Ingmar Bergman


7 Ingmar Bergman Films to Watch After 'Bergman Island'

There is a ghost in Mia Hansen-Løve's 2021 film Bergman Island, never seen but frequently mentioned by all those aware of his lingering presence. Ingmar Bergman, the Swedish filmmaker whose 49 films reshaped the face of cinema, has such an inescapable influence that, even after death, he remains.. In Bergman Island, he commandeers the topic of conversation, sparks fierce debate, and causes feelings of inadequacy to fester.
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Mia Hansen-Løve & Joachim Trier Talk Ingmar Bergman, Growing As A Filmmaker & More [NYFF]

Two filmmakers uniquely fascinated with mapping and navigating moments in time, Mia Hansen-Løve and Joachim Trier, know how to pass an hour. And, in fact, their free talk on Monday evening — part of this year’s New York Film Festival, where Hansen-Løve’s “Bergman Island” and Trier’s “The Worst Person in the World” are both Main Slate selections — ran about 20 minutes over its scheduled 60, though attendees packed into the Elinor Bunin Munroe Film Center’s 75-capacity Amphitheater didn’t seem to mind.

‘Scenes from a Marriage’ Director Hagai Levi on Adapting Ingmar Bergman and Why His Series Breaks the Fourth Wall

From Hagai Levi (The Affair, In Treatment) and adapted from the Ingmar Bergman classic Swedish TV series, the HBO limited series Scenes from a Marriage examines marriage, monogamy and divorce as it follows Mira (Jessica Chastain), an ambitious career woman who is feeling unfulfilled, and Jonathan (Oscar Isaac), a philosophy professor trying to keep their relationship intact. As individuals, they both view that relationship very differently, but they also both realize that there isn’t one thing that will tear them apart, lead them to heal, or help them figure out what’s next.

How Hagai Levi Brought an Ingmar Bergman Classic Back to Life With Scenes From a Marriage

By the early 1970s, the Swedish auteur Ingmar Bergman—who’d set art-house cinema alight with The Seventh Seal, Wild Strawberries, and Persona in the 1950s and ’60s—had hit a slump. Two of his latest, 1969’s The Rite (1969) and 1971’s The Touch, had been poorly received; so, reasoning that the money for his next film might be difficult to come by, Bergman turned to the medium of television—which was not yet the prestige domain that it is today.

Why Ingmar Bergman’s "Worst" Film Deserves to Be Reconsidered

The Touch (1971) was legendary Swedish auteur Ingmar Bergman’s first English language film. Coming after a period of avant-garde, surrealist fantasias like Hour of the Wolf (1968) and The Passion of Anna (1969), it marked a new period in his work of more stripped-down, restrained chamber dramas such as Scenes from a Marriage (1973) and Autumn Sonata (1978). The Touch is perched uncomfortably between these two sensibilities—a minimal romance drama with a frustratingly opaque distance from the characters—and was released to utter disdain. A box office bomb that was almost universally panned, even Bergman himself later denounced it as his worst effort, saying it represents “the very bottom of me.” It may be melodramatic and rather unsatisfying in some respects, but such harsh criticism denies the mesmerizing pull of the film. As in the best of Bergman’s work, The Touch’s quiet observation of its characters approaches something truly profound, something nearly ineffable, about human behavior.
The New Yorker

Revisiting a Widely Derided Ingmar Bergman Film—Which Is Actually Among His Best

The collaboration of Hollywood stars and European art-house directors in films like “Annette” is part of a tradition that stretches back to the founding of the modern cinema, starting with the collaboration of Ingrid Bergman and Roberto Rossellini in such films as “Stromboli” and “Voyage to Italy.” The convergence of Bergman’s star power and Hollywood mythology with Rossellini’s documentary-like methods and intellectually acute dramas proved revelatory for both. The films they made together were widely hated by established critics who’d celebrated Rossellini’s earlier films, yet they inspired a new generation of critics who were soon to be filmmakers—those of the French New Wave. The method proved all the more surprising—and equally revelatory—in the midcareer work of another of the prime European filmmakers, Ingmar Bergman, who is one of the greatest directors of actors. For his 1971 film, “The Touch,” for instance (streaming on the Criterion Channel, iTunes, and other services), he included—along with two of his most frequent and inspired collaborators, Bibi Andersson and Max von Sydow—the American star Elliott Gould, who was one of the biggest stars of the time. The results were similarly inspired, similarly revelatory—and similarly controversial among critics who’d turned Bergman into a virtual American art-house cult.

Bergman Island Is for the Ingmar Bergman Heads

I’ve been inexplicably drawn to the morose, melancholy mind-fuckery of Ingmar Bergman’s movies for more than half of my life. I find few directors more fascinating, few movies that make me feel as simultaneously sick and ecstatic, like I’ve just sucked down a bunch of seawater on a beguilingly rocky beach. Many people have sunnier dispositions or are perhaps less preoccupied by the abyss, and tend to groan when asked to sit through the Trilogy of Faith. Why do I like watching films about suicidal women in nightgowns having psychosexual dreams about their sisters? Why am I so drawn to stories about women on the brink of madness, roaming the craggy Swedish seaside babbling about their sexually abusive fathers?

Master of None: Moments in Love's attempt to replicate Ingmar Bergman results in unbearably slow episodes

Ansari directs "every episode on film in long take after long take as if staging his own Ingmar Bergman series," says Caroline Framke of the third season of his Netflix series. "It’s undeniably jarring, in a good way, to see a story about a queer Black couple given the kind of treatment typically only bestowed upon white couples. And yet the stylistic gambit quickly wears out its welcome in the season’s first meandering chapter, which runs a solid 50 minutes long in fits and starts. Master of None has always indulged a conversational detour, but previous versions at least took pains to fit within a half-hour runtime, a smart limit to which Moments of Love has no attachment. It’d be one thing if the episode used its extra time wisely. Instead, it lingers on banal back-and-forths and then fast forwards through the truly seismic events that reverberate through Denise and Alicia’s lives for the rest of the season. Ansari likewise plants half his shots in one place many feet away from his actors as if to mimic the feeling of eavesdropping on someone’s most intimate moments, but it mostly just feels frustrating not to be able to see the characters more clearly. The season’s first real close-ups, in fact, don’t come until its fourth episode — which is not coincidentally focused on Ackie’s character rather than Waithe’s. This season’s iteration of Denise doesn’t feel like an older version of Denise so much as a very different one altogether, begging the question of why this couldn’t have just been a different show outside of the Master of None umbrella with Waithe playing a new character. Most notably, this Denise is much more stoic than the last, which the season acknowledges. But at some point, her total inability to express any extreme emotions in some of the most significant moments of her life just seems like a way to bypass the fact that Waithe’s range is much more limited than her scene partner’s. This also applies to the many, many minutes Ansari devotes to Denise simply sitting, staring, or eating a sandwich with no discernible nuance whatsoever. Whatever curated vibe these scenes are trying to go for, they end up feeling interminably long for the sake of it."