Self-analysis of a filmmaker
The Ingmar Bergman Archives. Excerpt from the essay by Ingmar Bergman
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If it is believed that this studio work involves some sort of ecstatic frenzy, hysterical excitement, terrible disorganization, this is a mistake. Making a film is an expensive and exacting colossus that demands a clear head, methods, cold calculation, and exact estimates. For this, one must have an even temper and a patience that is not of this world.
The leading lady may have black rings under her eyes—10,000 kronor for reshooting. The tap water sometimes contains too much chlorine and that causes specks on the negatives—reshoot. The callboy for one of the actors turns out to be Death—reshoot with another actor. Costs can go sky high. A thunderstorm and electrical failure—we sit in the dim light and wait, the hours go by and the money with them. Just a few idiotic examples: But they must be idiotic, for the profession is sublimely idiotic. To attempt to transform dreams into shadows, to divide a tragedy into 500 tiny scenes and play them bit by bit and then join the shots into a single film, that is our task. To produce a 2,500-meter-long tapeworm that sucks life and spirit out of actors, producers, and directors. That is what making a film involves. That and many other things, much more and much worse. My association with film goes back to the world of childhood. Let us for a moment enter the secret and closed room of memories.
My grandmother had a very large old flat in Uppsala. I had a pinafore with a pocket in the front and sat under the dining table "listening" to the sunshine that came in through the gigantic windows. The sunlight moved about all the time, the bells of the cathedral went dingdong and the sunlight moved about and "sounded" in a special way. It was a day when winter was giving way to spring and I was five years old. In the next flat the piano was being played, waltzes, nothing but waltzes, and on the wall hung a large picture of Venice. As the sunlight moved across the picture, the water in the canal began to flow, the doves flew up from the square, gesticulating people were engaged in inaudible conversation. The bells were not those of Uppsala Cathedral but came from the very picture itself, as did the piano music. There was something very remarkable about that picture of Venice. Almost as marvelous as the sunlight in Grandmother’s drawing room, which was not the usual kind of sunlight but had a special ring about it. But perhaps this was due to the many bells ... or the heavy furniture, which, in my fantasy, conversed in a never-ending whisper.
Page [1] [2] [3] [4] [5]
Page [1] [2] [3] [4] [5]
If it is believed that this studio work involves some sort of ecstatic frenzy, hysterical excitement, terrible disorganization, this is a mistake. Making a film is an expensive and exacting colossus that demands a clear head, methods, cold calculation, and exact estimates. For this, one must have an even temper and a patience that is not of this world.
The leading lady may have black rings under her eyes—10,000 kronor for reshooting. The tap water sometimes contains too much chlorine and that causes specks on the negatives—reshoot. The callboy for one of the actors turns out to be Death—reshoot with another actor. Costs can go sky high. A thunderstorm and electrical failure—we sit in the dim light and wait, the hours go by and the money with them. Just a few idiotic examples: But they must be idiotic, for the profession is sublimely idiotic. To attempt to transform dreams into shadows, to divide a tragedy into 500 tiny scenes and play them bit by bit and then join the shots into a single film, that is our task. To produce a 2,500-meter-long tapeworm that sucks life and spirit out of actors, producers, and directors. That is what making a film involves. That and many other things, much more and much worse. My association with film goes back to the world of childhood. Let us for a moment enter the secret and closed room of memories.
My grandmother had a very large old flat in Uppsala. I had a pinafore with a pocket in the front and sat under the dining table "listening" to the sunshine that came in through the gigantic windows. The sunlight moved about all the time, the bells of the cathedral went dingdong and the sunlight moved about and "sounded" in a special way. It was a day when winter was giving way to spring and I was five years old. In the next flat the piano was being played, waltzes, nothing but waltzes, and on the wall hung a large picture of Venice. As the sunlight moved across the picture, the water in the canal began to flow, the doves flew up from the square, gesticulating people were engaged in inaudible conversation. The bells were not those of Uppsala Cathedral but came from the very picture itself, as did the piano music. There was something very remarkable about that picture of Venice. Almost as marvelous as the sunlight in Grandmother’s drawing room, which was not the usual kind of sunlight but had a special ring about it. But perhaps this was due to the many bells ... or the heavy furniture, which, in my fantasy, conversed in a never-ending whisper.
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
Fanny and Alexander, 1982. In the opening scene, Alexander (Bertil Guve) plays The Three Musketeers with his puppet theater, echoing Bergman’s youth. "Ej blot til lyst" above the archway is Danish for "Not just for pleasure," giving an indication of Bergman's intent with this film. Photo: Arne Carlsson, (c) Svensk Filmindustri