Customer Reviews

Winter Light (Criterion Collection)

5 star:		(15)
4 star:		(6)
3 star:		(1)
2 star:		(1)
1 star:		(0)

 

 

This, the second in Bergman's "Faith" trilogy, is a dark, brooding tale of a clergyman who has lost his faith in God. Indeed, it is doubtful at all if he ever had it, for his vision of God is quite selfish. The action takes place on a single Sunday in November, where the town pastor (Gunnar Bjornstrand in an excellent performance) is finishing a service in front of a tiny congregation. During this day, the pastor will be forced to examine himself and to try to reach out for some human contact to replace the spiritual depletion within him. Also starring Max von Sydow, Gunnel Lindblom, and Ingrid Thulin as the schoolteacher who unselfishly offers herself to the pastor but is rejected in favor of the memory of his dead wife. This film has a subtle, deeply wrought poetry to it and should be seen by all lovers of intelligent cinema.

Of Bergman's religious trilogy, this one stands out to me because it seems to focus on the nature of religious crisis, and not the how and why. Bergman said of the film that "The surgery had finally been completed" -- that is, the removal of God as the suspender of ethics and purpose, but not the removal of the holiness of man's cause. Taken in its most positive terms, the film is humanist and secular in its message.

The story is of a despondent small-town priest (Gunnar Bjornstrand). It opens with a gruelling church service: This is astonishing to me, because while revealing the routine monotony and empty ceremony of the service, Bergman does not lose the audiences's attention for one moment. There is something grim and beautiful in the film's opening: the telling quietness of the service, the sparse attendance, the disenguousness of the priest who has himself never reached God: every time I see this film, it never ceases to amaze me how such an inherently boring situation becomes so fascinating. It is some of the most brilliant cinematography in Bergman cinema, in my opinion; the camera hardly moves, making it natural and simplistic, but probing and intensifying. The way the camera follows every small, seemingly insignificant gesture (as the priest's moving his hands along a table's surface, for instance), are drained and exposed for all their telling beauty.

After the service, the priest tries to console a young father who is obviously contemplating suicide, ostensibly for the sole reason of Chinese nuclear power. The priest's obsessions with the man causes something of an emotional chain reaction, a mini-odyssey of a man tortured by ennui and indifference, unable to reach God, finding only instead the thematic "Spider God." Gunnar Bjornstrand gives his finest performance, the type of magic that occures so rarely (as Sjostrom in Wild Strawberries). A particular scene, when he visits the suicidal man's family, moves me to no ends: its not his emotion, but his genuine lack of emotion that is so interesting.

There is a scene, however, that I don't think particularly worked out; the letter-reading scene. I think this is the first time Bergman employed the trick (later used in films like Autumn Sonata and From the Life of the Marionettes, to better effect) of a single camera poised on an extreme close-up of the face of the author of the letter, as they read it as though they were speaking directly to the receiver. Its a somewhat extended scene in the film, and most others I've talked to find it intoxicating: I disagree. Its too long, and I think in this case it would have been better served to have showed Gunnar's reactions as he read the letter, rather than the uneventful reverse. This is a small quibble, though, and I think most would disagree with me.

This film will always occupy a special place in my heart, but it remains among the most unconventional works Bergman did, at least pre-70s. Take that for what you will, the film is inarguably a somber and sober masterpiece which still inpires me to great reflection: For the thinking person's collection.

Few people are familiar with this Bergman film--"Wild Strawberries," "The Seventh Seal," and "Persona" are better known--but this may very well be his best. The action takes place essentially in real time over just several hours on a winter afternoon, and every note is hit perfectly. Sven Nykvist's cinematography is superb, and the soundtrack (which, as I remember it, has no music at all) is devised to fit the atmosphere perfectly (in particular, the rushing stream in the suicide scene).

There really is no one better than Bergman in addressing serious metaphysical issues while maintaining a sense of the mystery and ambiguity of human existence (except for Kieslowski, whose "Decalogue" and "Red/White/Blue" trilogy make an interesting counterpoint to Bergman's trilogy of "Through a Glass Darkly," "Winter Light," and "The Silence"). The film leaves many questions unanswered but affects the viewer long after it has been seen. Immensely depressing on the surface, it somehow confirms the value of human experience while at the same denying it.

This introspective film acutely addresses the tension between faith and reason. The very first scene suggests an equivalence between a person's faith and his or her involvement in ritual: pastor Tomas, in the middle of a spiritual crisis, conducts a service without much conviction. Later, Bergman will show us that only a man who has faith (the disabled church employee) can give liturgy all of its meaning. This parallel can also be extended to the main cause of Tomas' crisis: God's silence. It is this same silence that feeds the faith of that other man. While the film initially appears to emphasize the futility of faith (especially during the first church service and Tomas' ensuing conversations with his mistress and the fisherman), careful viewing points to the contrary: it is when Tomas abjures his faith that his already unstable situation deteriorates - his understated reaction to the fisherman's suicide is all the more startling since this event's consequences will prove to be crucial. And it is when Tomas listens to the employee late in the film that he finds the force to conduct a service even though no one attends it; he is conducting it for himself as a further step in his ongoing spiritual quest.

I saw Winter Light in an "art" theater when it first played in the U.S. What I remember best about it was the absolutely stunning black-and-white cinematography! The image on the big screen was sparkling crisp and clear and the light on the snow and the rushing white water of the river almost hurt one's eyes! It was a beautiful job of film photography. I haven't seen this movie on TV or video, but I know that on a small screen this effect would be lost and only the story would be left.

And the story is a typical Bergman tale of nihilism, in this case a small village parish priest has lost most of his congregation and his own faith, and is unable to deal with his own problems, let alone those of his flock. But he still carries on, an empty shell unwilling to leave the church and face the world, or the love of the woman who cares for him. Winter Light is remarkable mostly for the outstanding filmwork by cinematographer Sven Nykvist. Still, I'd like to see it again if and when it becomes available on DVD.

This movie is relentlessly concentrated, uncompromising and beautiful. It's paced slowly at the beginning, drawing the viewer in, but repays the effort you put in (and it's pretty short).

The story focuses on a disillusioned priest in a remote village who is unable to accept the love offered him by Marta, his friend, and unable to offer the conviction of his faith to save a fisherman from suicide. There are several hidden references to the crucifixion: the time covered in the movie (noon to 3 pm) is the same as the time Jesus spent on the cross; the location of Marta's skin disease corresponds to the "stigmata" or wounds from the nails.

I can't recommend this film strongly enough. Every time I see it I am stunned by the beauty and meaning in every single frame.

Winter Light (Nattvardsgästerna- literally The Communicants) is the middle film in Ingmar Bergman's Spider Trilogy (as it too references the God as a spider imagery), following Through A Glass Darkly, and preceding The Silence. Made in 1963, it represents a dramatic notching upward from the well made, but often melodramatic and symbolic, Through A Glass Darkly. Where the first film of the trilogy suffers from the overacting of Harriet Andersson, and some over the top displays of incest (for sex is a subject that the cerebral Bergman is at his weakest in handling) Winter Light is simply one of the greatest Socratic dialogues ever put to film, and as close to perfect a screenplay as a mortal is likely to produce. The acting, in every single role, is pitch perfect, yet Bergman regular Ingrid Thulin gives one of the great dominant female performances in film history, as Märta Lundberg, an atheistic substitute school teacher in a small town with a now unrequited love for a Lutheran Pastor named Tomas Ericsson (Gunnar Björnstrand), head of a church whose congregation has dwindled to a handful. The gorgeous Thulin is at her frumpiest and dowdiest looking in this film, and it seems that after an illness, she lost the affection of Tomas, with whom she had lived with for two years.
Even Tomas does not believe any longer. His is a rote life, ever since the death of his wife four years earlier. He gives communion to a congregation that is bored- a boy licks the pews, others try to stay awake- including the church organist who checks his watch and reads, and the church hierarchy is dominated by money hungry apparatchiks, and Märta's swooning over Tomas is part of local gossip, which discomfits him. As he ends his noontime ceremony he is confronted by a fisherman, Jonas Persson (Max Von Sydow in a curly permanent wave) and his wife Karin (Gunnel Lindblom). The man is suffering from depression, ostensibly over the Chinese getting the atomic bomb. Of course, this is just a pretense, for we know Jonas is an unemployed fisherman, with three children and a fourth on the way, and even in the 1960s people were not so detached from reality to off themselves over an abstraction. Wisely, Bergman never reveals his true fears, as Tomas brushes him off and tells him to come back later, for a man to man talk. The Perssons leave, and then Tomas reads a letter Märta wrote him, confessing her love. It is a brilliant scene, shot with Thulin reading the words in two long takes, interspersed with a brief flashback. She addresses the camera so comfortably yet frankly that it puts the viewer in the place of Tomas, and we can later identify with his discomfit around this sincere, but needy and not altogether `there' woman, who has suffered from a variety of ills which she feels had led Tomas to be repulsed by her. Yet, we are also drawn to her by the quiet brilliance with which she utterly guts religion with her atheistic views.
Bergman, apparently, has always stated that this was his only perfectly realized film, and while others may add to that number, there is no denying the excellence of this filmic masterwork, which shows that while Bergman had his roots in the theater, he also knew exactly how to use the filmic medium. The original Swedish title, as The Communicants, would seem to be better title for this film, which deals with connections and communications, and their fragility. While Through A Glass Darkly deals with people on an island, this aloneness is handled even more deftly here, where winter seems to be the defining metaphor- whether as the winter of religiosity or human kindness. Winter Light ranks with Wild Strawberries and Shame as one of Bergman's greatest works, which makes them essentials as films. It does not indulge in the technical masturbation of some later works, not does it rely too much on stagy overacting, as it deftly balances the inner and outer worlds of film and life. It is a truly great work of art.

It's claimed that this is Bergman's favorite of his own films. As a director, he would have doubtless used somewhat different criteria in judging the film than viewers would. It seems safe to assume that his satisfaction must have been based on a feeling he had captured in light and sound as perfectly as possible the particular vision he wanted to convey.

As a viewer, I respect the artistic integrity of directors like Bergman who take chances and push boundaries to create works of art; this outlet for their creative imagination, as a by-product, can enlarge the perceptions of those of us who make the effort to relate to their creations.

If something is close to perfect, as the depiction of a pastor's crisis of faith in 'Winter Light', it is certainly possible to admire the skill and artistry with which it has been brought off. However, it is also possible to admire the craftsmanship, and even beauty, of, say, a custom-made rifle or a jeweled dagger.

I am not suggesting the film is lethal, but from this viewer's point of view, to whom the content is more important than the technique, I can't say the film adds much as far as expanding my own understanding. It does not give me a unique perspective on anything which might be useful to my inner life.

Bergman was able to profit, and perhaps relieve his own despair of unbelief, by turning this bleak personal vision of a destitute religion into a work of art. He is so successful in depicting the mental turmoil of Pastor Ericsson that there is little or no mystery left for the imagination of the viewer to ponder. It is really a simple story, and what you see is what it is.

Yes, the camera work is excellent as usual in Bergman films. There is no fluff. Every scene contributes in a meaningful way to the central theme. There are elements which might be construed as symbolism. For instance, does the pastor's flu echo another sickness in his soul? Why is a spirited black horse conspicuously led in front of Pastor Ericsson and Marta in one scene? Does it represent the vitally alive, physical engagement with life that is absent in Ericsson's joyless existence? Again, near the end of the film, why are Ericsson and Marta made to wait at a railroad crossing while a train rumbles by with a locomotive belching smoke? Is this a symbol of the relentless mechanical forces of nature which are beyond individual control?

These could be symbols which might stimulate the interest of the viewer, or add emphasis to the theme which the director is exploring, but the theme seems to be the rather obvious conclusion that life is basically meaningless, that the desire for a connection with a creator is doomed to failure except for fools or simpletons. The one ambiguous exception to this relentless theme of meaninglessness is provided by the sexton, Algot, who might be considered a simpleton, or perhaps a 'holy fool'. In a few simple, but well-delivered words, Algot sums up both the dilemma of the dying Christ and that of the distraught pastor. Algot knows the pastor feels he has been deserted by God, but it is he who urges that the service go on. Perhaps the sexton is Bergman's remote lifeline to a belief in some sort of purpose. Perhaps not.

In giving the film four stars instead of five, I am not trying to penalize it for being anti-religious. In fact, I suspect that someone who goes to so much effort as Bergman has, to show the meaninglessness of faith, probably still has some doubts on the matter. It is rather that I did not feel nourished or enriched by it in any significant way, near-perfect construction that it is. Films as successful as this one in showing a narrow perspective on life, in my opinion, need to be balanced by a diverse sampling of other perspectives.

...Everything is exactly as I wanted to have it, in every second of this picture." - Ingmar Bergman

"Winter Light", the second film in the writer/director Ingmar Bergman's trilogy of "faith" or "Silence of God" (it follows "Såsom i en spegel" (1961) ... aka Through a Glass Darkly and precedes Tystnaden (1963) aka The Silence) is a masterpiece of minimalism with great performances and appropriate static, dark and gloomy "wintery" cinematography. This is a very personal and important for Bergman film for it deals with the loss of Faith - the master was very proud of this work. Bergman, aided by his regular cinematographer Sven Nykvist and performances by Gunnar Bjornstrand, Ingrid Thulin, Gunnel Lindblom and Max von Sydow had created a compelling, tragic, and thought-provoking film about a village priest (Gunnar Bjornstrand) who can't give much comfort and hope to those who need them as he feels none for himself. Ingrid Thulin plays Martha, a local school teacher, the woman who loves him and tries to reach him through the wall of desperation and depression that surrounds him.

I have been steadily becoming a huge Ingmar Bergman fan, and my adoration for him grows with almost every new film I see of his. With `Nattvardsgasterna' (or `Winter Light' for us English speakers) he has turned that adoration into full blown love. The film is delightfully simple yet undeniably profound. Bergman effortlessly delivers to us a remarkable tale of faith (or lack thereof) and the heavy weight that it can bring down on a person.

The film takes place over a single day, in between a morning and an evening sermon. Tomas Ericsson, the Pastor at a small (and rapidly dwindling) church is battling his own inner demons (his faith is a subject of major debate) but he is still called upon by a local parishioner who feels as though his anxieties have gotten the better of him. Fearing a nuclear holocaust will befall him, he craves to end his life. Unable to help him, Ericsson is soon troubled by knowledge that this young man did indeed take his life, causing the Pastor to confront his internal struggles head on in the films brilliant second half.

Not only is the Pastor dealing with his personal relationship with God, but he has to contend with the affections of the local schoolteacher, Marta Lundberg. His relationship with Marta is complicated (there love is a bitter one), and this is brought to a head as they confront each others feelings head on.

Their final confrontation is as brutal as they come.

The performances here really make this film a must see. Both Ingrid Thulin and Gunnar Bjornstrand are flawless, captivating the audience by creating two very human portraits. It has been stated that Bjornstrand in particular loathed the character of Tomas, but I feel that it was in that loathing that this tremendous tour-de-force was born. You can see the struggle on his face to accept who he is, and that struggle is not forced but a very real interpretation. Perhaps it is the depiction of Gunnar's own struggle with accepting this character, but the turmoil that is present is beyond words. Thulin is also a force here as the conflicted and confused Marta. Her desires for Tomas are destroying her internally, and she wears that very well.

Like I said, their final confrontation is devastating.

I want to also make a quick mention of Max von Sydow, who is all sorts of phenomenal here. He barely says a word, yet his performance is unforgettable. Such a rich and truly emotionally gut-wrenching portrayal of personal abandonment.

The film may be simple as far as actual plot points are concerned, but the emotional gamut runs very deep here. The subject of faith is attacked head on in a very subtle yet powerful manor. As Tomas battles his own hypocrisy we, the audience, are given the opportunity to relate (and yes, we can relate) to his plight. Religion is a huge part of life, but who has not at one time or another begun to doubt our faith? Bergman portrays that human struggle for closure masterfully here. There are few films so honest they make us ashamed of our feelings. This is one of those kinds of films.