Blogical Conclusion

WAITING FOR GOD

JUN 6, 2009 – HOW DO YOU SUM UP A CAREER spent, quite exhaustively, grappling with the sense (and the existence) of a higher power? Bergman’s solution, in his final feature, was to literally show God – a looming presence haunting the dark interiors of a cluttered antiques shop, who reveals Himself to Alexander (Bertil Guve), one night, when the boy wakes up exclaiming, “I have to pee.” Alexander, who’s temporarily housed in the shop, scrambles off his bed and peeks underneath. “Damn, there’s no chamber pot. It won’t be easy to find the toilet in the dark.” He opens the door and steps into the unknown. “I hope there aren’t any ghosts.” This reflection is prompted not just by the eerie, human-size marionettes populating the store, with blanched Kabuki faces, but also by visitations by the spirit of Alexander’s recently departed father, Oscar (Allan Edwall).

Alexander stumbles past the snoring Aron (Mats Bergman), the nephew of the store’s owner, but he’s no closer to his destination. He relieves himself into an urn, and subsequently wanders into a corner overflowing with crystal. At the far end, he sights Oscar. The spirit sighs, “It’s not my fault it’s all gone wrong. I can’t leave you. I just can’t.” Again, this reflection is prompted not only by Alexander’s life having “gone wrong” after Oscar’s death (his mother remarried, and his stepfather, a bishop, turned out to be a monster), but also by the heavily symbolic parallelism of Oscar’s life as a theatre actor. On stage, he played the ghost in Hamlet, who haunted his young son’s life after his wife remarried – and now, he’s reprising this role in real life (or in death, to be more precise about his circumstances.)

But Alexander is no Hamlet, weeping for a father he’ll no longer embrace. Filled with a child’s stubborn resentment, at the man who single-handedly reduced him to this plight, he sneers, “It would be better if you’d take off for heaven. You can’t help us anyway.” Unmindful of the taunt, Oscar reasons, “I lived my whole life with you children and [your mother]. Death makes no difference.” Alexander sighs and sinks into a seat. He sulks, “Why can’t you go to God and tell him to kill the bishop? Or doesn’t God give a damn about you, or any of us? Have you even seen God on the other side?” Oscar brings his hand down, as if to touch Alexander. But he doesn’t. His hand hovering above a shoulder, he whispers words of caution. “You must be gentle with people.”

A little later, Oscar is nowhere to be found and Alexander appears to have fallen asleep, which leaves us – as is only to be expected in an art film – with a host of unanswerable questions. Did Alexander drift away from consciousness as soon as he relieved himself, after being unable to trace the way back to his bed? Was the encounter with Oscar, therefore, a dream? And is this a dream too, this lifting of his head upon hearing a creak? Alexander looks up in the direction of the sound and sees a key turning in a door, which opens outwards to reveal nothing but blackness. Cowering behind an elbow raised to his face, presumably in order to shield his eyes if the need arises, Alexander asks tentatively, “Who’s behind the door?”

A raspy whisper replies, “It is God behind the door.” Could this be true? Is it really Him behind the door? Could Oscar, stung by his son’s accusation, have connived with the higher power to bring about this unexpected meeting? Alexander asks, “Can’t you come out?” The voice in the dark intones, “No living being may see God’s face.” Alexander wants to know, in that case, what He wants. In a reply apparently directed as much to the boy as to Bergman himself, the voice announces, “To prove that I exist.” And as if offering evidence of this existence, a set of fingers curls around the door, near the key. Alexander is terrified. He sinks behind his seat and mutters, “This is the end of me.”

The door begins to creak again. The voice threatens, “Shall I show myself?” But it doesn’t wait for Alexander’s answer. As the puppets in the room begin to shake, as the room begins to rattle, the voice declares, “Now you will see me. Here I come, Alexander.” A giant foot steps out. And then, another. And then, we see a face of fury, a vengeful Zeus with punishing hands. But strangely, the fearsome apparition is held up by strings – and an instant later, God collapses to the floor in a heap. Footsteps scurry over to the crouching Alexander, who lifts his eyes and discovers it’s only Aron. Clearly amused by his prank, Aron squats in front of Alexander and demands, “Admit you were scared.”

Despite the tears streaming down his frightened face, Alexander insists, “I wasn’t a damned bit scared.” Aron mimics Alexander. “This is the end of me.” The boy is not amused. He slaps Aron, who retaliates by seizing him by the shoulders. Alexander cries out, “Ouch! That hurts.” Is this hurt merely physical, or is it also psychological, the disappointment of having been so close to The Answer? Aron releases the boy and asks him not to cry. “I didn’t mean to scare you. At least not that much. I’ve been working all night on this puppet.” But Alexander doesn’t understand. “You said you’d been up all night, but I saw you asleep.” Aron mysteriously replies, again as much to the boy as to Bergman, “There are many strange things that can’t be explained… The unknown makes people angry. It’s better to blame it on mirrors, machines and projections.”

Fanny och Alexander (1982, Swedish; aka Fanny and Alexander). Directed by Ingmar Bergman. Starring Pernilla Allwin, Bertil Guve, Ewa Fröling, Gunn Wållgren.

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