It seems apt to be a few days late in talking about a master of elongated silences and empty spaces.
The eeriness of his death on the same day as Ingmar Bergman’s produces a disorientation fitting to Michelangelo Antonioni. At a time when we were being overwhelmed by the post-war neo-realism of Rossellini, De Sica and Fellini, he stopped us in our tracks with “L’Avventura,” “La Notte” and “L’Eclisse.”
Making an art of dislocation and loose ends, his films drew us into experiences of alienation rather than dramas about it, puzzled sometimes to the point of exasperation but often powerfully moved.
In 1961, Sight and Sound polled 70 leading critics from around the world, and they chose “L’Avventura” as the second-greatest film ever made, after “Citizen Kane.”
But where Bergman’s genius flourished in new directions, Antonioni’s withered. Alienation is not fertile ground for growth. After “Blowup” in 1966, many of his admirers lost interest.
At the Democratic Convention in 1968, there were rumors that Antonioni was there with a camera crew. They turned out not to be true, but it would have been wonderful to have had his vision of American society at a moment when it was breaking apart.
Showing posts with label Ingmar Bergman. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ingmar Bergman. Show all posts
Friday, August 03, 2007
Monday, July 30, 2007
Ingmar Bergman
For a generation whose childhood was shaped by Hollywood movies, he opened the door to a new world of film as art. In the years after World War II, Bergman taught us how to think and feel and see in a new way.
He was an artist of images, but ideas were always there. All the words in books about existentialism came into focus for me only after watching “The Magician” in the 1950s.
His obituary in the New York Times today tells about the fifty films he made in the course of a long dream-like life, but behind the names and numbers is the story of an artist who helped shape the sensorium of several generations.
“I have maintained open channels with my childhood,” he once told Michiko Kakutani. “I think it may be that way with many artists. Sometimes in the night, when I am on the limit between sleeping and being awake, I can just go through a door into my childhood and everything is as it was--with lights, smells, sounds and people...”
For new generations, Ingmar Bergman’s dreams will always be there on DVDs and cassettes. Start with “Fanny and Alexander.”
Once on an airplane ride I sat next to a Jesuit priest who wrote best-selling books. We spent the entire time talking passionately about Bergman. It was what we had most in common.
He was an artist of images, but ideas were always there. All the words in books about existentialism came into focus for me only after watching “The Magician” in the 1950s.
His obituary in the New York Times today tells about the fifty films he made in the course of a long dream-like life, but behind the names and numbers is the story of an artist who helped shape the sensorium of several generations.
“I have maintained open channels with my childhood,” he once told Michiko Kakutani. “I think it may be that way with many artists. Sometimes in the night, when I am on the limit between sleeping and being awake, I can just go through a door into my childhood and everything is as it was--with lights, smells, sounds and people...”
For new generations, Ingmar Bergman’s dreams will always be there on DVDs and cassettes. Start with “Fanny and Alexander.”
Once on an airplane ride I sat next to a Jesuit priest who wrote best-selling books. We spent the entire time talking passionately about Bergman. It was what we had most in common.
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