The story then moves to the film director recalling his teacher’s story to friends Sofi (Eva Henning) and Thomas (Birger Malmsten) in their apartment. Thomas remembers an interview he did with a prostitute that was meant to be the basis of an article he never finished, and digs it out, claiming it to be the perfect basis for the film that is being pitched. Bergman then presents the interview itself as a flashback sequence, but ultimately betrays Thomas in his claim that the situation of prostitute Birgitta (Doris Svedlund) represents hell on earth, as she seems perfectly comfortable with her situation: it is Thomas who awkwardly asks questions trying to probe her reasoning for what she does, yet finding no simple answers, he is left to accept the arbitrariness of her situation, which clashes with the cool logic of his intellectual posturing. We are therefore given an initial hint of what Bergman seeks to define as “hell on earth”, which displays itself as the shock of realisation that the world is not as simply explained and categorised as the characters of his films initially believe.

The film then eschews what are considered “normal” introductory credits and instead uses a voiceover to inform the audience that the prologue is over and that the film is now beginning. The narrator then lists the cast and crew of the film as the camera gently rolls through the streets ofStockholm, finally resting on Birgitta as she returns to her apartment that she shares with her boyfriend/pimp and his sister. Birgitta’s journey throughout the film gets progressively harder and harder for her to deal with, as she is put through many awful situations in a world that gives her little in reward for her resilience. After her newborn baby is taken from her and killed by her guardians, she is tracked by the police and harassed for being a prostitute; only when the drunken Thomas bursts in claiming he has killed Sofi do the police let her go, but only because Thomas’s story is more interesting to them. Thomas and Birgitta later runaway to a boarding house together, in an attempt to escape the tragedy and suffering of their lives. This succeeds for a while, but Birgitta later ends up returning to her old boyfriend, and soon returns to her old ways. After a particularly unpleasant encounter with a prospective client, where she is beaten and burnt with a cigarette, Birgitta flees her flat and commits suicide in the basement of her building.

Birgitta’s death shows that there are limits to what individuals can put up with in their lives, and how she was unable to continue to live in a world that failed to give her any respite; in other words, a world where the Devil reigns and relentlessly pursues her while God sits back in silence. Her death forms the conclusion of the first part of the film’s narrative. As a heavenly light illuminates Birgitta’s body as she is carried away, the film turns to the director at the film studio for its final scene. Birgitta’s story is discussed and dismissed as being potential subject matter for a film, despite the fact that she has paradoxically has been the main subject for most of Bergman’s film. The director claims that a film cannot end this way as there are too many unanswered questions, and leaves the audience in too much of a uncomfortable situation to allow it. The film finally ends with the director and his colleague walking out of the film studio as the flood lights are gradually turned off, slowly allowing the image to descend into darkness before the final announcement that the film is over. Bergman seems to have controversially posed many of the loaded questions he claims are unanswerable, yet places them as a story within a story so that the power and intensity of Birgitta’s final scenes are diffused through the bookending narrative.

Bergman uses his first outing as writer/director to try and draw attention to the power that he feels is contained within the medium of cinema by writing scenes that reflect his own experiences and highlighting the power that cinematic conventions can have on an audience. There is a scene with Birgitta and Thomas after they have arrived in the boarding house where they find an old cinematograph, and project it onto a wall. The projected image quickly blends with the image of the film itself, and the audience watch the projected film along with Birgitta and Thomas. This scene is taken from Bergman’s own childhood, when he used to project and watch films on his own cinematograph, and presumably attempts to transfer some of the joy that he felt onto the couple watching it, as a way of escaping their troubled lives and simply find a temporary joy in the dancing actions of projected figures.

Another brief sequence is also illuminating: during one of the early scenes in the film studio, we see the crew preparing for a shot with two actors in a boat. The boat is raised above the floor and manually rocked to give the impression of waves. Light is reflected into the actors’ faces and a back projection gives the illusion of movement. As the director calls action it is hard to take the supposed romantic overtones of the scene seriously, but Bergman tracks his own camera in through the set, ending up framing the shot in his own close up. The magic of film is laid bare as we forget all the superfluous personal and effects surrounding the actors, and are almost immediately drawn into their conversation about romance and love. The spell is broken when one actor forgets his lines, something which is fundamentally unable to occur in a real film. Bergman repeatedly draws our attention to the laborious and political methods of constructing a film, yet uses this as a springboard to launch larger moral and theological questions that he will spend most of the career trying to answer.

The film begins with Stig answering a phone call during a rehearsal and finding out that his wife Marta (Maj-Britt Nilsson) has been killed by a paraffin stove exploding. The film then travels back to the time that he first meets Marta during the start of the new orchestral season. This technique is a fairly common theatrical device in which the audience is drawn into the narrative by placing a climactic scene at the beginning of the story, so that they are then intrigued by the events that lead up to the aforementioned scene and take up most of the film’s running time. It was not uncommon for Bergman to use prologues in his early films: Music in Darkness, for example, while not presenting an intriguing glimpse into the culmination of the film, uses a prologue as a way to set up the story of pianist Bengt and his struggle to come to terms with his blindness.

Stig begins the film as a melancholy and depressed individual, especially when drunk, and holds his status as musician with some contempt, yet is unable to pull himself out of the situation because of his self-perceived mediocrity. He repeatedly pushes himself towards Marta, apparently as a way to begin to drag himself out of his depression, yet she firmly yet somewhat affectionately rejects him, presumably as a way to make him pull himself together so that he sees he cannot always get what he wants easily. They eventually get together, and their relationship progresses smoothly until Marta announces out of the blue that she is three months pregnant, which shocks Stig, as he claims he hates children and feels betrayed that Marta didn’t tell him straight away. This altercation leads to Stig pursuing the role of a soloist, with his orchestra as backing. His conductor, Sönderby (Victor Sjöström) sees this as a premature task for Stig, who still does not possess the talent needed to be a soloist, yet he drives forward regardless, resulting in an embarrassing performance which gets little recognition by the music press.

Stig is attempting to make amends for his self-perceived inadequacy within his relationship by trying to excel as a musician. To use Paisley Livingston’s observations regarding humiliation at the role of ritual in art, Stig begins a series of reorientations based around his perceived status is society, initiated by his humiliation; first by Marta when she reveals that she is pregnant, then by the audience of his recital when he prematurely performs as a soloist. Following his personal humiliation by Marta, he then proceeds to be humiliated in front of a large, anonymous audience, which is synonymous for society as a whole. Having had his reputation lowered by the press in their review of his performance, he begins to treat Marta with more animosity, since he now feels he is victimised or excluded from society as well. Livingston also posits that the ritual contents of art can be extrapolated onto the community that surrounds it, and that “[s]ocial equilibrium is found in a dynamic process that incorporates disequilibrium, ritual addresses this problem by setting disorder and crisis in motion so that they can be recuperated and made to serve the cause of order. Giraud describes ritual as a repetition of the mechanism of victimage through which a community seeks a resolution for a real or anticipated crisis. The sacrificial operations performed in ritual aim at regaining for the community the beneficial order first achieved in the unifying movement of victimage” (1982, 96-97) and that “[t]his ritual pattern is institutionalised in the role of the liminal individual” (ibid). If we think of the orchestra as a self-contained community, much like the village communities found in Bergman’s other films, we see that the crisis, or underlying disorder, is their inability to play to the standard required of them, as shown by Sönderby’s repeated exasperated claims of the orchestra’s declining standard of playing. Stig, therefore, can be seen as the liminal individual who takes up the role of the victim to be sacrificed so that the equilibrium of the community can be restored. Whilst Stig is addressing his own personal crisis, he is also representing the crisis of the orchestra’s standard of playing, and puts himself forward to be sacrificed before the audience and the music press. While this may not completely resolve the problem of the orchestra community’s lack of skill, it serves as a distraction that puts Stig in the firing line and taking the attention away from them as a whole. This interpretation differs from Livingston’s analysis in that the orchestra/community is passive in the sacrificing of Stig instead of actively calling for him to be sacrificed to end the perceived disorder.

Disillusioned once again, he takes to the streets to walk off his depression, bumps into an acquaintance and follows him back to his apartment, where he meets his friend’s young lover. Initially repulsed by her, he ends up having an affair with her as his relationship with Marta deteriorates. His earlier humiliation has made him choose to reside in a lower level of society by taking up a mistress, putting his own desires above those of his wife and children: Marta leaves him soon after. After spending some time apart, they reconcile with each other, and promise to start their relationship anew. It is at this point in the film, that the crisis shown to us at the beginning of the film rears up, and the catastrophic accident is brought firmly into the present. The film ends with Stig retaking his place within the orchestra and playing a triumphant recital of Beethoven’s Symphony No.9. This final scene renders Stig firmly as a part of the orchestral community once again, as he relinquishes his ideals to be an exceptional performer and takes his place as simply one musician amongst many. The death of Marta, while tragic in itself, has allowed Stig to realise that he has little control over the world around him, and must accept that hand that he has been dealt. His personal insecurities and demons, which resulted in nothing but humiliation and failure, have been forgotten (although probably not erased) as he becomes part of the orchestra performing a musical event that transcends the needs of the individual and places the achievement of the community as the most essential and immediate act.

Bergman wisely chooses to show us nothing of Bengt’s previous life except the traumatic event that turned his world upside down, concentrating on exploring his new life and how he comes to terms with being unable to see in a world where everything is judged on its aesthetic properties. The simple act of kindness of rescuing a puppy from a military firing range is rewarded by a traumatic reaction which robs him of his ability to experience the world as he previously could. Despite the contrived nature of this opening, Bergman uses this cruel chance event to explore familiar themes present in his early films: the role and value of the artist in the society he inhabits; the passion and violence that exists within the relationships of young people and how their modern way of life is at odds with their elders.

The fact that he is rewarded for his act of kindness by being robbed of his primary way of understanding the world, and that he has to completely refigure his relationships with the people around him is unconsciously repeated by Bengt in his future decisions. He befriends a neighbour, Ingrid (Mai Zetterling), after he is urged to play the organ at her father’s funeral. She quickly falls in love with him and becomes his personal helper, reading to him and talking him for walks. However, after he applies to the Stockholm Music Academy he insults her behind her back, which she inadvertently hears, causing her to immediately leave. Bengt fails the entrance exam and becomes a piano player at a restaurant

As Paisley Livingstone points out “[i]n Bergman’s films, identity is never established in isolation, but is the product of a basic, inescapable reciprocity” (1982, 51). Humiliation is a key element in the way that Bergman’s characters establish their own identity, and perhaps Bengt is trying to elevate his own personal view of himself by trying to humiliate Ingrid into leaving him. This humiliation leads to his failing of the exam and him taking a job as a pianist in a restaurant: a significant step down in society’s perception of his artistic talent. His personal humiliation of Ingrid is therefore followed by his own humiliation by society, driving him away from his pursuit of a purely professional and academic pursuit of music to being a mere entertainer. Bengt is therefore sent on a journey defined by his ability to humiliate and the humiliation he himself receives, as “[t]he person humiliated finds himself fixed by the other’s dominant gaze and measures his position as if through the eyes of this person, who appears, in the same instant, to possess a more elevated status” (54-55). Soon after, Bengt finds himself working as a piano-tuner at a school for the blind, impressing the students with his performances, but unwilling to take up the offer of a scholarship to be a church pianist because of the potential risk of being humiliated again.

Bengt is humiliated further after he bumps into Ingrid and her new boyfriend Ebbe one night: after meeting them at her flat, Ebbe proceeds to beat him at arm-wrestling, and after Bengt lashes out at him, he discovers Ebbe had to support his whole family after his father was imprisoned for murder, making Bengt feel even worse for attacking him. After being abandoned at a railway station by a blind man he befriended at a boarding house, he becomes disorientated and stumbles onto the train track. He has both physically and metaphorically lost his way after repeatedly being abandoned and humiliated as well as humiliating those around him.

However, his fortunes are reversed soon after, when he bumps into Ingrid, who has realised that she would rather be with him that Ebbe, and after a confrontation with Ebbe they return to their old home to get married. The film ends with Bengt and Ingrid taking a train away from their home, musing on the possibilities that await them in their future. The turnaround in Bengt’s fortunes is typical of Bergman at this period in his career, as he was still aiming for a commercial hit to allow him to pursue more personal projects, and happy endings were a necessary addition to his often bleak narratives as an attempt to please his audiences. However, most of the film is a good example of how Bergman makes his characters use the act of humiliation to position themselves, and be positioned, against the people around them.

The couple’s relationship is the main focal point of the film, and it is how they deal with the events and people surrounding them that drive the narrative. It is well known that many of Bergman’s later films revolve around couples and families who try to come to terms with who they are and their past relationships (e.g. Cries and Whispers, Autumn Sonata), yet ending in the realisation that reconciliation is difficult, if not impossible. Which is why it seems appropriate that this early film does the exact opposite: depicting the meeting of younger characters who share some hardships together and end the film more determined and committed to their relationship than they were in the beginning. Clearly the youthful Bergman had not had the life experiences that led him to mature in his attitude to storytelling as he matured in his own personal life.

The film begins with an old man introducing the scene and the main characters by talking directly to the camera, similar in its theatrical conventions to the omnipotent narrator of Crisis. He was still clearly trying to grasp the fundamental properties that cinema possessed, and how best to shape them with his own voice: it is clear he could not quite completely let go of the more theatrical narrative devices and staging that he grew up using in the theatre. The presence of the old man evokes an atmosphere more whimsical than realist, almost dulling the edge of the film’s events, as if nothing truly bad could happen to the characters due to his watchful eye. Having said that, the couple do struggle through their new life: dealing with a conniving landlord; David fighting off accusations of thievery from his boss; Maggie being sent to a maternity ward but losing the baby during birth; and being sent to court after assaulting a local magistrate almost becomes too much for them.

The narrators’ relationship to the film changes quite drastically throughout the film: starting off with introducing the action to the audience; turning up at the end of the first act to bring some narrative loose ends to the audiences attention; as David’s conscience when he runs away after he finds out Maggie is pregnant; and finally as their lawyer in the court house. His presence begins as merely a theatrical device, an obstruction between the action and the audience that means that they cannot engage with the film as directly as they normally would. His formal interference is a barrier that the audience must necessarily look through, yet it taints the proceeding narrative of David and Maggie as irrefutably filmic and ultimately works to distance them from the action rather than letting them engage with it directly from the very start. The narrator next appears at the end of the first act, directly addressing the audience again and questioning the loose ends of the narrative. His role here seems to be almost as a narrative chaperone, making sure that the audience are following the storyline and reminding us of what to look out for in the next act. This is another sign that Bergman does not fully trust his cinematic storytelling abilities and resorts to theatrical interventions that specifically remind the audience that they are watching a piece of fiction rather than letting them engage with the story on its own.

The next time that this character turns up, it is during a scene where David has discovered that Maggie is pregnant and storms out, unable to deal with what he sees as a betrayal of his trust. He goes to a local tavern to think things over but is surrounded by alcoholic men with little to look forward to in the lives. David sits down next to someone who turns out to be the narrator; they have a short conversation in which he tells David to be thankful for what he has, and not run out on Maggie just because of their misunderstanding. The narrator has now penetrated the surface of the film: instead of being an observer commenting on the action, distinctly separate from what he is commenting on, he has now entered the narrative as a character in is own right, and has begun using his own will to determine the direction the story will take. In this case, he has convinced David to return home to Maggie and not let their altercation ruin their relationship.

After Maggie loses the baby during childbirth, David sits outside the room in a shadowy corridor, trying to cope with what has happened. From around a corner comes the narrator, seemingly conjured up because of this tragic development in their story. He stands in front of David with an expression of both fear and surprise, and proceeds to explain to David the death of the baby is exactly what he wanted. He makes references to what David had been thinking during the time he stormed out of the house, implying that he is not simply a normal character in the film but possesses the ability to conceive of and imply that the gap between the thoughts of a man and the action taking place around him are becoming intertwined. Whether he caused the baby to be stillborn is unknown, but the fact that he knows of the connection between David’s desires and their eventual realisation shows that he has gone from being a simple narrator to creating causation between the potentialities of individual thought and their actualisation in this cinematic world.

During the film’s climax, which takes place in a courtroom where Maggie and David have been brought to answer for all the accusations of stealing raised against them, the narrator arrives again, this time in the guise of their defence lawyer. He proceeds to explain to the court how they got into their situation, recounting several key moments from the film, most of which he was not present at. It appears he has had an omnipotent view over their lives up until this point, and uses this to convince the jury not to convict them. In the final scene of the film, where Maggie and David are about to head of to the city, they encounter him once more, and he gives them his umbrella to protect them from the rain. Maggie exclaims that he must be an angel, sent to protect them through their difficulties. While this may be the easiest way to explain the narrator’s inexplicable involvement into their affairs, it oversimplifies the manner in which his relationship to the film and the audience develops throughout the story.

The film begins a flashback to Bo’s childhood, where he is driving a train into the station his family lives at. His father doesn’t approve of him driving trains, and during the evening meal, Bo lashes out at his family in a somewhat illogical youthful rage and runs away. He clearly feels he is more mature than his family treats him, and feels he is old enough to take his life into his own hands. Bo meets a travelling family of musicians and befriends their blind daughter Marthe whilst on a train. The perspectives of Bo and Marthe present polar opposites: Bo is able to interpret the world visually and aesthetically, marvelling at the sights he sees on while on the train, while Marthe can only interpret signs intellectually, using her own visually impaired experience to associate different sensations. At one point Bo tries to describe the colour red, and Marthe likens it to the sound of a trumpet; Bergman tries to show how people’s interpretation of the world around them is subjective and depends on their own personal experience and the tools they have (or lack) to process them.

Back in the present, Bo returns home to the joy of his family, who seem to have forgotten their past hostilities and now have a very happy and playful relationship with each other. We are introduced to Eva, Bo’s childhood sweetheart, and he quickly proclaims his love for her with a forceful kiss. They go back to her house and meet her grandmother and grandfather, who is gravelly ill and very close to death. One evening, as the grandmother recites bible passages in the face of his oncoming passing, Bo remembers another event from his past and we taken into another flashback. The young Bo takes Marthe on a train, which he drives himself. This seems to be an adolescent reaction to prove to his father that he is an adult and can control his own world without his father’s help; driving the trains that his father merely attends to proves, in his eyes, that he is more in control of their world than his father. But tragedy strikes and the train is derailed due to some workers fixing the track, killing Marthe and traumatising Bo. His parents quickly appear and Bo is beaten by his father for the accident: Bo’s place in his familial hierarchy is reaffirmed by his father’s anger and his inability to control the very mechanisms that he thought he had mastery of. The fact that the traumatic events of this flashback were triggered by listening to a recital of Bible passages explicitly links Bo’s relationship to both God and death: God triggers thoughts not of love and compassion, but the inevitability of death’s encroachment on an apparently stable and happy life. It is also rekindles in Bo a reminder that he is not in control of his own destiny, and that there remains the possibility that someone close to him may bring about his own end, similar to the way that he was responsible for the death of Marthe.

Back in the present, Bo and Eva discuss their feelings for each other, yet are unable to feely give themselves to each other because of their uncertainty with their role in the world around them. Bo is eager to leave for the city to start his new job as a jazz musician, and Eva feels she must stay at home to help look after her grandparents. This scene is intercut with the slow death of Eva’s grandfather back at her home: his face is reflected in a clock as a metaphor for how his life is now controlled by the little time he has left, while candles burn down to their bases, also symbolising the passing of time and the inevitability of the grandfathers death. These simultaneous events seem to affect Bo strongly, and he is equally quick to declare his feelings for Eva as he is to rush back home to leave for the city. Time has become precious to him, and he has no belief in the love of God to calm him about the finite amount of time he has left.

The film fast-forwards to focus on Bo’s new life in the city, where he is living in a cramped apartment with his friend Göran and his wife Maria. Göran and Maria seem to have few concerns except for their own comfort, and spend most of their time drinking or sleeping. The film shifts its focus from the God’s role in Bo’s life to moral dilemmas that he experiences with his roommates. Maria is a very sexual character, and seems to enjoy flirting with Bo, even though she is initially unsure as to where it will lead. Bo does not appreciate this and wants to keep their relationship non-sexual, as he still has feelings for Eva. Göran appears confident that her flirting will not lead anywhere and cannot imagine that she would harm their relationship and cheat on him with Bo. One evening while they are all drinking, Göran actually encourages Susanne and Bo to sleep together. Giving them his blessing, he proves to them that they are moral beings by registering their disgust at his suggestion. Later that evening, after Göran subtly encourages them some more, Bo and Susanne kiss in front of Göran in defiance of his early statement, claiming that theory and practice to not always work together well. As Bo and Susanne move towards the bedroom, Göran jumps up and knocks Bo unconscious. Bo has proven to himself that he cannot stand by the same morals that he once thought he lived by, but is knocked down by force and cannot physically go through with the act he desires. He is once again powerless against the forces surrounding him to control his own primal urges: just like he was unable to control his own life when he was younger, leading to the death of Marthe, his decision to become an immoral being is similarly thwarted by the stronger moral forces around him.

The next scene in which Susanne and Bo kill Goran by gassing him while he is unconscious is revealed to be a dream, but it is revealing in that shows that his unconscious desires to overcome the force that opposed him is so strong him that it manifests itself so strongly that Bo cannot tell the difference between his dream and the real world when he finally awakes. Eva turns up at his door, and he quickly decides to leave his tormenting moralising behind and leave with her.

The final part of the film depicts Bo and Eva’s life on an island, far away from their home town and their previous city lives. Eva is pregnant and expects the baby soon, while Bo spends his time playing trumpet on the island’s cliffs. Their married life is peaceful and amicable but it is disrupted when the body of a German soldier is washed up on the beach. Bo tries to hide the body from Eva but she soon discovers it: her view of the world is shattered by the senseless violence and killing that goes on in the world, and does not want her baby brought up in such a place. Bo tries to calm her, but the excitement of the incident causes her to go into labour and Bo must row her to the mainland to give birth. While they are at sea, several of the key events in Bo’s life flash in-front of him: the death of Marthe, his seduction of Susanne, the death of Eva’s Grandfather and the death of the German soldier bring all his fears about the world and his inability to control it rushing back to him. Although he does not directly confront these issues, the baby is born safely and he discovers while that holding his child, he realises his place in the world and that he finally has some control over it.

The ending of the film is surprisingly positive for Bergman, but it is unclear how much input the director Gustaf Molander had in the ending of the film, as many of Bergman’s films had “happy” endings added by studios unhappy with his frequently sombre endings. The film also covers many themes that Bergman deals with in greater depth in his later films, and it feels as if he was trying to fit as many ideas as possible into the script. However, the film does not feel as confused and forced as several of his early film do; the numerous characters representing the different fears that Bo must confront throughout his life are engaging and subtly gets their points across, rather than being overtly explicit with their dialogue and actions.

The film’s narrative jumps about in a rather disorientating fashion; after introducing the main couple Ruth and Bertil, we are shown in flashback Ruth’s previous affair with a married man before jumping back into the present. We are then introduced to Viola, a mentally unstable woman who previously had an affair with Bertil after her husband died, and now has an apparently unhealthy relationship to her psychiatrist. After another flashback to Ruth’s early career a ballet dancer, the film jumps back into the present to show Viola meeting up with an old colleague and being so shocked by her lesbian advances that she commits suicide. The film then ends with Ruth and Bertil making up with each other after spending most of the film at each others throats.

This rather disorientating technique of jumping between past and present events in the main characters lives seems to work against the director’s intentions. While it was presumably structured in this way to highlight the events in the characters’ pasts that have turned them into the nervous wrecks that they are today, the flashbacks are almost too engrossing, and you feel like you are constantly being pulled between different emotional struggles, not knowing which is meant to be the main focus. The main storyline between Ruth and Bertil take place in enclosed spaces (first their hotel room and then their train carriage), so they are always spatially fixed and provide a consistent location to assure the audience that they are back in the present. Most of their time however, is spent by Ruth arguing about her problems and how Bertil does not understand her, and falling and crying in his arms telling him how much she loves him. Their whole relationship feels strange; this may be due to the acting, as it is sometime hard to tell whether Bertil is being affectionate or condescending, and Ruth’s frequently wild reactions make her opinion hard to decipher.

The film’s structure of alternating between different storylines taking place in both the past and present make the film seem like a collection of small self contained vignettes, or a series of interrelated ten minute short films stitched together to make a feature film. Some of these storylines are more successful than others: the main story of Ruth and Bertil is the most rewarding, as their relationship is slowly opened up to the audience like an old wound being prised apart. Indeed, the pain in Ruth’s past is what primarily occupies her thoughts; from the revelation that her teenage lover is married, to the ensuing abortion and her failure to become a ballerina. It is the recollections of these events that caused her to become rather dependent on alcohol and cigarettes, giving her a nervous disposition and a weak heart. Her partner Bertil, is in turns distant and comforting to Ruth’s explosions of self-deprecation and depression: it seems he has to gauge when she is genuinely upset and when she is merely playing with him to get his sympathy, and this leads to him becoming increasingly exasperated and hostile towards her.

Bergman films the majority of the scenes with fluid camera movements, eschewing editing for simply reframing the action as the actors move about their enclosed environments. In the first scene, Bergman films Ruth and Bertil’s hotel room entirely from one angle, but after the first flashback he returns to the same room with the camera 180 degrees opposite to the original framing. This means that in the two scenes, the audience has been shown every part of their hotel room from one angle or the other, creating a very subtle effect of highlighting the claustrophobic and confined space that the couple are cohabiting. Later on in the film, when they take the train through Germany, Bergman changes his technique and begins cutting from Ruth to Bertil with little camera movement, despite the fact that they are in a smaller space than before and that he could easily have framed the conversation in one shot. Breaking up the scene so that each character inhabits their own space works to show how distant the couple are becoming: even thought they are sharing a very intimate space, they are being visually separated from each other by the editing of the scene.

The proceeding storyline following Viola, Bertil’s previous menatally unstable lover, could have been more developed to flesh out her back story and enhance her character, which feels rushed and is hard to feel attached to her after so little screen time is devoted to her. We quickly learn that her husband has died, and after ending her affair with Bertil, ends up seeing a rather suspect psychiatrist, who uses his position to try and seduce her, causing her even more emotional grief. After another brief flashback to Ruth’s past as a dancer (which is so brief as to add little to the story except some rather perfunctory scenes of ballet rehearsals and introducing an aging ballet instructor, of which we never see again), Viola’s chance encounter with old school friend Valborg leads to a traumatising encounter when it is revealed her friend is a lesbian. Valborg herself is a hastily drawn character introduced in the ballet school flashback, and it seems that it was intended for her to illicit more sympathy than is actually possible, due to her brief time on screen and the fact we learn very little about her.

The most prominent scene for me is near the end: Bertil runs out of their train compartment in a burst of rage, with Ruth following after her, in the corridor of the train, a loose door clatters loudly, letting in smoke from outside. Bertil stares at his jarring reflection in a clattering window, with the loud movements of the train combined with the billowing smoke creating an almost otherworldly atmosphere. It is as if Ruth has been transported out of his real world into the chaos of somewhere resembling Hell, and as he sees his distorted reflection, his transformation gives him a demonic appearance in this chaos. He stops to contemplate this new reality before him, realising the reality of the world around him: he does not control his own world as he has believed, the chaos of the world around him threatens to consume him entirely. The distinction between the internal and external worlds is highlighted by their train ride through Germany; at one point, they stop at a station filled with starving people, and later on they witness the ruins of a bombed German town, reflected in the window of the train as one carriage pulls down the blind to continue their party, not willing to consider the implications of the world they are travelling through on their own contained private lives.

Overall, the film skirts between being a claustrophobic and engaging portrayal of a couple trying to come to terms with the infidelities and traumas of their past, but its fractured narrative means that the film has to divide its time between too many characters, resulting in a confused attempt at showing the interlinked nature of a group of people. Working from a script not of his own construction, Bergman begins to use techniques that would later become refined in his later films, but they are mixed into a disorientating narrative that reduces their overall power.

The film is set in a small Swedish town and tells the story of Ingebord (Dagny Lind) and her adopted daughter Nelli (Löfgren) who believes Ingebord is her mother. They have a relatively poor but peaceful life together, but soon her real mother, Jenny (Marianne Löfgren) reappears in their lives and convinces Nelli to come back to the city with her to work at her beauty salon. Eager to escape the small town and the persistent romantic advances of her older admirer Ulf (Allan Bohlin) she decides to leave and see what the world outside of her small town is like. It is revealed that Ingebord is terminally ill, and she travels to the city to attempt to reconcile herself with her adopted daughter.

The film begins with a voiceover narration that borrows heavily from theatrical conventions: there are frequent mentions of the village being a “stage” for the action, and the narrator calls to “raise the curtain” so that the story may begin. The narrator begins by describing the village currently being shown to us, illustrating the quiet and calm temperament that pervades it. As a lady steps off of a bus in the small village, the voiceover reiterates what we can already see: that she is an outsider, and alien to the world that this community lives in. It is as if Bergman doesn’t have enough faith in his images alone, and must resort to simultaneous exposition to explain what the audience can clearly see. Yet if some of this voiceover seems unnecessary, it also explains what the arrival of this woman means to its citizens, who are more aware than us, which initiates expectations of imminent narrative complications. This allows for more revealing exposition than a simply visual series of events, which would take more time to set the scene. This initial voiceover therefore dances between unnecessarily explaining the events in front of the audience, and providing a succinct summing up of a single event’s wider implications throughout the town.

The first part of the film shows us Nelli’s life and her relationship with Uffe and Ingebord is altered by the arrival of her real mother, as well her lover Jack (Stig Olin). Jenny begins driving a wedge between Nelli and Ingebord almost straight away by buying Nelli a dress for the evening ball, even though Ingebord has been seen borrowing money for a dress herself earlier in the film. Even when she sees Ingebord’s dress, Nelli still chooses to wear Jenny’s dress to the ball, giving Ingebord a clear sign that she is losing her grip on Nelli’s affections. At the ball, Jack leads the village’s youth away from the older generation and their boring waltzing to listen and dance to more modern rock and roll music. Jack then attempts to seduce Nelli, but is thwarted by the appearance of Ulf, who comically pushes Jack off the end of a pier. This is all too much for Nelli, who has been given a taste of what lies outside of her enclosed village life, and when Jenny reveals that she is her real mother, she jumps at the chance to leave the overpowering Ulf and her quiet life behind.

After Nelli leaves, Ingebord is struck down with a serious illness, and decides to visit Nelli and witness her new life for herself. While Jenny shows her around Nelli’s new room, she begins to read from her diary, which makes Ingebord uncomfortable. She realises that she has idealised Nelli rather than appreciate who she is as a person, and based her own identity on her subjective view of who Nelli is: the problem is that she is no longer her daughter, and she no longer has any control over what she does, leaving Ingebord lost and unsure of who she is herself. Adding the fact that she may not have long left to live, this gives her the “crisis” implicated in the film’s title. As she is about to leave Stockholm and return home, she meets Jack at the station. He reveals he is having a similar crisis because of Nelli’s presence in his life: before, he only cared about himself, but Nelli has made him realise that his actions have turned him into a ghost, and he wishes to leave everything behind to exist and travel to a place he poetically describes as “under the stairs, where he has a view of the fields under the stars and the moon”. He has become aware of his selfishness and it has turned in on itself, creating a nullifying effect that reduces his comprehension of his own identity.

Soon after Ingebord has left, a bedraggled Jack confronts Nelly in her apartment. He tells Nelly a story about how he accidentally killed an old partner of his in a gas fire, and claims that he may kill himself at any moment. They end up sleeping together, but are discovered by Jenny, who kicks Jack out and explains to Nelly that his story is a fictional creation of his confused mind. Shortly after, Jack holds true to his word and shoots himself outside of the theatre next door.

The film therefore seems to be exploring how both Nelly’s presence and absence affect those around her: Ingebord creates a possibly psychosomatic illness due to losing her, and Jack ends up committing suicide because he cannot have her to himself. This would be a perfectly reasonable narrative to explore; the problem is that so much screen time is spent on those gravitating towards Nelly, her own desires and motivations for doing things remain underdeveloped. It becomes hard to see why everyone else holds her in such high regard; it does not help that she is not the most versatile actress, a problem that Bergman himself noted shortly after beginning filming.

As well as her disappointing performance, Nelly’s character also appears to not achieve any kind of progression by the end of the film. After Jack’s suicide, she returns home to Ingebord, who welcomes her home with open arms, but soon Uffe turns up and persists with his attempts to woo her. The film ends with them walking through the village in much the same manner as she began the film; her experiences in the wider world not counting for anything back here in her hometown. The ending narration tries to make out that the story that we have witnessed has a universal quality, with characters and dilemmas similar to this story possessing the ability to manifest themselves elsewhere, yet the story revolves around such specific events and decisions by people with widely different motivations that it is seems quite optimistic of the films creators to think that this possesses the gravitas necessary for those aims.

When we are first introduced to the school, its staff and its pupils, we are shown a social system that both strictly follows its own internal rules yet allows for those rules to be frequently bent: a child late for morning prayers is caught by a teacher and punished, but is let off by an older teacher who also turns up late. A wink from old man to child creates an understanding that two people can potentially nullify the rigid structures that are meant to contain them. Later on, one of Widgren’s classmates is let off a black mark by the same sympathetic teacher. Widgren, however, is shown no such respite, and is relentlessly hounded by Caligula during his Latin lessons. His parents are also less than sympathetic, when they hear that Widgren is accused of cheating, they give him cold remarks over the dinner table and refuse to hear his side of the story.

During a late night walk, Widgren encounters a young woman named Bertha, drunk and staggering down a dark alley, he confronts her and decides to walk her home. This marks the first time in the film that Widgren is able to assert his own will over anyone present around him. Back at her apartment, he confesses that she scares him, but they soon end up becoming lovers. When he returns home late that night, his father is waiting for him in his room: when Widgren enters, they silently confront each other before his father walks out in silence. Widgren’s first act of passion is wordlessly transformed into guilt and humiliation, unable to assert himself and justify himself in front of his father’s oppressive morality. His life at home is transformed into another place where he is unable to express himself.

Bertha’s apartment soon becomes a place of refuge, where he can attempt to forge a life of independence for himself, but it is soon disrupted by the invisible presence of a man who periodically comes to mentally torture Bertha, driving her further and further into alcoholism. It is revealed that Bertha’s tormenter is Caligula, and as Widgren is unable to escape his sadistic mental torturing both in and out of school, a confrontation between the two seems inevitable. It is at this point that the film falters, as Bergman tries to explore Caligula’s character more deeply, allowing him to justify his behaviour by claiming that he has been sick and that his bullying of his pupils is his own way of dealing with his own insecurities. This development take the tension away from Widgren and his problems and gives the audience another character which they must try and connect with to understand.

Shortly after, Widgren finds Bertha dead from presumed alcohol poisoning, and discovered a whimpering Caligula hiding in the corner of her apartment. He notifies the police, claiming that he murdered her, but after some clumsy exposition from some doctors after the autopsy, it is revealed she died from malnutrition coupled with a weak heart. Caligula is let off and returns to work at the school, but Widgren is unable to deal with these developments: after confronting his parents about their lack of concern for him, he leaves home and returns to Bertha’s flat. He fails to attend his final exams, effectively outcasting himself from the privileged society that he was raised in to a world where he must fend for himself. The ending of the film (tacked on by the film studio who wanted a more positive ending) shows Widgren leaving Caligula crying in a darkened staircase and walking outside to observe the city and all its potential in the bright sunlight of the morning.

The way the characterisation is handled can be seen to be giving the “evil” character his inevitable unhappy ending, with the young Widgren being given a new lease of life by leaving behind all those that have tried to constrain him throughout the film. However, as the film decides to follow both Caligula and Widgren in their search for the means to understand and control the world around them, the impact of Widgren’s journey is somewhat lessened due to the over-emphasis on Caligula’s. One can’t help but think that the young protagonist’s development would have been much more satisfying if the development of Caligula’s was reduced, allowing Widgren to more effectively assert his own power over the world around him.

Narrative events, such as the young man’s search for his identity through his lovers, the lack of understanding between child and parents, and the battle between societies strict moral structures and the blossoming of youthful idealism are all themes which are developed throughout Bergman’s career, so it is unfair to criticise him on the unevenness of their handling in his first film, where he was only in his 20’s, and still dealing with similar dramatic issues in his own life. Since the majority of the film was not directed by Bergman himself, it is also unfair to criticise the visual style of the film, which often leans towards expressionist tendencies, particularly in its use of shadows and striking angles used for dramatic effect. Bergman later excels in exactly the opposite: using the natural formation of the landscape and buildings around his characters to skilfully and subtly evoke the psychological disposition of his characters through simple framing techniques, rather than relying on over the top visual trickery.

Kammerspiel films were influenced by a similar trend in German theatre, in which the performances take place in small enclosed spaces with a small group of characters. The narratives tended to focus on the psychological state of the characters, with the smallest of bodily movements or gestures being encouraged to emphasis the reactions and emotions of the performers. Murnau’s The Last Laugh takes place primarily in a hotel, in which a proud doorman, (Emil Jannings) is unceremoniously fired from his job and made to work as a bathroom attendant. Ashamed of his demotion, he attempts to hide this from his family and neighbours, but ends up being the laughing stock of his neighbourhood and is reduced to a shadow of the man he once was. Jannings’ performance utilises the concept of psychologically revealing movements and gestures very effectively; after he is stripped of his work jacket, his strong form is transformed into a hunched and weak frame, and he feeble attempts to assist men in the bathroom reveal his inability to comprehend what has happened to him.

The Bitter Tears of Petra Von Kant tells the story of a fashion designer (Marget Carstensen), her long-suffering assistant Marlene (Irm Herrman) and their relationship to potential model Karin (Hanna Schygulla). The film takes place solely within one or two rooms of Petra’s apartment, in which Petra and Karin spend most of the film lying or sitting in bed while Marlene spends the whole film walking around in the background silently performing tasks as they are shouted at her by von Kant. Most of the scenes are performed in real time, only a few temporal breaks indicating the passage of time breaking the film into three main acts. With its performance effectively in real-time, and confined to a small interior space, it is hard not to see the connections with the kammerspiel tradition in both film and theatre, considering Fassbinder’s earlier film productions were an extension of his theatre work.

The narrative itself also has thematic links to kammerspiel films: in The Last Laugh, where Jannings unexpectedly loses his respected role in society, and Dreyer’s Michael (1921), in which a critically acclaimed artist loses his prominence as a painter when it is discovered his muse painted a portrait for him, The Bitter Tears… depicts von Kant as incapable of accepting that she has been lied to and taken advantage of by her younger lover Karin, who leaves her as soon as she finds out her husband has returned to Germany. In her resulting breakdown she abuses everyone around her, including her daughter, mother, and the perpetually silent Marlene, who stoically goes on serving von Kant throughout her rash and offensive berating of her. During one scene in which Marlene alters a drawing for Petra without her knowing, and when she finds out, agrees that it is an improvement. This echoes the narrative thread in Michael in which Michael paints the eyes of a portrait for his master, who is unable to paint them with enough realism himself. Both of these situations depict older artists who are indebted to their younger assistants or muses for their help, while claiming their achievements as their own. There is a strong similarity in the endings of both The Bitter Tears… and Michael, in which the artists are left by their younger lovers for other people, and the protagonists are left to face the end alone: in Michael, the artist dies alone in his bed, with only the memory of his love for Michael to keep him company, and in The Bitter Tears… Petra lies silently on her bed as Marlene finally leaves her, packing her things and switching off the light as she goes, leaving Petra to sit in darkness knowing that she has alienated and pushed away all those around her.

References

Hillman, Roger; Fassbinder, and Fassbinder/Peer Raben, 2001 http://www.latrobe.edu.au/screeningthepast/firstrelease/fr0301/rhfr12a.htm

Breathless was a precursor to the counter-culture revolution of 1968; pre-empting a change in contemporary attitudes to societal roles, art, theory and the politics of the individual. This was realised in Godard’s film as an energetic, kinetic and culturally intertextual artwork that revelled in its freedom of expression and the uniqueness of its cinematic form. The main character Michel (Jean-Paul Belmondo), who is permanently on the run from the authorities, represents the spirit of rebellion that was running through French society at the time, and combined an anti-authoritarian way of life with a fascination for Americanised visual icons.

Fassbinder’s film, made a decade later in neighbouring Germany, just after the events in 1968, contains little of this exhuburent enthusiasm. The criminal way of life which was so relished in Breathless, influenced as it was by noir cinema and cultural icons such as Humphrey Bogart, is depicted as an existential crisis internalised by the characters. Germany was still a divided nation, which would continue until the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989, 20 years after Love is Colder Than Death was made. The film could therefore be seen as a symptom of the nations cultural and political division; while there are very few direct references to the country’s political situation, there is an underlying atmosphere of the characters being both rejected from their popular society, yet never finding a place or people to call their own. They are never romanticised the same way that Godard manipulated his band of outsiders; appearing apathetic towards almost everything, they choose a life of crime almost nonchalantly, seeming indifferent to each other and the people that they coldly murder throughout the film. As Bruno (Ulli Lommel) travels by train to find Franz (Fassbinder), he asks a woman opposite him what she is thinking of: “the revolution”, she answers vacantly. The ambivalence in her answer could mean many things: does she mean a past revolution, (possibly 1968) and how its effects has seemingly yet to manifest themselves in their country, or is she referring to a new revolution brewing under their own feet, implying and hoping that they will soon have their own ’68 which will inspire them like it did France.

The locations in Love is Colder Than Death are spatially organised by the precise camerawork and editing. The first location that we witness, and the first shot of the film, is incredibly ambiguous as to its size and formation: Franz (Fassbinder) sits in a chair against a stark white wall, he knocks out another man who is then helped up by two men entering from off screen. We are unaware of the full capacity of the space that the men inhabit and how many more people may be hiding off-screen. A man opens a door to see what is happening, but it is framed so that we are unable to connect it with the visual space that we have already been shown. The next shot of the room places the camera at a 90 degree angle to the first to reveal the depth and breadth of what turns out to be a large warehouse, however the door that the man opened is not visible, meaning that the space is still not fully formed in terms of the audience’s comprehension of its spatial properties. This happens frequently throughout the film: the true size of internal spaces are only revealed when it is deemed necessary by the entrance of another character or by the information that a particular shot can add to the narrative.

This is in strong contrast to Breathless, where locations and spaces are frequently covered by the flailing and panoramic camerawork. The camera is rarely (if ever) static, and continually encompasses the day to day events going on in the background of Michel’s life. Even in the scenes taking place in enclosed spaces, such as the extended sequence in Patricia’s (Jean Seberg) hotel room, the camera roams the bodies of the pair, capturing their kinetic body language with an almost haphazard editing style, seemingly used to connect the actions of the separate characters as closely as possible depending on their proximity to each other.

While the camerawork of Breathless gives the film an immediacy that aims to strongly situate the audience’s identification with the life and activities of Michel, Love is Colder Than Death distances and alienates the audience from the activities of its characters. It positions them clinically within the frame, as if they are meant to be examined rather than identified with. Frequently placing them against stark backgrounds and in anonymous rooms makes it deliberately difficult to connect the location of one scene to another, which creates a sense of dislocation meant to emphasize the distance the characters feel from the world around them.

Breathless begins with a car chase in the French countryside, with Michel shooting a policeman trying to arrest him in Godard’s famously fracturing sequence. He then escapes to Paris in a whirl of short scenes placing him firmly in the centre of the criminal way of life; stealing cars; mugging men for money; calling on girls for somewhere to hide or to borrow money. Yet Michel handles all this so effortlessly, the audience are swept up by his energy and fully immersed in his way of life after only a short while. The world of Breathless is full of news reporters, paparazzi, celebrities, romantic encounters, excitement and danger: a reflection of the vibrant times in which it was created. Michel simultaneously lives on the edge of society and right at its centre; walking down the Champs Elysees before stealing a car to make a getaway in. He effectively parades around the centre of Parisian society, flaunting his lack of morals and get-what-ever-he-can attitude in the faces of those around him.

In Love is Colder Than Death, however, the characters literally do inhabit the edges of society: a world of gangsters and prostitutes and un-romanticised images of empty hotel rooms, streets filled with warehouses and wire fences, and lonely encounters with similar outsider in deserted cafes. At the beginning of the film we are introduced to a criminal gang simply known as the “Syndicate”, who Bruno and Franz are apparently being forced to join. They refuse, resulting in a beating: the fact that they would apparently rather work for themselves than for others highlights their outsider status even within the criminal underworld, let alone normal society. Their world seems to be one of solemn resignation to their way of life: they appear to take very little pleasure in what they do, but it is the only thing they can do in the absence of a culture and society in which they would could happily live. There is no glamour in this depiction of gangster culture; sex is simply a means to make money, with people taking little pleasure in their relationships with each other. Compared to the endless conversations about love and romance that Michel has with Patricia in her hotel room, Love Is Colder Than Death presents a world where there is no solace in the arms of another, the concept of love being as distant as the society from which they have exiled themselves.

Both films are filmed in black and white, but while Godard captures cascades of sunlight glaring through windows and the darkened Parisian streets in its noir-ish homage, Fassbinder shoots everything in almost stark monochrome; both interiors and exteriors are shot with the same glaring desolation, allowing no dark rooms and corridors for the characters to hide in. As Godard’s camera frantically tries to keep up with Michel as he runs and speeds thorough the streets, Fassbinder effectively traps Bruno, Franz and Joanna (Hanna Schygulla) within his static camera, containing them in the confines of the enclosed spaces they inhabit. They are unable to make a dash from one situation to another, they are resigned to the fact there is nowhere to run, and go about their days with indifference to their violent acts. There are no car chases through the streets, conversations about love and desire, or self-knowing allusions to icons of ‘cool’. One of the only intertexual references that pops up is a mention of the policeman in Hitchcock’s Psycho; hardly the epitome or cinematic ‘cool’.

The ending of each film is also indicative of their difference in motives, both stylistically and politically. Breathless ends with Michel being cornered by police after spending most of the film evading their capture, shot in the back as he attempts to run away. In his dying breath he performs a cryptic gesture to Patricia: is it meant to be a personal message between the two of them symbolising their relationship, or is it a metaphor for his rebel existence as a whole? Its meaning conjures a range of meanings that can be interpreted in a number of different ways. His death however, is more symbolic of the rebel spirit of the youth being captured and contained by the authorities, representative of the larger social movement that was brewing at the time. It is presumable that audiences were meant to feel shocked by his death (especially as he is shot in the back) in an attempt to continue the spirit of rebel independence that was in its formative stages.

Love Is Colder Than Death, however, ends on a much more restrained and sombre note. After it is implied that Bruno has been employed by the “syndicate” to spy on Franz and Joanna, Joanna calls the police to the bank robbery that they have organised. When the police reveal themselves to Bruno outside the bank, he stands in silence for a considerable amount of time, apparently contemplating the situation and how it could have gone so wrong. Instead of a frantic escape similar to Michel’s, he calmly explains he has a machine gun on his person, before being shot down on the street. Franz rescues his body and they make an escape, being tailed by the police into the countryside. Franz dumps Bruno’s body into the road before driving into the distance with Joanna, who tells him that it was her that betrayed them. This “action packed” ending sequence continues with similar static camerawork and only the briefest moments of faster paced editing. It seems that the intensity of the events in the film have little impact on their aesthetic representations: Fassbinder apparently choosing to continue with his chosen style no matter what the change in pace or narrative development. There is similarly a lack of change in the actor’s expressions and reactions: whether they are sitting in an apartment, shooting someone in a coffee house, or fleeing from the police, they all show the same apparent indifference to their situation and changing relationships with each other. This nonchalant attitude is perhaps one of the primary forces at work in the film: whilst seemingly a-political on the surface, the overwhelming indifference of the characters throughout the film, towards each other and the events that they engage with, points to an outlook that has pervaded the consciousness of society as a whole, leaving no room for emotions such as anger, joy, passion or hatred, which, while admittedly not taken to such extremes, are evident in the much more varied emotional responses in Breathless.