Ingmar Bergman's Winter Light: Certainly Uncertain

The film begins with a close-up of actor, Gunnar Bjornstrand. He is framed within the space of a vaulted ceiling, and his face is flanked by matching windows. Everything is symmetrical, even, calm. His eyes are cast downward. His voice is level and monotone. Thus, we are introduced to the main character of the film, Reverend Tomas Ericcson.

Immediately, I recognize the words that he is speaking, and strangely enough, I find myself anticipating (as well as noting any slight variation) every word of the ritual he is performing. It is a Lutheran communion--the same communion that I had participated in at my family's church since I was confirmed as a young teenager. Bjornstrand recites the words in an apathetic tone that could only genuinely spring from countless repetitions. As a matter of fact, it is a tone that is quite familiar to me from my childhood. As the congregation begins the Agnus Dei, the frame is filled with each of the faces in the small congregation, and Bergman offers the kind of voyeurism that is prohibited for youngsters eager to watch the different faces and lives as they converge in the sameness of the service.


At the risk of spoiling the film's ending, Bergman concludes the narrative, which condenses the span of only three hours into a feature-length one and a half, much the same as he began it: with a liturgical service. However, within that frame of time, a parishioner takes his life, a "spinster" confesses her unconditional love to this emotionally-hardened Pastor, a "hunchback" reflects on the dying Christ's emotional state of mind, and the Pastor expresses his doubts about the existence of God. In listing the events of the film so minutely, I do not intend to diminish their importance to the theme or impression they held. On the contrary, each of these events are absolutely essential to the composition of this narrative and are quite extraordinary occurrences against the mundaneness of everyday life. However, they are tidily bracketed by the parenthetical worship services that are presented as nothing more than mundane.


In true Bergman fashion, his narrative does not strike any particular chord of opinion. Rather, the voices and faces and environments in the film harmonize into the complexity of reality that cannot be cleanly labeled, codified, and categorized. I wouldn't dare to attempt a revelational interpretation of this film or even so much as an extraction of his message. Still, I am compelled to sort out my impressions in the hopes of snagging a glimpse of some sort of theme that Bergman might be portraying.

It isn't as if Bergman doesn't offer plenty of obvious symbolism within the film. The names, for instance, reflect the general disposition of each character. The doubting pastor is named Tomas. The oft-complaining but loving mistress, Marta, recalls the sister of Mary in the New Testament who noted to Jesus that she did all of the chores while her sister sat at his feet listening. The fisherman that kills himself is named Jonas Persson, which as has been pointed out by others is similar to the English John Doe. And, the assistant hunchback is named Algot, a name that appears to combine the Swedish words for elf and Goth. Additionally, foreshadowing the announcement of the fisherman's death, Tomas stands in front of a sculpture that includes a skull and bones. But, these details only serve to enrich a story that is much more intriguing and perplexing. Intriguing because extraordinary things occur around/to Tomas and perplexing because, in the end, nothing is presented as different.

I am incessantly bugged by this similarity, yet simply by the sameness of the beginning and end, I realized Bergman invites a comparison between a "before" and an "after." I could accept that Tomas would almost mindlessly repeat the words of the ritual before acknowledging his doubts, but after finding the relief of releasing controvertible and impossible beliefs I couldn't understand his persistence in continuing with the service in the end. The film historian, Peter Cowie, finds this ending optimistic as Bergman's "hope for the future," and while I eventually found that I agree with this assessment, I would pose that my reasons are not those of Cowie's. He relates the austerity of the ending service to Tomas's need to "go back to basics" after Marta's letter essentially deconstructed him, his love, her love, and their relationship. However, I would rather credit Bergman with a much more complex narrative in which the threads of the conversation with the fisherman, Marta, and in the end, the assistant hunchback overlap and intertwine into a coherent structure that Tomas can finally grasp.

In the beginning, the very human issues of desperation and impotence in the face of tragedy and immenent death dangle in Tomas's consciousness as unaccountable certainties. And, the one certianty he hopes to rely upon remains distant, "silent." There is a veil of denial over this reality in the first service. Then, Tomas is confronted by both the fisherman, Jonas, and his former mistress, Marta, both demanding some affirmation of certainty, some reason for their pain and ultimately why a creator could be so cruel. It is an ongoing philsophical debate, "The Problem of Evil," and Bergman captures this debate, holding it in suspension before the viewer as a problem that is never answered by the clergyman (or even Bergman for that matter). Tomas offers neither consolence for Marta nor affirmation of good for Jonas. Instead, with his entire existence as a pastor on the line, he asks an almost impossible question, "If there is no God, would it really make any difference?" He continues, turning to Jonas with a facial gesture that suggests his revelation will help, "Life would become understandable. What a relief. And thus death would be a snuffing out of life. The dissolution of body and soul. Cruelty, loneliness and fear--all these things would be straightforward and transparent. Suffering is incomphrensible so it needs no explanation. There is no creator. No sustainer of life. No design." And then, the light heightens; the clouds parted in Tomas's understanding of the world, and he asks, "God... why have you forsaken me?" At this point, I couldn't determine whether Tomas was asking or reflecting. The words were sterile as if he was repeating them in comtemplation.

This scene is followed with a cut to Tomas entering the sanctuary again. He approached the railing of the alter, and the sunlight glints around his body, shining brilliantly as he drops the floor coughing under Marta's gaze. With the words, "Now I am free," I return in my mind to his previous question, and my thoughts promote the notion that he must be facing this question with only more questions.


This notion became much clearer as Tomas prepared for his second service of the day and Algot tasked the pastor with more questions. Only, Algot was not searching for some certainty. His certainty remained in his faith. His question was one of interpretation, asking the pastor's opinion on Jesus' suffering, "Wouldn't you say the focus on his suffering is all wrong?" Algot proposes that the abandonment and lack of understanding on the part of the disciples must have been far more painful for Jesus. "To be abandoned when you needed someone to rely on. That must have been excrutiatingly painful." Then, in dying, his cry--the same words earlier asked by Tomas, "God... why have you forsaken me?"--exposes his doubt in the grips of death. With Algot's reinterpretation of this story, there are no clear lines drawn for Tomas's reaction. Thus, as the final interactions unfold in the last minutes of the film, I can understand why Cowie would come to his conclusion that Bergman must have thought, "continue...if only to reach one person." That reading is there, and it is accessible: Tomas gives the service in a turn from his doubt to an acceptance of God's silence as a part of a larger scheme.

But, in a lovely pluralistic manner, the ending is neither definite nor positive. It is, instead, empty of certainty. Tomas had been exorcised of his need for certainty earlier in the film, and I am not sure that could be so easily reversed as simply as in the relaying of a story. Perhaps the literal translation of Bergman's title, Nattvardsgästerna, to The Communicants is more helpful in its English translation than Winter Light. The communicants gather in ritual, in communion, in commune, in community. They depend on one another and this structure of the church for support, understanding, and tolerance. They depend on Tomas to reinforce this structure, to offer a certainty that they insist on finding, and though the veil of uncertainty is lifted for him in the end, his realization of the uncertainty of everything perhaps allows him to continue the service. Tomas's monotone voice remains. Bergman offers the same in this ending, find what you need: certainty or not.

Buñuel's Viridiana: Idealism and Resignation

After watching Luis Buñuel's Viridiana last night, I decided against trying to sort out my thoughts and impressions. And, I only realize that this inaction was indeed a choice now as I attempt to do just that. Why wouldn't I write my thoughts? What could be keeping me from assessing a film that, in fact, I could not remove from my thoughts?

It was fear. I am afraid of what I might actually uncover about myself and all of my idealism that I constantly try to dust up on its lonely shelf. As I sit in this apartment, hearing the noises of my unruly neighbors slamming doors, trying to ignore the soaked and slobbery pitches of voices in the hallway, strategically managing the dog's walks so as to avoid the typical late night crews that loiter around the door, who am I kidding? Who am I in this building, this contribution to utopianism by a capitalist society? Tossing around the heroic phrase, "affordable housing," seemed so just and sincere when I was in undergraduate architecture school. Even as I dedicated much of my graduate studies and research to housing, from Constructivist communes to nineteenth-century French immigrants in mid-western America, I maintained a determined hopefulness in the idea: providing reasonable means to a livable community. Then, the opportunity to actually inhabit a place, built on such morals and idealism, came about when we moved to San Francisco. Without doubt, I was ecstatic at the thought of living first-hand, knowing the realities of community that I hoped it might offer.

And what are these realities that it offers? I trust no one in this building except the two guys that are on staff during the day (and of course E when he is here). I cringe when I see someone trying to figure out the call system outside the vestibule as I approach. Will they try to sneak in behind me? Will I have the nerve to look this person in the eyes this time and say, "No. You have to be buzzed in"? My blood boils when Curtis down the hall begins his late-night, fuzzy yelling for his keys. While all of these emotions and frustrations surfaced most recently with a 5 am building alarm (set off by a man who decided to pop a sprinkler with a baseball bat just to annoy his next door neighbor) seeing Viridiana forced me to confront them.

Most of the buzz about this film centers on the Spanish government's ban on the movie (released in 1961) until 1977. It is noted as blasphemous, anarchical, grim, and hopeless. I would not contest any of these responses to the film. In fact, those are many of the reasons I wanted to see it in the first place. I was not, however, prepared for the blow held in the second act of the film.

The narrative begins in a convent, where novice, Viridiana, is ordered by her Mother Superior to visit her benefactor, her uncle, before she takes her vows. Struck by Viridiana's resemblance to his late wife, Viridiana's uncle first convinces her to don her aunt's wedding attire (last worn the night of their wedding and her untimely death, except for her widower's occasional fetishistic explorations). Then, following with his scheme, he drugs her, planning to rape her in her sleep, all in hopes of keeping her there at his estate rather than taking her vows. While he does not follow through with the rape, he lies to her the next day, only to retract the lie even as she fearfully and anxiously tries to escape. Before V has a chance to leave the town, her uncle hangs himself. End act I.

With what I can only suppose is guilt, perhaps shame, or maybe even some small bit of resignation, V does not return to the convent. Instead, she invites several people, living without homes in the nearby town, to come to the estate. She offers food, clothing, medicine and shelter for everyone, and I found quite interesting her establishment of rules and conduct for this forming commune. From the moment they arrive, this group bickers with one another over quarrels already formed in their lives in town, and it seems that unrest is constantly bubbling just under the scrim of V's order. When V, her cousin (the bastard son of her uncle to whom he left the estate), and Ramona (her uncle's long-time, trusted servant) leave to settle some remaining business in town, the order of V's commune breaks down in a spiral of actions that ultimately end in burlesque-like dancing to Handel's "Hallelujah Chorus," quarrels that turn into fights, and the near-destruction of the mansion's dining room.

It was at this point that Buñuel's film slapped me in the face. I found myself almost at a loss for reaction to this behavior. It seemed to be absurd. Yet, it was too close to my reality to be satirical. My mind turned immediately to scanning for a humanistic response. My proverbial gut was certainly of no use. In fact, I was confused by my initial "gut" reaction: I agreed. I thought, yes, of course this is what happened. And, then, I realized...why would I think that? This is obviously an outrageous portrayal of real bourgeois expectations. Leave "them" to their own devices and civility goes down the drain. That's absurd.

But, if that's absurd, then why am I so irritated and wound up about the behavior of my neighbors? Why did "where's the civility" spin through my thoughts at 5 am that morning? Do I have bourgeois expectations? Where's my idealism now? My socialist convictions are plucked at every day, yet I can't bear the thought of abandoning them all together. So, are these convictions only strong when I am removed from the very situations that drive them? Or worse, is Buñuel's depiction really the inevitable?


Perhaps if I was removed, I might be able to concentrate my thoughts on the limitless intriguing facets that this movie offers from the sacrilegous "Last Supper" to the conflation of the imagery and sounds of renovating the mansion with the Angelus given by Viridiana for her guests in the field. No, I am stuck on the precipice of idealism and resignation. I think it is this confrontation that would probably spread a great smile across Buñuel's face.

Nanook of the North

Even among its apparent success by the shear commonality of names and phrases from Nanook of the North, I learned of this film only through a reference made in an article about a movie made forty years later. Although I had heard "Nanook" several times previously (was it in Chocolat...did Juliet Binoche's daughter name her imaginary kangaroo, Nanook?), I did not realize that this was a person's name and not just any person's name. Nanook is the name of a man that is the protagonist of a movie that has been labeled as the first documentary feature. Certainly, being the first, Flaherty did not intend to create this genre--now a near-lonely, dissident-sustaining ingredient in a homogenous mixture of contentment and luxury. Nor did he intend to create the sort of ethnographic telescope through which the other is so easily distanced. Still, even in all good intentions to bring to the western world a view of Inuit life, Flaherty's edited series of footage from the years he lived with Nanook's family in northeastern Canada fails to be the missing link he hoped it could be. Watching the television short that featured his widow, referred to only as Mrs. Robert Flaherty, I learned his intention was to bring the spirit of "these peoples" to the world, to establish connections that superseded culturally established norms and to welcome the authenticity of the smile.

While I found myself engaged in the drama of hunting seals, fish, and walruses and awed by the dexterity and efficiency of Nanook's igloo building skills, I remained at a distance from him and his family, viewing, almost voyeuristically, his daily actions. How could I continue to watch? Yet, if I didn't watch, how could I know? Instantly, I was torn by one of the thousands of contradictory questions I continue to face, all with the same basic clash of principle: the (modern) pursuit of knowledge against the (post-colonial) understanding of the anti-humanitarian consequences of that very pursuit. These feelings coelesced as Mrs. Robert Flaherty described her husband as an "explorer" who "discovered" Nanook and this ancient way of life. Of course, with such language we can only assume he has visually staked claim of this life, but after watching Nanook build the igloo in less than an hour (according to Flaherty), I don't want to "unknow" this.

Learning further that Flaherty had staged much of this "documentary," I cannot say that I am surprised. Not even the name, "Nanook," is accurate. Of course, to give him the benefit of the doubt, he was not making a "documentary," but a feature film for distribution in movie houses--for entertainment. Nevertheless, I cannot agree with his "desire to preserve a sense of ancient traditions before it was too late." This, I suppose, helps me to understand more that nagging sensation as I watched the film... something is unfair. I should not dispose of the facts that Flaherty carried with him a developing kit and a projector so that Nanook and his cast of a family (I say that because they were indeed cast for the parts) reviewed the footage daily and provided critical feedback for future shooting. As with any situation deserving of time spent contemplating its effects and causes, it would be ridiculous to point fingers at Flaherty as some invasive monster. Nor do these thoughts elevate this minute discussion to utopian expectations of harmony and equality. Rather, as with any film worth watching, it raises more questions than it can put to bed... continuously... no matter the condition of humanity, be it ancient, modern, or post-colonial.