S – AFTERFILM

Solaris (1972)

“what is man? a poetic meditation on a sci-fi story”

Solaris 3 I remember how, after watching Andrei Tarkovsky’s Solaris (synopsis; trailer; cast & crew) for the first time (many years ago), it left me (and I left it) with a slight feeling of incomprehension. But I also remember that I enjoyed a lot – and still do, after my most recent viewing of the movie – the “tools” that Tarkovsky uses to create a futuristic (and, at times, fantastic) world. I am referring here to the use of mid-twentieth century environs and objects (brutalist architecture; concrete tunnels and suspended highways; or the cars of the moment, but with added antennae, and with modified sound etc.); to the choice of filming certain “common” materials and surfaces in such a way, that they can “stand in” for environments and places in the movie (e.g. the close filming of various liquids or of smoke, to create the impression of the Okean – the ocean – of Solaris); and to Tarkovsky (and his cinematographer) using practical and in-camera effects to give the impression of different situations or states of being. The research station itself, in fact, is a good example of how to use available and less-expensive props, to construct a futuristic, even a bit alien, environment – and doing that with creativity and charm (even if the “seams” are sometimes visible). Yes, I liked these aspects when I first saw the movie – and I still like them now; but, returning to my initial point, if last time I saw the movie I left with a slight feeling of incomprehension, what is the situation now, after my most recent viewing of the film? Do I understand Solaris, now? Or, more importantly – what kind of “understanding” are we talking about – or should we be talking about, in fact?

Well, the kind of “understanding” with which I prefer to approach the meeting with a piece of art – and that yields the richest fruits, from that meeting – is (as I mentioned elsewhere) not a rationalistic, “puzzle-solving” one. In fact, I am acutely bored by works that offer – or even demand – only that sort of “understanding”. And I think that the very problem with my initial encounter with Solaris, and part of the reason why I left (almost) empty-handed, that time, was that I was inherently looking for a “rational” interpretation and comprehension of the work, being trained to do so, by previous viewings of works from the “sci-fi” genre (and whether or not this movie can even be categorized within that genre is yet another discussion). For my most recent viewing of the film, however, I adopted (with more courage, I would say, but almost unawares, or in a natural way) another approach – which is the one that I prefer, by the way; and I could call this approach “poetic-lyrical”, or one in which I allow the piece of art to have its emotional-existential impact on me, without forcing a rational, puzzle-solving interpretive key on it. And you can read more about the results of this specific encounter in what follows:

Thus, the main “result” of the encounter – the principal imprint that the movie left on me – is the feeling that I had just been engaged in a meditation on what it means to be human; a meditation of a poetic-lyrical, and philosophical, and existential kind – and endeavored using the framework of a sci-fi story. A lyrical-philosophical meditation, then, and not the meditation of an “accountant” – which is what Kris Kelvin, our main protagonist, starts out as being. “Accountant” understood figuratively, of course – because Kelvin is, in fact, a scientist; a psychologist, even; but a kind of scientist (who pursues the kind of science) that might represent one of the sad and barren, blind alleys of modernity. In other words, pursuing not the science of “wonderment”, which is eager to search and to discover the human beings – or beings, in general – as and how and where they are; one that is open to being surprised, even overwhelmed, by what it discovers; and one that “reads” reality with all the capacities of understanding and feeling of the human being; no, but a reductionist kind of science, of algorithms and formulae, of reducing reality to what can be quantified and measured; a “science” that in effects blinds the researcher to the fullness of reality, and which yields no meaningful results – about beings; and an approach that, it turns out, is actually inhuman, and thus not fit to understand human beings – or other beings. And Kris Kelvin’s father, Nik, tells “us” these things, that his son has an “accountant’s” approach, right at the beginning of the movie – but we connect the dots only later, realizing also why there is, seemingly, a deep and entrenched mis-understanding, lack of communication, distance, or gap, between Kris and his father. And later we also realize that right at the beginning of the film we were shown the ways in which the father is so different from his son – see his house, which is a re-construction of an “old” (i.e. twentieth century) house, and which is filled with the artefacts of human culture (books, paintings, busts) – i.e. of humanity. Kris, meanwhile, while living at the same place, is instead consumed by his “dry” work – and he even has to be forced by the father to take a break every day, to go out and to walk through (and to gaze at) nature. Because, as Kris himself tells us (with quite some pride), he “is no poet”; instead, he is “interested in the truth” – but a truth as confined by the limits of his “accountant-like” scientific understanding.

And yet all of this will change, brusquely and radically, once Kris gets to the research station that hovers above the surface of Solaris, this planet that had remained “impenetrable” (in terms of being able to dissect it with the tools of rationalistic science) for the human beings, for so many decades – so much so that they are now considering shutting down the entire research station on Solaris (and/or resorting to the most violent means of “science”). What takes place, then, with Kris Kelvin, on (or, rather, above) Solaris, is a sort of “conversion” – from “accountant”, to full human being. And, interestingly enough, it is in and through the encounter with an alien “thing” – with the Okean (this “thing” that seems to be able to perceive, and then to physically manifest, the content of these human beings’ psyche, or consciousness, or selves) – that Kris, and perhaps the other scientists, will re-learn (or maybe learn for the very first time) how to be human.

I really liked the Okean – this ocean on the surface of Solaris, which appears to be a “being”, or ”thing”, of a raw emotional nature; and whom, in consequence, the humans have been unable to “understand” or to communicate with, using the tools of reductionist science; but who will be “tamed” eventually (and with whom contact will actually be made) when it will be given access, finally, to the very raw “selves” of the human beings (by transmitting to it Kris Kelvin’s electroencephalogram); yes, only then true communication will be achieved between this raw emotional self that seems to be the Okean – and the raw and true human selves of the human beings. Because the Okean had been trying to communicate with the human beings, consistently and from the beginning, but only within the bounds and through the means of its own “natural” possibilities – i.e. by replicating (in physical form, through real embodiments) the content of the inner selves of the researchers (and in the process driving some of them almost mad, or at least puzzling them to no end, given that their reductionist scientific paradigms could not even begin to make sense of these… “hallucinations” that were flesh-and-bones).

Indeed, what happens when a civilization that has apparently lost the capacity of being fully human, and that becomes limited (at least in regards to its decision-making) to rationalistic, quantitative, reductionist thinking – what happens when this civilization, through its “scientific” vanguard, meets a being that is only, and purely, an emotional self – and that therefore can only communicate in those terms, and only with the raw human selves? Well, in the movie this had lead, as said, to decades upon decades of in- or mis-communication, and almost to a final disaster -– until the humans succeeded (almost by chance) in finding a way to connect; that is, until they, the human beings themselves, re-discovered their own selves , which then allowed them to communicate that very self to the raw, emotional self of the Okean.

But, getting back to Kris Kelvin’s “conversion”, or transformation, I would have liked for the emotional violence of the initial shock to be portrayed more visibly, more powerfully – and this remark touches in fact on a certain formalism that characterizes (to a certaibn degree) the acting style employed in many of Tarkovsky’s movies (which I do not find appealing – but which I eventually learned to accept as a stylistic feature, or as a specific idiom, within this cinematic universe). Yet the reason why I would have liked a more “violent” depiction of the initial shock underwent by Kris, is that this shock will be the main catalyst of Kris’ thoroughgoing, deep transformation, which will take place throughout the rest of the movie. I am referring, of course, to the initial, self-shattering shock of seeing his wife (who had been dead for ten years) be materialized next to him – and, as it turns out, out of him (his psyche). His wife, who had committed suicide ten years earlier, because she had realized that Kris could never actually love her, nor give himself fully to her – because his work (his dry, rational work) was his true love, and always came first for him, as a matter of an intentional and conscious choice. But not anymore, but not now – because the festering wound that seems to have lurked at the heart of Kris’ self will now produce, through the mediation of the Okean, a being (Khari, or Hari), who is… his wife, “re-born”; and who will soon become, as Kris says, “worth more to me than science can ever be”. And these feelings will remain even as Kris realizes and knows (leading, initially, to attempts to physically get rid of this Khari) that she is a materialization from and by the Okean; but also that she is, otherwise, and in fact, very real indeed: flesh and blood, and true self, and true emotion – i.e. with the emotional rawness and reality of his (ex-)wife. One can even say that Kris accepts this Khari’s “otherness” (that she is, as a “being”, distinct from his dead wife) and yet that he loves her, nonetheless – and even (perhaps) because of and through that.

And what a lovely and moving “being” is “embodied” by the Okean – a being that, although made by the Okean, and reflecting Kris’ psyche, is autonomous and independent from the Okean, in terms of her self-awareness (even if she can never physically leave Solaris) – and which is also desperately “not” autonomous, and literally unable to live without, or even far away from, Kris (any attempt at physical separation leading to very violent and harmful consequences for her). But she is real, yes – and very real for Kris, as well; perhaps even more real than his previous wife; because the relationship that they develop (Kris and this Khari) is itself real and emotional and powerful and close – and probably more powerful than the “original” relationship ever was. But this Khari, having an autonomous consciousness, will end up (sadly, again) being driven to despair by the realization of the fact that she is not, and can never be, the “original” – and seemingly also by the fact that she simply can not believe that Kris will ever be capable of loving her, truly (!) – given that she is not the “original”. (But I confess that this aspect, of the reasons why this Okean-born-Khari succumbs to despair, is one that I did not fully “understand” – in terms of a full and rational comprehension of the motives.)

But Khari – while ever so lovable and fragile and beautiful (as portrayed by Natalya Bondarchuk) – and while so important for the change that Kris undergoes – is not, however, the central theme of the movie (although she is its central “mechanism”, and where its “heart” beats, or starts beating). The theme of the movie, instead – its core subject – seems to be “the discovery of humankind” – in the ironic context of the fact that they (we) have to go to a different planet, and encounter an alien “being”, in order to discover (again) what it is to be human.

“Being human” – a condition whose artefacts are strewn throughout the movie: from Nik Kelvin’s house, as mentioned; to the “library” on the station, which is also their main meeting place; to conversations between the scientists (with running references to Don Quixote, Tolstoy, Faust, Dostoevsky, and the like); to the classical music that plays on the soundtrack (Bach, of course – and others); to the paintings (e.g. the gregarious Brueghel; or Andrei Rublev’s icon of the Trinity, used in a nice act of cinematic self-reference); to the busts of philosophers and to primitive art; and even to certain artefacts of science itself (e.g. a model of the human body). All these are manifestations of what it means to “be human” in a way so much richer, and broader, and more complex, than what an accountant-like, reductionistic approach, could ever begin to fathom and to understand (and, remember, Kris is supposed to be a … psychologist; that is, a knower of the human psyche – task at which he fails miserably, both as an “accountant”, and as someone who has no real understanding and awareness of the content of his own self).

And here we can recall how Kris dismissed the witness of one of the first people who had engaged with the Okean, Berton – how he brushed away his testimony as “scientifically nonsensical” talk of the “soul” and the like etc. In this sense, Kris’ path to becoming fully human is also a path that leads to the (re)discovery of a broader way of doing “science”, of a broader kind of “understanding” – one driven by wonder, and one that is fully open to being, to reality (instead of shutting itself up to it, in the name of – and by virtue of – its narrow-reductionist instruments).

And his trajectory of transformation will also take Kris Kelvin from being a thwarted, wounded, internally-warped human being – to being healed, to becoming fully human. And perhaps this is the meaning of the last scenes of the movie, as well – scenes that, it turns out, are actually a materialization from the Okean, reflecting presumably Kris’ psyche – and in which Kris Kelvin, who in reality decided to remain indefinitely on the Solaris station, gets to reconcile with his father, at his father’s house (a father who, as said, seems to embody or represent a fuller understanding and existential expression of humanity). And this reconciliation also seems to embody, symbolically and factually, the inner healing of Kris’ self; him becoming fully human.

Having said all this about the “story” of the movie, about what “happens” in it, let me now remark on a realization that struck me quite powerfully, while watching the movie – namely, of what I would call Tarkovsky’s “courage to make high art”; a courage that, to put it quite bluntly, I would be hard pressed to find in any (really, in any) of today’s film directors (well, Sophia Coppola might come to mind, as an exception from that, and regarding certain aspects of her work). I am referring to the fact that Tarkovsky dares to “speak” the language of high art; and to speak about and to make direct reference to high art; and to say important things, about the most essential dimension of the human existence; and to say all this in a strikingly beautiful manner. For example, even daring to ask “what it means to be a human being” – and to use the language and the artefacts of the accumulated human civilization to address this – is a feature hardly encountered either in film, or in art, more generally. Who does this anymore – in a veritable, genuine, truly artistic manner? But perhaps this dearth of real art and real humanity only confirms the core message of the film – about our modern age’s cultural reductionism, and about the subsequent loss of humanity, which follows in its footsteps; because, indeed, we seem to live that kind of impoverished existence, and to feel its consequences in art, in science, and in the types of “understanding” that are deemed acceptable in our times. (And when I refer to Tarkovsky’s “courage to make high art”, this does not mean some empty, pompous, formal, snobbish references to “Western civilization”, or to “Culture”; something like building in “Gothic” style, in the twenty-first century, in an act of meaningless and inauthentic imitation; no, I am referring instead to the courage of asking the essential questions – and of knowing, engaging, and being able to enter into a dialogue with, the answers that the human beings have given to these question throughout their history, throughout civilization; and to being able to speak the language of “human civilization”, naturally, with ease, and at the highest level.)

But experiencing Tarkovsky’s “courage to make high art” can also act encouragingly with regards to our own internal (artistic) cowardice, cowardice into which we might have been cowed as a result of being surrounded, overwhelmed even, by tremendously unambitious, mediocre, low-aiming “artistic” endeavors – and because one is not sure if there is even a public, anymore, who would be interested in hearing, let alone be able to engage with and to understand, such an (high, ambitious, meaningful) artistic language.

Another aspect that struck me about the movie Solaris – an aspect that “lingers” throughout the movie, appearing in flashes and brushstrokes – is “beauty” itself; its presence, in many different forms – its daring and comforting presence. Beauty being – we realize, now – another essential (and unique) manifestation of being human, of a full and true humanity.

A few more remarks – bits and pieces – about particular aspects or moments that have caught my attention; for example, the presence of a horse, which is one of the leitmotifs of Tarkovsky’s movies – and who, for me, represents the artist (as an instinctive, emotional, free, unruly, yet beautiful being; who is naturally what he is, and can only be what it is). (Indeed, an artist is like a bird – and “a bird can but sing”, because that is its nature; as explained in the movie The Lives of Others, by an officer of the secret police, the found out that breaking the “bird’s capacity to “sing” is the most effective and definitive way of breaking its very being.)

As I mentioned above, I also liked the fact that the Okean is portrayed as such a raw, emotional being – and also the fact that the woman, Khari, is also portrayed as an essentially emotional being – and frail, vulnerable, and very lovable, because of that; a kind of portrayal that, again, few would have the courage to pursue, today (but here, again, we are talking about the courage to make art; and what is art if not the expression of truth, as it is, where it is, and how it is?).

Let me conclude with a quote, whose exact spot in the movie I can not recall (but which must be from one of the many conversations between Snaut and Kris) – something about “the mysteries of happiness, death and love” – because it seems to encapsulate quite aptly the richness of a true (artistic, lyrical-poetic, wonder-driven, fully human) understanding of what is a human being.

And let me conclude with a question, as well: namely, whether Andrei Tarkovsky is one of the last exponents of this classical understanding – or, one could say, this understanding cultivated within Western civilization – of what is a human being.

And let me also conclude by attempting to answer my initial question, which started this discussion – namely, whether I “understand” the movie Solaris, now, after my most recent viewing of it. In order to answer this question, I will make a reference to what the movie itself seems to teach us – namely, that the only possible approach to grasping the fully human, is one that is driven by wonder, and that is characterized by an openness to the entirety of the human experience – including its past expressions. And art – according to a long-standing convictions of mine – is the branch of “knowledge” or human expression that is most adept, naturally, to reflecting the fullness of the human experience (while being informed by the other branches of knowledge, in a broad-humanistic vein). In other words, that (although this might sound like a tautology) the only possible approach to art, to poetry – is an artistic, or poetic, approach; meaning that a rationalistic, puzzle-solving approach will be inherently reductionist, and will thus result in an impoverished understanding – or in a mis-understanding – or a complete lack of understanding, and of communication (see Nik and Kris). So perhaps my first reading of the movie was (involuntarily) closer to an accountant’s (I repeat, involuntarily – because of being acculturated, by so many movies within the “genre”, to read them in a certain key, that tries to extract a meaning and a rational conclusion) – while my most recent one was maybe closer to a truly artistic (i.e. poetic, i.e. closer to the fully human) one.

In addition, one should also note that Tarkovsky’s cinematic language is irremediably (and beautifully, and happily so) lyrical (poetic) – which means that his movies can only be truly approached, read, and engaged, in a lyrical (poetic) key. Which is one of the reasons why Tarkovsky is one of my favorite directors in the history of cinema.

In a Few Words (1)

actioners, old and new & a classic murder mystery

Death on the Nile (1978) / The Sea Wolves (1980) / The Day of the Jackal (1973) / 6 Underground (2019)

Death on the Nile (1978)

Death on the Nile (about; trailer) is one of those classic, star-studded movies, of the kind so few are made nowadays, to our misfortune. Let us just look at the cast, in this case: Peter Ustinov, David Niven, Mia Farrow, Bette Davis (!), Maggie Smith, Angela Lansbury, George Kennedy, Olivia Hussey (of Zeffirelli’s Romeo and Juliet fame) etc.

One thing that I did not remember about the movie, is how funny it is – firstly, in the way in which Ustinov plays Poirot – but also through other characters, interactions, and specific scenes – e.g. the somewhat campy, perpetually falling apart character of Angela Lansbury; the brutal repartees between Bette Davis and her “assistant”, Maggie Smith; the characters dancing the tango; Poirot harassing every single passenger, in the aftermath of the crime etc. I also forgot just how bloody Agatha Christie’s stories are. And one can be but thrilled about, and enjoy, the Egyptian locations featured in the movie. I also remarked and liked the muted scene at the Temple in Karnak – with the characters wandering about, in the sunny, dusty, quiet midday – until something happens… Finally, I should also note how much more engaging and thrilling – how much more sanguine – this movie was, compared to the most recent Murder on the Orient Express (2017), which was Kenneth Branagh’s laudable attempt at putting together an all-star type Agatha Christie movie, but which (although I was very favorably inclined toward it) ended up being rather forgettable.

The Sea Wolves (1980)

The Sea Wolves 2 Speaking of all-star casts and “classic movie types”, The Sea Wolves (about; trailer) is a delightful exemplar from another subgenre: the war movie showcasing the heroic actions of a small group of misfits (played by a group of major Hollywood actors) during World War II. Movies like Where Eagles Dare or The Guns of Navarone come to mind, as other top-notch examples of this subgenre. In the case of The Sea Wolves, the cast includes Gregory Peck, David Niven (again), Roger Moore, Trevor Howard etc. And what a pleasurable romp it is, this movie – the enjoyment being but amplified by the fact that the misfits in this story are the “retired” English gentlemen (veterans of the… Boer Wars!) of the “Calcutta Light Horse” territorial defense unit in India (who are deeply dissatisfied with their current roles, and are itching to make their own significant contribution to defeating the Nazis). Yes, this film has it all: the colonial atmosphere, the British fighting spirit, the humor, and quite some action. I have seen the movie, therefore, many times, and (allowing for enough time between successive screenings) it never fails to entertain. Although the spy story within the movie (featuring Roger Moore, mainly, but also Peck) has its own charms, I am always more attracted to, and entertained by, the adventures, the fighting spirit, and the amusing peccadilloes of the gentlemen of the Calcutta Light Horse. Moreover, the fact that this movie is actually based on a true WWII story gives it additional, beneficial weight, making its heroes even more endearing.

The Day of the Jackal (1973)

The Day of the Jackal 1 If you watch the movie shortly after reading Frederick Forsyth’s bestseller book, the film (about; trailer) will probably come across as a bit of a disappointment; what the impression will be, if you have not read the book, that I would not know (at least, not at this point). And this is not about the usual and necessary differences between a book and a movie – differences with which I am well familiar, and that I take into account, implicitly. In fact, when it comes to the thriller genre, I would say that movies based on such books usually turn out better than their original source material (think of movies based on Grisham or Crichton books). It is also true that the slight disappointment with the movie, in this case, might just point to the fact that Forsyth is a much superior writer (within the genre), compared to the aforementioned ones; perhaps. In any case, I can only refer to this movie in implicit comparison with the book – and to the fact that, in that light, it is something of a letdown; so let us count the reasons why:

First of all, the casting choices, more specifically with regards to the title character of The Jackal; as Edward Fox comes across more as a Bond-type figure, instead of the silent, grey and inconspicuous (when he wants), yet somewhat attractive (when he so wants), but, deep down, “dead inside” character – that Forsyth constructs (so nicely) in his book. In addition, Fox’s interpretation fluctuates throughout the movie, somewhat inordinately. Second, the plot of the book is wisely constructed on the tension and conflict between poles – between two people who never meet, but are engaged in a cat-and-mouse game, right until the bloody end: The Jackal, and Deputy Commissioner Lebel. Well, this tension between two distinct yet so similar poles never really comes alive in the movie, as Lebel is depicted somewhat passingly, thus never acquiring the necessary “weight” needed in order to constitute a real counterpoint to Le Chacal. Third, the murder scenes in the book are much more life-like, chilling, and therefore gruesome – which is not the case with the murder scenes from the movie, which either came across as a bit clumsy, or were not actually shown on the screen (this, of course, might have to do with the accepted film aesthetics of the time, especially with regards to blockbusters – to movies made for general consumption). Finally, in the movie the story feels rushed, boxes being quickly checked and then passed over, in a hurry toward the finish; this, notwithstanding the movie’s runtime of almost two and a half hours. This, of course, can be written off as simply a limitation of the medium, especially in comparison with the complexity of a book; yes, one could suggest that, but I do not think that that is where the problem lies. Instead, I think that a wiser choice in terms of where to put the emphases – on certain moments, on certain characters (two or three) – that is, choosing wisely the “gravitational points” of the story – might have resulted in a different final impression – and in a more balanced, clearer, and better delineated story (without this feeling of trying to cram too many things in too small a space).

One of the things that I did like in this movie (a lot) was them using the real Bastille Day celebrations – with parades and all, police presence, and actual Parisian crowds – as the setting for what in the story would be the Liberation Day celebrations in Paris. This provided such a feeling of authenticity and immersion that, for me, it turned out to be the stand-out experience within this movie.

As said, you might come to slightly different conclusions, if you do not happen to read (or to listen to) the book right before watching this movie; perhaps, but I am not sure of that – because I think that these aspects, which I just mentioned, represent dramatic and filmmaking weak points whose effect one will feel (even if one will not be able to pinpoint them, specifically) whether or not one is familiar with the source material. Speaking of the source material, the original story, in all its details, is superb and gripping; a thriller that immerses us in a real historical moment (France under de Gaulle, at the moment of the Algerian civil war, and on the brink of an internal civil war) and in the universe of the political and of the law enforcement institutions of France (and of the UK).

6 Underground (2019)

I must confess that I found it quite irritating to see how many of those end-of-the-year, “worst movies of 2019” lists included 6 Underground (about; trailer) in their selection – doing it with a certain glee, as well. And no, I did not find this irritating because I consider 6 Underground some sort of a masterpiece – but because this kind of choice and this kind of attitude illustrate, for me, a type of snobbishness that is in fact an obstruction to a real engagement with movies, and with the art form as such.

With regards to Michael Bay, there are, generally speaking, two opposite approaches – one being a hasty dismissal of him and of his work, or (at the other end, and often to spite the opposite position) proposing him as a sort of visionary genius. Although both positions have a gram of truth in them, I would argue that neither represents a healthy approach to movies and to the art form. On the one hand, Bay does have a style and an aesthetics that he has developed, and that are truly his own (best exemplified by the Bad Boys movie of 1995) – and that many have started to copy (because of its success). On the other hand, he is also the tremendously successful (financially, that is) maker of those empty, noise-and-light spectacles that are, for example, the Transformer movies. My point, therefore, is that a balanced approach, of one who actually likes movies, filmmakers, and filmgoers, should be able to appreciate and to consider both these aspects, simultaneously; that is, admitting both the fact that Bay has created an original aesthetic style (which has both its good aspects, e.g. his ability to cut down everything, images, sound and action, to their most impactful essentials, to their most striking “barebones” – with the directness of, say, a rollercoaster, and with the shamelessness of Las Vegas aesthetic) – and also that he is the money-making mastermind behind mind-numbing and ear-shattering thrill-rides like the said Transformers series. The Transformers movies, which I would liken to a ride at a country fair: not everybody hops on, and yet sometimes you yourself will choose to hop on, and even to add some greasy food to it, just because you are at a country fair.

And this movie, 6 Underground, fits right between those ends – between certain aesthetic skills, and sensory overload – and, truth be said, with not much to set it apart, as a movie, in any extra-ordinary way. In other words, if approached with the required levelheadedness, and with an awareness of Bay’s style and portfolio, there is no specific reason to include it in a “worst of” yearly list (lists that, as we know, are both entertaining, and also, in effect, disingenuous – as it is pretty obvious that they do not contain the actual ten worst movies of the year, as selected from all the movies made in the world, at all the levels of the movie industry). Thus, it is the lack of artistic discernment and the cheap snobbishness that (often) lie behind the choice of including this movie on such a worst-of-the-year list, that I find most irritating – because they reflect an artistic lack of earnestness and superficiality that are not unlike what they are accusing Michael Bay of.

Because, if you want a real “worst of” movie from the Bay catalogue, you have to go no further than Pearl Harbor (2001); now that, indeed, is some offensive cinema-making, as it takes something that is deeply meaningful and tremendously rich (in historical, emotional, cultural, and general human content), and debases it and vulgarizes it, replacing all that real meaning with sensory noise, empty action, and superficial emotions. In other words, the offensiveness of that movie comes from the egregious and off-putting dissonance between what its subject would require, and what its content should be – and the completely inadequate, and ultimately disrespectful, treatment that it received from its director. But a similar dissonance between content and form does not emerge when you take, say, raw chewing gum (that is, some inessential content, whose only purpose is momentary enjoyment), and you give it a coat of artificial coloring (which simply enhances its entertainment-focused purpose). And 6 Underground probably could be characterized as such a “purely entertainment-focused” fare, which has no deeper meaning, and does not really intend to have such a meaning; but which does what it actually sets out to do – namely, to entertain, in the moment, in typical Michael Bay fashion. (The only thing really standing out about this movie is the number and variety of exotic locations, which point to the large sums of money probably put at Bay’s disposal by Netflix; which, by the way, is neither my nor anyone else’s business.).

In fact, for me the only distinct artistic takeaway from watching 6 Underground is related to a ongoing qualm that I have with so many moviemakers of our day (especially from the genre of action movies); that is, the fact that so many of them do not seem to understand (or, if they do, that they do not act based on that understanding) how essential the presence of real actors – who are able to create tridimensional, flesh-and-bones characters – is, even in a silly action movie. Compare, in this movie, the screen presence of Ryan Reynolds (who is a real actor), with the presence of – well, all the other actors, whose main distinguishing trait is (a common mistake among these filmmakers) that they are either athletic, or attractive, or both – but not real character actors, and thus never becoming “real persons” on the screen. In other words, my problem with so many filmmakers is that they do not seem to understand that what audiences connect with are human beings, with their human stories – yes, even (!) when there is some outrageous action happening all around. And to conclude I will mention one of the best examples of how to do such a thing well: the first Die Hard movie, in which, while the action is relentless and often spectacular, what draws us in, and the reason why that movie remains a favorite of many, is that we care deeply about, and are invested with, what happens to the very sympathetic, emotionally raw and physically vulnerable, and funny – in other words, the very human – character of John McClane, as portrayed excellently by Bruce Willis.

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.

The Silence (1963)

“or, the lack of communication”

The silence film_poster Together with Through a Glass Darkly and Winter Light, The Silence (synopsis, trailer, cast & crew, rating) is part of Ingmar Bergman’s trilogy dealing with (or, rather, inquiring or searching into) issues of faith and of God. Formally, this is relevant information – but we better look at the movie itself.

The first question that emerges is how one should approach (or “read”) this movie. Is it a poetic, lyrical piece – in which case one lets the images and actions on the screen act upon one’s sensitivity, emotions, imagination – or is it a narrative (prose, prosaic) work, in which case one struggles to understand what exactly is happening or has happened, what are they doing and why etc. I found that for me the lyrical-poetic approach works best with this movie.

I should also note that, before watching the film, I read the script that Ingmar Bergman wrote for it (he is the writer and director of this trilogy, so these are the personal works of an auteur). Based on that, I can say that The Silence works better “as” a film, with moving images and sound, rather than as a text. I say this, because that is not necessarily the case with the other two films (and especially Through a Glass Darkly). But this movie’s title is The Silence, and it helps to be able to hear that silence – or, for example, the unintelligible noise that is a stand-in for silence, or for lack of comprehension, or for incommunicability.

Approaching then the movie as a poetic work (which means that one is less interested in what exactly took place, and when, and by whom – than in perceiving aspects and states of existence), the main impression conveyed (and perceived) is that the principal theme of the film is the lack (or even impossibility) of communication, in the broadest sense. This can be conveyed, indeed, by a noisy street, where the white noise of the daily hustle and bustle combines with the strident, cacophonic noise of the cars and of the street vendors. It can also mean actual lack of communication – or impossibility thereof – as between the two sisters (the movie’s three main characters are a younger sister and her child, and an older sister, who travel through a non-descript, foreign country, and stop at a hotel – while one of the sisters is ill, even dying). Incapacity of communication: the entire story takes place in a foreign, even alien country, whose language and habits are different and themselves “foreign”. And also to the same issue of the lack or impossibility of communication pertains the sexual behavior depicted on the screen (from vain attempts at self-love, to casual, purely physical sex. All these are examples or manifestations of said lack of communication with other human beings – and, more deeply, of a breakdown of human relationships.

And this lack of communication – “supported”, as it is. by sentiments of hatred or resentment – seems to be a symptom or manifestation of a deeper problem – of a lack of love and of faith. One of the characters had a fleeting sexual encounter (or so she says) behind the colonnades, in a church; what better image for replacing divine love with an unfruitful attempt at self-satisfaction?

(Speaking of these sexual dimensions, I noticed that for some critics or spectators this is the main, most remarked on, trait of the movie. For myself, I found that these aspects, although more directly depicted than in other movies of that era, are nevertheless filtered through an artistic lens – and, yes, it matters if one is able to take them as metaphors for something else (as I am), or simply as acts or actions. But for more info on this, see the movie’s rating.)

Lack of love, then – of affection, of relationship, of the possibility of relationship… but why? I don’t know – or, rather, Bergman hints at some of life’s obstacles to forming and keeping relationships (which I will discuss in a second) – but mostly, it seems that the underlying cause is the fact that these characters (and possibly Bergman himself, in his mid-twentieth century Sweden or Western Europe) inhabit a world that has been voided of God, faith, love, sense. An emptied world, in that sense – and yet the yearning (which is deepest in the human being) for love, remains and thus destroys (most of) these characters. But let’s not get too far off from the film itself, with our interpretations.

As said, Bergman – or, rather, his characters – hints at some of the obstacles to relationships; some of these have to do with all that accumulation of dirt, hurt, of incomprehensible inner impulses and emotions, of a relationship’s historical memory – all that is, let’s say, visceral and murky… And this takes me to one of the major strengths and points of attraction for me, with regard to Bergman’s films, which is his capacity to depict the cellular-level tissue of existence, of life – those inexpressible and un-conceptualizable strata of ourselves and of our existence that form the mundane soil of our everyday life. “Depict”, I say, because they need to be “depicted,” for example on the screen – because they cannot be “said,” expressed, through words (hence incommunicability). (But poetry is born as the artform specifically suited to express these ineffables of existence.) So these “interstices” of existence are very much present and depicted in Bergman’s films – while, at the same time, they are mostly lacking in the typical Hollywood movies (which is why, perhaps, both characters and actions in these movies tend to come across as unidimensional – because, more often than not, both characters and actions in these moves are sublimated into clear, univocal acts or traits – but that is not truthful, because we, as humans, as not unidimensional, are more complex, and not all is expressible in words; and thus we find that these movies are ultimately unsatisfying, and even feel a bit fake – unless one gets too accustomed to them).

Parenthesis: on the other hand, while this is a strength in Bergman’s movies (or so I find), and in other movies of this kind, there might also be an inherent danger in this exploration of the murky interstices of mundanity. After all, there is such a thing as a “micro infinity” – namely, dissecting physical existence into smaller and smaller sub-atomic dimensions – there is no end to that. Similarly, one could get lost – theoretically – in going deeper and deeper into the murky and confusing interstices of existence; there is that danger, as well. I am not suggesting that Bergman engages in that; I was just pondering on the right authorial strategy: without the complexity of existence, and our confusing and incomprehensible parts, life depicted appears fake; but prudence is needed, as the goal– for me – is realistic depiction of the truth of existence, and not a hubristic attempt at all-comprehension, or a wallowing in the layers of the soil of mundane life.

Another strength of Bergman’s movies (presumably related to the first) is his ability to construct and to depict real human relationships– as they are. This is why his Scenes from a Marriage (the film from 1973) is one of my favorite movies on the theme.

But back to the topic that we were discussing, of the obstacles to communication (and to relationships). Ester, the older (and ill) sister seems to refer to these accumulated obstacles, when she talks about the fact that “you need to watch your step among all the ghosts and memories”; or, talking of “[t]he forces [that] are too strong… the horrible forces”; or even of the off-putting “erections and secretions” (the viscous physicality of existence). Indeed, (helped by their acting) we perceive that in-between the sisters there is an entire past, with so many contradictory events, emotions, hurts, reactions etc., and that it is inexpressible, unclarifiable, unsolvable – and that this past is part of the reason why they can not communicate (or have a functional relationship); other reasons are implied as well. These accumulations of the past might also be responsible for the fluctuating behavior of the two women – for example, in how they relate to other people (Anna, the younger sister, alternates between being overly affectionate, or quite cold and rejective, toward her son, Johan).

We were saying that the movie is, or seems to be, about the lack of communication, and the lack of faith and of love. Let’s add here – as it is related – that in the film there is also a sense of a world that is alien, unknown/unknowable, and frightful; see the “war” themes in the movie (the trains carrying tanks, the warplanes’ flight over the city, the rumbling and then menacing apparition of a tank, on the street, in the night; the soldiers in the café – and so on); the presence of war, in other words, somberly and mutely threatening. Or the theme of the hotel, as explored by the young boy, Johan.

Here I should remark – in connection with what was said beforehand – that Bergman does a swell job in depicting the way in which a child sees or experiences the “wide world” – from the intimidating encounter with sickness or death, or with conflicts between the adults, to the incomprehensible behavior of your parent, to the strangeness of large, impersonal buildings (to be explored, but also threatening), to meeting strange strangers who speak in strange tongues about foreign things – in other words, the way in which for a child sees the things of the world of the adults, and of the world “at large,” as it were. In this movie, the child who experiences these is Johan – and his experiences represent another manifestation or expression of that incommunicability and incomprehension that I see as the central themes of the film. (And I was wondering, while watching Johan and his adventures – is this child Bergman? or is he us – versus the world? Or, even, is this a reference to some actual childhood experiences or memories of the auteur?)

There is a moment in the film when Johan, the boy, “stages” a marionette play (Punch & Judy type) for his ill aunt, Ester. It is the shortest play, because it quickly devolves into Punch “punching” Judy, while shouting incomprehensible things in a made-up language. When asked what this is about, Johan responds that Punch “is scared, so he speaks in a strange language” (and also erupts into violence toward his mate). Quite a clear hint at an interpretive key for the movie. Our existential anxiety – in a world that seems alien and emptied of meaning – also manifests itself as fear and through hurting others – and ourselves. This, of course, if this is in fact the world; but is this our world, my world? In any case, it is the world proposed and depicted by Bergman in this movie; and this might just be him pulling the alarm about, and critiquing, or even diagnosing, Western or Swedish society around the middle of the twentieth century. (But we are getting again pretty far from the film itself.)

The movie ends with Ester, the older one, drawing some conclusions about life and about herself, while she is agonizing in what is probably her deathbed (in her hotel bed). Johan and his mother, Anna, leave to continue their journey toward home, toward Sweden – but not before Ester starts writing, and then gives to Johan to take with him, a sort of embryonic “dictionary” of the language spoken in this foreign country; for example, what are their words for “hand”, “music” etc. She tells Johan – or us, the spectators, I am not sure right now – that he will discover later how important this is; this, what? Well, I assume, a dictionary means to have the words, to understand, to be able to communicate – to have a gateway into existence. Communication, as the entry point into relationships – and thus, to love and meaning (and, why not, faith).

One should also add here that the sole thing that constitutes a point of mutual comprehension and reciprocal communication between these Swedish guests and the locals (in this alien country), is music (either as Bach works played on radio, or as the words “Bach” and “music”, which turn out to be the same in both languages). Music, as an aesthetic alleviator of aloneness, alienation, incommunicability – and lack of meaning.

Yes, one could easily take this movie as a critique (or critical depiction) of a certain society – or of a certain mode of existing. Since a poem is a self-enclosed something, a universe unto itself, self-sufficient, so this movie (and films such as this) can work by depicting “one type” of world, or “one type” of existence (which might not represent the entirety of existence, or of the human possibilities). But a poem is an accentuated, hyper-sensitive depiction of one thing, of one aspect – that faces us with that aspect; in other words, most poems are not encyclopedias, intending to explain all of existence. But, by facing us with the “concentrated” version of one aspect (or type) of existence, it can force us to take it seriously, and thus to make a decision, about and for ourselves, about that specific issue. For example, we can leave this film (or the poem) with the impulse of thinking about how we can best avoid, or avoid falling into, such an empty existence – both as individuals, and as a society. A poem can thus function as a via negativa, revealing something (e.g. need for love or for meaning) by illustrating its absence. And this might be the way in which The Silence becomes part of the Bergmanian trilogy on God (or lack of, or search for God), on faith – and on existence in the 20^th century.

I will conclude by saying that I am afraid that due to this discussion, and to the themes we covered, the movie might come across for you as gloomy and…; while in fact I left this film – as it usually happens with Bergman’s movies – energized and engaged; and I assume that this has to do with the cathartic effect that true artworks have on us (see the Greek tragedies’ effect on their contemporary spectators) – namely, artworks that speak to us by touching on aspects of the truth of reality, of existence; yes, there is something very rewarding and moving when one encounters real communication about real things (even if that thing is “the lack of communication in a God-less, and thus sense- and love-less, world”).

I mentioned at the beginning of this discussion (and I promise that this is its last remark) that my approach to and “reading” of this movie was poetic, lyrical; letting the images and sounds, the humans’ actions, the emotions depicted, enact their effects on my capacities of perception and feeling (just like I would do with a poem or a painting). And I think that that was a good choice, because I dare say that, taken purely prosaically, this movie would not “work” – i.e. if one would approach it very prosaically, as a puzzle to be solved (who does what, when, why, and what is the conclusion). There are too many gaps in information for the movie to work in that sense – and it would soon become frustrating, or unrealistic (un-pragmatic), in that case. And here we arrive at the criticism often raised against so-called art(sy) movies – regarding their incomprehensibility, pretentiousness, remoteness from everyday experience (and the everyday viewer). Well, if a movie is “artsy” and only artsy, (for artsiness’ sake), then I am fully on board with rejecting such snobbish and pretentious nonsense. However, in my reading, this is not that. But does it have moments when there is a slight hint at pretentiousness, at a certain abstracted mannerism? Perhaps, a few; for example, I found Gunnel Lindblom’s writhing in bed, as she was alternating between hysterical crying and manic laughter, pretentious, mannered and unnecessary.

But I am certain (and I am not the only one) that this movie is not intended simply as a pragmatic narrative – it is designed to appeal to our poetic sensibilities; it wants us to feel, to perceive, and thus to understand existentially – or, as I said, poetically. So, I left this movie engaged and replenished with thoughts and feelings about true, real, existential things – thus a rewarding experience. However, I will note that of the three films in the trilogy, Through a Glass Darkly, Winter Light, and The Silence – all of which I appreciate and I have enjoyed – this might be my least favorite (and yet still an engrossing and rewarding experience, and a movie that I would recommend, for those interested in such fare).