...But Film Is My Mistress (...Men filmen är min älskarinna)

...BUT FILM IS MY MISTRESS

Ingmar Bergman.

The master, Ingmar Bergman.

Later he just became Ingmar to me.

But at the time I met him...

he was just the great, great, unforgettable director.

We're talking of the time

when we were all good friends.

There was Ingmar and Bibi Andersson,

and the cinematographer Sven Nykvist.

I had one line of dialogue and it was “Nothing.”

But to play a mute character,

who observed and listened, that I could do.

And I understood — I am Ingmar.

That was my fortune as an actress.

I recognized him

and he recognized me.

I'm 100 percent certain...

that I produce consumer goods

both in the theater and on film.

And whether they survive me

or not —

or what people say —

makes absolutely no difference to me.

And I honestly mean that.

AFTER THE REHEARSAL

The only thing that means anything...

when I'm working...

is that the work

should be meaningful

for those who perform it...

and at the same time that it should be alive.

Meaning that it should take on a life of its own.

There's only one thing that I'm afraid of.

And God should know I'm terrified of it.

And it's that...

suddenly my ability to make something living...

and touching

will be taken from me or that I'll lose it.

That suddenly I won't know what to do,

or that time will pass me by.

Now, some practical considerations.

We'll start in the morning.

I was thinking that if it suits you, which we can discuss,

we should start rehearsing at 11 :00.

-Does that work? -Yes.

Does anybody have any objection? Efland?

We should be able to handle staging in three instances by doing the following:

Pages 1 through 20 tomorrow, which is Tuesday.

And then on Wednesday we'll do your scene.

-How many pages is that? -About 20 pages.

And then the rest on Thursday.

Sven, you don't have to feel obligated to be here on these days,

but you can be here if you feel like it.

Yes, I know.

I've promised to take a few days off.

I think you should.

Where are you going?

-Up to Dalarna. -Dalarna?

Yes, I'm going to go skiing.

-Action. -How old are you really, Anna Egerman?

Guess.

You're the same age as my youngest daughter.

I should be here. Here.

-Maybe here. -You're father is —

How about this? Where he's turned towards her.

First her alone and then —

The lighting is more interesting.

I've always taken as a whole the work of artists I admire.

For example, if you asked me,

“Do you ha ve a specific relationship with a painting by Vermeer

or a painting by Pierre Bonnard?”

I'd answer, “My relationship is with the body of work,

the worldview that is expressed through that artist's entire body of work.”

Sometimes it's the tiniest or strangest details

that are the most precious to me

due to the interesting way they fit into the artist's work as a whole.

From that point of view, I've always seen Bergmanis work as a whole.

Yes, it's strange.

Kerstin, you're the script supervisor,

it's strange that she looks so much older in pictures.

The secret to Ingmar Bergman's directing is that he's always right here amongst us.

They always ask.

I have his head under my arm.

Make the complete turn.

No, first you say —

-Dear God. -Good God.

God. Oh, dear God.

I turn and look down.

Yes, the complete turn.

-Should I do it? -Wait a minute, let me check with Sven.

When did you stop it there?

Over the years — ever so slowly —

we've developed a working technique.

I'll sit at home preparing intensively,

developing the staging,

mapping it out so I can imagine it in my head.

But once I'm in the studio with the actors and the camera

setting up the staging,

it may suddenly happen during the first rehearsal

that an inflection, gesture or expression by one of the actors

causes me to change everything.

Because I feel it's better.

But it doesn't have to be spoken between us.

Through me you'll hear tones you've never heard before.

Isn't that worth something?

Don't do it all the same. “Isn't that worth something?”

So it's not all the same.

I'll have to turn it up.

That's okay.

I mean now, during rehearsals. So it's not all the same.

So, let's see —

-There. How far did you go? -We went to that spot before.

-What? -Where they are now.

We went up to here, right?

There. Let's keep it as tight on them as possible.

I imagine it like this.

So after a week we start talking after rehearsals.

We have to discuss your part, right?

We go to the canteen for a coffee,

bringing a colleague along as an alibi.

Then we start meeting in my room.

We sit far apart

and drink mineral water and nibble on biscuits.

Everyone knows, but no one says anything.

Johan slinks around,

courted by sympathetic female drama students.

There's a general atmosphere of euphoria —

Stop. Stop there.

-And then? -And then?

And then we start meeting more often. Mostly in the afternoon after rehearsals.

I'm getting too close with the zoom.

If we go slightly slower it will work better.

-You feel it's more fluid? -Exactly.

The background is constantly new.

And the corners.

It's the corners I'm worried about. They feel strange.

Yes, I trail behind a bit.

It was a bit long.

Everyone knows, but no one says anything.

Johan slinks around,

courted by sympathetic female drama students.

There's a general atmosphere of euphoria,

occasionally interrupted by violent but harmless thunderstorms.

At 11 :00 I give you a ride home.

Our relationship is sweet and full of promise.

I kiss your cheek. “Take care,” I say.

You look at me with an inscrutable smile

and slowly shake your head.

-Your eyes — -Thank you.

There. That was about it.

Yes, I understand what you mean.

SHAME

Today, I saw Shame again and I was really surprised.

The film fascinated me. It was contradictory,

complex, poetic,

simultaneously realistic and dreamlike,

it grappled with the present, yet was totally out of step with the present.

Seeing it at a different age, in a different period,

allows you to reinterpret it in a way that's constantly new.

I think Shame is one of those “open” films

which seem to tell one story,

but actually, not quite,

for the story is something else, hidden within the film.

I'll go call an ambulance!

Jan come with me! Jan!

No! Let me go!

It has a desire to confront the absolute worst,

a need to face the absolute worst,

to face the anxiety of being yourself,

your inner limits. . -

and the abysses that can open up inside yourself.

It's also a film that stands at the crossroads

of real life and imagination.

As in all of Bergman's films, it's portrayed with raw truth,

with an attention and sense of detail that is cruel.

It hurts.

Yet at the same time, the film is set in a made-up world.

The film follows the logic of dreams, a dreamlike logic,

and the scenes unfold according to a dreamlike logic.

FROM THE LIFE OF THE MARIONETTES

I'll quote Strindberg from The Road to Damascus...

and say, “In spite of my melancholy temperament

I've never been able to take anything seriously.”

And I think that feels good,

because that's how it is.

And even if you depict the very worst thing in the world

and feel strongly about it,

the fact that you sat down to depict it,

and put a pen to paper or focused a camera on it,

means that there's already a desire there...

which makes it okay

to experience some kind of joy

in depicting even the horrible.

Because if you were as tortured

as some of my films end up becoming,

without me realizing how,

you'd just go hang yourself.

He agreed. Somewhere in that neighborhood.

I just want to try 30 lengths.