Digging further through my old film magazine collection, I found a
June 1983 issue of American Film, which also has an article on Ingmar
Bergman that was meant to be a lead-in for the American release of
"Fanny and Alexander." It focuses on both his career (up to 1983) and
his film "Fanny and Alexander." Like the Corliss article in Film
Comment I re-typed excerpts from the piece, not the entire article, as
there was no version (at least none that I could find) on-line to do a
copy-and-paste.
The article is by Theodore McLean, who is credited here as a free-
lance television and film producer and who was also a second assistant
director on "Fanny and Alexander," which explains why his article
seemed so close and knowledgeable to the actual production itself,
because it was. The excerpts below are from McLean's article with a
few notes in the text in brackets by me.
Boaz
------------------------------------------------------
KNOCKING ON HEAVEN'S DOOR
by Theodore McLean
Ingmar Bergman's career spans some forty years of the cinema's eighty-
five year existence. He has been with us for such a long time that his
films have become psychic touchstones, cultural frames of reference
for us to trace our own development. He admits, "It took me four films
before I made anything resembling a decent film"; during the next
three decades of work on thirty-six films, Bergman proceeded to win
nearly every possible prestigious film award.
In the minds of most filmgoers, Bergman movies have become synonymous
with serious cinema. A Bergman film might leave you shattered,
bewildered, moved or illuminated, but never, ever indifferent. His
earlier movies raised the big issues of God and death. His recent work
has tended toward more introverted studies of contemporary domestic
angst comparable to no-holds-barred sessions with an encounter group
or a psychotherapist.
Fanny and Alexander, however heralds the arrival of a new Bergman, a
Bergman basking in a state of harmony with himself and the world.
Fanny and Alexander, like other Bergman films, has its roots in his
childhood, which he recalls with ambivalence. "My childhood was both a
very great childhood and a very unpleasant childhood," says Bergman.
"There was real freedom and real pressure. In the Lutheran priest's
home there was both an appreciation of life and great severity."
Just as Sweden needs Ingmar Bergman, Ingmar Bergman needs Sweden.
There is a story about his first visit to Hollywood, on a trip to
discuss a film project. He went for a weekend stroll along one of
Beverly Hills' sunny boulevards. In a ball back to Sweden he
complained, "Now I know I'm in hell -- so much sunshine and no
people!"
If there is a heaven on earth for Ingmar Bergman, it would be his
beloved retreat of Fårö, a rocky little Baltic island north of
Götland. A militarily controlled area off limits to foreigners, Fårö
is primarily insulated by sheep, birds, fishermen, shepherds, and
Swedes who, like Bergman, are seeking relief from urban living. The
bleak, rugged landscape, reminiscent of the coast of Maine, possesses
a raw power that seems a geological echo of Bergman's own stark
vision. Bergman built a permanent home on Fårö ten years ago [1973],
and later built a studio where he shot many of his most recent Swedish
films.
When Bergman returned to Sweden [following an exile to Germany as a
result of scandal where Bergman was falsely accused of tax evasion] to
shoot Fanny and Alexander, the press greeted the event with the kind
of fanfare and adulation reserved for homecoming heroes and
conquerors, and all past quarrels were shelved. On the set, the crew
-- headed by old Bergman hands like cinematographer Sven Nykvist [who
passed away almost a year ago] and production manager Katinka Faragó
-- seemed determined to make Bergman's return a happy one. "He knows
more than anyone else," says Nykvist, a veteran of many Hollywood
films. "And there is something around him that makes everything
different. No one is easier to work for than Ingmar."
If you know how. With Bergman, one either has to go all the way or not
at all. Bergman believes in pushing people up to and beyond their
limits, based on the assumption that most people can accomplish more
than they think they can. In Sweden he is known as a "demon director"
-- an artist so possessed by the muse that his behavior cannot be
judged by conventional standards. Those working for him can expect the
unexpected, and this knowledge keeps them on their toes. Bergman
knows, above all, how to put mystique to good use, even though he
likes to downplay this aspect of his trade: "I don't see myself so
much an artist as a craftsman," he notes. "I produce something which
people are going to see -- a film, a television play, a theatrical
production. I have no morality other than expecting people to be on
time and to do their best."
Bergman's insistence on punctuality is, along with his temper,
legendary throughout the Swedish film industry. Clocks seem to play a
special role in his films as well, from Wild Strawberries to Fanny and
Alexander. "As a child," says Bergman, "I was a dreamer, disorganized
and undisciplined, hated set hours, school, things like that. In
addition, I am incredibly lazy, which no one believes. The fact is
that I can sit for a long time looking at the sea and let pictures and
feelings float by. But unfortunately you can't be lazy in my business.
If you want to work with a lot of people, you owe those people
organization and discipline.
"A director's job is to create an atmosphere of calm concentration and
security. We have a relaxed mood in the studio, and even if we have to
work in small areas, we stay out of each other's way. There can't be
any rush, and we have to follow our schedule. We start at nine in the
morning -- on the dot -- we have lunch at twelve, and we resume at
one; quarter to three we have a coffee break, and we finish at four-
thirty. What with all the insecurity around, we need that security."
Punctuality is critical to him off the set as well. Once, when in
Hollywood to discuss a film project with a famous actress, Bergman
arrived in the producer's office at nine on the dot, expecting to find
the actress. After a short wait, he asked the producer to call her.
When she answered the phone and told the producer that she was "in the
shower and on her way," Bergman said, "Give me the phone... Miss X, you
can stay in the shower." Exit Bergman for Sweden, curtains for the
multimillion-dollar project.
Another Bergman bugaboo is the common cold. Coughing is forbidden on
the Bergman set; he fears the virus might infect a key crew or cast
member. As a precautionary measure, everyone gets a gamma globulin
shot at the beginning of production. According to Stanley Kubrick (a
director for whom Bergman has great respect), making a film is like
staging an invasion -- all variables can be critical.
Perhaps those most lavish in their praise of Bergman's directing are
his actors. Ewa Fröling, the Swedish actress who plays Emilie, Fanny
and Alexander's mother, describes collaboration with Bergman as "being
on a voyage one can never repeat. It is like an endless conversation
in a room full of warmth and security."
"Frequently, good actors don't see possibilities in themselves," says
Bergman, "and I encourage them to see them and give them freedom to
test them." Bergman never criticizes actors in front of the crew, and
takes great pains to encourage performers having difficulty. He has
been accused of being manipulative. He says in his defense that "any
good director exercises a certain influence on his performers, but
many don't realize that the actors exercise great influence on the
director. When you're younger, you often confuse these feelings with
other feelings. You can fall in love with an actress, you can be
jealous, you can acquire a need to control them outside the state or
the studio. But to continue in this business, you have to understand
those impulses. I don't deny that in my younger days I managed to mess
things up for myself and others. You can fall in love with an actor as
well as an actress, but preferably an actress. Out profession is so
sensual, not just erotic. It's a contact that involves all our
senses."
Bergman has been married to his current wife, Ingrid, an actress, for
five years; she worked on Fanny and Alexander in an administrative
capacity. Indeed, the film was something of a family reunion.
Bergman's son Daniel was key grip and his daughter Anna had a small
role. Bergman attributes to Ingrid's influence his new-found
attachment to his many children and grandchildren. "Before I never had
much time for children emotionally or otherwise. That's something
that's been added to my life, thanks to Ingrid. She took the
initiative to organize family get-togethers every summer. It's so much
fun with all the children and grandchildren. I suppose that if we
lived in the sixteenth century, we would be a family of jesters,
mountebanks, and musicians roving around and performing in the
countryside."
So it is appropriate that the film Bergman is calling his last should
be the first he has made with children in the lead roles. The search
for young Alexander brought hundreds of would-be prodigies to the
Swedish Film Institute to audition. The field was narrowed to five,
and then Bergman gave them the ultimate test: What was the worst thing
they had ever done? Bertil Guve emerged the victor when he answered
that he had just killed his grandfather.
Bertil lost none of his audacity during the shooting of the film. On
one occasion Bergman was patiently trying to explain to the young
actor and to Pernilla Allwin, who plays Fanny, the intricacies of
production teamwork. Bertil became perplexed: "But if everybody else
is so busy, what does the director do except stand around?"
Ingmar Bergman seems the kind of restless soul who will do anything
but stand around, and it is hard to believe that Fanny and Alexander
will be his last film. But his production company, Cinematograph, has
already dismantled its film production operation in Stockholm to
concentrate solely on television. Perhaps Bergman has found a domestic
peace he wants to enjoy.
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