March 2020 – AFTERFILM

The Irishman (2019)

“an elegy”

I guess that, for many, Martin Scorsese’s The Irishman (synopsis; trailer; cast & crew; rated R) might pose a bit of a conundrum, as one can find oneself being caught between the need to show an uncritical appreciation for this accomplished director and for the stellar cast – or, at the opposite end, one might actually dare oneself to be critical toward this star-studded film (and in consequence becoming overly-critical). Yet I do not think that any of these positions is necessary; instead, I think that one can enjoy the movie simply on its own merits.

And it is indeed a film that one can enjoy – while, at the same time, thinking about what was, in fact, Scorsese’s ultimate intention with it. At least, that’s what I found myself doing – both these things.

I chose the tagline above (“an elegy”) because the overall sentiment permeating the movie, and reaffirmed by its conclusion, is one of melancholy, sadness (the sadness of sin, which is the other side of the gangster glamour), and of Scorsese saying “good bye” – good-bye to the subject matter, to his favorite actors (De Niro, Pesci, Pacino), and perhaps to a good part of his artistic oeuvre. And even without reading too much into the underlying motivations, sadness, melancholy, and a sort of desolateness (yet not lacking in compassion) remain, indeed, the main sentiments that permeate this film.

Gone are the euphoric and youthful violence of Goodfellas, or the flashiness and glamour of Casino (although in those movies these somewhat appealing aspects were always counterbalanced – especially toward the end of the story – by the ugly, the unfulfilled, the tragic). Yes, they are gone, in the Irishman. Furthermore, while the characters are tridimensional and fully human – and thus worthy even of our compassion – the emphasis does falls, overall, on the desolation of it all (of this whole lifestyle). It’s as if Scorsese would like us to look at everything that happens, at this whole lifestyle and life choice, through the perspective of Frank Sheeran’s (the “Irishman” of the title) daughter, Peggy – whose eyes and presence accompany, silently judging, Frank’s entire trajectory (down to the final judgment expressed by her cutting all relations with him; and when does that happen? after the Hoffa episode, when – perhaps – Franck loses even the last bit of the integrity of his soul). What sets apart this movie, then, in Scorsese’s gangster oeuvre, is that here the “downside” of the life (la cosa nostra – “our thing”) is much more prominent – and the underlying sadness of this lifestyle seems to blend, in a way, with that melancholy with which Scorsese seems to be looking back at his life’s work.

Yet Scorsese still looks at his characters as human beings – full, tridimensional human beings (as he should!). This is facilitated by the actors’ excellent performances, but perhaps by none more than by Joe Pesci’s, who creates such a rounded, complex, fully human character, that it is hard to pinpoint just one thing that would define it (his character, his performance). What do I mean by this? Well, take Pacino, who plays Jimmy Hoffa in the movie; as good a performance as one would want, but also one in which certain notes clearly dominate (perhaps sometimes even a bit shrill?). Or, take De Niro, who plays Frank Sheeran; again, a thorough and “full” performance (as he “fills out” the character), but a resulting profile which could be best characterized through the word “gray”; gray, as in an emotionally- and existentially-stunted person, who is almost a “mute” in his incapacity to truly open toward the other(s) (and even “the Other”). And, in fact, there is no performance in this movie that is not good, within this stellar line-up (in addition to the three mentioned, featuring also Harvey Keitel, Ray Romano, Bobby Cannavale), and supported by great character actors (Jesse Plemons as Hoffa’s adopted son; Stephen Graham as Tony Pro; Sebastian Maniscalco in a deliciously juicy part; the wives played by Welker White / Jo Hoffa and Stephanie Kurtzuba / Irene Sheeran), as well as by tiny bits from other noteworthy artists (comedian Jim Norton as Don Rickles, or Steven Van Zandt stepping in as singer Jerry Vale). And, of course, let us not forget the young Peggy (Frank’s daughter), and her eyes – and in this sense I would like to remark especially the actress playing her, Lucy Gallina. So, only good things to say about this accomplished cast, and about their performances. And yet for me Pesci’s performance stands apart, as being the most inconspicuously rich and complex of them all: no flashy bits, whatsoever; and yet with an inner, pulsating – if sad, – life; combining warmth and menace; blending reserve and affection. The only thing that I would mention about Pesci’s character, Russ Bufalino, is that I would have liked to “feel” (and perhaps also to be shown) a bit more of his colder, violent side (although, yes, we are told that he never did any of those things himself, but had others do them for him).

Much has been made about the extensive use of special effects (CGI) in this movie, which also contributed to its high costs (which is why it could only be made in the context of Netflix’s policy of giving almost blank checks to certain prominent creators), and which also allowed for Scorsese to use his (by now aged) favorite stars, to depict a story that spans several decades. Watching the movie one is therefore aware of this feature, as well; and regarding its success (of this experiment – of de-aging actors in their 70s, to look like people in their 30s etc.), I would say that it had both its well-done (almost seamless), as well as its less-than-happy moments. Yet this is an issue that does not really interest me, at the end of the day; works of art are predicated on a willing suspension of disbelief from those who engage them; what matters, then, is less the individual type, or even the quality, of the effects, but that the same stylistic conventions be kept throughout, making the “universe” that the author creates consistent within itself (even a puppet theater can be deeply immersive, and we quickly forget that they are awkward puppets, if the same wooden figures are used throughout, and if the story is full of life). So, if I have anything to criticize about the use of CGI, it is precisely in relation to the unevenness that I mentioned – because it is that (and not the use of CGI in itself) that can take one out of the story. But all this is, ultimately, unimportant, because overall the experiment worked, and the story – which is what truly matters – worked, as well.

Another aspect that has attracted the attention of many is the length of the movie (about three and a half hours). Did it feel too long? No, I would say that it did not. Was I engrossed in it? Yes, I would say that I was – and that is all that matters. I mentioned in the discussion about Once upon a Time… in Hollywood that it happens sometimes with artists who have reached a certain status in the business, that they become a bit self-indulgent, losing a certain degree of self-discipline, and thus making choices that are detrimental to the artistic act itself. But I did not see that happening here – and not in terms of the length of the movie; because, as said, I was engrossed by it; because the story was rich, and continually moving, continually being told.

As in the other discussions on this website, I would also like to mention here some specific moments or aspects from the film that stood out for me, or that I liked in a special way. One such aspect would be the interesting (although by no means novel) parallel that Scorsese made between the violence of the mobster life, and the general (macro-level) violence of the society at large, through the references made to Sheeran’s experience in the army (in World War II – which is where he learned how to kill, and how to obey orders unquestioningly, for his own survival and self-interest; and thus where he started losing his soul, his connection with God – see the wartime promise that he broke soon thereafter).

Acting-wise, I also enjoyed nice little scenes such as that of Hoffa eating ice cream in the prison, and “conversing” with Tony Provenzano; or Sheeran’s phone call to Hoffa’s wife, Jo, after Hoffa’s “disappearance”.

I mentioned the elegiac, dismal, sad feelings underlying this movie – that is, this mobster life. In this regard, there is a sense of the sic transit gloria mundi, in reference to the trajectories and the demise of (all) the characters. (Demise which, for a number of minor characters, is announced and described at the same moment as we are introduced to them – with a freeze frame, and a brief text describing the manner of their future death.) So, sic transit a this-worldly “glory” that is predicated largely on the logic of power (brute force, violence). Yet eventually all this power fades, naturally. Thus, Frank Sheeran falls in his own house, as his legs simply give out, because of age and ailments. And, when in prison, they all look dismal, all these people who once were the city’s most powerful bosses; and Sheeran’s voice-over tells us that “we were all falling apart there, in the freezing f-ing cold” (an atmosphere aptly conveyed through tones of metallic blue and gray). And the power (violence) that helped these characters control their environments, everything, also had, simultaneously, the most destructive impact on their close relationships (the ones that normally would have been characterized by, and that would have needed mostly, the opposite – tenderness and affection). See here, of course, the relationship between Frank and Peggy (and the other daughters, as well) – and how, at the end, at the end of the day, he is all alone (“Peggy, Peggy, I just want to talk!” – he calls out). Not just alone, but, his power(s) naturally decaying and leaving him, Frank, who once used to “paint houses” (i.e. to dominate others through violence) is now completely and utterly dependent and reliant on others, on other people, on strangers’ mercy. And, by the way, he also finds that, slices of that mercy (from the nurse, from the priest – and, possibly, from God) – as Scorsese’s gaze never ceases to be compassionate.

Finally, in this movie, perhaps more than in any of his previous films of the genre, Scorsese’s characters have (and are) souls – which gives the foundation for and contributes to the overall elegiac tone of the movie. Because, when looking back from the perspective of the soul, what is there that actually remains?… The worldly power and glory? The nurse in the retirement home does not even know who Hoffa once was – let alone recognize the figure from the picture that Frank is showing her.

Following a longer coda (i.e. that part of the movie that follows after Hoffa’s disappearance), the actual ending of the movie is very apt, as well; Frank Sheeran asking the priest not to close the door to his room, but to leave it half-open, because he does not like (want) to remain alone, in the dark. Aloneness, the dark, the cold – attributes of hell, i.e. of the absolute lack of the good: love, warmth, relationships.

Overall, a long movie that reads like a good book, and that, on its own terms, is similarly satisfying.

The Seventh Seal (1957)

“dance macabre”

The Seventh Seal Eng I have seen Ingmar Bergman’s The Seventh Seal (synopsis; trailer; cast & crew: rating), a long time ago, so long that there was little that I remembered from it – before re-watching it very recently – besides a vague feeling of not having enjoyed it thoroughly, of having been somehow dissatisfied by it.

Well, after watching it again, I understand why it left me with those feelings. To put it very briefly (and somewhat vaguely), it has to do mostly with that dance macabre performed at the end of the movie, by most of the characters, under Death’s leadership… But let’s take things in order.

This film is somewhat different from others in Bergman’s body of work, being much richer in action (what happens “externally”) and number (and variety) of characters. I confess that I enjoyed these aspects of the movie (these “differences”) – as well as the fact that it is a kind of a “road movie,” which offers us a kaleidoscopic perspective of (a more-or-less imaginary, or real) Middle Ages. In other words, the movie possesses an “external” dynamism that is not present in some of the other Bergman movies (although all of them are rich in terms of the internal action, of what happens within the characters).

In terms of its “internal” action, then, The Seventh Seal seems to be engaged in the pursuit of some of the same questions that preoccupy Bergman in some of his other movies – and I am thinking here especially of his “God-trilogy”: Through a Glass Darkly, Winter Light, and The Silence (which were made within the seven year period that followed The Seventh Seal). This similarity in terms of the ”inner themes” is not happenstance, of course, as all these are auteur films, written and directed by Bergman himself. So, in a way, what we seem to have here is an enduring Bergmanian conversation or quest – in which we, too, can get involved, as viewers, or as fellow pursuers.

And what is this inquiry, this quest, about? I am not fond of treating works of art as “logical puzzles,” or of getting frantically engaged in looking for the meaning of metaphors, symbols and signifiers. I prefer instead that a work of art reveals what it has to reveal through (the portraying of) human existence itself – just as it happens in real life. (After all, in our “real” life we are not surrounded by walking symbolisms and metaphors.) That being said, when thinking about how to approach this movie, it occurred to me that one of the ways to do that would be by treating the main characters as, more or less, archetypes – in the sense of representing various ways of relating to life (and death), and of situating oneself within existence. Let’s go over these characters (and, presumably, archetypes), then, in order.

The main character – the hero of the story – is the knight Antonius Block. From the beginning we discover that Block is engaged in a struggle with the deepest questions, questions that he can not not ask – is there a God? why does He not answer? what is the aim of existence? – while also struggling with the fear of death (fear that spares none of the characters in the film). In this sense, Block seems to be the alter ego (or at least one of the alter egos) of Ingmar Bergman himself, as these are the very questions that drive this very movie, as well as those from his aforementioned “God trilogy.”

But, if this is one of Bergman’s alter egos, Block’s squire, Jöns, seems to be the other one – or another “side,” “facet,” or “face” of the auteur, of the questioner. (Perhaps, perhaps… needless to say, “perhaps”; as I do not have a definite explanatory key for this movie, nor am I fond of engaging in such quests for riddle-solving… but, let’s continue our exercise). Jöns represents (potentially) the “modern” person; that is, the modern “facet” of our questioner; that is, modernity, which has given up asking (the most important questions), because it has abandoned and reneged on the quest for God. As a result, the perspective that results from Jöns’ existential position is a cold and cynical one, a disabused one, of which the overarching characteristic is an ultimate lack of meaning. However, this does not stop Jöns from showing a degree of humane (humanistic?) compassion (toward the mute woman, or when Jof gets in trouble at the inn), as well as a sense of justice. But the overall impression that he leaves and creates is a disheartening one – and a slightly annoying one, as well, as when he keeps harping on the same dismal statements, and for which he is rightly shushed, at various times, by Block – and by Block’s wife.

But let’s get back to Antonius Block himself, the knight – who is probably the closest in spirit to the auteur / questioner himself, or at least to the question that is at the heart of the movie. Having returned from the crusades, after being gone for ten years – and after having witnessed, together with his squire, (presumably) much cruelty, misery, and meaningless suffering – Antonius is tortured by doubt; or, more accurately, by the conflict between his quest for knowing that God is, and God’s apparent silence in response to this quest.

(And, as mentioned, he doesn’t seem to be able to not ask, to can’t quell the need to know. “Do you never cease asking?” – asks Death (another character in the movie). “No, I never cease.” – replies Block. And why is that? Why can’t Block / Bergman stop asking? Well – says Block – because, “humiliatingly,” he can not “kill God” – or God’s imprint, or the need for God – within himself. And yet, this is a God that seems to remain silent, in the darkness into which Block keeps hurling his questions.)

So why does this God stay silent? In order to answer that, perhaps we have to look at the nature of the question that Block is asking. If we do that, we will see that what Block is actually looking for is not faith, but knowledge. And therein might just lie the problem – which, in many ways, is also (part of) our modern problem (or is it not?).

What do I mean by this? Well, it is known that Bergman was conversant with Søren Kierkegaard’s thought and works; and, indeed, I have seen glimpses of Kierkegaard in the ways in which Bergman approaches certain issues and questions, in other films (or so it seemed). But why is this relevant? Well, not for some “objective” purposes, such as examining whatever “influences” from Kierkegaard on Bergman, and so on. No, such things do not concern me, and should not concern us, really. The reason why Kierkegaard is of interest here is because he was engaged in a very similar quest, as Ingmar Bergman; at the height of modernity, he inquired into (and at) the intersection of faith, reason, and doubt.

If we employ then Kierkegaard’s perspective, and his results, it will become apparent that Block’s problem might be that the actual question that he is asking is not be the right one – inasmuch as what he is asking for is knowledge (certitude), and not faith. What is the difference? Why does this matter? Well, one of the important contributions brought by Kierkegaard to this issue was to clarify the distinction between the rational path of knowing, and faith’s path. Briefly put, for Kierkegaard faith is a specific kind of act or relationship, which begins exactly where reason’s powers end; that starts just beyond the limits of what reason can naturally attain to; in other words, that it is where the powers of reason falter, that faith, a qualitatively different act, comes about. After all, if “faith” and “reason” would have the exact same content, if they would be the exact same act, that there would be no need for different concepts to denote them.

Now, Kierkegaard was Protestant, which colored his approach, to a good degree; and this is why his explanation should (or could) be fleshed out with a bit of Catholic insight, as well – namely, that this distinction between the specific act of faith, and reason, does not mean that faith is an irrational act. No; it simply means that natural reason has its limits, and that a new path of knowledge exists as well that of faith – beyond reason’s natural limits. But why is then faith not irrational – if it goes where reason’s natural powers cannot carry us? Well, an answer to that is that, the universe being rational (intelligible), we also know that God (the Creator) is also rational (intelligible). In fact, this is why even pure, natural, unaided reason can and does take human beings, a good way, toward knowing God! However, there is a moment where reason’s “unaided” powers reach their limits; and this is where, while God remains the same intelligible, rational God, the path continues to be pursued, but through the aid of a qualitatively different act, namely faith. The Catholic tradition of thinking on the issue also adds to this that faith and reason, far from being contradictory, are in fact complementary – as two wings that help each other, and the human being, to know God. But, what does this all mean for the quest of our protagonist, Antonius Block?

Well, the quest in which Block/Bergman seem to be involved (consciously or unconsciously) seem to be that of inquiring about (the possibility of knowing) God within the modern context – a context defined (in many ways) by the fact that all other paths or means of knowledge – besides the empirical tools of Enlightenment rationality – seem to be excluded, to be unacceptable – not even talked about. It is in this exact context that the distinction between the specificity of the act of faith, versus that of the act of reason – as made by one of Bergman’s intellectual “partners of conversation”, Kierkegaard – becomes crucial. In other words, if you ask the wrong question, don’t be surprised if you do not receive the right answer; that a quest for knowledge, for empirical, provable certitude – and not for faith – will easily result in what looks like silence. Thus, if the characters in The Seventh Seal are archetypes representing various ways of relating to existence (that is: life, death, God), it would seem appropriate to add yet another character to this dance, one with whom Bergman was very much acquainted – that of Kierkegaard. And this character would be that of the “knight of faith” – who, by the way, is a crucial figure in Kierkegaard’s oeuvre – see the figure of Abraham in his book, “Fear and Trembling”. Introducing this Kierkegaardian character, then, helps us realize that Antonius Block is not a “knight of faith,” but a knight of doubt – and not of a doubt of faith, but a doubt that results from asking the incorrect question – which leads not to “knowing”, but to “silence”. (As Kierkegaard said – the opposite of existential doubt is not knowledge, but faith.)

Det sjunde inseglet (1957) Filmografinr 1957/03 These being said (and we did just say a lot), let’s continue with our overview of the main characters of the film – and the next one in that review would be the character of Death itself, whose interaction with the knight Block (which begins at the very beginning of the movie) provides the framework and the interlude within which the entire action of the film takes place. (By the way, Block’s game of chess with Death, which starts at the beginning of the movie, and give the context for the movie, might just be a metaphor – for the movie, for the quest, and even for life itself… but, truly, enough with the metaphors!) Well, this “Death” fellow makes for a strange character. Not because it is “Death”; no, but because of the peculiar characteristics exhibited by this “character” in this work of art. For example, Death professes to be “unknowing” itself (!), and thus to not be able to say anything about the “after-life.” Well, normally, if “anyone” or anything should be able to say something about the after-life, that would be Death! So, what does this mean? Well, it seems that in this movie this character of Death is presented – and is seen – quite narrowly; that is, only through the perspective of what Bergman (and us, general humankind) knows for sure about “death”. And, what do we know for sure? well, mostly, we know it as a limit – universal, ineluctable, immutable, coming-for-everyone – but a limit is most or all that everybody knows for certain about Death. And therein lies the problem – that, if this is all that we, spectators, the general public, know about a character, it is not also what the character itself – what Death – would know about itself! In other words, it is strange the character of Death is presented through this, as it were, foreshortened perspective, being limited (as a character!) by our existing knowledge of it; when, in fact, Death should be the very character that would bring us new information – both about itself, and about what follows thereafter. (And this as well serve as the beginning of an explanation for why I was unsatisfied with the movie, and that dance macabre that concluded it.)

I would say that this is some skewed and curiously “flat” character-building – which, I think, fails Bergman, as a creator, and fails the narrative, and fails us, the spectators. Why? Because each and every character that we encounter – just like any living human being that we would encounter in real life – needs to contribute (and naturally contributes) something that we did not know (because we are not them, because we only know them from the outside) to that encounter, to the narrative, and to our understanding (of them, of life, of everything). Such a closed, limited, flat vision of Death, as the one presented (apparently) in The Seventh Seal, has the opposite effect of limiting our understanding; thus this encounter, instead of enriching us, seems to strangely impoverish and limit – us, the movie, the quest. Quite frustrating and underwhelming, for me.

But let’s continue our discussion of the main characters / archetypes.

The next archetype is represented, perhaps, by what the French would call saltimbanques – travelling performers, artists, jesters; more precisely, a family of artists composed of Jof (Joseph), Mia (his wife), and their small boy, Mikael. What do these artists represent? Perhaps – innocence, simplicity; simple and natural life; the simple pleasures and benefits of everyday existence. Tellingly, they are the characters to whom Antonius Block relates the most favorably, in the movie, and in whose company he seems to be in the “sunniest” disposition. As he asks Death for additional time, to do “one more meaningful thing,” it will be this family of artists who will actually benefit from that act – as Block will (apparently) save their lives by detaining and derailing Death’s attention from them. In a way, this family of artists represents a counterpoint to the Block/Jöns duo – who are grim, heavy and laden with the memories and deeds of war (sinful?), versus the members of this family, who seem light, hopeful, and wholesome, and perhaps naturally innocent (and I find that a bit problematic, but more on this later).

Other characters – archetypes – are: the bad clown (or artist, or saltimbanque – who is, somewhat deservedly and appropriately, taken by Death before all the rest); the violent, impulsive, yet somehow likable blacksmith, and his prodigal wife (who has an affair with the “bad” artist); the mute woman (a woman who follows Jöns, after being saved by him from rape – but probably follows him simply out of a lack of alternatives, and basically for safety); and the fallen priest (or seminarian, who seems to have been the instigator of Block’s initial departure on the crusade, but who is now a lost soul, selfishly preying on both the dead and the living, and ‘preaching’ through his actions and demeanor a message of despair and cosmic abandonment); and, finally, Block’s wife, whom we meet only the end, when she welcomes Antonius and his travel companions at the manor, yet whose presence and actions make her a distinct voice in the entire narrative.

These being the main characters, let me also mention some moments from the film that I found interesting, revealing, or telling (for fleshing out the story, the quest, or the characters; or, just interesting). For example, how the mute (lost) woman suddenly speaks (!), but only at the very end, when she sees Death; and her transfigured face even seems to express a sort of happiness, or maybe relief, as if of finally being relieved from a tortured existence; her last words, tellingly, are “It is finished” (hearkening – not sure why – to Christ’s final words on the cross).

Then there is the fact that the ex-priest (who is now a ravenous wolf, and whose life is now a message of egotism, hatred and despair; and who is probably the most negative character in the entire movie) dies of the plague, in great suffering. uncomforted, and left utterly alone – although all of this happens within the eyesight (and in the context of the non-intervention) of teh entire travelling company (Antonius Block, Jöns, the mute woman, the blacksmith and his wife, and the family of artists). It seems therefore that his death matches his cosmically alone and desperate existence; that his abandonment of every other human being, during his lifetime, is matched by how he is abandoned by everyone else, when he dies (“Is there nobody to comfort me?”, he cries; no, there is none.).

There are also several scenes involving a young woman – mentally or spiritually deranged – who is accused of witchcraft or demonic possession (and who also accuses herself of the same); and who is taken to be burned; but whose sufferings are (humanely) shortened by the ingestion of some substance fed to her by Antonius Block.

Somewhere around the middle of the movie there is also a scene in which two “spectacles” are being juxtaposed – one, of the saltimbanques putting on a humorous play of some sort, to informatively entertain the peasants during these times of plague (and the village folk are entertained, to a degree, but overall are only half-attentive) – and the other, of the entrance of a wailing, grim cortege of penitents (who do attract the frightened and impressed attention of all the people). So, what do these two parallel spectacles represent? Two responses to the plague? Or, two types of existential responses to “plague” of death, itself? Or, a commentary on the people’s own ways of dealing with these heavy issues – that they are generally inattentive and scatterbrained, and only receptive to being frightened?

Speaking of the “people”, it is interesting how the “general” public (or at least the wide cross-section of people that is present, eating and drinking, at the inn) is portrayed as being characterized mostly by ignorance and by ill-will. In other words – the “crowd,” the mases, are not “good;” and they do not represent a “solution” (a message with which Kierkegaard would resonate).

But, why the plague? Why does the plague (that is ravaging the country) give the overall context and background for the movie? Could it be that its (threatening, unseen) presence gives Bergman (and the movie) the context and opportunity to ask questions that would otherwise (and usually) be avoided (especially in our modern context)? In fact, the plague – which can take anyone, anytime; which hangs, threateningly, above and around everyone – seems to be similar, in many ways, to death itself (which also hangs, unseen… etc.). And, while the plague might not be around, today, death still is – and yet, the fundamental questions about death (and existence) are no longer posed, in our (and Bergman’s) modernity. The very setting of the story in (Bergman’s vision of) the Middle Ages might serve a similar purpose, as well: to allow him (and us) to ask such questions, questions that in modernity are simply muted (yet which are no less “actual,” important, and universal, as in any other moment of human history).

But perhaps now would be the time – after this overview of characters and situations – to tackle that “unsatisfactory” ending, and why I found the movie, overall, slightly disappointing. Yes, I did find the movie engaging in numerous ways –through the richness of its action and of its characters, as well as through its road movie-like survey of a more-or-less imaginary “Middle Ages”. All that was enjoyable – and I found that satisfactory. The “quest,” however, which drives the movie, was not as satisfactory, in the end – and I mention this because that is not the case with what happens (with the same quest) in his “God-trilogy” of Through a Glass Darkly, Winter Light, and The Silence. And what is the major difference between this movie, and the pones from that trilogy? Well, perhaps it is the fact that in those other movies the principal quest – and thus our questioning – remain open (as it is appropriate, in a work of art)

Can those movies be interpreted in different keys, some that might be similar to the “answer” given by The Seventh Seal. Yes, why not. However, ultimately those three movies do not close the question, but leave it open – by leaving the interpretation of the movie open to us, those who encounter and engage with the work of art. But why do I say that The Seventh Seal does it differently – and wrongly; and what is my problem with that “dance of the dead” (dance macabre) that concludes the movie? Well, it all has to do with that flat or foreshortened perspective on Death that we discussed above. When, at the end of the movie, all (or most) of our main characters are chained in a long, grim and wild dance macabre, being led by Death (with scythe and hourglass in its hands) toward (it seems) the “dark territories” – then Death, who is “unknowing” in this film, has the last word – and that is not right. And the problem is not that Death has the last word – but that this ignorant Death, this flat character that has brought little or nothing to the dialogue, does that. In other words – we start from ignorance, we meet a Death character that is flattened and impoverished by having been designed by Bergman according to said initial ignorance (so why introduce it, then?), and we end with the same. Most unsatisfactory.

Unsatisfactory, because this also closes the meaning and reach of the film, as a work of art. A work of art’s goal and mission is to engage the person who encounters it; art happens at and in this meeting point – that is what art is. No matter the artist’s own interpretation, or position, the true artistic object – once produced – obtains a life and being of its own, imbued with meaning, which comes alive in and through the interaction with each separate, individual person (each of them bringing their own world of understanding, experience, meanings – to this encounter). This is what it means for a work of art to be alive – it is and comes alive, in this encounter; in each encounter, anew, as long as it will exist. But, for this encounter to happen, the engagement needs to be left open, possible, un-closed. (This is why propaganda or ideology results in dead art,) Bergman most certainly did not engage in any such closed-thinking attempts, such as propaganda. However, comparing The Seventh Seal with the God-trilogy, I feel that (no matter Bergman’s own verdict) at the end of each of those other movies I am left still open, free, and thus continuing to engage and converse with the artistic object – long after having seen it. While many aspects of this movie do keep me engaged, hours and days after seeing it, I feel that it is exactly in its main quest (or what I think is its main quest) that it fails to do so – because the movie seems to close the very quest in a flat, unsatisfactory, and disappointing manner. Or so it seems to me.

Because, of course, other interpretations (even of that ending) are also possible (of course!). For example, let’s take the family of traveling artists. One thing that we do know, from the movie, is that they are the most positive characters in it – as said, somewhat in juxtaposition with the disheartened & disillusioned Block/Jöns duo. However, if this is, as it were, Bergman’s positive answer to “the quest” – if this is it, the great answer, as it were – well, then the “answer” is both underwhelming and problematic. Yes, there is something – in fact, quite a lot – quite attractive about the wholesome, simple, (even) naturally innocent picture of this family; on the other hand, if this is the solution, Bergman’s answer, this idealization of “natural life,” of the “natural pleasures of life” – then it is, how shall I put it, quite simplistic, low brow, underwhelming, and unworthy of Bergman’s artistry. Furthermore, if this is what they are meant to represent, then, although this movie was made in 1957, this seems like a foreshadowing of the hippie era of the 60s and 70s; and, let’s be serious, we all know that they were quite far from being the “answer” to anything.

But there is yet another possible interpretation (and, I’m sure, many others). Somewhere at the beginning of the movie, and somewhat passingly, another aspect is introduced – which is not repeated or insisted upon, later. Namely, right at the beginning there is a scene of Jof having a most luminous, light and peaceful vision of the Virgin Mary (as a queen) walking her unclothed baby boy, Jesus (through the grass). And we are told that this is not the only vision that he’s had (of such kind)! So, what does this mean? Does this artist family represent (and contribute thus to the movie) an “open”, luminous possibility – that same open, luminous possibility that seemed to have been closed by the grim dance macabre at the end? Furthermore, the simple and direct way of “seeing” of these people (the artists), might it even be a metaphor for faith (?) – as different from Block’s quest for sure knowledge?

Or, perhaps, are the characters chained to and dancing behind Death, the “sinners” (because, yes, most of them are burdened by concrete sins, that we know of), being taken (as Jof says, when he sees the dance macabre in his vision) toward the dark territory? While, au contraire, are the members of the family of artists… the innocents (in this story)? But then, given that Antonius Block did actually perform a very meaningful (and good!) final deed, saving this family of artists, why is he also in that dark chain of death? Yes, I don’t know…

But, as said, I am definitely not fond of trying to solve “riddles” – so I will let all this here be as it is (was). Was this an enjoyable and engaging, even entertaining movie experience? Yes, it was, in many ways. At the end, however, it turns out that my vague memory proved to have been correct, and that things have not changed – that this movie, as an artistic and existential experience, does still leave me somewhat unsatisfied, slightly disappointed – for the “dance macabre” reasons explained above.

Dead Snow (2009) & Dead Snow 2: Red vs. Dead (2014)

“reckless, hilarious, and violent camp / a double feature”

Dead Snow large Tommy Wirkola’s two movies, Dead Snow (synopsis, trailer, cast & crew, rating), and Dead Snow 2: Red vs. Dead (synopsis, trailer, cast & crew, rating), stand out as some of the most entertaining films (funniest, and most fun) that I have seen in the last two decades; and what truly sets these movies apart is the unbound creativity and wild sense of humor that drive them. From the filmmaker’s perspective, the quest at the heart of these movies seems to have been, how to find the comedic in a horror-type movie (a genre, by the way, that does not really interest me); well, it takes a particular kind of imagination, kind of like the one at play in Sam Raimi’s (and Bruce Campbell’s) Evil Dead movies (especially 2 & 3).

Dead Snow 2 large It is not by chance, then, that Dead Snow makes reference, both textually and filmically, to those movies. However, these are not some Evil Dead “wannabes”; no, these are original works, while also being fully aware of the cinematic universe that preceded and that surrounds them (and not only within the genre; thus, in DS 1 one of the characters is a cinephile who often references or quotes from other movies; while in DS 2 the clash between the Nazi zombies and the Soviet ones is informed, visually, by the choreography of the battle scenes from Braveheart – for example).

Nazi zombies, you say? What, Soviet zombies? What is this? What this is, is camp, and of the best kind; and in these two movies a lot of the entertainment comes from taking these ridiculous premises to their “natural” conclusions, while in the process also allowing for the outrageous violence inherent in the genre (and in these premises) to play out – without inhibitions. Not grimly, mind you; and the best way to explain how this works would be to say that violence (and action), when played in a ruthless and camp manner, results in slapstick; slapstick that has weight (these are real characters, we even care about them – especially in DS 2), but that is also unbridled and wild and unexpected. This is why I mentioned “unbound creativity,” as a defining trait of Wirkola’s work in these films (he both wrote the scripts and directed them) – because while working within a defined genre (“slasher,” maybe – in DS 1), or even “creating a new genre” (as one character says, tongue in cheek, in DS 2), what sets these movies apart is the wild recklessness (and yet, also artfulness) with which violence, gore, accidentally resurrected zombies, evil Nazis, and a possessed arm create a mix of mayhem and humor that plays freely through the realms of camp, kitsch, action, and – even – war.

But here one must make a distinction between Dead Snow, and Dead Snow 2: Red vs. Dead, in the sense that, in the first movie, that aspect that I mentioned as setting these movies apart and making them tremendously enjoyable – namely that wild reckless violent camp – only really kicks in during the last third of the film. Taken as a whole, the first Dead Snow is an enjoyable romp, really in the mold of Evil Dead 2 – a group of students, in a cabin, in the snowy mountains of northern Norway, who accidentally resurrect (or draw the attention of) Nazi zombies. As said, the bulk of the action starts around the middle of that movie, and then really accelerates and devolves into excellent and juicy mayhem, in the last third (or thereabouts). The sequel, however (Dead Snow 2) – which also benefited from a higher budget (not that the first did not have good production values) – takes what was the best from the first one, accelerates it, and starts with that – with a reckless abandon of fun and violence, and then keeps it up throughout (yet never in a monotonous way), culminating in a final, most enjoyable battle between the “Red” and the Nazi (un)dead.

Recklessness is a word that I mentioned several times – and this is, in many ways, where the humor comes from. What do I mean? Well, why are so many comedies or even horror movies actually… boring? Because their humor seems canned and pre-planned; mediocre sit-com like, they say funny (or do scary) things, but none of those words or actions actually takes us by surprise, is unexpected. Well, in the best parts of DS 1, and in most of DS 2, Tommy Wirkola pushes the pedal to the floor exactly in the right spots – because, let’s be honest, this is a ridiculous premise, and zombies are ridiculous in themselves, and gore and mayhem is inherently funny, if played out with ruthlessness both toward the principal characters (some surprises there), and, of course, toward (all) the bystanders. Yes, because nobody is spared; for a long time, in DS 1, I did not even know who was supposed to be the main character, whom I should be rooting for – and who, if anyone, should I expect to survive, at the end of the movie (well, do any?); while in the second – well, nobody, no category of population, is spared – with the most hilarious consequences.

Because where does the hilarity come from, in fact? Where does the humor come from? Well, from the clash between our regular, tame expectations, and what actually happens; from encountering the paradoxical and the contradictory, even the absurd; but, here’s the thing, within the context of these scenarios, none of what happens is actually “absurd” – only that the other movies of the genre do not dare to go “out there” and to swing so wildly (for comedic effect). This is why while watching these movies I have laughed more, and more heartily, than probably at any other movie that I have seen over the past two decades (and this is no exaggeration). In addition, I always find it so very rewarding to encounter a truly creative mind, and freely roaming artistic creativity.

There are some wonderful individual touches, as well. The way the first movie starts with the image of a girl being chased by (what turn out to be) zombies, through the snowy mountains of Norway, on the soundtrack of music from… The Nutcracker (music that keeps accelerating, ever so slightly). The hilariously “aesthetic” framing (positioning) of the zombie Nazis, lined up artistically around their leader, at various moments – for example, while preparing to attack. And how the movie plays on our expectation for the heroes to truly become heroes, and to bring a much deserved comeuppance upon these nasty zombies – with chainsaw and machine gun and so on. And the rewarding scene of the Soviet zombies rising menacingly from the frozen ground, to compose an army for our hero, in order to fight the Nazis! And the relentlessly and unfailingly funny – and continuously amplified – running gag with the “pet zombie,” in DS 2. And DS 2 culminating with that side-splittingly hilarious and truly outrageous scene – with references to Titanic (!), and set on the soundtrack of a famous, kitschy pop ballad; and yet also, somehow, rewarding – because Wirkola also manages to insert, amid all the mayhem and chaos, a central emotional thread, going throughout the second movie, and tying it together, to a degree, and making us care (!) even more for the main character.

Of course, there are less than successful moments, as well. I think that the “guts” gag is a bit overdone (used too much), in DS 1; also in that movie, I find the mauling scenes somewhat underwhelming, neither scary nor shocking; however, also in DS 1 there are two jump scares (which, by the way, do not abound, thankfully) that are very effective (while there are none, really, in DS 2 – because it does not need them anymore). In DS 2, which is overall most enjoyable, some weaker parts come from the presence of the American characters – mostly because of the characters of the two girls, in fact, which do not feel as realistic and as grounded as the rest of the characters in the movie (Norwegian ones). Perhaps this is because these American actors bring a bit of that canned, clichéd approach to what is otherwise a grounded, dirty, very realistic (!) (within the conventions of this ridiculous plot) Norwegian story. But I think that the American “guy” does a good job, overall – playing it adequately campy, but not unserious.

And this takes me to another aspect that is worthy of being discussed – that in order for humor (or horror) to work, it needs to be played straight; comedy results when we see reality clashing with appearances or with expectations; but for this to happen, we need to feel that the characters are real people, in real situations, acting fairly realistically (as we would, in their stead). If the story and acting feel artificial, then the comedic effect is lost; because that unexpected discovery of the clash between appearances and truth does not take place (and what is “truth” in a given narrative is what corresponds to its premise and conventions, no matter what those might be, and what the genre is – be it fantasy, horror, sci-fi etc.).

For example – speaking of taking the premise to its natural conclusions, and of Wirkola’s free and funny imagination – how about that scene with the Nazi zombie “MASH” unit, “treating” the “wounded” zombies, during the battle with the Soviet undead… I mean, seriously!

All in all, then, a mix of violence, horror, camp, wild imagination, and a wicked sense of humor, recklessly and ruthlessly following the story wherever it takes us, make these movies an exceedingly entertaining double feature. Because I would insist, indeed, that these two movies are best watched as a double feature, as DS 1 truly sets up and grounds DS 2 (while also being, in itself, an entertaining little gem of a movie, within its genre) – and while DS 2 is thereafter an unbridled and free-roaming adventure that hyperdrives the camp and the action, while also constructing a fairly rewarding narrative.

As a side note, I would recommend that you watch DS 1 in the original Norwegian (there is also an unlikable version dubbed into English, which I avoided like the plague); the second movie, however, seems to have been released both in Norwegian, and in a version in which the Norwegian actors dubbed (ADR’d) themselves in English; well, since most Scandinavians speak English well, and since this approach keeps their natural voices and their accents – and also since DS2 has some actual English dialogue, as well, due to the presence of the American characters – I would recommend the “naturally dubbed” DS2, as an authentic and very enjoyable version.

(Speaking of releases and versions, I should also note here that the trailers to these movies do not do them justice, exactly because they do not seem to understand what actually sets these movies apart, and because they try to present them as fitting into the usual horror or slasher clichés – which they do not, and which they are not.) Speaking of genres, I would not even classify these movies – well, at least DS2, as a horror movie; instead, I would rather call it an action-adventure comedy with a horror premise. Because this is how one can best enjoy it – kind of like Evil Dead 3.