A Writer’s Review of: Through a Glass Darkly
Release Date: October 16, 1961 (Sweden)
MPAA Rating: NR
Starring: Harriet Andersson, Gunnar Björnstrand, Max von Sydow, Lars Passgård
Written by: Ingmar Bergman
Directed by: Ingmar Bergman
Spoiler Level: Medium.
Greetings hacks and scribblers. It’s Summer here in Northern California, as it most likely is in other parts of the world. And it’s hot. Like, peel your skin off HOT.
Heat or no heat, I have been writing—if not quite like a house afire, at least I’ve managed a few tendrils of smoke. Short pieces have been submitted and accepted (yay me), and Rosebud Hill, Volume 1: Searching for Willoughby is now available in paperback and for Kindle. Click on the pic below and buy it, if you are so inclined. Go ahead, I’ll wait…
Now that we have that out of the way, a quick word on the direction of Scribblers on Celluloid. When I first began this series, I fully intended to only include movies that had a lot to say about writing (specifically) and writers (in general), or vice versa. For the most part I feel I’ve held to that. But Through a Glass Darkly gave me pause. Because, in many ways, it is really not about writing, although one of the main characters is a novelist. But it is a terrific film. So what, my inner voice said, there are lots of great films out there. Are you going to review them all? Well, no. I’m not. Then why this one? Because, darn it, it actually does have something to say to writers, even if we have to dig to find it.
So then, the new rule for SoC is this: If a movie has a writer as a main character—and that character’s writer-ness has at least some bearing on the story—then we have a contender for inclusion in SoC.
Read on…I give you Through a Glass Darkly.
The Whiz-Bang Synopsis:
Recently released from a mental hospital; Karin rejoins her emotionally disconnected family on their island home, only to slip from reality as she begins to believe she is being visited by God.
The Slightly More Informative (if somewhat misleading) Synopsis:
In this drama, set on a remote island, a schizophrenic woman is discharged from a mental hospital and recovers during a family holiday with her husband, brother, and father. Her father, who happens to be a prominent psychologist, coldly observes her and takes notes of her behavior without her knowledge.
My Take on Things (or why this movie made the cut):
Okay, here’s the deal. As noted above, this movie is not about writing, or writers. But, in another sense, every movie that deals with life has something to say to writers. Not enough? Well, Through a Glass Darkly does have a writer as one of the main characters, and in a movie with only four characters, that’s 25% of the cast. My first viewing of this film left me wondering if I could include it, no matter how much I liked it. But the more I thought about it, the more I was haunted by the obsession of the writer in the film. This movie is a work of art, but without the writer’s fixations (more on this below), the story would not have affected me so deeply. It made the cut.
Rotten Tomatoes rated this movie as Certified Fresh with an astounding 100% approval rating. I’ve already stated that this movie is a work of art. Ingmar Bergman seems to have a habit of this kind of thing. Through a Glass Darkly is the kind of movie I hoped to stumble on when I started Scribblers on Celluloid, which is to say not your usual Hollywood fare. This is a Swedish film, which means subtitles, filmed in almost claustrophobic black-and-white. There is virtually no soundtrack in this movie, save for the intermittent use of the J. S. Bach’s haunting, solo cello piece “Cello Suite No. 2 in D Minor.” This is a depressing little nugget of a movie, and I loved every minute of it.
The cast consists of schizophrenic Karin (Harriet Andersson); Karin’s writer father David (Gunnar Björnstrand); Karin’s husband Martin (Max von Sydow); and Karin’s sexually frustrated brother Minus (Lars Passgård). I’ll just say here that I think Harriet Andersson may be one of the most gorgeous actresses I’ve ever seen, and she knocks this role out of the park. It’s virtually impossible to take your eyes off her.
Bergman does a wonderful job of sucking us into the easy, seaside farm life of the family as they welcome the return of the traveling father, dining outdoors at a rustic table, toasting, laughing. But beneath this false charm looms Karin’s illness. Everyone knows Karin is schizophrenic, as does Karin herself. She has good days and bad days. There is slim hope for recovery. But she seems early on to be the most stable of them all, save for Martin (who is the doctor referenced incorrectly in the synopsis above as her father). Twenty minutes into the film, as Martin and Karin are getting ready for bed, we begin to see past the easy facade to Karin’s own fears: fears of her illness, fears of losing her way and being unable to come back to reality. Karin’s soft reflection makes this exchange all the more terrifying:
Martin: “Are you sad, Karin?”
Karin: “Not really.”
Martin: “What are you thinking about?”
Karin: “Sometimes we’re so defenseless. Like children cast out into the wilderness at night. The owls fly past, watching you with their yellow eyes. You hear the pitter-patter and rustling, the soughing and sighing, all the damp noses sniffing at you. The wolves bare their teeth.”
A little later, Karin says this: “Am I so little, or has the illness made a child of me? Do I seem strange to you?”
What must it be like to be fully aware of your illness and be unable to stop its progression? This is a fear I have long held, that I would somehow cross some line, that I would know it had been crossed, and that I could only watch from some inner place as my mind unraveled. Maybe this is why this movie spoke to me so strongly. If we have any doubt as to the extent of Karin’s illness, we have this scene later that same night:
Karin wakes in the middle of the night to the sounds of a loon, a fog horn, and we get the sense that she may be hearing more than we are. She crawls out of bed and tiptoes upstairs to an empty attic room. We know immediately that she’s been here before. She leans against the tattered wallpaper as if listening…through a tear in the paper, we hear what she hears: whispers, unintelligible but terrifying. She backs away, still listening, and stands in the middle of the room, responding physically to something we can’t see. This scene is almost unbearably sensual as we watch her writhe in the throes of some odd ecstasy.
Later, to add insult to her obvious mental injuries, she stumbles on her father’s diary. The content of this diary is made infinitely more tragic as we hear her father’s words read aloud from her own mouth: “Her illness is incurable…with periods of temporary improvement. I have long suspected it, but the certainty is nevertheless almost unbearable. I’m horrified by my curiosity, by my urge to record its course…to make an accurate description of her gradual disintegration…to use her.” There’s much more to dissect in this film, not least is the odd sexual tension between Karin and Minus, a disturbing plot element that factors in later in the film. But this column is about writers, and we must get to it.
Let’s leave this section with Karin’s words as she confides in Minus about “the others.” She takes him to the empty attic and tells him about the voices, about her midnight trips to the room, how she falls through the wall as through foliage. She tells him all of it, and this exchange—while ostensibly a facet of Karin’s illness—seems to speak to writers and their sometimes obsessive creation of worlds:
Minus: “Is all this for real?”
Karin: “I don’t know. But these are not dreams. They must be real. Now I’m in one world, now in another. I can’t stop it.”
The Writerly Element:
It seems fitting that, in a film about schizophrenia, the writerly element would be less than pleasant. Many writers suffer from one kind of mental illness or another, some much worse than others. I’ve recently (the past few years) been battling with anxiety and depression. Lots of people deal with these things, but writers seem more inclined to flirt with depression. At the very least, the serious writer will bump up against an unhealthy obsession somewhere along the line; it’s pretty much de rigueur that a writer be at least a little nuts. It’s probably not accurate to say that Karin’s father, David, is mentally ill, but his behavior (from such a sophisticated, erudite gentleman) is unnerving. He has been taking detailed notes of his daughter’s mental decline and seems unable to control himself. Again from his diary: “I’m horrified by my curiosity…my urge to record its course…to make an accurate description of her gradual disintegration…to use her.” He knows what he’s doing is reprehensible, but he can’t stop. Folks, that is obsession, and there are times when I think obsession may be the writer’s sharpest tool.
But let’s back up a few frames to earlier in the film, after that first lighthearted dinner. Minus (clearly striving to gain his father’s attention, if not affection) has written a play, which he, Karin, and Martin perform on a small, ramshackle stage erected in the yard. This rustic outdoor theatrical production is of a story called The Artistic Haunting, in which Minus plays a puffed up artist in love with a dead princess played by Karin.
There is a whimsical feel to the play, but also a thread of discomfort as David watches his son and daughter reciting lines that essentially make fun of his own profession as a writer.
Minus: “I am a ruler of my own kingdom. I am an artist. An artist of the purest kind. A poet without poems. A painter without paintings. A musician without notes. I scorn ready-made art; the banal result of vulgar effort. My life is my work, and it is dedicated to my love for you.”
To prove his love, the princess tells him, the artist must join her in death.
He replies: “An easy sacrifice. For what is life to a true artist?”
Karin: “You thus perfect your work of art and crown your love. You ennoble your life and show the skeptics what a true artist can do.”
Then doubt creeps in, and Minus says: “What am I about to do? Sacrifice my life? For what? For eternity? For the perfect work of art? For love? Have I gone mad? Who shall see my sacrifice? Death. Who shall gauge the depth of my love? A ghost. And who shall thank me? Eternity. (This is noteworthy because ultimately we writers want recognition, no matter how noble we may think we are locked up in our own dark attic rooms, listening to voices).
Minus’s artist waits too long and the princess departs into eternity without him. His response: “Well…such is life. I could, of course, write a poem about meeting with the princess. Or paint a picture, or compose and opera, although it would need a more heroic ending.”
This seems to be all about the noble idea of sacrifice, and it does seem pointed at their father; David is constantly on the run, from his family, from his daughter’s illness. He seems to be sacrificing for his art (with all that travel), but what he’s really doing is avoiding the truth, hiding from reality. And this makes his obsession with recording his daughter’s demise all the more twisted—he sees it, is fascinated by it, obsessed with it…and yet, everything he does is designed to keep him at a remove.
And isn’t this what we do in our writing? Particularly those of us who dabble in dark fiction? We create dark and muddy worlds where horrible things happen, all in an unconscious effort to avoid the very horrors we create. That’s a kind of mental illness, and where would we be without it? A lot of this is obviously reading between the lines and making writerly connections where they may or may not have been intended, but we have this exchange later that points directly at the writer’s inner demons. While out on a boat together, Martin confronts David and tells him that Karin read his diary. Martin asks what he wrote and David tells him.
Martin: “Your callousness is perverse. You’re always on the hunt for subjects. Your daughter’s insanity. What a great idea! Write your book. Maybe it will give you your heart’s desire. Your big breakthrough as a writer. Then you won’t have sacrificed your daughter in vain…”
Later, Martin tells David that, while his writing is good, his convictions are not believable: “Why not do something respectable instead?” (ouch)
Martin: “Have you written one word of truth in your life as an author?”
Papa: “I don’t know.”
Martin: “See? Your half-lies are so refined that they look like truth. You’re empty, but clever. Now you’re trying to fill your void with Karin’s extinction.”
All this begs the question: How far is too far? How much of life (and others’ misery) is allowable as grist for our mill? Are we writers horrible to look with interest on others’ suffering? Rhetorical questions, one and all, and I leave you to ponder them.
Because, to quote the Cheshire Cat, “We’re all mad here.” We could do worse than to keep that in mind—not to be afraid of our latent madness, but to be aware of it, to learn from it. Maybe, instead of documenting someone else’s illness, we can look hard at our own. Maybe, in the end, that’s really what Karin’s father was doing. He ran away from his daughter’s illness and into his novel, which was a hiding place for all his fears and losses.
Karin (asking her father about his latest novel near the end of the film): “Is it any good?”
David: “One draws a magic circle around oneself to keep everything out that doesn’t fit one’s secret games. Each time life breaks through the circle, the games become puny and ridiculous. So one draws a new circle and builds new defenses.”
Karin: “Poor little Papa.”
David: “Yes, poor little Papa, forced to live in reality.”
Overall Rating: 5 out of 5 Quills
In one of her many dark moments, Karin says: “It’s so horrible to see your own confusion and understand it.” Horrible, yes. Maybe even terrifying. But for the writer…perhaps it’s the only path through to a new kind of sanity.