Ingmar Bergman Makes a Movie (1963) - full transcript

INGMAR BERGMAN MAKES A MOVIE

THE SCRIPT

The reason for visiting
Ingmar Bergman at the Baltic sea

on the island where he and Kébi Laretei
rented a summer cottage

stemmed from my theatrical studies
75 years earlier.

I dreamed of learning how a film director worked.

I knew Bergman was writing
a new film about a priest.

I would rather put him in front
of a camera in the very act of writing,

but what writer would have the nerve for that?

I had to wait until he had finished the script.

That was August 11, 1961.



Winter Light begins with a service
in a desolate provincial church.

After the mass, the priest is visited
by a fisherman and his wife.

Jonas Persson is an introverted man,
anxious about the nuclear bomb.

With the best literary intentions,

I ask how Bergman, the writer,
came upon that story.

Well, it so happens

I know a priest in the countryside

living in a distant congregation.

I visited him and he was very sad.

The idea had been tucked away
inside me for many years.

He was depressed, and I asked him why.

“Well, a man took his life here...

and I had spoken with him just the day before.”

The priest blamed himself mercilessly



for not realizing how serious the situation was.

He blamed himself...

for this man's death,

for not being able to help him in his agony.

He thought of how impervious he had been
to the man's suffering.

The film is about this fisherman

and his fear of a coming world war.

He has heard that the Chinese
are being educated for war

and that they will have a nuclear bomb
at their disposal.

He read it in the paper
and brooded over it for half a year.

Where did you find that subject?

I read it in the paper some years ago...

and I was pretty shaken by it.

I guess it's about my own agony as well.

Did you know right away what
the fisherman would be brooding over?

Yes, I did.

- You didn't have to go looking for it?
- Not at all.

If I'm right, you've directed 24 films.

Twelve of them you wrote yourself.

The other twelve were adaptations
of various kinds.

Is there any difference for you
in writing between now

and when you started?

Yes, a huge difference.

I've always had a huge complex, great misgivings,

about my own writing.

There are people who have often said,
perhaps justifiably,

that I am no writer,

which, in fact, I never claimed to be.

In the past I was haunted by these misgivings,

as well as by the fear...

of not getting it right.

It was an obstacle to my writing,
which came down to an act of willpower,

with the accompanying tensions and inhibitions.

There was so much I had to overcome.

During the last few years,

I've stopped worrying

about what people might say
about what I am doing, because -

It's not that I don't care,

but I can never please everybody anyway.

I'll find no mercy among those
who dislike what I'm doing anyway.

I think I've calmed down a bit on that point.

It will take the form it takes.

Was there a period
when you tried to please everyone?

Working in this medium
and being a man of the theater,

I'm like the common whore.

I have an enormous need for people
to like me and what I'm doing.

That it be accepted and praised and so forth.

It's always painful to be disapproved of.

You've said it's difficult to
read a script and visualize what's in it.

What is the actual difficulty?

Does everybody in the film business
have this difficulty, even the actors?

Yes, very much so.

It's a very complicated task.

When writing my own scripts...

I try to make them readable

by avoiding a lot of technical instructions.

The script that arrives at the studio
is structured like...

a play, a drama,
with a lot of scenic instructions.

No technical arrangements,
though, for cameras and so on.

Can you anticipate any particular problem,
anything especially bothersome,

or any specific conflict for this film?

Yes. You see, in writing this script,

I put some serious obstacles in my own path.

Even though I know it's hell
to work with children and animals,

nevertheless I have a little boy and a dog in it.

And even though I know that a snowfall
that continues throughout an entire scene

is practically impossible,

I have it in there, and
I want to solve this problem at any cost,

because I feel it's necessary.

But there are certain limits
to what can be accomplished.

“Jonas the fisherman pays a visit to the priest,

who is feeling sick and miserable
and shaken by a fever.

Eventually the attack passes, and he calms down,

but when he looks up, Jonas is gone.

No footsteps, no doors closing,

no wind whistling through the cracks -
just absolute silence.

He goes to the window - no car, no tracks.”

Will you use a series of different shots
or one continuous shot of the priest?

Well, you see, I will partly use the sound.

You see, when working

in close conjunction with the audio track,

it's like an accompanying chord,
although unnoticeable.

The most important thing is
to create a complete -

As he recovers from his fever attack,

there is this complete silence.

I would minimize the usual noise in the studio,

or in the church, or in these surroundings.

The normal background noise,
I will minimize even that.

Each movement will be accompanied
by almost no sound at all,

thus creating a frightening silence around it.

And as he looks up in this silence,

it will have a powerful impact
on the audience, as silences always do.

A silence will hit -

I'm working much more with silence

than with sound.

The silence will hit people incredibly
hard, since they don't expect it.

So he looks up during this silence,

and here I'll insert shots of the door,

the window, the chair where Jonas sat,

and then back to him.

So then there's this feeling
of a suffocating loneliness

and silence that has fallen upon him.

Are you after the notion
that the fisherman's visit

might have been a dream?

That it may not have happened?

Yes, but not too obviously.
One must be able to think -

I want this eerie sort of feeling,
that he never was there, to linger on.

Is this a facial shot of the priest?

Yes, always facial.
The priest's eyes are so important.

This is the alpha and the omega for me,

the eyes of the actors.

What the eyes can yield is, for me,
the essential of all filmed art.

I go on about this only because there's so much

that can't be anticipated when writing,
compared to visualizing it.

What will the scenery look like?

For example, there is a scene
of the police officer's car

“with its motor running,
this being November and outdoors.

He and another man
are bending over a body lying by a ditch.

A few boys are standing close by,
curious, scared, cold and motionless,

with caps over their faces and running noses.”

This shot will be highly dependent
on the choice of the ditch.

Yes, it is extremely complicated,

the choice of exterior sites.

You can search
for one damned little piece of road,

ready to kill yourself to find the right one...

that meets your filming needs.

It has to provide the right visual feeling,

the right atmosphere.

It's hard to describe what it might be.

It's always very specific
from one time to the next.

Quite ordinary things
might create immense difficulties.

Once the script is completed,
production starts for real.

Gunnar Bjornstrand and Ingrid Thulin
are hired for the leading roles,

Max von Sydow and Gunnel Lindblom
for the fisherman and his wife.

In September 1961, the company left
for Dalarna to scout for exteriors.

The art director P.A. Lundgren,

photographer Sven Nykvist,
and production manager Lars-Owe Carlberg.

And then something very typical occurred.

They traveled all the way from Orsa to Falun

on a railway built in pan'
by Ingmar Bergman is' grandfather...

in search of a crossroads near which to film.

But they ended up finding it

just a stone's throw from the hotel
where the crew stayed,

in the middle of Réttvik.

They searched for churches as well.

Photographer Sven Nykvist knew he was in
for particular lighting problems,

as the story takes place
on a cloudy Sunday in November.

Generally one thinks that light
on a cloudy day doesn't change,

but to see how it does indeed change
during, let is say, a high mass,

we sat in various churches and studied the light.

Every ten minutes I would take a snapshot

to see how the light was changing,
and these proved very useful.

I glued them into the script,

and I'd look at them
from time to time while filming.

What characterizes that light?

It's completely shadowless.

In the past
we'd have used big effects, big windows,

and so on.

This time we tried to achieve
a totally shadowless image,

and that proved to be much more difficult

than using conventional filming technique.

We didn't achieve it just with lights.

We had to build special reflectors
and large screens

and work with waxed paper sheets
and indirect lighting.

And it was very difficult
to light churches with indirect lighting.

Have you always studied
real light and its reflections

the same way that you did here?

No, I must admit I haven't.

Earlier films had to be beautifully shot,

the beauty of each image for its own sake.

Fortunately, we've left that behind us entirely.

Earlier one could not do a film
with enough coarseness and realism.

We were always trying for a certain beauty.

But making as many films as you do -

You work in Germany and back home.

Aren't you tempted to repeat yourself?

No, and that's the fascinating part
of my job, and one I like the most:

Changing styles from one film to another,

and working so closely with the director.

Before starting to shoot,
you've had intense discussions with him.

It gives you time
to get into the feeling of the film.

And by then you've agreed on the result you want.

Right. And then
there are the lengthy preparations,

taking your time to run tests
until you find the right atmosphere.

Then it's time to start.

Stand by.

Quiet.

Silence.

Camera.

Testing. Bjiirnstrand, take one.

Look into the camera.

Straight ahead, and then turn to the right.

Then you look back again.

Now to the left.

- Mago, where are you?
- Here.

Take a look here. Stop the camera.

I think they're a bit too long.

I'll use a pair of suspenders.

That might do it.

I think we might need one of those flat ones.

One that closes in the back?

That will make it a bit higher.

That might be good.

Are these supposed to be seen?

I think that would look cleaner.

That's all. I think we're done with that.

Thank you.

Who'd believe you'd put so much effort
into ordinary, everyday clothing?

The actors will be filmed over and over
until the right pieces are found.

To that end, a clothing expert will be hired.

I asked Mago - Max Goldstein -

if he talks with Bergman
before sketching the costumes.

Not anymore.

Nowadays, after reading the script,
I prepare my sketches,

and then I'm very eager to talk with Ingmar

about everything I have in mind.

And as eager as I am to have that conversation,

Ingmar is just as eager to postpone it.

- Why is that?
- He explained it to me once.

He feels once he's lived
with these characters for so long,

perhaps a year, or however long
it takes him to write a script,

he finds it...

downright awkward to get that close to them.

I keep asking what kind of socks
they should be wearing,

even about their underwear.

But he wants to keep his distance from all that.

He's not comfortable having
his own characters that close to himself.

You built a roof over the whole church.

Did you never light from the ceiling?

In an ordinary film studio,
the roof is always open.

There are spotlights up above everything,

and the temptation is to use too much light.

If there's too much light on the hair,
there will be halos around their heads,

but that kind of light never exists in real life.

This church that we rebuilt is very large,

but we were so bold as to build a roof on it

so I wouldn't have the chance
to light from above.

Not only because of the light, of course.

Normally we would have built it without the roof

so we could place the lights on top of the set.

Let's see. This is the chancel...

and this is the sacristy,

and over there is the organ loft.

And what's that over there?

It's the crypt with a roof over it.

Ingmar, can I talk to you for a moment?
I want to show you these things.

This one is really beautiful.

- Are they hymn boards?
- Yes.

And they come from different churches?

Yes. This one is from Forsbacka,

and this one from Lillkyrka.

It's very beautiful with its crown.

How old is it?

- About 300 years old.
- Are you sure?

- Yes.
- What about this one?

A few hundred years.

It's really very nice.

I think I want that one.

K. A. Bergman,
usually called K.A. in the business,

is the prop master.

He'll obtain all the objects needed for the film.

Ingmar usually refers to him
as the “Mozart of prop masters.”

In Winter Light he had an additional function.

There's a sexton in the film named Algot Frdvik,

who knows more about suffering
than the priest has ever known.

This sexton has the same illness as K A.

What is your illness exactly?

It's called Bechterew's disease.
It was discovered by a Russian doctor.

What kind of illness is it?

It's a bad rheumatic ailment
that starts in the back,

paralyzing it with cartilage
in between the discs.

Then it hits your knees, ankles and shoulders.

But it doesn't affect the hands.

My neck is stiff.
I can never bend back and look up.

So I have to walk backwards,
and that's hard in my job.

When did this illness hit you?

1952.

It started with a sprained ankle,
or so we thought.

We were out on a filming job
with Rune Lindstriim.

The doctors said it was a sprained ankle

and gave me a supportive bandage.

I got better.

This was after having had a cold.

But you've managed to do your job anyway.

Well, I didn't do work of any kind
for a few years.

I just could not work.

Then I joined the Svensk Filmindustri,
and I jumped in on commercials and such.

Then I joined Ingmar on Wild Strawberries,
and I just continued to get better.

Maybe he's the reason for that.

Do you feel all right back at work again?

Yes, no doubt about that.

You see, staying in bed when you're ill is wrong.

You have to keep moving.
Even if it hurts, you have to fight it.

The comfortable atmosphere on the set,
good coworkers and everything, it helps.

You see, I love my job,
especially handling these old objects.

I get to meet a lot of interesting people,

people in the world of museums and antiques.

There is so much to be learned.

The role of Friivik -

played by Allan Edwall -

Are you working with him?

So far we haven't had time,
but we will start soon.

In fact, I'll see him tonight.

He'll watch how I move and walk and so on.

You know, I dance like a ballet god.

I'm sure it will be okay.

He's a terrific guy to work with.

I think that's enough for this first test.

I think that looks good now.

Thank you.

Why do you pluck your eyebrows like that?

These eyebrows have been in a lot of films,

and they've been cut and shaved every time,

so they tend to grow back very thick.

And for this old schoolboy I'm playing now...

they need to be slightly thinner.

Thick eyebrows are too virile,
while the smooth look on top is not.

They need to match.

One issue especially interests me:

What did Ingmar Bergman say to you
when he handed you the script?

How much did he comment on it,
and how much did he leave unaddressed?

Unaddressed...

He doesn't interpret his writing for you.
He doesn't like to do that.

Did you like the character or dislike him?

I liked him

because he's so universal.

If you were to judge him,
would you be gentle or harsh on him?

His qualities as a person.

He's a strong man.

He does his job,
despite the great doubts he suffers.

He has the willpower to do the right thing.

That, I admire.

He keeps at it, despite everything. That, I like.

He's an ordinary man.

Not a genius. Just a normal human being.

Anybody can identify with him, really.

You just mentioned the schoolboy in him.
How does that fit in?

Perhaps he's not a very good psychologist.

Perhaps he doesn't reach his congregation
in any truly imaginative way...

and this weighs on him as a priest
in this one case.

- He's a little frozen and lonely.
- Yes.

Frozen and locked up inside himself.

Will the audience like this character?

- There is no glamour in him. None at all.
- That's difficult.

Yes, it's difficult for the audience.

One never knows how he will engage the audience.

Your films are usually connected.

Can you say how this film
is connected to others you've made?

In theme it's connected to, for instance,

Through a Glass Darkly...

and to The Virgin Spring.

But also through the structure,
the format of a chamber play.

I have always felt The Virgin Spring
is a form of chamber music.

And so is Through a Glass Darkly,
and even more so.

It's composed like chamber music.

It's even in three movements,

and it's very limited
in the number of actors, and so on.

As for theme, all three films deal with changes

in the image of God.

What can you say about that?

Though it's very complicated, I will try,
though I'm not sure I can.

In my earlier works
I always left the issue open -

What issue?

The existence of God.

In The Virgin Spring,

I let God answer in the form of a folk tune,

as the spring flows.

For me that was

a timid way of closing in on the issue,

and setting forth my own views

on the reality of God.

In Through a Glass Darkly,
it is even more clearly visible.

The gist of it, and the credo behind it,

is that God is love and love is God.

The proof of God

is the existence of love

as something very concrete in the human world.

And then you know, which is the eerie part,

I've taken on this whole problem

'm Winter Light.

To be forced to tear apart
this whole idea of God...

which is a search for security.

Now I've tried to find

one that is even broader -

a more distinct and clear idea of God.

Why did you have to tear apart the idea
of God from Through a Glass Darkly?

Well, think about it. It's obvious why.

Here's this fisherman
with his fear of the Chinese

and their latent threat of war.

It's hard to tell a man sitting in front of you,

“Stop worrying about the Chinese,
because God is love.

You should go on feeling secure,
as love is what matters.”

It does exist in the world, you know,
in a very real way.

Would you say that idea of God is rather narrow,

that it's based only on security?

Yes, I think so.

I have felt that more and more.

- Like the security of a child?
- Yes.

I had to purge myself, and very painfully too,

of that old idea of God, where God is the father.

A father-son-like relationship.

A God of one's own creation, a God of security.

It was quite an ordeal,
wrestling with this concept.

Deep down, this is what the film is about.

To state it simply,
your first period of filmmaking

was a rebellion against authorities
and fathers of different kinds.

Then there was a long series of reconciliations

in Wild Strawberries and other films

where you accepted
the secure, fatherly image of God.

Yes, it all began there.
That's how I had to do it.

First revolution and rebellion
against the father figure,

and then acceptance.

I could then calmly set it aside...

and not project a paternal image onto God.

I understand you're very careful
in this new film...

not to propose a new image of God?

That's right.

The drama and the passion

don't take place in Tomas, the protagonist,

but in the nonbeliever Marta,

who carries in her the seed
of a new image of God.

She's the one who has the will
and drive for life in her,

and she passes them on to Tomas.

Sometimes you focus on
religious themes in a series of movies,

and then you make other kinds of movies.

They seem to come in waves.

Yes, they come in intervals.

Like with The Seventh Seal?

I wrote my way out of my agony,

this huge latent fear of death
that I managed to purge.

It's like the separation
between the knight and Jens.

The rationalist and the seeker.

After that, the religious problem
left me in peace for a long time.

So you managed to get rid of
the fear of dying by writing about it?

Either I did away with that fear through writing,

or in the course of writing I discovered

it was no longer so intrusive

or threatening.

The bottom line is, it's gone.

This manuscript is dated
Thursday, August 7th, 1961

but farther down on the page
there are three letters: SDG.

Can you tell me what they stand for?

That's my own little secret.

It might seem a little unusual.

You know Bach?

- Johann Sebastian?
- Yes.

He wrote SDG on his compositions.

It's Latin. Sol Deo Gloria,
“To God alone be the glory.”

Perhaps it's presumptuous of me
to write the same,

but I have a feeling that I -

in some way, anonymously, objectively -

have done this for the glory of God,

and would like to give it to Him as it is.

As if we were

participating in building a cathedral, you kno w.

That's how I feel, and that's why
I have to add those three letters.

Isn't that the enormous contradiction

that people have difficulty understanding
in your work?

On the one hand, your wild ambition,

and on the other hand,
your dream of being totally anonymous,

like a single brick in a building
made by a good builder.

Yeah, but the older I get -

Of course, I've had my glory, my worldly -

I've had everything of that kind
that you can get,

and have discovered that it's indifferent,
ridiculous, quite empty,

and, in fact, damned troublesome.

So it isn't so hard for this man, Bergman,
to want to be an anonymous creator,

now that I've had it all.

It's an urge I've had forever,

to be an anonymous part of the whole,

even in my own creative process.

To leave it all behind,

this confounded struggle for originality
and artistic -

A sort of Ingemar Johansson of the arts...

hitting hard - or, better still, harder -
every time,

jumping higher and faster.

Instead, it's about calming down
and quietly resting

in the service of the congregation.

Well, let's go see how you fit
your stone into this structure.

INGMAR BERGMAN MAKES A MOVIE

FILMING - PART 1

Can we start? Blow the horn, will you?

- You'll be on the outside.
- This is where I enter?

You'll start here, Gunnar.

I know.

So, you'll say your first line,
“I'm expecting a visitor.

I'm expecting a visitor any minute.”

Try it once.

I'm expecting a visitor any minute.

Ingrid enters. You leave the door as it is.

You come forward, Gunnar.

- Shall I close it a bit?
- Yes, close it a bit.

- Ingrid takes out her handkerchief.
- How far should I go?

You stand next to her.

You hold your handkerchief and blow your nose.

- I haven't got a handkerchief.
- Use your mitten.

You move forward, Gunnar.

You don't approve
of her blowing her nose like that.

You stop here and look out.

This is how work begins
on every little scene in a movie,

with the director showing the actors
how he wants them to move about.

This work is called “blocking.”

Sometimes there 'll be long discussions
about a short walk.

It can make an actor feel uncomfortable,
as if wearing an ill-fitting garment.

Isn't there one that would fit better?

The director is testing and cajoling.

It may seem like nonsense, but it isn't.

When the director demonstrates

what movements he has in mind for the actors,

it's a feeling he has.

Here you discover whether
the director and the actors

feel the same about the role
and are on the same wavelength.

God's silence?

Yes, God's silence.

This is where you have your coughing attack.

It's pretty prolonged. Yes, like that.

Jonas Persson and his wife were here,
and I could only spout drivel.

Yet I had the feeling that each word
was decisive somehow.

What am I to do?

As you raise your hands.

Would you stop your hammering?

I say: “Poor little Tomas.

You should be in bed with a brandy.
You're running quite a temperature.”

Right, God's silence. She doesn't give a damn.

She only recognizes
that he needs to be taken care of.

So you cross over to this side, right?

Poor little Tomas.
You should be in bed with a brandy -

- I need to caress him.
- Right.

And you discover he's really ill this time.

He's always whining.

- You're running quite a temperature.
- Yes, like that.

Why did you take Communion?

Directors use different methods of blocking.

Bergman is striving to block
as simply as possible.

Nothing artificial.

He wants clarity, order and the big picture.

He can get furious
at a showy, pretentious arrangement.

The faces and the dialogue
are to tell the whole story.

Looking closer at this scene,
one will see small, simple movements

of one human being searching for another.

A strong individual searching for a weaker one,

who shrinks back from the stronger one's help.

A Woman searching for a man
who turns his back on her.

You saw this deletion:

“I was writing my sermon, a short letter...”

I got it yesterday.

- You saw the deletion?
- Yes.

- Let's go back to the earlier one.
- Keeping the deletion in mind.

Do they have to hammer right now?

They gave us a “clear” signal.

Could they be quiet for a while?

Is someone hanging in the air
above us with a hammer?

Where were we?

“Over there.”

When rehearsing,
the actors don't act it out fully.

They only mark their lines,

just deliver them straight.

- When did it arrive?
- Yesterday. It's on my desk.

Read it later -

She gets very annoyed:
“Read it later, when you feel like it,

or you find the time for it.”

When you feel like it.

Read it later, when you feel like it.

You get very tired.

- How tired?
- What's his line?

Nothing is said until Méirta says -

Right.

That's when you start yawning.
A horrible, feverish yawn.

It makes you shiver all over.
Then you put your head down.

It's going to sound like I'm mumbling.

Stickan, can you come in with the microphone?

- Maybe.
- Just watch the shadow.

I'll try not to talk up my sleeve.

Quiet, now!

Guys, a little quiet, okay?

You look out through the window.

The snow, the silence, the boredom.

Can he close his eyes? Be on his own for a while?

Go ahead. Action.

Another Sunday in the vale of tears.

I don't feel very well.

- Want me to feel sorry for you?
- Yes, please.

Then you'll have to marry me.

Right. It's very low.

You can't get up? Can you slide down a little?

So she doesn't have to hang in the air.

Start from “another Sunday.”

Another Sunday in the vale of tears.

I don't feel very well.

- Want me to feel sorry for you?
- Yes, please.

- Then you'll have to marry me.
- Oh?

You should marry me.

You know, a real woman's line.

She takes advantage of the situation.

You should marry me.

Why?

Then I wouldn't have to leave this place.

Why would you have to leave?

We won't discuss this too much,
but I thought he might say,

“Why would you have to leave?”

He can think of many things,
but that this strong woman,

with all her powers over him
and the earth and sky,

would move away - that he cannot fathom.

You want him to be a little mean.

A sort of calm meanness.

But until that point, stick to a pleasant tone?

Why would you have to leave?

- What?
- “As long as I'm a substitute...”

As long as I'm a substitute,
I can be transferred.

Far away from you.

We'll see what happens.

And that pisses you both off.
She gets up and says -

Yes, I know. You can't marry me.

That's as far as we'll take it.

This is the first rehearsal.
The blocking rehearsal.

It continues, rehearsal after rehearsal,

scene after scene.

This is the fourth rehearsal.

Start.

I'm expecting a visitor any minute.

Don't worry. I won't stay long.

It's getting pretty cold out.

Do you want me to go straight on?

Right.

Let's not forget to brace up this damned window.

The whole church wall is falling apart.

I can feel it as I lean against it.

“Poor little Tomas.”

Poor little Tomas.
You should be in bed with a brandy.

You're running quite a temperature.

Why did you take Communion?

It's a love feast, isn't it?

May I see for a minute?

Try going in a little closer.

All right. That's good. Stop.

Go on. Quiet.

Don't forget the pause.

Another Sunday in the vale of tears.

I don't feel very well.

- Want me to feel sorry for you?
- Yes, please.

Then you'll have to marry me.

Oh?

You should marry me.

Why?

Then I wouldn't have to leave this place.

Why would you have to leave?

As long as I'm a substitute,
I can be transferred.

Far away from you.

Ingrid, try not to shade him.
You're stealing his light.

You see, you're shading him.

There. Is that okay?

As long as I'm a substitute,
I can be transferred.

Far away from you.

We'll see what happens.

That's his perennial response

whenever she suggests it.

He always says, “Let's talk about it later.”

“Let's see.” Something like that.
“We'll have to discuss it.”

He's permanently too tired to decide.

As if he'd decided never to decide.

He doesn't even listen.

He just hears this is going to be tiresome.

This is where we stopped.

No, wait. We'll do the upward motion also.

Take that last part again.

We'll see what happens.

- Do you want me to finish?
- Yes, please.

Yes, I know. You can't marry me.

Stickan!

Can you hear anything at all?
It's a little boxy, isn't it?

Let's remove this piece here.

Please remove that bit of ceiling over there.

Right. That's better.

That was rehearsal number four.

The next time we use the TV camera
is for rehearsal seven of this scene.

Now everything's taking shape,
but there's still some confusion.

This is the rhythm of a studio.

Everything slowly leads up to the first shot.

Some directors like a high level
of constant concentration.

But Bergman strives to have the actors
relax, with laughter and chatter.

There's nothing more disgusting
when you're playing a big pan

than leaving the stage for a short while.

You think it's like a rest. Like hell it is!

It's like being put out in the cold.

The trick is not to leave the stage for a second.

It's like leaving your motor running.
It can run forever.

It's this whole thing
about taking a break, you see.

In her case, it's a little different.
She rehearses five hours a day.

That's a little different.
It's a constant for her.

She knows what to rehearse for.

Like a tightrope walker, or -

It's awful.

The other thing about actors
is that new actors on a set

will arrive rather tense in the morning.

And then they spend the whole day feeling tense.

And embarrassed around those
who are already familiar with the set.

Especially if they're inexperienced.

They're scared stiff.

Stiff-necked and tense all day long,

they get so tired they don't even
know their names anymore.

It's kind of scary.

I'm very dependent on the room.

If I get moved around within the same set,

I feel like it's the first day of shooting again.

That's what filming is about -
changing the room, right?

A room can be “worn in.”

Like this church. It's familiar now.

Ingrid is funny.

She starts by walking around
for a long time, like a cat.

Then she finds her spot,
and that's where she lies down.

That's where she stays.

If you move her, she gets unhappy.

Like a coyote that tramples down the weeds

and then settles in.

Let's have a look at it.

We'll start over there.

Silence.

Have those been on your knuckles all along?

Didn't you notice?

So many?

- I'll take some off.
- What are they for?

They're supposed to be sores from the frost.

It says I've got sores.

That's what you wrote.

It says “a frozen cheek” in the script.

- Does this belong here?
- No, over there.

Where is that, then?

- The glasses, are they gone?
- They're behind the basket.

- Where's the basket?
- She brings it in.

Stand by. Quiet!

Could you take a look?

Let's start a little further back.

There. Stop.

- What lens are you using?
- A 75.

Quiet!

Action!

I'm expecting a visitor any minute.

Don't worry. I won't stay long.

It's getting pretty cold out.

Maybe a little too much.

Look over at him. That's right.

- Poor little -
- Hold the pause after you reach him.

Understand? Stand there for a moment.

Poor little Tomas.

What is it, Tomas?

- It wouldn't matter to you.
- Tell me anyway.

You have a pause in there.

He's squirming about as he's talking to her,

not only because of Jonas Persson,

but because it's hard to talk
to her about religious matters.

You mean “God's silence?”

Well, the religious issues,
since she doesn't care about them.

Isn't there a void between them?

He seems afraid of her irony, maybe.

There's more of that in this scene
than the issue with Jonas Persson.

The atmosphere is so charged already

that everything has come to a halt.

Even before they start talking,

they start with a recrimination or an insult,

like when he says, “It wouldn't matter to you.”

Even before he said
anything about “God's silence.”

They are two terribly sensitive people
who constantly cause each other pain.

When he asks, “Why did you take Communion?”

is her answer ironic?

Is she referring to the letter
and the love feast?

- Couldn't that be irony too?
- I think so.

How do you mean?

It's supposed to be a love feast -
the only way to get love from him.

Well, she takes Communion -

Remember that the letter precedes this.

She wrote from her heart
about prayers being answered.

There is a deeply religious experience in this,

a genuine feeling when she takes Communion.

Like, “He'll have read the letter.
He'll see that I'm taking Communion.”

Right?

Though her taking Communion

doesn't affect him in any way.

- But the letter - - She doesn't know that yet.

Right, she doesn't know that yet.

She notices a certain numbness in his reactions.

- I still think about the irony - - Absolutely.

There's numbness in his every move.

That's where the irony is.

They're little things, but it's good
to know the flow of thoughts.

- We haven't even talked about the rash.
- We will.

Shall we continue?

Quiet!

Let's start from the dialogue. From “What is it?”

- What is it, Tomas?
- It wouldn't matter to you.

Tell me anyway.

God's silence.

God's silence?

God's silence.

Jonas Persson and his wife were here...

and I could only spout drivel.

Yet I had the feeling that each word
was decisive somehow.

What am I to do?

Poor little Tomas.

You should be in bed with a brandy.
You're running quite a temperature.

Why did you take Communion?

- It's a love feast, isn't it?
- Just like that.

Did you read my letter?

I should hold my hand here.

Right. Once again.

Gunnar, you need to slide down a bit.
Slouch a bit.

Poor little Tomas.

You should be in bed with a brandy.
You're running quite a temperature.

Why did you take Communion?

It's a love feast, isn't it?

Did you read my letter?

No. I haven't had the time.

You're hopeless.

- When did it arrive?
- Yesterday.

Linger on the pause.

Use just the pause, not your tone of voice,

so we can feel her disappointment.

You're running quite a temperature.

Why did you take Communion?

It's a love feast, isn't it?

Did you read my letter?

No. I haven't had the time.

You're hopeless.

- When did it arrive?
- Yesterday. It's on my desk -

Read it later, when you feel like it.

Stay there.

- How much do you need?
- A little bit more. There. Good.

Ingrid, when you get too far down,
I can feel that you're shading me.

I don't dare go in any closer.

When she's standing like that,
we may need to back up some more.

The ideal actor is someone

who can turn on full concentration
in a split second.

And who can then, after each take,
right after you say “cut,”

turn it off, like switching off a light.

It's so incredibly important.

The moment a tough scene is finished,

the more complicated the scene has been,
and the more serious they have been,

the more we fool around.

It's important to get some rest and relaxation

between each shot.

But then, when I say “Camera! Action!”

full concentration will be there again.

The rehearsed material should be so ingrained

that the heightened concentration
provides a boost.

After all the preparation, It's time
to shoot the scene for the first time.

The atmosphere takes on a special feeling.
Everybody is concentrating.

Katinka Faragé, the script girl,
with a huge script book in her arms,

places objects on the desk in the sacristy

so they will match previous takes.

Makeup artist Gullan Westfelt
adjusts makeup and hair.

Kalle and Sven are chasing microphone shadows.

Gaffer Gerhard Karlsson, that is,
and photographer Sven Nykvist.

They check for troublesome shadows
from the microphone rods

that soundman Brian Wikstmm
places over the actors' heads.

Shadows may be permitted in TV,
but never in a motion picture.

The director himself is like
a hen on her eggs, shifting restlessly.

Quiet, everyone!

Quiet, everyone!

Action!

- What about the first line?
- We'll fix that later.

Just go ahead with it.

- Is the clock okay over there?
- Yes.

It's in there, right?

- Quiet!
- How were my mittens?

Left one off, right one comes off as you enter.

Quiet.

- What's that buzzing?
- The lamps, right?

It's the A/C.

- Is it audible, Stickan?
- Yes, of course.

- It's the ceiling lights.
- Then turn them off!

That's better.

Quiet, everyone!

Quiet!

Camera!

146 to 171 -take one.

Action!

I'm expecting a visitor any minute.

Don't worry. I won't stay long.

It's getting pretty cold out.

Poor Tomas.

- What is it, Tomas?
- It wouldn't matter to you.

Tell me anyway.

God's silence.

God's silence?

THIS WAS TAKE ONE. THE SCENE WAS FILMED 11 TIMES.

INGMAR BERGMAN MAKES A MOVIE

FILMING - PART 2

Today is January 13th.

Last time we had a serious talk was August 11th.

You had finished the script.
Now you're about to finish shooting.

How many days of shooting has it been?

Today is the 53rd day.

When did you start? It should be in the script.

Yes, I think I have it somewhere.

Do you remember? Where did we start?

In the sacristy. The collection basket.

I can't find it. That's not it.

Here it is.

Here I wrote,
“The comedy begins. October 4, 1961"

More than 53 days ago,

but a lot has happened since then.

Why do you call it a comedy?

I always do that.

Comedia, from the Latin.

I think it's incipit comedia, right?

Whether it's a tragedy or not?

Yes, that's how I feel.
I haven't completed a real tragedy yet.

If you consider the pace of this shoot,

is it normal?

No, this one is slower, I think.

More retakes than usual?

No, but a more difficult shoot than usual.

It's not been burdensome or boring.

Just more complicated

on a human level.

The basic tone is very difficult,

as we search for precise pitch at every moment.

In TheVirgin Spring, or The Seventh Seal,

with their heightened tones,
it wasn't so hard to find,

as it doesn't matter if you veer a little
to the right or to the left.

But here you have to be
right on target the whole time.

Can you describe that tone?

Well, the film runs two hours long

and takes place one afternoon
between 12:00 and 3:00.

Somehow there is an emotion that evolves,

emerges, swells, and then gathers again.

There's one emotional pitch
right from the beginning.

It's easier
when you have different emotional levels,

because there's a rhythm, a breath,
to build contrast with.

Here you have to be so attentive
to the rhythmic factor.

But I'd like to say -

It's hard to describe a tone.

Maybe it's...

a solo partita by Bach - that's
the only thing you can compare it to.

It requires that kind of precision
and presence the whole time.

Yes, in Réttvik you played -

A cello sonata, right.

You described it as being very naked.

Like the speech of a sole human voice.

At a press conference you said

that after those rehearsals with large
instruments, you'd like to work -

You said you'd like to work
with small instruments,

as well as something about learning
to draw a human hand.

It's the observing of reality
and being so close to it.

I wanted to get up close

to a very Swedish reality,

a very naked and obvious reality,

without turning it into a news report.

What do the actors feel about a goal like that?

Do they go along with it?

You have to keep these things very separate,

as there is a huge difference
between a news report and a feature film.

In this tone and style,

one can't create a neorealist report.

We're reflecting reality,

and that reflection is meant to be

so bewilderingly similar to reality

that we lose any sense
that it's actually a reflection.

It will simply be there,
the fact of the reflection.

It places great demands

on the cinematographer

and everyone participating on every level.

Actors...

technicians and everyone.

It's very arduous.

If this shoot has been particularly heavy,

it's due in large part to this demand

that has weighed so heavily on us.

There seems to be a kind of dichotomy

between the solemn clerical drama

and getting beneath the surface
of one November afternoon in Sweden.

Well, it is a clerical drama.

That is the key.

But the structure is more that of a short story.

A Swedish piece of reality.

One interesting thing

that Sven Nykvist and I experience in common

is how desperately hard it is to capture

a piece of reality

without being too obvious,

without turning it into a news report.

You just try to stick
to the feeling of reflection.

That turned out to be
a most interesting struggle...

and a very complicated technical problem.

Talking about possible surprises

between actual work on location and the script,

I'd like to know more

about the actual differences
between the script and the filming.

Do you feel filming is a technical task,

or is it a continuation of the creative aspect?

Are you completing the vision
that you already had?

Well, no.

With the script you're only halfway there.

I try to recall the vision I had
in writing the script.

A lot of things keep happening all the time.

Positive and negative things.

The creative part of my work
is by no means finished.

It's a question of meeting head-on

the unending stream of crazy challenges,

with the technical equipment
or with the actors or whatever,

by exerting pressure in one direction or other,

a kind of counterpressure.

It's about continuously creating life.
Making sure it's alive the whole time.

Which in itself is a creative kind of work.

I may have to abandon

the original script altogether.

Sometimes things pop up,

events no one could have anticipated.

The script reveals itself to you,

things hidden in the script

that go unnoticed

until you make that change
from Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde,

from script writer to director.
They're not the same person.

What happens when actors enter the scene?

Do you discover new things
about the script and the roles?

Do they add things for you to discover?

Do you continue
your creative work with their help?

The actors have an enormous impact

on the final film.

The stronger their personality,

the more respect I have to show
their independent creative work,

and the more delicate the interaction
between director and actor.

There are actors who wish for nothing more

than to have it all served to them on a platter.

Or there are actors so sensitive

to any kind of influence

that they resist the slightest attempt at it.

This is so much a question of balance,
from one instance to the next.

Sometimes an actor doesn't have the least -

It's easy for both actors and directors
to make terrible mistakes.

One may think that an actor
is wonderful for a part,

and persuade him to take it, only to discover...

terrifyingly enough, that he's not right.

The actor hasn't got the background necessary

to play this individual.

We've made a mistake.

This can create immense problems.

It can cause the whole film to fall apart.

The entire thing can just slip out of your hands.

It's been known to happen.

Or you might have to shift
the whole weight of the action

onto another actor with the strength to carry it,

or onto another aspect of the story.

It's a continuous fear I have,

and I think actors have it too.

There's something very curious
about the way many actors

actually resist their parts in the beginning.

But you know, Vilgot, it's part of all of us.

The superego...

our sunny Sunday-self, will react like,
“Oh, this is gonna be nice and fun.”

Like when you're about
to write a book or make a movie,

and you think it's going
to be very enjoyable, right?

And then, when you're about
to start the actual working process,

you find this black hole
of resistance within you.

That goes for all artists, I think.

Actors try to defend themselves
here in the film studio...

and that's perfectly understandable,

as this is their first terrible confrontation.

In rehearsals in a theater,

this resistance can be overcome gradually.

Here it has to happen immediately.

I would have thought this resistance
is part of the creative process,

a way of getting into the part.

Yes. It's the same for all artists, isn't it?

Especially for actors,
who have to rely on association

and enter into another reality.

That's true, of course.

I think it has to do with the whole
process within every one of us.

This terrible feeling of discomfort.

Then again, an actor may suddenly discover -

Actors often have strange ways
of reading a script for a film or play.

Strange?

They come to it from a very subjective
position, to put it mildly.

They might discover

that the part feels like a personal insult...

which can be very painful for them,

when they discover that the director

is pushing them more and more in that direction.

To neutralize such a feeling of humiliation

can be very difficult.

The humiliation may have struck
an inner conflict in the actor?

Yes, there may be something within the actor

that he has to exhibit during
the process for everyone to see.

So he feels naked.

As all artists do.

In the case of the actor,
this can be very painful and humiliating.

But you yourself hide, too.

Yes, I stay behind the camera.

In the case of this film,
how much do you need the actors

to understand the religious issues?

How much do you discuss them?

Not very much.

It isn't necessary.

I think it's important that an actor -

I've had some difficulties on other occasions.

I know Max von Sydow in The Seventh Seal

was totally indifferent to the religious issues.

But suddenly he saw the difficulty...

of playing the knight in The Seventh Seal

without addressing those issues.

He managed to do a wonderful job
of creating the character

by using other techniques.

But it was a difficult experience for him.

In this case, there's no problem.

Both of these actors

are deeply conscious

of the religious issues.

One can always get into the story through
the psychological or human side -

Well, if it doesn't work one way,
it will the other.

If only one approach is possible,
then there's something wrong.

But, yes, either one will do.

As for instructing the actors,
let's pick a simple situation.

An actor is using the wrong tone of voice,
a wrong approach.

What should one tell him?

Depends on who it is.

You mean the actor or the director?

80th.

For me personally...

I need to feel totally confident with the actor.

I have to adjust to the actor's emotional life

in that moment when I am to instruct him.

It's my job. I have to know how to do that.

I have to know how to appeal to them.

With some of them I can be brutal -

often the best ones.

I'll say flat-out, “I think it's like this.”

Actors sometimes have a hard time
hearing their own voices,

but you can playfully mock them,

so that they suddenly hear how crazy it sounded.

One can imitate them in a humorous way,

and then they'll change
like a flash of lightning.

Some actors one will have to cajole,

to avoid hurting either them

or their already fragile self-confidence.

Seems it's important
to take a detour in some cases.

To find another approach
to reach the final result.

It's very different with different actors.

The best way is to say, “This is what I think,”

and have the actor agree.

Otherwise he'll object, right?

Sometimes you say the line for them, don't you?

And exaggerate it?

One way that especially intrigues me
is to write about the character.

To give the role a background.

Actors are often so uptight
around the actual filming on-set

that it isn't reasonable to expect them

to remember everything that led up to a scene.

Often they don't even know,
due to their concentration in the moment,

what scene in the film is being shot.

It becomes important to sketch
the details of the movie:

what happened the second before,
and what will happen next.

You could, for example, say about the pastor

that when he got up this morning,
he felt like this or that.

Easy enough when it's a character
you yourself created,

but does that method work
with characters besides your own?

Yes, it's the same kind of insight.

You use another instructional method

when you say “more contour.”

It seems so abstract to me.

It isn't to the actors.
They understand it perfectly.

It's a technical instruction.

You see, the dangerous thing about a close-up,

about working in very close,

is that you might lose your contour,
your tone or pitch.

The naturalness of the dialogue

can be reduced to mere nonsense,

and becomes just bla-bla-bla.

It's important to make sure

that the actor enhances the contour
of what he is actually saying,

so that it doesn't become

pure chatter.

This is what we suffer from
so terribly in watching American films,

where everyone walks about
acting so desperately natural,

talking in this damned monotonous way.

It makes it so dead and dull.

It's important to keep the dramatic contour.

It's not about just keeping up
a naturalistic level of chatter,

but actually playing a pan,
conveying a certain impression.

And as you get towards the end of a movie -

and the director must keep
a careful eye on this -

it's important to raise
the energy level in the actors.

After having watched
the film for an hour and a half,

the audience is so tired
that they need more energy.

They need to understand the big picture.

The energy level should increase

to prevent the audience from feeling
that it's just sauntering along.

This is very important.

I'm surprised that you actually give

fewer instructions as a director
that one might expect.

In fact it was Torsten Hammarén
who taught me that.

Instructions mustn't pour
over the actors like a heavy rain.

They must be expressed
very precisely all the time.

I have a question for you
that may be hard to answer,

but it would be great if you would try.

If you were to look upon yourself as a stranger,

what would you feel
towards yourself as a director?

What are your strengths?

Or better yet, do you have any weaknesses?

My big weakness -

As a human being, too -
they go together, you know -

is the controller in me.

I have this immense need
to control and regulate other people.

A certain need for power.

I've had to restrain myself,

in both my personal and my professional life.

It can sneak into my interaction with actors.

Those who are sensitive to it
find it hard to take.

I have to keep an eye on myself
so that I don't bind up the actor,

his inspiration, his independent creativity,

with this terrible control.

I have to leave him
to his performance and his thoughts.

Not take charge everywhere
so that he feels so inhibited

that he doesn't know
whether he's coming or going.

That's the human side of it.
ls there a technical aspect also?

It's both human and technical.
They're very connected.

Speaking on a purely technical level,
I do think I know my job.

It doesn't cause me
any particular difficulties anymore.

To say it does...

would be telling a lie.

Can you describe your strengths as well?

Well, I guess I am a pretty good director.

I can keep it all together. I do have my vision,

and I can impose it

with all my perfectionism and sense of order.

I stick to what's relevant.

I get things done the way I want them.

My instrument obeys me...

and not because I beat it into compliance.

It obeys me of its own accord.

And that's probably a good thing.

So if I ask what the sign
of a good director is for you,

your answer would be the total vision.

A director should manifest his total vision.

Then, with the help of technical
equipment, he conveys it to an audience.

This is crucial for a director,

whether he has written his own material

or he's interpreting someone else's.

What else does he have to know?
Any other characteristics?

I guess that's it.

In practice, who would be suitable for this?

The controlling aspect, the need for power -

do they affect the art of directing?

Would a shy,
reserved person not be able to do it?

Yes, he would.

I've met wonderful shy and reserved directors.

It requires a kind of attraction to
the inner regions of a human being,

a sort of passion

for probing human beings
and experiencing their lives.

Observing and feeling

a deep contact with human life.

That's crucial for a director.

I don't think

it's possible -

One must muster a certain amount
of matter-of-factness.

You need a certain amount
of sensitivity of the highest type,

and - don't misunderstand me here -
insensitivity as well.

Like a surgeon who cuts into living flesh.

A director mustn't be afraid
of getting up close with a knife,

if necessary.

He must have steady hands
and well-sharpened tools.

The more technical knowledge he has,

the better he will handle his instrument,

and the less the patient will suffer.

INGMAR BERGMAN MAKES A MOVIE

POSTPRODUCTION

Let's fast-forward here.

There! Let's stop there. Back up a little.

Stop right there. Now forward again.

- There. Right there.
- Where she sits down.

Let's mark that.

Let's continue.

Let's see now.

Here's where she comes in.

Stop. Back up a little.

Right there. Now forward.

Okay. And back up again.

Wait. Forward again.

Right there!

That should be okay.

- Do you want this now?
- No, let's move on.

Why do you cut during movement,
and what's the principle behind that?

If Ulla will move for a moment, I'll show you.

I'll back up a little here.

She's sitting down here, right?

I'm going to stop and go forward.

Here we're going from a long shot to a close-up.

See the mark there?

We'll cut when she sits down.

You always cut during movement.

That way the flow isn't interrupted.

That way the images don't seem

separate from each other.

You get continuity.

Your eyes follow the movement
of the body from long shot to close-up.

Thanks to that movement,
you don't get the impression

that the movie is jumping
from one thing to the next.

The eye follows the body movement
and doesn't realize

that the image changes.

So you cut during movement

to create a certain flow.

That's the main rule.

There are 10,000 exceptions,
but that's another story.

You began editing on May 4th

and finished around June 8th.

Is that a normal time span?

The editing wasn't finished
until approximately June 21st.

The basic editing was finished
at the beginning of June.

Then there's the neurotic fine-tuning.

We're still not finished with that.
You never really finish that part.

So six to eight weeks
is a pretty normal time span,

at least for me.

You started with large chunks of film

that overlapped.

And then you tightened it up bit by bit.

Film is all about rhythm

and breathing.

It's about recreating the life that was collected

in the film studio.

Its lifeline, its rhythm and breath.

So first you assemble

the 400 or 500 scenes

that were shot in the studio.

You arrange all the scenes in order,

roughly the way you had envisioned it.

Let's say the finished film
will be about 7,000 feet.

While the rough cut will be about 11,000 feet.

Maybe 11,500.

That's a big, heavy, dead mass of film

that you later try to bring to life.

Being extremely careful,

you start by taking out
the pieces you don't want.

Dead pieces.

Pieces you already knew
in the studio you wouldn't keep.

Shots you took for the actors...

OF for one reason or another.

After having removed the obvious shots,

you start very carefully
to put together the separate pieces,

like we're doing here,

changing camera angles during movement,
for example.

At that point, you're down to about 10,000 feet,

and parts of the film
start to feel rhythmically alive.

Certain parts suddenly feel

right and full of life.

Other parts will still feel
terribly strange and completely dead.

Then you start over from the beginning.

And this is the really hard part.

You need to analyze where the problems are.

Where your thought process
went wrong or a problem arose.

It might be in the script,

or in footage from the studio,

or the problem might be here in the editing.

So then little by little,
you experiment and try various things.

You reorganize the material,

or you shorten certain pieces
and lengthen others.

You can even change the order of events,

if it wasn't ordered well in the script.

Little by little,
you knead this dead, heavy, bulky mass

to create a clean, rhythmic and dynamic line.

We're going to take a small segment
from the finished movie

and view it at different stages
during the editing process.

This is a short scene

in which Jonas Persson
and his wife visit the priest.

The important thing in this scene
is the hesitancy between the characters.

The most important thing to convey
was the silence that followed

after the priest says, “We must trust God.”

The scene was shot several times
from different angles.

There's a close-up of Gunnar Bjiirnstrand.

There's a long shot of all three of them.

There's a close-up of the fisherman and his wife.

Then they repeat that part, but only
with a close-up of Max von Sydow...

which is especially interesting,

since it's an example

of the director giving instructions
to the actor in the middle of a shot.

He wants him to redo the scene.

Here is the first rough edit.

The scene is shown in its full original length,

so we'll hear the same thing over and over again.

Though I can't help him much.

Not with three kids and one on the way.

Right.

Everyone feels this dread...

to some extent.

We must trust God.

- Cut.
- Action.

Though I can't help him much.

Not with three kids and one on the way.

Right.

Everyone feels this dread...

to some extent.

We must trust God.

- Cut.
- Action.

Though I can't help him much.

Not with three kids and one on the way.

Right.

Everyone feels this dread...

to some extent.

We must trust God.

- Cut.
- Action.

Right.

Everyone feels this dread...

to some extent.

We must trust God.

Do that again. Just the last part, Gunnar.

One more time.

We must trust God.

Cut.

Action.

Right.

Everyone feels this dread...

to some extent.

We must trust God.

- Cut.
- Action.

We must trust God.

- Cut.
- Action.

Cut.

A few weeks later,
this sequence was edited more tightly.

The interesting part, I think,
is how it cuts back and forth

between the priest's eyes
and Max von Sydow's, the fisherman's.

Action.

Right.

Everyone feels this dread...

to some extent.

We must trust God.

Cut.

That little exchange of looks
between the priest and the fisherman

that I found so very expressive
was in Bergman's mind unnecessary.

Everything had already been said.

So in the finished version,

this scene has a much faster and lighter rhythm.

Though I can't help him much.

Not with three kids and one on the way.

Right.

Everyone feels this dread...

to some extent.

We must trust God.

To mix is to blend sounds.

And when the director is done editing,
he takes the film to the mixing room.

These rolls contain all the sounds

that Evald Andersson, the sound technician,

has retrieved from archives or has created.

There are train puffs and train whistles.

There's the sound of car brakes,

and, of course, all the dialogue
that the actors recorded.

Bergman explains where he wants
the various sounds to occur.

Olle Jacobsson, sound mixer,

listens and adjusts the levels.

It was my parents' dream
that I become a clergyman.

If you subscribe to the principle
that film is rhythm,

and that it's like music in that regard,

it's almost always wrong to have music in movies.

That's like adding music to music.

Therefore you have to find
other acoustic accompaniments.

And in this regard,
there's one vitally important principle:

They should always be added sparingly.

The sounds chosen should be evocative.

They should subconsciously evoke
in the audience a mood and a feeling

to support the main feeling
created by the images.

When you arrive at the final phase
of film production,

it's important to make sure

that the light level
of the screen at the film studio

is the same as at the lab.

This is quality control of the prints,

a procedure monitored by
cinematographer Sven Nykvist,

editor Ulla Ryghe,

and Gésta Lundin from the lab.

It's only a few days until the premiere.

What about the materials going abroad
to America, for example?

We have orders for both
master copies and duplicates.

We've already made and delivered two duplicates.

And will that suffice
for the 100 copies in America?

I'm sure it won't. We need more than that.

Are there any concerns with this copy?

No. We ran it at the lab yesterday,
and I thought it was very nice.

- What does Sven think?
- I think it looks good.

There are a few scenes on the first roll
that we're having trouble with.

Exterior shots of the church.
We need to change them a little.

- Are the dissolves okay?
- Yes, they're much better.

Okay. Well then.

You usually tell new directors to watch
their own movies with an audience.

Will you go to the premiere?

No, I'll go later, on a Saturday,

when the audience is really
diverse and difficult.

It's very informative.

How do you mean?

Well, you can sense whether the movie

was made correctly or not.

You can tell beyond any doubt.

You learn to follow

the reaction of the audience very precisely.

It's as if you had a seismograph inside of you,

with paper rolling through it

and a graph being drawn on it.

You learn an awful lot from that.

What do you mean by “made correctly”?
That your intentions were conveyed?

Above all, that people can follow along.

Emotionally, not intellectually.

Emotionally experience the film.

And that they don't experience dullness,

that they don't fidget
or play with candy wrappers.

Or that terrible dead silence,

when it feels as if they've all fallen asleep.

I've experienced all those things.

There's a contradiction in the film:

There's love for the Swedish church

and at the same time a resistance to it.

Yes, that's probably true.

When you leave behind the filming

and the work with the script,

and when you have been in close contact
with the material for a long time,

certain new things are revealed.

This movie

has a very strong built-in protest

against the way
the Swedish church is run these days.

There is a bitter

and desperate sense

that the Swedish church
is digging its own grave, in a way.

I often think

of what Par Lagerkvist once said:

that we have to get rid of the holy junk

that hides what is holy.

Can you separate what people and critics think

from what you yourself think about your work?

Yes, that's not a problem.
I know exactly what I think.

The difficulty is that
you are very naked and exposed

in the days surrounding the premiere.

It's the same thing with the theater...

when the play is about to take on real life,

the moment your work meets the audience.

I don't think a play or a film
becomes a play or a film

until it has encountered the audience.

It's still only a partially finished product.

The work isn't born

until that strange
and terrible moment of encounter.

I've thought a lot

about where those feelings of fear and terror,

nakedness and powerlessness come from,

and I think it's because

one perceives one's own work
as incomplete and unprotected

until it's surrounded
by the consciousness of the audience.

Are premieres easier
to deal with as the years go by?

Yes, I think so.

I used to experience terrible panic attacks

and a feeling of inferiority
that I found terribly humiliating.

I suffered like a dog.
It felt like I'd never get through it.

I remember the opening
of Smiles of a Summer Night.

I sat in the audience and thought,

“This is the worst flop I have ever experienced.”

I felt no one laughed or had a good time.

They were all so quiet.

It was completely incomprehensible to me

that anyone would want to see
the movie after that opening.

What is it that's humiliating
in this situation where you feel inferior?

It's the feeling

of being judged.

What you've envisioned in your innermost heart,

that which you've created in the belief
that it was somehow necessary

and that it might be
necessary for other people too...

is judged unnecessary or stupid or silly,

or that it shouldn't
have been made the way it was.

I think that's a source of deep humiliation.

Okay, let's get started.

Can we turn out the light?

WINTER LIGHT

A Film by INGMAR BERGMAN

INGMAR BERGMAN MAKES A MOVIE

THE PREMIERE

Making this movie
has been like keeping a journal.

And today, five days before the premiere,

I'd like you to try to predict
what the critics will say.

Then we can compare.

I could say what lngemar Johansson
would say in a similar situation:

“I counted on a knock-out in the fifth round.”

Seriously, though,

I think this film will meet with

some strange and mixed reviews.

I think there will be discussions about it.

It's important to keep in mind
that the central part of this film

is the two coexisting themes -

the religious theme and the love story.

And these themes come together
in lngrid's character.

She is the focal point of the whole passion play.

So some people will bring up one theme,
and some will bring up the other.

Some will get worked up over one thing,
and some over the other.

Is that hard for you?

I think this movie will receive harsh treatment.

Because I thought - and it's often the case -

Through a Glass Darkly received
overwhelmingly positive criticism.

A little too positive.

And the critics may agree on that in hindsight.

And when that happens,
the next film usually has to pay

for the praise...

the critics heaped on the previous movie.

That's usually kind of rough.

I wonder if they may want a clearer message

regarding the religious issues.

People always want clear messages.

The Magician, for example,

which I thought was a very simple
and self-explanatory film,

created a tremendous stir.

People desperately wanted to know
what the movie was really about.

Have you ever felt a need to be clearer,
and yet you've not been able to?

No.

The movie speaks about my own doubt

and anguish regarding these issues,

and I feel that has been enough.

I needed to express these things.

The whole dramatic situation
and the inherent tension

embedded in the movie is unexplained,
but not unclear.

That was shot five days before the premiere.

And then the premiere arrived.

What did you think about this movie?

I thought it was a masterpiece,
and I am deeply shaken.

I think the performances were quite natural,

but there's a heavy feeling
that lingers as you watch the film

and as you walk out of the theater.

What did you think?

It touched on a very common problem.

Many people ponder the question
of whether there is a God or not.

I thought Ingrid Thulin was very good.

I wish, in a way, that this theme -

the priesthood, the church -

wouldn't be used in this way.

To me it's an illustration
of how tenacious the church is,

and of how little it has to offer people,
when it really comes down to it.

It also struck me that the critics
have portrayed this as a Bergman issue,

while I think it should be everyone's concern.

It's difficult to say exactly
what you thought of a movie

right after watching it.

The critic is in a different position.

He too walks out of the theater full of emotions.

He might feel happy, or he might feel mad.

But he has some time to digest it.
He goes home, has something to eat.

Nowadays a critic views a film
several days in advance.

He sits down at his typewriter

and thinks about how he should
formulate his thoughts.

Sometimes he might not be sure of what he thinks,

but it gets clearer as he writes,

and he summarizes his opinions.

Winter Light is the one Ingmar Bergman film

that has engaged me the most
since The Naked Night.

Personally, I carry around a religious
burden due to my upbringing

that makes Winter Light affect me.

It's about God's silence,

and the implacable
and chilling doubt of the believer.

During a few hours between services
in two provincial Swedish churches,

the priest, Tomes Ericsson,
experiences a profound exhaustion

that makes him see clearly
and believe in nothing.

Everything is hopeless.
No love, no future, no God.

Just empty routine
and the fevered flush of a bad cold.

For some time now, Bergman
has been on the path of simplicity,

and sometimes that is a good thing.

Simplicity can lead to greatness
and the concentration of one's powers.

But it can also lead to artistic depletion.

That seems to be the case with Bergman.

The film ends abruptly, almost blasphemously.

After all one has learned about the priest,

it's a shock to see this sick man
standing at the altar,

conducting the service.

It's strange that a priest who has
spent an arduous life in the pulpit

has only to be asked about the meaning of life

in order to have
his whole belief system fall apart.

How did he manage up to this point?

Our Lord may be silent at times,
but as far as we understand it,

it's one of the privileges of priesthood
to keep Him on tape, so to speak,

in order to get by until
they hear from Him in person again.

In other words,
to have access to sufficient reserves.

Personally I was, as always, a helpless victim

of Bergman's powers of suggestion -

the magic that doesn't arise
from external means or manners,

but from the seriousness and urgency
with which he conveys

his own spiritual struggle
and forces one to become engaged.

In the middle of making Winter Light,

your previous film,
Through a Glass Darkly, opened.

Observing you after you read the reviews,

you looked almost like you were
coming back from your sickbed.

You were pale but grateful
for the exuberant reviews.

How do you feel this time?

This time I may be pale,
but not quite so grateful.

I was out of town this time.

I had put a lot of miles
between me and this opening.

It felt good.
First of all, I was just generally tired.

And second of all, it was nice to be away

from all the fuss and opinions.

To really distance myself.

Didn't you think about it constantly?

No, I really got a break from it.

Monday evening I thought about it a little bit.

Then, on Tuesday,

I had asked Kenne Fant
to send a telegram with the outcome.

We had agreed it should be very short.

The telegram said: “Two for, two against,
and one in the middle.”

So that day I felt a little infected by that,

but the next day it was gone.

Then when I got home on Sunday,
I read all the reviews.

And?

By then I had put it behind me
enough to not feel the usual things...

like wanting to defend myself

or telephone to thank or to scold.

Those are pretty normal feelings...

and you have to control yourself sometimes.

You have a unique chance here
to share your thoughts and feelings,

and we have a chance to hear an artist's reaction

to how his work has been received.

What would you like to bring to our attention?

There are a lot of things,
but two I struggle with the most.

The first would be

that mentioning God's name today

in Sweden, in certain circles,

is like using obscenity at a church social.

There's terrible indignation and distress.

The second thing is related.

There are so many people who've said,

“Why can't he do something
other than these religious issues?

You'd think he'd turn
to something interesting soon.”

I've received many well-meaning suggestions

that I should stop this foolishness.

The question is, can you really...

advise an artist about his art?

What about self-centeredness?

Every artist who portrays his own issues,

and believes these issues
also pertain to other people,

has to use himself as material.

So self-centeredness is naturally present.

It really can't be any other way.

There is another thing.

And that is...

both the audience and the critic
have a need for identification.

What surprised me

was how they interpreted the priest

as a completely doltish figure,

while they identified the teacher

as the carrier of omnipotent love and goodness.

And that is really
missing the forest for the trees.

The terrible thing about the teacher,
as I understand it,

is that she has a very mixed personality,
just like the priest.

We're talking about two lost,
hurt and anxious human beings.

Today's critics have a fundamental attitude

that women can do no wrong.

Yes, and that's amazing to watch.

Don't you have conflicting feelings...

regarding reviews and critics?

Don't you despise them
at the same time that you need them?

Yes. And I want to win their approval,
and seek their company,

and explain myself to them,
and all kinds of things like that.

At the same time I have a feeling -

I once had a friend who was a critic,
and he told me,

“You shouldn't care too much about what we say,

because we're playing to the audience as well.”

That's been a source of solace many times,
and it also explains certain things.

How did you feel when you were a critic?

Didn't you feel like you were
performing for an audience?

No, the critic is very isolated from contact.

He writes in a void
and never knows if anyone reads it.

It's very lonely.

Can that create jealousy

in the critic towards the artist?

I never thought of that, but, yes, I was
jealous of the artists that succeeded,

and of the fact they had
an audience who listened to them.

How did you react when artists turned to you

with happiness or indignation or anger?

That hardly ever happened.

On the other hand, I was very ambitious.

I felt that I should understand

and be able to feel what it was all about.

And if I thought something was wrong,

I felt pressured to be able to analyze it

and have a theory about it.

Wasn't it hard sometimes to avoid

writing scathing, humorous reviews?

No, I was too scared to write scathing reviews.

Were you jealous of the critics who could?

Yes, very much so.

It looked so good when
they would spew out stuff like that.

The fact they dared to.

What do you mean by “dared to”?

That has to do with your view of life,
whether you dare to offend people.

But an artist is always at
a disadvantage compared to the critic.

Do you really mean that?

Yes. He cannot respond.

That's something you learn
from many years' experience.

Never ever respond to a critic.

Never discuss with a critic.

Never have any kind of contact with a critic.

There should be like a sterile space
between the critic and the artist.

I don't like that myself,
but I have learned from bitter experience

that it has to be that way.

The fact I once had
a good friend who was a critic,

and who taught me a lot and helped me many times,

is rather the exception that confirms the rule.

Do you remember when the first review
of The Mistress was printed?

By accident we had read an early review
in a local paper that was flown in.

It was terribly critical.

We were playing table tennis.

You had won almost every time we played.

But that evening,
after you read that review, I won.

Why do you think that was?

The scary thing about reviews
is that in some way they hit the target.

They may be distorted
and yet touch on very sensitive points.

Terribly sensitive.

It's almost the same thing...

as with erogenous zones.

Touch them gently and it feels good.

Touch them too hard, and it causes terrible pain.

It brings out a powerful aggression.

You want to defend yourself and push it away.

Don't you sometimes think
that a review is accurate,

and that you should take it
into account next time?

Yes, that happens.

But rarely?

And then there are critics
who are always respectful,

even while being very critical.

You never perceive it as anything but respectful,

and you can't help but feel grateful,

because they're always fair and conscientious.

You can only feel grateful to people like that.

The one thing that I hate

is when a critic tears someone apart.

Especially an actor.

You and I are behind the camera.

We don't have to go on stage the following night.

Our movie is a closed chapter.

It may hurt for a day.

It's like Trigorin says in The Seagull:

“When they scold me, I feel bad for a few hours,

and when they are nice to me, I feel humiliated.”

When a critic demolishes an actor

with a few curt words -

an actor who is completely unprotected,
completely naked,

and has to go on stage the next day
as the same character -

I think it's dreadful.

I have seen actors suffer
enormously before going on stage

because they feel so humiliated.

It's unbelievable such a thing can happen.

Isn't it a relief that the reaction
hasn't been so overwhelmingly positive?

Yes, it's a big relief. Very encouraging.

My solace is that...

when a film of mine opens,

I have either already made another film,

or I'm preparing for another film,
or I've made two new films,

or I'm working on a theater piece, or a TV show,

or I'm busy with other projects.

I think it would be horrible

to stand empty-handed

and surrounded by judgments.

Or right when I was beginning
something new and fragile.

Isn't that the most frightening thing?

So it's reassuring?

Yes, you feel constantly
that your energy replenishes itself,

that you continue on.

You leave behind one thing after another.

There's a tremendous joy in that.

For example, now that Winter Light
has been so harshly received,

which I had kind of expected,

but probably not too many other people had,

it's a great solace and inspiration to me

to have both The Silence

and this upcoming comedy to think about now.

And that last movie is going
to be dedicated to our critics.

Let's survey the whole filmmaking process,

including preparation of the script
and various other phases.

You said at one point that when
you finally go into the studio to film,

the interest and fascination
have already disappeared.

You just go in to do a job.

That's right.

What about being understood?

Did you suffer more in the past
from not being understood?

Well, some people understand, and others don't.

Like I said earlier,
these days I'm more secure in myself,

so it doesn't matter that much anymore.

Before, I was so anxious for people
to like me and the things I did.

That made everything so uneasy.

But nowadays I don't care that much.

I can't force people to like me,

so now I don't worry about it.

What about the people who watch your films

and don't feel anything?

How do you feel about that?

That's what's so awful.

The indifference - that's what I dread.

I can take the negative criticism
and the aggression,

the highly-charged emotions and all of that.

But I can't stand the indifference.