Coosa Creek Mambo

Way back in August of ‘07, after the death of Ingmar Bergman, Jonathan Rosenbaum launched an attack on his legacy. Of course, that was his right, and I appreciate Mr. Rosenbaum’s criticism . . . it goes beyond the synopsis-and-a-three-stars-style of many critics. But his attack, which seemed mean-spirited so soon after Bergman’s death, sparked a controversy; the most cogent defense of Bergman came from Roger Ebert.

Despite my admiration for Rosenbaum, I found that there was much in his original piece with which I disagreed. Then, in a reply to a post over at Jim Emerson’s blog, he jumped the shark: he took his own critics to task for not seeing the 312-minute version of Fanny & Alexander, as opposed to the 188-minute theatrical version, that Bergman “regarded as the compromised theatrical version.” He concluded with a rather bizarre challenge: “To all the most vocally fervent Bergman and Fanny and Alexander supporters out there: when are you going to see the original 312-minute TV version and explain why the 188-minute version is presumably better?”

Well, I can’t rightly do that, but I’ve now seen both versions and I can say with some conviction that while the theatrical version is a fine film, deserving of its 1983 Academy Award^TM, the TV version is far superior. In fact, if I were tied down and forced to do a top ten favorite films of all time, Fanny & Alexander would surely be on it.

Bergman said that Fanny & Alexander would be his final theatrical film, and he was almost right. He also said that it was a summation of all his film-making, and there is no question about that. Set at the dawn of 20th-century Sweden, it encompasses all of Bergman’s themes, from the absence of God to the limits of the imagination to the harsh realities of human relationships. There are ghosts, philandering husbands and long-suffering wives, and-for the first time in a Bergman film-children as well-rounded, major characters. Before Fanny & Alexander, children in Bergman films were objects, to be acted upon by fully fleshed out adult characters, or we saw them as the main characters in flash-back, as memories that drive action in the present day.

Not so in Fanny & Alexander: it revolves around the title characters, children in the large, boisterous Ekdahl family. The Ekdahls are of the upper class, with the time, money and inclination to devote to the arts, and in particular, the theater. The enchanting opening shot (right) references this world–Alexander (Bertil Guve) is pictured behind a miniature stage, complete with “gaslights.” His face is framed by the proscenium, as is his life, as is-we will see-the film itself. He is bored, and desultorily adds a cardboard actor to the stage, then moves to the left, out from behind the toy stage, and the camera follows as he wanders around what we will learn is the Ekdahl family home. It is opulent, all brocade and silk and velvet, and one other thing as well: it’s empty. Though Alexander calls for his sister and mother, no one answers, and we get the sense that the home itself, and perhaps his life itself, is an empty stage, waiting to be populated by players, both real and imagined.

We follow Alexander as he wanders the empty house, wallowing on his grandmother’s bed, playing king-on-a-throne, tracing figures in the condensation on a window. Outside, the world is moving, people are in the streets, wagons are rumbling, but inside it is silent, no one, not even the family servants are around. Finally, Alexander crawls under a table and falls asleep, and as he awakes, we follow his gaze and the chandelier is swaying ever so slightly, as if in an ethereal breeze . . . a strange light bathes a statue, which-we swear-slowly moves its arm . . . there’s a scraping sound, it’s the scythe of the grim reaper, death’s head and all, slowly retreating into the darkness.

Alexander’s move out of the theater’s embrace foreshadows his family’s–Alexander’s father, manager of the wonderfully amateur local troop, dies suddenly, and though he has willed the company to Emelie, she is forced to give it up. It’s only then that things take a turn for the worse: Emelie marries the handsome local bishop, who turns out to be a first-class monster–he locks the children and their mother away, and takes special delight in breaking Alexander’s will.

In the opening sequence, Bergman establishes the vantage point from which we will view the action-the eyes, and perhaps the imagination, of Alexander. We are witness to his interior life (are the supernatural events only that?) as well as his emotions. Only rarely do we see things from other points of view, and when we do, there are hints that perhaps they pour from Alexander’s mind’s eye as well.

In one sequence, images of the children-locked away in the Bishop’s gray household, peering out through barred windows-are intercut with scenes of their grandmother Helena (Gun Wällgren) alone in the sunroom of her country home . . . the children’s room is gray and bare-plastered; Helena’s is almost overwhelmingly bright, with a brilliant garden outside its windows. The ghost of the children’s father-heretofore visible only to Alexander (and perhaps Fanny)-appears to Helena. We are forced to consider the nature of what we are seeing-is the ghost real? Does it represent an objective reality? Or are we seeing things still from Alexander’s point of view? Is the scene of his grandmother in their (over-bright) country house a product of his imagination, of his great yearning to be free from Vergerus’ control?

We don’t know . . . and that is one of the great charms of this film: there is ambiguity and mystery at every turn. Are the ghosts real, or only a part of an eleven-year-old imagination? Exactly how does the merchant Isak (Erland Josephson) spirit the children away from the Bishop’s house? And does Alexander’s projected hatred really cause the Bishop’s death?

Some of the ambiguity is provided simply by the film’s limited point of view. In another pivotal scene, it dawns on Alexander that his mother is falling for Bishop Vergerus (Jan Malmsjö). Because it is from Alexander’s point of view, we have no idea why: we aren’t admitted to the psyche of Emelie any more than he is, and we haven’t seen-except in glimpses that would have been afforded the child-the courtship the couple surely practiced.

At the same time, we-along with Alexander-understand the Bishop’s true nature long before his mother. As he upbraids Alexander for lying, the camera is centered on the boy’s face. But the Bishop’s hands keep intruding into the frame, poking him, smoothing his hair, exerting the control of their owner. We know, from this point onward, that things will not go well.

Tags: Bergman, Ebert, Fanny & Alexander, Film, Rosenbaum