Sven Nykvist (left to right),Bergman, Ingrid Thulin, and Liv Ullmann on the set
Bergman with actress Kari Sylwan
Bergman with actress Harriet Andersson
Sven Nykvist on the set
CRIES & WHISPERS (Viskningar och rop) A
Sweden (91 mi) 1972
All my films can be
thought in terms of black and white, except for Cries and Whispers. In the screenplay, I say that I have thought
of the color red as the interior of the soul.
When I was a child, I saw the soul as a shadowy dragon, blue as smoke,
hovering like an enormous winged creature, half bird, half fish. But inside the dragon, everything was red.
—Ingmar Bergman from Images:
My Life in Film, 1994
A film that began as a recurring image in Bergman’s head of
a red room with three or four women in the corner wearing white dresses. Aptly titled, this is easily one of the most
excruciatingly painful films to experience in public, as it is filled with the
most personal, intimate moments imaginable, a view into a dying woman’s diary,
using brief dramatic vignettes, each composition carefully framed by Sven
Nykvists’s camera (winning the Academy Award in cinematography), revealed in
lush, red velvet glimpses into the barren, anguished souls of the dying woman
and her two sisters who, along with her housekeeper, come to see her one last
time, each painfully inept in confronting their individual isolation in a
silent universe that offers little hope of salvation, perhaps reminiscent of
the glaring, moral void exposed in an earlier film The
Silence (Tystnaden) (1963). In the
early fifties, Bergman’s films centered on women, shifting with The
Silence (Tystnaden) from questions of faith to an absence of faith, to the
desperate needs of individual selves in powerfully anguished
relationships. Besides the ache of an
immediate personal reality, there are other common Bergman themes, a tormented
sexuality, a conflict between two women, an exceptional isolation of the
characters, emphasized by constant close ups and empty spaces, and by the dead
spaces between characters even when they talk to each other, by an enveloping
“silence” of the film. The beauty and
elegance of the two sisters Maria and Karin, Liv Ullman and Ingrid Thulin, is
overwhelming, one in red and the other dressed in black, but underneath the
rich exteriors lie their real secrets, one emotionally shallow and the other
frigid. This is the original SECRETS AND
LIES (1996), a Bergman valentine of anguish, a brilliantly written film filled
with reflections of an all but absent heart, by an unseen inner world decorated
in the outer world by a blazing red expression spilling over into elegant,
beautiful rooms, each completely still, like perfect paintings, artful tableaus
with statuesque, but implacable faces filling the empty spaces. Like Welles’ THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS
(1942), these sisters were raised around the turn of the century to be pampered
and spoiled by others, by servants and housemaids, always needing to be the
center of attention. Never were they
asked to step out of the spotlight and help anyone else, so when they are
finally needed, especially by someone in their own family, they fail
miserably. When facing death, life’s
choices take on a greater significance, sometimes becoming the essence of
living. One can’t help but be fascinated
by the brilliant acting portrayed in the agony of making some of these choices,
like deciding what you think you’re supposed to do, what you actually do, or
that which we wish we did. Ultimately,
we’d regret less if we spoke more from our own hearts.
Like Mozart’s Marriage
of Figaro, a class comedy where servants outwit their masters, or like
Petra, the sultry servant girl in Smiles
of a Summer Night (Sommarnattens leende) (1955), there is no question in
Bergman’s mind which class is the most helpless and dysfunctional, with
pretentious hearts that are of no use to anyone, stricken with paralysis the
moment they’re in trouble, arrogantly ordering the servants or housemaids to
clean up after their own messes, the way they always have, in a psychological
ritual to minimize the worth of the working class, whose roles are reduced to
feeding them, cleaning for them, singing to them, tucking them in at night,
comforting them in their arms, if needed, loving them in a way they could never
be loved in return. And for that,
throughout time, they are despised.
Bergman recreates his Godless world of The
Silence (Tystnaden), where Christianity, as a theory, embraces the human
heart, but as a practice, largely ignores it.
Some of the scenes in this film of perfect rooms filled with imperfect
people are reminiscent of Kubrick’s white room in 2001:
A Space Odyssey (1968), the image of unrealized perfection. The film opens in a red screen for the
credits, followed by brief images of a lyre player, another statue in a misty
park, where we hear bells, chimes, gorgeous images of trees silhouetted against
the sun’s rays, the ticking of clocks, ringing chimes, little clock statues,
then an elegant, beautiful room with deep red carpets, red curtains, red-lined
chairs, red walls, as the camera closes in on Agnes, Harriet Andersson, who is
lying in bed under a red blanket. The
wordless opening shot lasts about 7 minutes, which includes one of the most
harrowing scenes in cinema, a close up on Agnes’s face as she awakes in the
middle of the night to find herself strangling, shifting the mood with shocking
suddenness towards the death she has lived with for so long. She is in pain, dying of cancer, helpless to
time. As it happens, death is to be
deferred awhile longer, but for one awful moment, it is in the room, a palpable
presence, photographed in the face of the woman who see it. In the morning, she opens the window, her
sister Maria is asleep in a chair in the next room. Agnes makes an entry into her diary: “It is early Monday morning and I am in
pain. My sisters and Anna are taking it
in turns to sit up.” All the women are
wearing white gowns, engulfed in a red velvet, royal red-toned room, fade to
red.
In this manner, the vignettes unfold, usually fading to red
at the end. Maria is in bed with dolls
and the chimes of music boxes, little miniature houses filled with tiny
figurines. Anna, the housekeeper, the
one truly appealing person in the film, is played by Kari Sylwan, prays for
Agnes as we hear a gentle Chopin waltz play in the background. Occasionally faces are cut off, luminous
images divided in two with one side cast in light, the other side dark. One memorable scene shows Anna undressing,
getting into bed with Agnes, offering her bare breast as comfort, an earth
mother kissing her, stroking her cheeks and hair in a Renaissance image of
maternal love. But there are also images
of a more discomforting kind. Maria is
awakened in the night when Agnes takes a turn for the worse. Anna is at her door telling her “She’s
unconscious, breathing funny.” Together,
they walk down a long dark red corridor, Anna and the two sisters carrying
candles. Agnes is wheezing loudly,
gasping for breath, clocks are ticking loudly, Agnes’s wheezes are a death
rattle, a close up on her face produces blood curdling yells for help,
screaming wildly in the throes of death, in a prolonged still shot of agonized
pain and screaming which literally shocks the sisters (and the audience) into
the absolute horror of the moment, filling the silence in the theater with an
unforgettable, helpless feeling of uncontrolled raw human terror ― and
death. Yet once again, death is deferred
awhile longer. In other moments, with
Agnes sleeping in the other room, very much alive, the two sisters, one of
whom, Karin, refuses to be physically touched, agree to sell and divide the estate,
sending Anna out of the room to discuss giving her notice and offering her a
few extra weeks pay, talking about her only in terms of servant help in such
degrading language before railing into one another, with Karin initially
reflecting on suicide. “It’s true. I’ve ― often thought ― of taking my own
life. It's... it’s disgusting. It’s degrading ― and ― it never ever
changes,” dropping a wine glass on the floor in a moment of tears and
imperfection, before gathering her fury directed in full force against
Maria:
Do you realize I hate you? And how foolish I find your insipid smile and
your idiotic flirtatiousness? How have I
managed to tolerate you for so long and not say anything? I know what you’re made of, with your empty
caresses and your false laughter. Can
you conceive how anyone can live with so much hate as has been my burden? There’s no relief, no charity, no help! There is nothing. Do you understand? Nothing can escape me for I see all!
Yet in minutes, the two are hugging and caressing each
other, begging forgiveness before they chatter endlessly to Bach’s
Unaccompanied Cello Sonata #5, Pierre Fournier - Sarabande
from Bach's Cello Suite no. 5 - YouTube (3:38), the music used later in
SARABAND (2003), their faces now animated and warm, affectionate, concerned,
radiant, beautiful. Their close ups are
engulfed in red, as the screen bleeds red.
Once Agnes has finally succumbed, Karin’s husband is no less chilling,
“The funeral was tolerable. No one wept
or grew hysterical.” While serving
coffee, this time in Anna’s presence, they again discuss Anna in purely
monetary terms, wondering whether to offer her a small sum of money, or perhaps
a memento. But Anna insists on nothing
at all, bringing a closure to their futile attempt to speak of her at all. Once they’ve gone, Anna closes the doors,
lights a candle, opens a drawer and pulls out Agnes’s diary, and sits down to
read while soft Chopin music plays, Arthur Rubinstein - Chopin
Mazurka, Op. 17 No. 4 - YouTube (4:36).
Wednesday, the third of September.
A chill in the air tells of autumn’s approach, but the days are still lovely
and mild. My sisters, Karin and Maria,
have come to see me. It’s wonderful to
be together again like in the old days.
I’m feeling much better. We were
even able to take a stroll together. It
was a wonderful experience, especially for me, since I haven't been outdoors
for so long. We suddenly began to laugh
and run toward the old swing that we hadn’t used since we were children. We sat in it like three good little sisters
and Anna pushed us, slowly and gently.
All my aches and pains were gone.
The people I’m most fond of in all the world were with me. I could hear them chatting around me. I could feel the presence of their bodies,
the warmth of their hands. I wanted to cling
to that moment, and I thought, “Come what may, this is happiness. I cannot wish for anything better. Now, for a few minutes, I can experience
perfection and I feel profoundly grateful to my life, which gives me so much.”
The final red screen is subtitled in white print: And so the Cries and Whispers Die Away.
It’s curious how perfect memories remain so elusive,
haunting us throughout our lifetimes, perhaps even at the hour of our death,
where something utterly unattainable remains just outside our grasp, like a
perfect moment that may have only been imagined, or it might have really
happened, yet this image has stuck in our heads throughout the years guiding us
through moments of torment and pain, offering a hoped for peace or resolution,
where there is no anguish or bickering, just a moment of shared happiness in a
beautiful setting, achieving a state of grace, like the answer to a
prayer. Bergman creates an image like
this where the three sisters and Anna are seen earlier walking joyfully in a
garden, pausing at a child’s swing, with Anna gently rocking them, all bathed
in an intense light, recalling Agnes’s feeling of happiness that she records in
her diary. These fleeting moments are
all the more powerful, offering a cleansing or therapeutic effect, yet it may
just be imaginary, a wished for dream.
Maria and Karin, in contrast, have lived frustrating lives of repression
and emotional horrors, with Karin mutilating herself to avoid sexual contact
with a much older husband she abhors.
This film is about the world of women, where the men are seen as
completely useless, unable to grasp the complexities or emotional needs of
their wives, yet the women are equally flawed, where Maria’s infidelities drive
her husband to attempt suicide. While
Anna depicts a kind of maternal love, where love is sharing pain (something
Maria and Karin are simply incapable of), it should be pointed out that both
her biological daughter and Agnes, the patient under her care, end up
dead. Wrapped in suffering, death,
memory and regret, this film examines through flashbacks, fantasies and intimate
dreams just how significant these rooted impressions are incorporated into the
human psyche, but also reveals just how unprepared we are in facing the
inevitability of death. Cancer may take
the life of one of the sisters, but emotional repression is choking the life
out of the other three women, each viewed in their own flashback sequence,
dissatisfied with their existing relationships, unable to lead meaningful
lives. A constant theme throughout is
having to live with an unending torment of pain in our lives, where suffering
is a force that binds us together, including the cries for help and the
whispers of resentment, where medicine and religion are unable to provide
comfort for a tarnished soul. In one of
his most harrowing films, Bergman reveals the painful truth, set in an
immaculate perfection of the period, bathed in red, revealing a suffocating
atmosphere and the constant ticking of antique clocks, where humans seem
incapable of living up to their lofty view of themselves and are instead
revealed to be utterly inept at communicating and sharing love at the moment
it’s most desperately needed, where only reveries or dreamed memories reveal
how we wish or imagine it could be.
