In
1982, Ingmar Bergman announced that his new film,
Fanny & Alexander, would be his last. At
a little over three hours, it was certainly a grand
way for one of the cinema’s greatest masters
to bow out. But the story isn’t quite that
simple.
Bergman actually stayed
active in film as a screenwriter and in television
as a director for several more years. (It wasn’t
the first time — or last — he prematurely
announced his retirement; he recently announced
his retirement again…for real.) And the film
was actually a little over five hours long, at least
in the version Bergman wanted it to be seen.
Unfortunately, to accommodate
the film’s distributors, he had to trim it
down from the length at which it was later shown
on Swedish television, where it ran as a four-part
miniseries. He had followed a similar course in
1973 with Scenes from a Marriage, to great
success. But Bergman was never happy with the shortened
theatrical version of Fanny & Alexander,
and he later wrote in Images: My Life in Film
that it required him “to cut into the vital
parts of the film. I knew that with each cut I reduced
the quality of my work."
With the Criterion Collection’s
release of the full-length Swedish television version,
American audiences are finally getting to see Fanny
& Alexander as Bergman intended it to be
seen.
Viewers
familiar with the three-hour version will find the
first half of the television version largely unchanged.
Some scenes run longer and a couple entirely new
scenes appear, but the overall tone is largely intact.
As the film opens, it is
1907, and the Ekdahl family celebrates Christmas
Eve with its annual Christmas play and an elaborate
Christmas dinner. The setting is enviably upper-middle
class, and critics have rightly drawn parallels
between it and Bergman’s own fond memories
of his grandmother’s house in Uppsala.
The large Ekdahl family
is introduced in turn: Helena, the title characters’
grandmother and the extended family’s materfamilias;
her eldest son, Oscar, who runs the family’s
theater with his actress wife, Emilie; her middle
son, Carl, an unhappily married, alcoholic professor
teetering on the edge of financial and psychological
collapse; her youngest son, Gustav Adolf, a philandering
restaurateur; and eight-year-old Fanny and ten-year-old
Alexander, who view the adult world with an intriguing
mix of childlike wonder and adult wariness.
Helena’s home, a large
brick house across the square from the family’s
theater, is subdivided into two apartments. Her
apartment is dark-colored and furnished in the cluttered
style of the nineteenth century, while Oscar’s
modernized apartment, which he shares with his wife
and Fanny and Alexander, is lighter and decorated
with a mix of traditional, art nouveau and continental
Arts and Crafts furnishings.
It’s certainly a happily
indulgent, cozy world in which they revel (even
the servants join in the festive Christmas dancing).
But Fanny and Alexander’s lives are changed
abruptly for the worse by their father’s untimely
death after the holidays and their mother’s
marriage to the morbidly restrictive local bishop
a year later. Pointedly, the father collapses from
a stroke while rehearsing Hamlet; after
his death, he appears to Alexander in visions, just
as the ghost of Hamlet’s father does, to ruminate
— albeit silently, most often — over
his neglected children and his wife’s poorly
chosen second marriage.
Lifted from their family’s
sprawling, sumptuously furnished apartments and
set down in the bishop’s austere, whitewashed
15th century palace, Fanny and Alexander feel imprisoned
and readily believe a servant’s grim tales
about the preacher’s first wife and daughters,
who drowned in the river below Fanny and Alexander’s
barred bedroom windows. Alexander even claims to
have seen their ghosts and heard the dead mother’s
story of the suffering and neglect that led to their
deaths.
Murder is implied, if not
claimed outright, and in his dark, severe cassock
and with his rigid, ominously looming presence,
we can readily believe the bishop is guilty of dark
secrets.
This
is where the television version begins to diverge
significantly from the theatrical one.
In the TV version, we actually
see the dead girls from the bishop’s first
marriage; they appear to Alexander, angry and vengeful
after he has been punished for his scandalous claims
about their father. It’s a harrowing scene
that recalls an advertisement claiming Bergman’s
film The Magician (1958) was the Thinking
Man’s horror film (although the scene ends
with a touch that recalls The Exorcist).
The girls’ appearance
marks the rise of the artistic imagination as a
dominant theme in opposition to the bishop’s
rigidly controlled ‘truth.’ If, in some
sense, the film is about Alexander’s struggle
to assert (and accept) imagination and art against
reason and ‘normality,’ we now get to
see the scales tipped in his favor. The idea, which
Bergman explored more explicitly (and didactically)
in The Magician (among other films), is
not without its dangers, as Alexander discovers
once the children’s escape from the bishop’s
clutches has been accomplished.
In an intriguing touch,
their escape is aided by a gesture of bona fide
magic, which Bergman refused to justify or explain.
But then, this is, after all, a film that closes
with lines from Strindberg’s A Dream Play:
“Everything can happen. Everything is possible
and probable. Time and space do not exist. On a
flimsy framework of reality, the imagination spins,
weaving new patterns.”
Fanny and Alexander’s
escape, which is like something out of a fairy tale,
brings them into a strange world that is unlike
either the bishop’s coldly ascetic, self-hating
world or the Ekdahls’ artistic but upper-middle
class circle. Ostensibly the antiques shop as well
as the home of the Ekdahl family friend (and Helena
Ekdahl’s former lover), Isak Jacobi, it’s
a dark, mysterious labyrinth that is crammed with
everything from antiques to oversized puppets and
an Egyptian mummy that appears to breathe, along
with a dangerous family member who is kept locked
up and hidden.
Given how central dreams,
imagination, artistic freedom and adult restrictions
are in this film, it’s not a stretch to suggest
Isak’s space, which often glows in a strangely
luminous red light, is a metaphor for the unconscious,
where we wander lost and unnerved but curious.
More visions appear to Alexander
in Isak’s shop. In the TV version, for instance,
Isak tells the children a beautiful parable about
the nature of man’s search for meaning, and
it propels Alexander into a vision unlike any other
in the film.
This last section (it’s
episode four in the TV version) is perhaps the most
compelling stretch of the film. The visions we see
in it echo some of the seemingly minor visions we
witness in the beginning of the film, and they help
internalize the drama and focus it more clearly
on Alexander’s character. They also lend credence
to Alexander’s other visions, thereby enriching
the film’s spiritual and existential complexities.
Ultimately, the section
works well for a simple reason: Bergman himself
takes on the role of magician, and he seduces his
audience into a startlingly receptive, if slightly
frightened state of susceptibility. Or at least
that is what it does to me. In fact, Isak’s
home is the setting for one of the most riveting
moments I’ve had watching films.
I was a college student
(and a Bergman fanatic majoring in philosophy, no
less), watching the film in an art house cinema
during its original American release. And when a
door in Isak’s shop began banging back and
forth on the screen while a deep, somewhat ominous
voice revealed itself as God, I was so taken by
the moment that I actually wondered, briefly, how
Bergman had convinced God to appear on celluloid.
It seemed manifestly absurd
after I left the theater, but I’ve never shaken
the feeling I had, watching the screen and waiting
for Bergman to perform a miracle.
To
cover all the bases, Criterion has released two
separate editions of Fanny & Alexander
— the shorter theatrical version alone, plus
a box set with both versions.
The better choice is clearly
the box set. While it won four Oscars (foreign language
film, costumes, art direction / set decoration,
and cinematography), the theatrical version doesn’t
satisfactorily represent Bergman’s artistic
intentions, and being able to compare them side
by side shows why.
Admittedly, many viewers
will find that the theatrical version possesses
a stronger rhythm and more sustained narrative momentum
(especially in the first half), and Bergman was
right to trim it down for theatrical release. A
miniseries is more forgiving of longer, slower exposition.
Placed side by side, the theatrical version feels
like a poem, while the TV version often feels like
a more prosaic novel. (Still, there’s a special
joy to be found in stumbling onto a new shot—to
say nothing of a new scene—in a film you’ve
admired for years.)
But the box set offers considerably
more than simply the two versions. With five discs,
it represents Criterion’s most thoroughly
documented offering yet (which is saying a lot).
The Making of Fanny & Alexander, the feature-length,
Bergman-directed documentary included on the fourth
disc, is an especially valuable tool because it
shows how thoroughly rehearsed and precise Bergman’s
blocking and subtly fluid camera movements are here.
(“The movement of the camera should be imperceptible,”
Bergman says in the documentary.)
Other extras in the box
set include
- “Ingmar Bergman
Bids Farewell to Film,” an hour-long interview
with Bergman that was made in 1984 for Swedish
TV. Topics include the creative impetus for Fanny
& Alexander; how Bergman relates to (and
is reflected in) various characters from the film;
how he draws performances out of his actors; and
his reasons for retiring from film after making
Fanny & Alexander.
- “A Bergman Tapestry,”
a forty-minute documentary that offers new interviews
with cast and crew members from Fanny &
Alexander. Topics include the decision to
make the film in Sweden (despite Bergman’s
protests that his home country lacked the craftsmen
his epic film would require); the set and costume
designs; and how Bergman directed the child actors
in Fanny & Alexander.
- Stills and costume galleries,
along with a short presentation on the set models
for Fanny & Alexander.
Throw in a strong commentary for the theatrical
version from Bergman biographer (and a Criterion
perennial favorite) Peter Cowie, and you’ve
got fifteen hours of intense immersion in one
of cinema’s landmark experiences.
The box set’s fifth
disc offers Bergman’s introductions to eleven
of his films, which were recorded for Swedish TV
in the summer of 2003. They’re brief (most
of them are about four minutes long) and informal,
with Bergman sitting in his own theater and chatting
about the autobiographical details behind the films,
which range from Summer with Monica (1952)
to Autumn Sonata (1978). None of the discussion
offers material that would cause Bergman scholars
to re-think their interpretations, but it’s
nonetheless enjoyable to watch Bergman reminisce.
Fanny
& Alexander
has been criticized for often being too happy for
a Bergman film, and when set against chilly, earlier
works like Winter Light, The Silence
and Persona, its vibrancy certainly leaps
out. By Bergman’s own reckoning, though, the
film didn’t come from a change in his own
mood but rather from a decision to explore emotions
which he had felt but never managed to capture on
film.
“I want at last to
show the joy that I carry within me in spite of
everything, joy that I have so seldom and so poorly
given life to in my work,” he wrote in a journal
about Fanny & Alexander’s planning.
“Being able to portray energy and drive, capability
for living, kindness. That wouldn’t be so
bad for once.”
The sheer size of Fanny
& Alexander also singles it out from the
rest of the Bergman oeuvre: with some sixty speaking
parts and 1,200 extras, it’s simply enormous
when set down next to his chamber films.
“It is, as I see it,
a huge tapestry filled with masses of color and
people, houses and forests, mysterious haunts of
caves and grottoes, secrets and night skies,”
Bergman said, in describing the work-in-progress
at a 1980 press conference.
In fact, with its majestic
structure and unhurried, confident pace, Fanny
& Alexander has as much in common with,
say, Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain
as it does with Bergman’s ‘typical’
films. And the fairy tale elements that recur throughout
recall E.T.A. Hoffman’s tales, as Cowie points
out in his commentary. This is especially evident
in the children’s eventual return to the Ekdahl
house: they sit around the large, round table enjoying
another family feast, as if the whole movie had
been merely an elaborate dream out of a fairy tale.
(“Our little world has closed around us in
safety, wisdom and order,” Gustav Adolf says,
in a toast.)
Nonetheless, Fanny &
Alexander neatly brings together several of
the themes Bergman dwelled on for much of his film
career — spirituality, mysticism and the supernatural
as opposed to organized religion; rebellion against
authority, parent versus child as well as husband
versus wife; the self-inflicted misery posed by
intolerance and posturing behind masks, etc. Even
the fairy tale elements tie in to Bergman’s
abiding interest in magic as both a legitimate phenomenon
as well as a means of entertaining trickery. (Think,
for example, of the mesmerizing title character
in The Magician.)
Bergman himself said Fanny
& Alexander was “the sum total of
my life as a filmmaker.”
Any director would revel
at the chance to end a career on such a powerful
summation. |