IMDb #129 Review: The Seventh Seal (1957)

Source: Wikipedia

In the Middle Ages, Europe must have hit a midlife crisis. Insecurity, instability, irritability. These moods spur the Crusades, the Black Death, and paranoid stupidity that spreads like poison ivy at an orgy. And the people suffering attempt to mitigate the symptoms in the worst ways imaginable ... also like poison ivy at an orgy.

Two Crusaders return to Sweden, weary of life and wary of faith. Their homeland is a wasteland: masses afflicted by plague, mobs accusing witches and burning random women. Actors roam free.

Worst of all, Death himself pays the handsomest Crusader a visit, manifesting as a pasty creep in a black hooded cloak who challenges him to chess. Apparently Death is a stereotypical basement-dwelling nerd.

The Crusader struggles, not with the trials of being ruggedly handsome, but with belief. The Crusades shook him. He can't accept God and can't accept nothingness. Apparently, however, he can accept that Death manifests corporeally and cheats at chess while looking like he has to make curfew at his mom's place in the stygian abyss.

But nobody else knows about this rigged game. The real plot has the Crusader buddies falling in with a group of actors. The man, wife, and young son -- likely representative of a demented Holy Family -- trundle their wagon from town to town performing vaudeville and morality plays. When medieval theater becomes boring (which is quickly), the bored peasants resort to barroom brawls, beating their wives, and the aforementioned witch hunts.

The alpha plot gets complicated when the heroes try to save a witch. The main guy because he wants to ask the devil (through her) about God, the others to save an innocent woman from pointless excruciating fiery death.

Death slinks in the shadows, watching, never getting involved, except for a brief stint as a lumberjack (which makes just as much sense in context).

For Ingmar Bergman? This is straightforward, approachable, and poses legitimate questions about morality and mortality. And best of all it's got a sense of humor as black as the pit. Just don't ask me to explain it, or I'll call up Death the mouth-breather to schedule you a one-way private tour of his anime figurine collection.

96 minutes.

IMDb #135 Review: Wild Strawberries (1957)

Source: Wikipedia

A reclusive old grouch, on the momentous occasion he leaves his house to pick up an honorary doctorate, suddenly realizes how much he screwed up his life.

No real friends. Distant from close relatives. Maybe he could try not being a jerk? No, then he'd have to reconfigure his overly formal fifty-year passive-aggressive relationship with his housekeeper. That would be too much.

Despite the housekeeper's protests, he sets off alone in the car. His journey accumulates strange young people. When reality becomes annoying, which is remarkably often, he retreats into his own head. Nostalgic memories, surreal dream sequences, and casual combinations of the two.

He mentally visits his childhood summer home, where wild strawberries grew then but not anymore. (Thematically significant? Nah). As youngsters, he and his manifold siblings read poetry, played piano, tolerated their senile uncle, casually discussed sin and eternity -- y'know, kid things. In Sweden, probably.

Meanwhile, in reality, the car breaks down and they fix it at a gas station and he picks up and subsequently kicks out a bickering married couple. Two college guys, a ministerial student and a doctoral student, a romanticist and a rationalist, debate and eventually fistfight about the concept of God (as if it'll change the nature of the universe).

The old prof, perhaps representative of Ingmar Bergman, slips back into the comforts of incomprehensible dream imagery. Like the one where you're at school taking your doctoral exam and you can't identify the example under the microscope because it doesn't exist and you can't identify the word written on the blackboard because that language doesn't exist either and you can't diagnose the patient on the table because he happens to be unfortunately deceased. You know, that one.

Following the dull doctorate conferral ceremony, the old man returns to his dull, lonely, hateful life. But he receives an uplifting visit from his young road trip companions, who chuck rocks at his window, possibly to remind him that happiness exists and he missed it. (Thematically significant? Who knows.)

91 minutes.

IMDb #192 Review: Persona (1966)

Source: Wikipedia

WHAT THE UNFATHOMABLE FUCK WAS TH--oh, it's over already. Cool.

As summarized above, the Swedes toss us another bizarre psychological drama sandwiched between montages of surreal imagery. It just oozes bullshit symbolism. Film reels; giant spiders; baby lambs; dead people; a sad boy reading in bed; crucifixion. What does it mean, Ingmar Bergman. Who cares, you're dead.

The discernible story involves an actress. She cuts off communication with the outside world, by writing or speaking or even emoting. A nurse tends to her, then takes her on a beach trip. To get the actress talking, the nurse starts talking. A lot. The one-sided conversation waxes terrifyingly personal, such as orgy stories and other such dalliances.

When the actress finally speaks, it turns out--surprise--she's an insufferable bitch. This display is just another act.

SUDDENLY DANCING SKELETON SUITS, SCREECHY MUSIC, MORE CRUCIFIXION, WHAT THE HELL AM I WATCHING?

Back to monotone conversations. This I can handle.

The best/worst scene sticks in my head. A whole conversation lingers on a still shot of one woman's expressionless face. Then, the film repeats the same conversation, just aimed at the other woman's face. The acting is so subtle you might miss it entirely.

Rambling conversation bandies about various themes: fluidity of identity, the pains of pregnancy/abortion/childbirth, nihilism. Sometimes, the philosophically dense girl-talk breaks out in physical violence, as they tend to. The nurse shakes the actress, beats her against a table, slaps her, scrapes her fingernails on her arm, draws blood, sucks the blood...

No, I did not understand this movie.

In the end, the actress and nurse realize they are the same. I think.

Because clear communication would ruin the artsy fun.

84 minutes.

IMDb #215 Review: Fanny and Alexander

Source: Wikipedia

In snow-clogged Sweden, a motley conglomeration of genetically related lunatics strive to become the most dysfunctional family in Europe.

The title refers to two young children, a girl and boy who seem to stay the same age through several time-skips. They hardly appear for the first hour, then for the other two they mope around and mouth off. Meanwhile, their relatives (who don’t have movies named after them) quarrel and philander and flatulate to amuse the aforementioned youngsters.

Despite ties with the local theater, the family lives in luxury. Then tragedy strikes, and our morose ragamuffins go from riches to rags, from a lavish mansion to an ascetic hellhole.

Did I mention the ghosts? There are ghosts. With no explanation, except a firm, unspoken “Deal with it.” Sure, an art-house masterpiece can explore the transforming influence of fantasy over reality through the dynamic metaphors of film and stage and childhood. That's cool and all.

But I can only process so much metafictional commentary before I wake up and realize I’m a dumb schmuck at a keyboard plonking out words about foreign films too blindingly brilliant for me to appreciate.

Reality bites. Fantasy enhances reality. Why else would we watch movies and junk.

The ending, though satisfying, felt long overdue. It marks the culmination of a long, strange, difficult journey, like finding a North Korean flag on Pluto.

It could be worse; the original cut was five hours. So if you enjoy odd rambling domestic epics in which good children suffer and learn unclear lessons, good for you.

Also, I’m not inviting you over for Christmas dinner.

188 minutes.