Ingmar Bergman
Il settimo sigillo

Hello guys, today we're changing things up a bit. Responding to the witty critiques of Muffinman, who complains about the pedantry of my "trash" reviews, I have decided to review a more "serious" film, at least according to the traditional guidelines of the official nomenclature, which is also so dear to another one of my critics, the sharp Poletti.

Actually, to cover my bases and not betray my mission, I note that even the film I'm about to discuss for you falls, abstractly, into the so-called "minor" cinema that I hold so dear, if not for its technical/artistic profile, certainly for its dissemination among the general public and its actual notoriety among average viewers, as well as among younger audiences. A phenomenon that mirrors the "phenomena" I enjoy dealing with on this site.

Getting to the heart of the review, "The Seventh Seal" ('57) represents one of the cornerstones of Swedish director Ingmar Bergman's (1918-2007) filmography, as well as one of the pivotal points of post-war European cinema.

The knight Antonius Block, returning home from the Crusades, arrives with his loyal squire to a country devastated by the plague and misery. Death looms everywhere, perceived as a divine punishment, but it even presents itself in person to the knight, announcing his future and inevitable demise: the knight, however, asks Death for time, challenging it to a game of chess, although the outcome seems predetermined. During the time he has left, the knight embarks on a tortuous journey home, meeting a troupe of jesters, a destitute woman, a blacksmith betrayed by his wife, and finally arriving at his castle, where his wife awaits and where the not entirely unexpected conclusion of the story unfolds.

A relatively simple and not entirely original story is staged by Bergman in expressive black and white, where the landscape dominates and reflects the souls of the characters: harsh, rugged, and tortuous is the landscape where the knight moves, sweet and pleasant is where other characters, like the troupe of jesters met along the way, roam. Ruinous are the villages and dilapidated farmhouses, now abandoned or deserted due to the relentless plague, tense, deathly, is the castle where the story's conclusion takes place.

The cinematography is very beautiful, not only in the bright exteriors but especially in the chiaroscuro interiors, like the churches and houses, almost reflecting the black and white of life and death, and the very ambivalence of the knight's chess pieces.

The choice of actors, well-directed by the Swedish director, is decidedly valid, starting with the expressive Max Von Sydow, moving through the comic finesse of the jester Nils Poppe, and the unsettling mask of Bengt Ekerot's Death (which must have appealed to Mel Brooks for the character of Igor, and also to Zuzzurro and Gaspare for Isaia of Drive In). Expressive too is Bergman's favorite actor, Gunnar Björnstrand in the role of the squire, perhaps the most materialistic character in the film, then silent in front of Death. Fascinating is the debut of Bibi Andersson in the role of the jester's wife, with an elegant beauty that contrasts with the idea we Italians may have of this kind of woman (Marina Lothar Frajese teaches us).

Regarding the possible meanings of the film, and the interpretations related to a story constructed with narrative ellipses and symbolisms, I would rather not indulge in gratuitous intellectualism, emphasizing instead how the director's thought is well-expressed, between the lines, in the dialogue between a painter (Bergman's alter ego and of all those who "represent") and the knight's squire.

The representation is not intended to provide answers but to raise questions and inquiries, potentially even to evoke dormant reactions in the audience, such as the fear of the nothingness that unfolds after life, the question about the existence or non-existence of God. And, in fact, this film offers the viewer no answers, just as Death offers no answers to the knight who, returning from the Crusades, questions the meaning of things, the ultimate purpose of life, the actual existence of a divine, salvific or providential plan.

It is a film that, rather, shows us, or tries to show us, the human's reaction to the incomprehensible, or even to the possible that lurks behind Nothingness, describing at times the tormented soul of the knight, the combative one of his squire, the stolid one of the blacksmith, and the naive, trusting one of the jesters who temporarily escape Death. Each of us sees ourselves in each of them, although I have no doubt that the director saw himself in the knight.

In trying to provide a balanced summary assessment, no doubt, therefore, that it is an excellent film, still relevant as it deals with a classic theme, and thus, always modern. Its fascination endures, moreover, also due to the atmospheres that make it similar to a thriller of the soul.

In this, I believe lies the film's appeal and its enduring ability to speak to the audience, as well as to serve as a model for all cinema that proceeds by "subtraction," questioning the viewer, from Antonioni, to Kubrick, to Tarkovsky's Solaris, or in part to Kieslowski.

It is a film that, at the same time, might not be entirely palatable for lovers of simple and popular cinema: to whom I remind, anyway, how Max Von Sydow also played Ming in the unfortunate film "Flash Gordon" ('80), as well as "The Exorcist" ('73) and "Sleepless" ('01), moving over the years between cultivated and pop cinema.

A bit like your ever-faithful

Il_Paolo

PS: after all these reviews, I was thinking of taking a vacation, also to go back to studying some "minor" cinema and music. See you soon!!