The Great Movies III

ngmar Bergman's Fanny and Alexander (1982) was intended to be his last film, and in it, he tends to the business of being young, of being middle aged, of being old, of being a man, woman, Christian, Jew, sane, crazy, rich, poor, religious, profane. He creates a world in which the utmost certainty exists side by side with ghosts and magic, and a gallery of characters who are unforgettable in their peculiarities. Small wonder one of his inspirations was Dickens.

It is 19o7, in an unnamed Swedish town. The movie plunges into the Christmas Eve celebration of an enormous family, introducing the characters on the fly as they talk, drink, flirt, and plot. They are surrounded by voluptuousness; the Ekdahl family is wealthy and the matriarch, Helena, lives in an enormous home crowded with antique furniture, rich furnishings, paintings, sculptures, tapestries, rugs, flowers, plants, and clocks-always clocks in a Bergman film, their hours striking in a way that is somehow ominous. One room spills into another, as we see when the half-drunk guests join hands for a song while parading through the flat.

Family intrigues are revealed: Gustav Adolf, Helena's third son, is a philanderer whose adventures are forgiven by his merry, buxom wife, Alma, because she likes him as he is. The second son, Carl, is a failed professor, married to a German woman no one likes (although they should), deeply in debt to his mother. The first son, Oscar, runs the family theater, and is moved to tears in his Christmas Eve speech to the staff before joining the party. Oscar is married to Emilie, a grave beauty, and they have two children, Fanny and Alexander. Much of the film is seen through their eyes, especially Alexander's, but other moments take place entirely within the imaginations of the characters.

Gustav's marriage is eccentric, Carl's is sad, and Oscar's is filled with love-for his family, and the theater. We learn quickly that Gustav is having an affair with Maj, Oscar and Emilie's lame, plump young maid. Alma knows it; indeed, it is openly discussed by everyone in the family. We also learn that Helena, a widow, has been the lover and is still the best friend of Isak Jacobi, a Jewish art dealer and money lender. (Bergman has said there is a little of himself in all the male characters.)

A day or two later, during a rehearsal at the theater, Oscar is playing the ghost of Hamlet's father when he loses his place, forgets his lines, doesn't know where he is. Within a day or so, he is dead of a stroke. All of this is witnessed by the solemn Alexander, who is awakened in the middle of the night by his mother's animal cries of grief. And then it is summer, and everything has changed, and his mother is engaged to marry the Lutheran bishop, Edvard Vergerus, who is a tall and handsome man, everyone agrees, but as Helena sees them leaving after the wedding, she says, "I think we will have our Emilie back before long."

The first third of the story, taking place in winter, was filled with color and life, even life in death. Now Fanny and Alexander are taken to a new world, the bishop's house, which he inhabits with his mother, his sister, and his aunt, and which is whitewashed and barren, with only a few necessary pieces of furniture, locks on every door, bars on the windows.

The maid tells the children that the bishop's first wife and two daughters drowned in the river; Alexander says he has been visited by their ghosts, who told him they drowned trying to escape after being locked up for five days without food and water. The faithless maid reports this story to the bishop, who whips Alexander, but not before a struggle in which the boy stubbornly makes clear his hatred for the bishop.

Already in the film we have seen the ghost of Oscar more than once, morose, pensive, worried about his children. There is a touching scene where his mother wakes from a dream on the veranda of her summer cottage and has a loving conversation with him. (If elements of Hamlet creep in, with the ghost of Alexander's father and his mother's hasty remarriage, they are not insisted on, and coil casually beneath the surface of the action.)

Now we see another bit of magic. Isak Jacobi, acting for his friend Helena, enters the bishop's house and offers to buy a trunk, and then smuggles her grandchildren out of the house in the trunk-and yet how can it be, when the bishop runs upstairs to look for them, that the children are also apparently in their room?