Self-analysis of a filmmaker
The Ingmar Bergman Archives. Excerpt from the essay by Ingmar Bergman
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The tightrope, which the ambitious filmmaker is obliged to walk, is like that of a circus without a net. For the tightrope walker and the filmmaker are subject to the same inevitable risk: They can fall down and break their necks. Now somebody will say that surely this is an exaggeration. There cannot be such a danger in making a film. I say there is just that danger. It is true, as I pointed out, that one must be a conjurer. But no one conjures the producer, the bank director, the cinema owners, or the critics when the public refuses to go to see a film and lay down its hard-earned money, by which the producer, the bank director, the cinema owners, the critics, and the conjurer will live.
The tightrope, which the ambitious filmmaker is obliged to walk, is like that of a circus without a net
I have a recent and extraordinarily painful example of how I myself was dangerously poised on the tightrope. An extremely adventurous producer had put up the money for one of my films, and after a year of frantic activity was born Sawdust and Tinsel.
Criticism was generally unfavorable. The public stayed away, the producer reckoned up his losses, and I expected to have to wait 10 years for my next experiment in the medium. If I were to make a further two or three films that involved financial losses, the producer would rightly consider that he could not dare to put his money on my talent.
I would suddenly find myself a suspicious character, a spendthrift, and I would get plenty of time to think about the actual employment of my so-called artistic talent. The conjurer would be deprived of his magic wand. When I was younger I did not know this fear.Work was a fascinating game and, whether the result was profitable or not, I was as happy as a sandboy. The tightrope walker danced on his rope, unaware of the void and the hard ground beneath him.
The game has become a bitter struggle. The tightropewalking act is now performed with eyes open, and the rope is attached to fear and uncertainty. Each performance totally exhausts one’s entire strength. Creation is an urgent necessity, just as much for mental as for financial reasons. Failure, criticism, indifference of the public hurt more today than yesterday. The wounds are deep and lasting.
Jean Anouilh used to play a little game to put off the fear he felt when beginning a new work. He used to think like this: "My father is a good tailor. He feels real satisfaction in the work of his hands—a pair of practical trousers or an elegant coat. The joy and satisfaction of a good artisan. The pride of a skilled workman who knows his craft."
My own feeling is similar. I recognize the game and very often play it: My films involve good craftsmanship. I am conscientious, industrious, and extremely careful. I do my work for everyday purposes and not for eternity; and my pride is the pride of a good craftsman.
Yet I know that what I tell myself is self-deception, and an incessant anxiety calls out to me: "What have you done that will endure? Is there a single meter in any one of your films that will mean something for the future, one single line, one single situation that is completely and absolutely real?"
Page [1] [2] [3] [4] [5]
Page [1] [2] [3] [4] [5]
The tightrope, which the ambitious filmmaker is obliged to walk, is like that of a circus without a net. For the tightrope walker and the filmmaker are subject to the same inevitable risk: They can fall down and break their necks. Now somebody will say that surely this is an exaggeration. There cannot be such a danger in making a film. I say there is just that danger. It is true, as I pointed out, that one must be a conjurer. But no one conjures the producer, the bank director, the cinema owners, or the critics when the public refuses to go to see a film and lay down its hard-earned money, by which the producer, the bank director, the cinema owners, the critics, and the conjurer will live.
The tightrope, which the ambitious filmmaker is obliged to walk, is like that of a circus without a net
I have a recent and extraordinarily painful example of how I myself was dangerously poised on the tightrope. An extremely adventurous producer had put up the money for one of my films, and after a year of frantic activity was born Sawdust and Tinsel.
Criticism was generally unfavorable. The public stayed away, the producer reckoned up his losses, and I expected to have to wait 10 years for my next experiment in the medium. If I were to make a further two or three films that involved financial losses, the producer would rightly consider that he could not dare to put his money on my talent.
I would suddenly find myself a suspicious character, a spendthrift, and I would get plenty of time to think about the actual employment of my so-called artistic talent. The conjurer would be deprived of his magic wand. When I was younger I did not know this fear.Work was a fascinating game and, whether the result was profitable or not, I was as happy as a sandboy. The tightrope walker danced on his rope, unaware of the void and the hard ground beneath him.
The game has become a bitter struggle. The tightropewalking act is now performed with eyes open, and the rope is attached to fear and uncertainty. Each performance totally exhausts one’s entire strength. Creation is an urgent necessity, just as much for mental as for financial reasons. Failure, criticism, indifference of the public hurt more today than yesterday. The wounds are deep and lasting.
Jean Anouilh used to play a little game to put off the fear he felt when beginning a new work. He used to think like this: "My father is a good tailor. He feels real satisfaction in the work of his hands—a pair of practical trousers or an elegant coat. The joy and satisfaction of a good artisan. The pride of a skilled workman who knows his craft."
My own feeling is similar. I recognize the game and very often play it: My films involve good craftsmanship. I am conscientious, industrious, and extremely careful. I do my work for everyday purposes and not for eternity; and my pride is the pride of a good craftsman.
Yet I know that what I tell myself is self-deception, and an incessant anxiety calls out to me: "What have you done that will endure? Is there a single meter in any one of your films that will mean something for the future, one single line, one single situation that is completely and absolutely real?"
Page [1] [2] [3] [4] [5]
The Ingmar Bergman Archives
Hardcover + DVD, 41.1 x 30 cm (16.2 x 11.8 in.), 592 pages
$ 200.00
$ 200.00
The complete works of Ingmar Bergman: an homage to one of the most esteemed film and theater artists of all time, began in cooperation with Bergman himself and made with full access to his archives
Liv Ullmann, Bibi Andersson and Ingmar Bergman on the set of Persona, 1966. Photo: Bo A. Vibenius, (c) Svensk Filmindustri
Ingmar Bergman and Sven Nykvist framing a close-up of Bibi Andersson as Alma in Persona, 1966. Photo: Bo A. Vibenius, (c) Svensk Filmindustri