Oscar Horrors: 'The Virgin Spring'

Oscar Horrors continues with Beau and his favorite filmmaker.

HERE LIES... Ingmar Bergman's The Virgin Spring, which won the Academy Award for Best Foreign Film for 1960.

I'm not going to beat around the bush here. Let's just get right to it. Ingmar Bergman is my favorite filmmaker of all time. He's self-indulgent, woefully meandering, and I love him for it. I first watched The Seventh Seal when I was all of eighteen, and the imagery and gallows humor wowed me. I pursued the rest of his respective oeuvre like a feverish animal, devouring early works and late masterpieces with the rabid enthusiasm of a junkie who just discovered Burroughs, Kerouac and Ginsberg on the same day.

That being said, The Virgin Spring was a strange one for me. A meditation on the convoluted, considerable blindness of faith at odds with the cold, ruthless foundation of nature by way of a virginal sacrifice? Oh no, Ingmar, no. Don't worry about imbuing levity here dude, we cool.

While all of his films have resonated since first viewing, The Virgin Spring was peculiar for the fact that you sensed he wasn't entirely being himself... 

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Distant Relatives: Persona and Mulholland Drive

Robert here with the first entry in Season 2 of Distant Relatives, the series that explores the connections between one classic and one contemporary film. This week we feature a request by Nathaniel himself. Feel free to make your own requests in the comments.

Two movies about two women

When Mulholland Drive was released to perplexed but ecstatic reviews in 2001, and then again when it was being declared the best film of the decade in many places nine years later, there were few mentions of a film that seems to be an obvious influence: Ingmar Bergman's Persona. Perhaps that's because the actual influence is as indefinable as the two films themselves. The Wikipedia entry on Persona shares a few non-specific sentences about its influence on Mulholland Drive paired with a note demanding a source for this information. So how do we know these films are related? Well they certainly seem like they should be. Both are about two women living together under unusual circumstances, one sick, the other a caregiver. In both cases, at least one of the women is an actress. Both films show a general degredation of these women's relationships. So why weren't more people blathering about the obvious intersection of these two movies? My guess is because both Persona and Mulholland Drive only really inspire one question: What on earth is going on? Interpreting, explaining, "decoding" if you will, these films is the understandable immediate concern of anyone whose just been exposed to these two terrific cinematic puzzles. Yet that does them a sort-of disservice. These films are more than puzzles. You could spend a lifetime trying to figure out what they're all about and completely miss what they're all about. That said, we won't spend much more energy here trying to find answers about these films. We haven't the time, the space, or the likelihood of agreement enough to keep it from being anything but a distraction.

Bergman's Persona begins with actress Elizabeth Vogler (Liv Ullmann) experiencing a sudden fit of despair and going voluntarily mute. In the hospital, she's paired with nurse Alma (Bibi Andersson) and the two are sent off to a seaside cottage where they develop an ambiguously intimate relationship and the silent, passive judgement of Elizabeth begins to turn Alma into an aggressor. Eventually the film begins to flip on it's head, revealing its own artificiality, and it becomes impossible to know who is who, and what role they're playing. Mulholland Drive opens with aspiring actress Betty's discovery of accident victim amnesiac Rita hiding out in her apartment. Soon, between line readings and Betty's audtions, the two lady sleuths are investigating Rita's life and identity and eventually becoming lovers (or have they always been?). Eventually the film begins to flip on it's head, revealing it's own artificiality, and it becomes impossible to know who is who, and what role they're playing.

Unusual universal themes

Death. Sex. Love. Ambition. Lynch and Bergman love all the standard universal themes. But they add two more strange, dark and upleaseant universal themes to the list.... Click for full post.

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Take Three: Max von Sydow

Craig (from Dark Eye Socket) here with another Take Three. Today: Max von Sydow

Take One: Hour of the Wolf (1968)
It goes without saying, of course, that a von Sydow Take Three wouldn’t feel right unless one of them was an Ingmar Bergman film. All three could’ve been, but the aim is to err on the side of variety whenever possible. They made 11 films together: The Seventh Seal, Wild Strawberries, The Magician, The Virgin Spring, Through a Glass Darkly, Winter Light, Shame and The Passion of Anna are all classics. But Hour of the Wolf, in which von Sydow plays a painter losing his grip on his sanity, doesn’t always get the high mention it deserves. It contains some of von Sydow’s best work in any film, for any director.

With his handsomely regal face, von Sydow boldly dominates the film. His sinisterly unhinged stillness and almost unreadable presence cement the notion that he’s a tormented artist uncertain of his place in the world. He's visited by people, possibly demons in human disguise, who embody his trauma, his shame. In a possibly imagined, probably symbolic, but definitely surreal dinner scene von Sydow’s deathly wan countenance crumples in extreme close-up. His mind seems to deteriorate due to the inane banter of the chattering souls surrounding him. (No one said Bergman’s personal parables were cheery.) Von Sydow masters depression and disgust like breathing and underplays his scenes like a covert pro. With complete skill von Sydow does as much as an actor can to attempt to place the viewer inside his character’s brain.

Take Two: The Exorcist (1973)
I don’t think it’s via Jeez himself, but, Christ!, the power of character acting compels me... to write about Father Lankester Merrin in The Exorcist for this Take.

Demonic Possession and Demonic Behavior after the jump

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Distant Relatives: The Toy Story Trilogy and The Films of Ingmar Bergman

Robert here, closing out the first season of my series Distant Relatives, (where we look at two films, (one classic, one modern) related through theme and ask what their similarities/differences can tell us about the evolution of cinema) with the second part of this two part special.

Last week in PART ONE we discussed how the great sorrow or rejection by God or a loved one in Bergman’s universe is equvalent to rejection by the child owners (god/loved one amalgams that they are) of the Toy Story films. And when those owners have put their childish things aside, what do the toys do? Where do they find meaning in their lives? Now... PART TWO.

Hooray, you're old!

In Ingmar Bergman’s film Wild Strawberries, Professor Isak Borg is being recognized with an honorary degree. As he approaches this honor he is forced to look back on his life and wonder what it all means. Similarly in Toy Story 2, Woody is on the brink of recognition of his own, a place in a museum as the valuable toy he is. This is the opposite of what Woody fears will happen when Buzz arrives or what happens to so many spouses in Ingmar Bergman scripts. Instead of being discarded for their antiquity they’re being celebrated for it. And yet this alone does not give them great joy and purpose.

In Bergman films, losing a sense of meaning usually results in considerable tragedy. Max von Sydow’s villager Jonas in Winter Light meets a tragic end after his doubt in God is confirmed by the local parish preist. Liv Ullman’s actress in Persona goes mute, and while the reasons are a mystery, the sense is that she’s somehow come out of place in the world. Perhaps the most dramatic example of this is Von Sydow again,. His father figure Tore from The Virgin Spring reacts at the death of his daughter, his light, his legacy, his reason for being, with such an outburst of violence it continues to inspire tales of cinematic vengance to this day.

So it is with Stinky Pete. The prospector has never been taken out of his box. He’s never been played with by a child. His entire life has been leading up to recognition as an artifact, not a play thing. When it becomes apparent that he won’t achieve this recognition he reacts with violence. Buzz Lightyear himself goes through a similar trial. When, in the original Toy Story he finally learns that he is not a space man, he goes a bit bonkers. While his conflict is more internal, it is still evidence that the absence of purpose equals the presence of sorrow. So what brings Buzz back? To be sure, Woody’s insistence that the love of a child is a noble cause plays a part. But more actively, his ability to help his fellow toys is the true catalyst to his new self actualization.

I get by with a little help...

Buzz learns what Antonius Bloc of The Seventh Seal learns when he allows his new friends to escape the clutches of death, that in the absence of spiritual meaning, friendship and love are still present and still the noblest goals by which we can aspire to. It seems like too Capra-esque a message for a Bergman film (although keep in mind the reason why most Bergman’s are heavy is because his characters spend most of their time, denying or rejecting this fact). Whatever ache you feel at the loss of your god’s or partner’s love, fulfillment comes from knowing that love is an endless resource. This is what finally brings Professor Isak Borg peace as he recalls the absence of love in his life. It’s not his upcoming honor, it’s the realization that he has affected old friends, can still make new ones, and can reunite the marriage of his son an daughter-in-law. This is the realization that Woody has and that which he is able to bring to Jessie and Bullseye.

Togetherness and family is the running theme of the Toy Story films for this reason. It is what gives the toys their sense of purpose. It is what keeps them always chasing after each other. And it is the comfort where they turn when finally faced with certain death. It is also family that saves them from this death (utilizing the trilogy’s most memorable false god, The Claw and turning it from a force for indifferent chance into one of salvation). Consider that the happily ever after coda of the Toy Story trilogy finds the toys playing not with any owner, but with each other. And so all is well right? Except, this revelation that love conquers all isn’t always so easily realized. Sometimes our heroes have to go to hell and back to see it.

The flames of Sunnyside

For a filmmaker whose films deal in death, Ingmar Bergman has never gone over to the other side of existence, not literally at least. But the juxtaposing worlds of Fanny and Alexander, the loving home life and unforgiving realm of the evil minister are as close as you can come to the heaven and hell. The Toy Story 3 parallels are obvious. Bishop Vergerus and Lotso’ Huggin Bear are cut of the same cloth. Supposedly kind leaders of peace filled worlds, they are in fact dark lords who rule over their minion-filled empires with an iron (or plush) fist. These are the hells of eternal torture and damnation where our characters are supposedly doomed forever due to their own lapses of loneliness. But family comes to save them and heaven awaits in the form of a loving, playful, existence that affords them all the joy, with none of the oppressiveness of life’s endless excesses. Interestingly both “heavens” are theater environments, declarations by filmmakers of the joy apparent in the art of the pretend.

As for the differences between the Toy Story films and the oeuvre of Bergman, well they’re so obviously they almost need not be mentioned. Although they share similar themes and ideas, the endpoints often diverge. Toy Story endings are happy, Bergman ones can tend to be more complex, sometimes hopeless. But, as is often noted, even Bergman’s films are filed with more comedy than history gives him credit for. I’m also (according to myself) supposed to be observing what the similarities of these two kinds of films tell us about cinema's evolution. What I see here is what I’ve seen so many times in this series. The smart, deep, intellectual themes that many people consider relics of a civilized cinema past are still present today, and still selling tickets because of, not in spite of, their presence (whether the audience admits it or not). Not all children who love Toy Story will find their way to Bergman. But I wonder now if those who do will see the struggle for meaning, the fear of chaos, the sorrow and the love and think: I remember when Woody and Buzz felt the same way.

That does it for season 1 of Distant Relatives.
Here’s a list of all entries, for your revisiting or first time pleasure:

Citizen Kane & There Will Be Blood  |  The Deer Hunter & The Hurt Locker |   Taxi Driver & One Hour Photo  | The Spirit of the Beehive & Pan’s Labyrinth  |  The Entertainer & The Wrestler |   Metropolis & District 9  |  Repulsion & Black Swan  |   Blazing Saddles & Hot Fuzz |   F For Fake & Exit Through the Gift Shop  |  Solaris & Inception |   Annie Hall & (500) Days of Summer  |  Midnight Cowboy & The Fighter  |  Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner & The Kids Are All Right  |  Raging Bull & The Social Network |   Jaws & True Grit  |  My Fair Lady & The King’s Speech  |   Salo, or the 120 Days of Sodom & Dogtooth  |  Hamlet & The Dark Knight  |  The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari & Shutter Island |   Dr. Strangelove & In The Loop  |  The Toy Story Trilogy & the films of Ingmar Bergman pt 1

Distant Relatives: The Toy Story Trilogy and The Films of Ingmar Bergman

Robert here, closing out the first season of my series Distant Relatives, (where we look at two films, (one classic, one modern) related through theme and ask what their similarities/differences can tell us about the evolution of cinema) with a two part special.

The meaning of life

It may seem like a cheat to compare a trilogy of films to a director’s entire collected works. Surely it wouldn’t be that hard to find elements in anyone’s filmography that happen to match up to the Toy Story films which cover a wide array of human (er, toy) emotion. But it’s not just random or occasional moments or themes that we’re talking about. When I see the Toy Story films, I see a primary emphasis on the two concepts that Ingmar Bergman explored though his entire career: the quest for meaning in life and the sorrow of being parted from those we love (one might also say the silence of God is in there but I find it to me more of an offshoot of those two motifs, more on that later). Indeed if Ingmar Bergman were a modern animator the Toy Story films may very well be what his output would look like.

But let’s talk about quests for meaning and the importance of relationships in today’s animated films. These are ubiquitous themes. The heroes of films like WALL-E, Shrek, The Incredibles, Ratatouille, How to Train Your Dragon, Up all find themselves on a quest that will bring a new sense of purpose to their rather humdrum lives. In the process they make a new connection or rekindle an old connection with a friend, spouse, family member, etc. The relationship helps them complete their quest, and the quest reinforces the relationship, all together bringing a new sense of meaning to all involved.

So what makes Toy Story special? Two things. First, in the Toy Story films, all three, the quest isn’t reinforced by coming together, the quest is coming together. No one is trying to save the world, rescue a princess, defeat a villian, cook a meal, quell a dragon, or protect a giant bird. No one is trying to assign new meaning to their lives. They’re simply trying to hold on to their current meaning by coming together (consider the quest of the characters in The Seventh Seal to simply return home, or the children in Fanny and Alexander to rejoin their family). Secondly, without grand designs, the characters of Toy Story tend to ask heavier questions. The kind you’d find in an Ingmar Bergman film, like “what is my purpose here?” “am I fulfilling it?” “what would it become if the being whose love gives me meaning ceased loving me?”

When somebody loves you, everything is beautiful...

In Bergman’s films this “being whose love gives meaning” takes on two forms. The first is God whose presence characters like The Seventh Seal’s Antonius Block or Tomas, the preacher from Winter Light search desperately for, hoping that it will lead them to some sense of light. The second is a spouse or partner. Bergman, who was married five times, made several films including Scene From a Marriage and Shame (as well as writing the great Liv Ullman film Faithless) about the dissolution of a marriage and the meaninglessness into which both parties are subsequently thrown.

The role of god/partner is filled in the Toy Story films by the toys’ owners. No, Andy is not a god, but he is a higher being. he owns the toys. They live in a world of his creation. While the toys don’t exactly worship Andy, they do occasionally suggest that they should accept his will for their being, such as Woody’s insistence that they resign themselves to the fate of the attic. But Andy and the other kids don’t require any faith in their existence. They’re flesh and blood. And in this way they fulfill a somewhat spousal role, not in a romantic sense, but in that they encompass the great love that the toys hope to find in life, and once found, they consider themselves fulfilled (or at least should be). But there is another dynamic going on here. As quasi-owner, playmate, and provider of love, kids will see a very parental relationship between Andy and his toys. However, although the toys get autonomy between playtimes, there is no eventual emancipation. Quite the contrary, it’s the owners who eventually move on leaving the toys as empty nesters. Imagine that, all the love you desire from parent, partner, and god pent up in the impulsiveness of a child.

Parting is such unendurable sorrow

Which is why the characters of Toy Story live in constant fear that it could all end tomorrow. And if it does, what does that say about the meaningfulness of the entire experience? There is, in the world of Ingmar Bergman and in the world of Toy Story, no greater sorrow than the separation from a loved one. When Jessie the Cowgirl is discarded by Emily or Lotso by Daisy it’s enough to throw someone into a state of perpetual sadness or evil, like the unfeeling sisters of Cries and Whispers. When Woody sees the newer better looking Buzz Lightyear arrive, he fears for the outcome experienced by Scenes from a Marriage’s Marianne (played by Liv Ullman). Replaced by a younger model. Through no fault of your own. You just aged. You just were. And it was not good enough.

Even worse is the possibility that what you always perceived as love was in fact ambivalence. That the presence of chaos and meaninglessness is your fate. In Bergman’s Through a Glass Darkly, Harriet Andersson’s Karin has a mad vision of a spider god, a Deity not of love but baseness, staring at her with if not uncaring, utter contempt. There is no god to provide you with love. God is a spider. God is Sid. The presence of a character like Sid in Toy Story is the (shocking for a child’s movie) recognition that chaos and darkness exist. That just as easily, yoy could have been Sid’s toy. Like the mysterious perpetrator who goes around mutilating animals in Bergman's (underseen but great) The Passion of Anna, Sid mutilates his toys with no real purpose but his perverse pleasure. And to witness those mutant toys is like Max von Sydow witnessing his “mutant” neighbors in Hour of the Wolf. It’s the realization that you are in the presence of a truly evil creator. Life loses meaning. Chaos reigns.

CONTINUE TO PART TWO How does one regain meaning in a world like this: By assuming power? By taking a place of honor in a museum? By defeating the evil Emperor Zurg? Travel to heaven and hell and back.