Ingmar Bergman’s Cries and Whispers is a long film. Not running-time long – it’s only 91 minutes. Not movie-time long either – it takes place over the span of only a few days. But psychologically, it’s a long film . . . at points in it you want it to end, already, you’ve had enough. Yet, like Bergman’s camera, you can’t turn away. The film stays with you for a long time, burrowing into your subconscious like an insistent little worm, its aftertaste not entirely pleasant, but fulfilling nevertheless.

The film opens with exteriors of delicate beauty, stationary shots of the grounds of an expansive manor house. Then we’re inside, and the camera moves languorously around a large bedroom before settling on a tight close-up of a sleeping woman’s face. The camera lingers there, studying her as she awakes, and we see her gradual re-alignment from the respite of sleep, her gradual recognition of another day of pain. She is Agnes (Harriet Andersson), and she is in the final hours of her battle with cancer . . . her sisters Karin (Ingrid Thulin) and Maria (Liv Ullman) have gathered at the manor, to be with her as she dies. Though we are given to understand they were once close, the sisters have grown apart.

Karin is married to a cold diplomat; we see the barrenness of their relationship startlingly embodied as she cuts her genitals before bedtime and triumphantly displays the results to her husband. Maria’s marriage is no better – she cuckolds her husband Joakim (Henning Moritzen) with the family doctor (Erland Josephson), and when Joakim stabs himself upon learning of it, she cannot – or is it will not? – help him. Only never-married Agnes has a loving relationship, with her live-in maid and caretaker Anna (Kari Sylwan), and is that part of what Bergman’s up to here? Although it is not explicit by any means, their relationship has strong sexual overtones. Is it an accident that the only fulfilling relationship in the film is a “non-traditional” one?

As the film pushes us through Agnes’ death and beyond, the relationships between the four women mutate, especially that between Karin and Maria. Ullman is her usual excellent self, but the movie belongs to Ingrid Thulin, who is quite simply a marvel to behold. Animalistic in her hatred one second, loving the next, she propels the film to its devastating climax, when each woman confronts Agnes’ animated corpse. Is Agnes really back from the dead, or do the three women conjure her up from their own tortured souls? We never know, but in death – as in life – the only one to come to her aid is the faithful Anna. Their last scene together – eerily reminiscent of a pietá – will stick with you long after the film is over.

This is Bergman at the height of his powers, displaying a complete control over his art. The camera is often static, but it can suddenly zoom in or swing around as if it just has to look closer, as if like us, it can’t quite believe what’s going on. Cinematographer Sven Nyquist captures the lamplit, turn-of-the-century ambience with subtle precision. In one scene, Anna brings a lamp into a darkened room. The lamp seems to float on its own, ghost-like until the figure of Anna is resolved. In the foreground, Karin awaits, lit seemingly only by one other lamp. Bergman’s color palette is crimson with deep wood-grains and startling whites. The entire film seems embedded in red – scenes fade to red instead of black, the walls are painted various shades of red, from deep, blood crimson to a frothy, alveolar pink. The director has been quoted as saying that he believes the soul is red and membranous, and this film replicates that exactly.

Altogether, Cries and Whispers is an overwhelming experience. I cannot say that it’s enjoyable in the same sense as typical, narrative-driven fare. What I can say is that it’s riveting, excruciating, exhilarating, frustrating, all at the same time. By its end I was exhausted, as if after a long and satisfying meal. Although not sorry to see it end, I was already plotting to see it again, and what better complement for any movie than that?