Ever since I discovered Ingmar Bergman’s films, it seems to me that there is no filmmaker, who can match him (well, maybe Truffaut but certainly not any contemporary filmmakers). The thematic layering alone is enough to leave you in the awe, wonder and asking further questions, not only about Bergman’s cinematography but about one’s life as well. His direction and storytelling transcends the medium of film and actually moves into the categories of art, philosophy, theology, theatre and language. Bergman has that wonderful ability of fully understanding all of the disciplines he is dealing with; his films are a perfectly tuned instrument or a tight jazz band.
In this blog post, I would like to briefly discuss first film of his trilogy, “Through a Glass Darkly.” The plot of the film revolves around a young woman, Karin, and her mental condition (we’re assuming that she is suffering from schizophrenia) and how the condition is affecting not only her life but also the lives of those dear to her: husband, father and brother.
The film takes place on a remote island, as if to suggest that all of its protagonists are somehow living on a psychological island on their own, apart from the reality of everyday life. The father (played brilliantly by a Bergman regular, Gunnar Björnstrand) seems to be the most distant from his family and does not wish to engage in dialogue with his daughter, which would allow for an understanding and growth. She naturally suffers not only from this but also from her mental condition—she is a captive of her own mind.
One of the things that I love about Bergman’s work is that almost always he makes use of the method “play within the play,” which shows his understanding of the theatre.[1] “Through a Glass Darkly” is no exception. In this case, the scene further reinforces the strange aspects of unreality these characters live in, although it is clear that the father is the one who is in need of immediate help. But he keeps pretending, applauding at something he clearly doesn’t wish to comprehend, and his gaze towards the actors is that of judgment.
The pivotal moment of the film is the breakdown of the father, who (it seems) is gathering all of his energy to understand what it means to be present in life. Karin feels pity for her father but he tells her this: “You see, Karin, one draws a magic circle around oneself to keep everything out that doesn’t fit one’s secret games.” “Poor little papa,” says Karin. But the father, finally understanding life utters sarcastically: “Yes, poor little Papa, forced to live in reality.” This moment transcends time; it is something everyone suffers from. How do we not only live in reality but more importantly, how do we love reality?
The father has been living his life in a world where things aren’t real, where it is easier to lie to oneself than to comprehend the gravity of situation. Talk of God is linguistically absent from this dialogue but I must add that being absent from reality means being absent ontologically from God. The father is not even existing, let alone creating. The father is simply drifting.
Just as is usual with Ingmar Bergman, the film concludes open-endedly. Questions will be asked by Bergman’s characters but also by Bergman’s audience. He has given us, in a perfect juxtaposition, the particular and the universal, and this is what makes his “symphony” clear and intense at the same time. It is up to us to continue to ask questions: what do those magic circles mean for us? Are we drifting or are we an ontological entity fully aware of the presence of God?
[1] Forgive me for mentioning such seemingly simple details but contemporary filmmakers are charlatans or pretenders who politicize every frame of the film. The universal does not exist.
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