubris were embarrassing enough, for a fount of wisdom, there is also his tumble into incest, at California-burning levels. [A preamble of this mess in Saraband, consists of tinctures of that bad faith to be found in Bergman’s Hour of the Wolf [1968], particularly dabbling in artsy atheism and a have-to hotty, named Veronica.] But the sophistication, of our film today, has benefited from the evil genius of Bergman’s advanced reflective powers, whereby an Anna being a genius of ontological control and disinterestedness is making the best of a roster almost entirely lost. When Marianne tasks Johan for cheapness about Henrik’s suicide bid, and nails him for behaving like an instance of Hollywood adolescence, she in fact was touching upon Bergman himself. With all the magnificent depths and crafts being offered to us from him, he, like so many “beautiful people,” lived the personal hell of Freud and his 33 operations, proof positive that all but a very few would eschew making an ass of themselves for the sake of advantage. One of his many liaisons was an on again, off again, named Ingrid von Rosen. Eventually they married, and produced a baby girl. Strangely enough, Bergman, with the concordance of Ingrid, took 22 years to enlighten the girl that she was his daughter, in the course of which, much incest would have occurred, along sightlines telling her that she was one of a large contingent whom he had sired, in the course of paradoxical and ironical action.  That would be the basis of the mystique of  Anna, who, perhaps like so many other women, would countenance his experiment of testing the waters of an only too human junky. [In the film, After the Rehearsal (1984)—coming up—we have a protagonist looking very closely like Fidel Castro, the humanist wild lover.]  Ingrid and Ingmar would come to rest in the same grave, for what it’s worth. But the best of Bergman is a very live matter.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

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