FANNY AND ALEXANDER: Television Version
Museum of the Moving Image,
Part of “See It Big: Extended Cuts!”
Screened 12.17.22
Museum of the Moving Image,
Part of “See It Big: Extended Cuts!”
Screened 12.17.22
Dec 28 2022
(Essays on this site are from my time at NYU. This one, however, was just a sort of journal entry of mine. I’d seen the film multiple times and, not being naturally attracted to writing about film, spontaneously decided to muster something up. Probably won’t be doing that again any time soon, but for now, this exists here)
(Essays on this site are from my time at NYU. This one, however, was just a sort of journal entry of mine. I’d seen the film multiple times and, not being naturally attracted to writing about film, spontaneously decided to muster something up. Probably won’t be doing that again any time soon, but for now, this exists here)
Of the vast array of European filmmakers I've either binged or sampled over the years, for me, all roads lead back to Bergman. From his early studio films that hilariously spark little fervor, to the contained, domestic Ullmann/Josephson collaborations of the 1970s, I find myself constantly revisiting the expansive subject matter of his career. The content of his work: always difficult, yet handled with a delicacy that paints indeterminate moral territory as finite poetry.
Recently I had the chance to revisit Fanny and Alexander at the Museum of the Moving Image in Queens. For reference, it would be my second time watching the extended version (now 2 for 2 with the theatrical cut), which runs five separate episodic installments book-ended for Swedish television, an overall running time of 312 minutes. Having expected mediocre turnout (all of the four friends I invited in the weeks leading up to the screening had rain checked me by mid-afternoon), I was simply happy to see such a grandiose cinematic attempt in a theater. To my surprise, what seemed like more than half of the seats were filled and remained that way until the fifth set of credits rolled.
My experience with Bergman's masterpiece was dramatically unlike any of my three prior home-viewings. Granted, those attempts at implanting my own Christmas tradition upon my family have consistently been interrupted by protests in favor of something more "jolly" and "watchable," so I shouldn't have been surprised. Those five hours in Queens operated on their own accord, for it was one of the first times in months that I had forgotten I was only watching a film. This time around, the subjectivity of Nykvist's camera as Alexander's eyes left a powerful impression on me. Roughly once per episode at a minimum, Bergman subtly allows us a glimpse of the boy’s exact perspective, breaking from his signature wide proscenium framing into Alexander’s internal battle with his biggest fears: death, ghosts, and god himself. These transitions occur with a silent fluidity that form-followingly embraces the solemn air surrounding the Ekdahls' dismal year.
Most ardent of all, I stepped away from Fanny and Alexander reminded of a self-repressed doom. I am referring to my personal concern for cinema. It seems, even for a young and hopeful filmmaker like me, that we are living in totally unpredictable times, specifically in regards to the profitability and sustenance of the art film.
As I watched the funeral services for Mr. Ekdahl commence, I noted the overwhelming number of costumed extras gathered along the streets to pay their respects. Outfitting a town square into Sweden circa 1907 could not have been a cheap effort in addition to the film's already massive length, but more importantly, the film's artful content seems directly remiss to a studio's net profit concerns. After sulking about the sad fact that I'm hardwired to naturally have such a clinical thought upon facing one of my personal favorite films, I'm confronted with the idea that the work’s conception seems, well, impossible.
Of course, this isn’t true, as art film was more avidly sought out and profitable back then, especially with someone like Bergman attached to the project. Yet even in a time where distribution for an afternoon's session of sensory-stimulating poetry seemed worth investing in, the film barely managed to break even.
I am not usually one to concern myself with the finances of a film; it gets far too depressing and nearly always results in unnecessary self-restriction in the brainstorming stage of filmmaking (the stage of least restrictions!) That said, is this sensation not having a direct effect on my relationship to cinema? Here I am watching arguably my favorite director's most personal tale in which he seems to have total creative freedom, and while it causes me an undeniably resonant experience, I find myself questioning the point of my passion. Even if I work hard enough, continue contributing myself to the art form, will there still be an audience of ordinary people, not critics or cinephiles, receptive to my sensibilities? One can dream... OR, one can commit to finding out. At least, that's what my instincts tell me.
I end on a positive note not because it seems fitting, but because I MUST end on one. This is how I survive, as a storyteller, not by trying to strategically predict where cinema will be when it's "my turn." Some survive by abstaining from discussing semantics, but to me, that is a greater death than submitting to nihilism. It is this necessity to discuss meaning and purpose, this exact through-line that I see in the greatest works of art. In Fanny and Alexander, we sit through hours of depressed scenarios, death, and abuse; All irrevocable, but pointing towards eventual enlightenment. We see this in the final moments of each of Bergman's masterpieces, whether it be as abstract as an extended hold on unfocused, expanding film grain in the finale of "The Passion of Anna," as visually spiritual as pregnant servant Ingeri washing her face in "The Virgin Spring," or in Uncle Adolf's closing endlessly charming monologue in "Fanny and Alexander."
Throughout the entire film, Bergman plants speeches insisting on the importance of the Ekdahl-operated theatre company, and how it gives people "a chance to forget for a while, for a few short moments, the harsh world outside." These words are uttered by Alexander's father shortly before his death, and seem to lose tangibility upon the family's tormenting year of attempted recovery. It is not until the film's finale, when they escape the Bishop’s grasp, return to their family, and revive the theater, that the meaning of this idea seems truly fitting, more than ever before. Bergman not only understood this enlightenment, but tended to it as the spiritual anchor that audiences, and probably himself, needed, a power greater than any film itself.
dir. by Ingmar Bergman
1984, 312 mins, Sweden.
1984, 312 mins, Sweden.