Men are but faceless idols cycling in and out of fashion in All These Women, hiding with infatuated fanatics behind facades of highbrow culture, and pulling at least one absolute truth from Ingmar Bergman’s sumptuously irreverent satire – art has no real relevance to the narcissistic pretensions of artists.
In place of open dialogue between characters in The Silence, Ingmar Bergman leaves an apathetic void of love and communication, formally manifesting his long-running existential fears of an unresponsive, godless universe within a stifled relationship between estranged sisters.
Akira Kurosawa’s riveting narrative in High and Low may start small with an agonising moral dilemma, but by the end of its criminal hunt it feels as if we have touched every corner of a sprawling city wracked with class warfare, forcing the rich and poor into bitter games of twisted revenge which turn both into miserable losers.
A pair of lonely masses bookends Winter Light’s spiritual crisis with a robust endurance of faith, focusing Ingmar Bergman’s intensive screenplay and severe direction upon a doubting priest bearing numerous similarities to a forsaken Christ, and uncovering a humanistic resilience which transcends religious boundaries.
Jean-Pierre Melville’s character study of a lonely, dead-eyed hitman hunted by both sides of the law is one of exceptionally intensive focus, matching Jef’s pragmatic efficiency with an equivalently methodical narrative and austere visual style, and developing the Paris of Le Samourai into a city of crushing isolation.
Beneath Ingmar Bergman’s eloquently cutting dialogue in Through a Glass Darkly is a family struggling in the absence of spiritual guidance, magnified to an even greater extent by the isolation of the island where they are vacationing, and yet finding the chance for redemptive grace in the smallest demonstrations of love.
Christian and pagan symbolism may be nothing new for Ingmar Bergman, but their manifestation in The Virgin Spring through such visceral violence is punishing even by his standards, thoughtfully considering in this parable of murder and revenge how virtue might survive our most guilty, godless instincts.
There is grace in the contemplation spurred on by the Bible’s parables, and through Au Hasard Balthazar’s elliptical, iconographic narrative, Robert Bresson conjures a similarly pensive meditation on suffering, adopting the perspective of a donkey being passed between multiple owners and its passive observations of humanity.
As he is written in Shakespeare’s works, the drunk, buffoonish Sir John Falstaff is a minor character, and yet in rearranging his scenes from multiple plays into Chimes at Midnight’s compelling tragicomedy, Orson Welles compellingly peels back the layers of his carefree hedonism, resourcefully reinventing the Bard’s classical narrative structures and archetypes as he goes.
In the absurd, Kafkaesque nightmare of Seconds, rebirth into a new body and life is a prospect that only the wealthy can afford, though what starts as high-concept sci-fi is transformed into psychological horror under the steady hand of John Frankenheimer, whose intrusive camerawork and unsettling narrative carves out existential musings over the source of human misery.
