The Year 2003: Saraband (Ingmar Bergman)

Revisiting two characters from his previous film, Scenes from a Marriage, some thirty years earlier, Bergman's Saraband turned out to be the cinematic craftsman's last film to be released theatrically, somewhat belatedly in 2007. His final masterwork was as powerful and intelligent as anything he directed over his long distinguished career and a befitting last chapter to one of the all time greats. To take us through Bergman's swansong is Rick Olson of the sublime Coosa Creek Cinema, who believes 'the greatest pleasure is in watching two old pros -- and obvious old friends -- reunited one last time, guided by their great friend and mentor' in this wonderful submission for Counting Down The Zeroes.

The title of this Ingmar Bergman-directed film is derived from a "sarabande," a dance in triple meter. In its later, Baroque incarnation, it is a contemplative, meditative dance, and this is just such a film: it moves at it's own pace and speed, dances to its own rhythms. It is a sequel, thirty years after the fact, to Scenes from a Marriage, and reunites two of Bergman's iconic actors: Liv Ullmann and Erland Josephson. The first film chronicled the disintegration of the marriage of Marianne (Ullmann) and Johan (Josephson) due primarily to his infidelity. Saraband is opens with Marianne reminiscing to the camera about this history with her photos spread out before her. She speaks to us as if we were in the room, and with this most basic of Brechtian devices, Bergman announces that this is indeed a story, that he -- through the character of Marianne -- is telling us a tale.

In this way, we are firmly identified with Marianne: she is established as our surrogate. The story is seen through her eyes, she is our witness, and little things throughout the film indicate that her viewpoint is not the most objective one. When she enters Johan's preternaturally still house for the first time, doors close of their own accord, a cuckoo clock chimes suddenly, then then does it again. Is she trapped into a course of action she now regrets? Is this place somehow outside of time, or are we being reminded that time is almost up for her and Johan?


Little surreal moments like this are scattered throughout the film, underlining the action or indicating the mood of Bergman's players. Saraband is not a piece of realist cinema, despite the deceptive ordinariness of its mis en scčne, and Stefan Eriksson's functional digital photography (it was shot originally for Swedish television). Its ghosts are not as obvious as those of Fanny and Alexander, nor is its symbolism as heavy-handed as in The Seventh Seal, but they are there nevertheless, making this quintessential, if low-key, Bergman.

In the thirty years since our characters have seen one another, Johan has inherited a tidy sum and retired to a remote farm house. There, he lives alone with his bitter memories, visited only by a housekeeper and cook who goes home at night. For the several months prior to our story, his estranged son Henrik (Börje Ahlstedt) and Henrik's daughter Karin (Julia Dufvenius) have lived in another house on Johan's property. Henrik is a professional musician and his daughter a budding cellist; two years before the film's opening, Henrik's wife and Karin's mother Anna had died. Neither has gotten over this tragedy, and since that time Henrik has developed an unhealthy obsession with his daughter. The plot revolves around whether or not she will leave him to study on her own and whether it will destroy him if she does.


The story exists mainly as a framework upon which to hang Bergman's trademark psychological drama, his explorations of human interaction at its most extreme. The film is structured as a ten-part musical composition, with a prologue and an epilog. Each movement revolves around an interaction between two of the characters; it is thus a duet. The prolog and epilogs are solos, featuring Marianne's introductory and closing comments, spoken directly into the camera. Classical music opens and closes each movement; its tone sets the mood of each piece. As Karin visits Marianne, it is playing lightly on a CD player in the background. As she goes to a fateful visit to her grandfather Johan, it plays bombastically from his stereo.

As in Scenes from a Marriage, Cries and Whispers and others of Bergman's films, there are scenes that are almost unbearably painful to watch, where people say things to one another that are so hateful that you want to turn away and watch something a little less intense, like maybe a televised hanging. Long before Ricky Gervais' theater of the squirm, Bergman's dramas defined the term "cringe-worthy" -- you almost reflexively wince, and go into a protective crouch, hunching your shoulders to protect your head and neck.


Yet, you cannot turn away, and a lot has to do with Bergman's actors, and his remarkable way with them. Josephson and Ullmann have not lost a step in the thirty years since Scenes. He has the ability to project a niceness and a kindly warmth, while nevertheless saying and does the most awful things. Ullmann at 63 is still luminously beautiful, with perhaps the most expressive face in the business. Watching her expressions as she reacts to the goings-on around her is like a master-class in subtle, powerful acting. Ahlstedt -- who played Carl in Fanny and Alexander -- is a worthy match for the two, effortlessly gliding from benign good humor to contempt to near madness without our being aware of the seams. His scene with Josephson is the most harrowing in the film.

Unfortunately, Dufvenius fares less well -- she doesn't have the emotional depth to play the tortured Karin, and this is the film's major flaw. While the other three endow their roles with clarity and emotional depth, she flounces around the set, stomping her feet to show emotion. Her scenes with Marianne, in particular, show up the mismatch between actor and material -- but in Dufvenius' defense, who wouldn't seem that way with Ullmann?

The movie's greatest pleasure is in watching two old pros -- and obvious old friends -- reunited one last time, guided by their great friend and mentor. We have a history with these actors, as well as with this most personal of directors. Clint Eastwood's recent Gran Torino had some of the same effect: watching that film, we brought all our history with him to bear. Similarly, as we watch Ullmann and Josephson embrace and spar with one another, we remember and savor their other Bergman roles, and experience a melancholy nostalgia knowing it's the last offering from a giant of world cinema. While Saraband is not great Bergman, it's good Bergman, satisfying Bergman. And good Bergman will always be more than good enough for me.