The Rare Review

Movies, books, music and TV

The Usual Tears in a Bergman Film: “Winter Light”

In the Ingmar Bergman film Winter Light (1962), Gunnar Bjornstrand and Ingrid Thulin are thespians of the first order.  Bjornstrand is never false and always perfect in his timing as a suffering minister, Tomas Ericsson, who still grieves over the death of his cherished wife.  Thulin plays his former mistress who will never win Tomas’s love.  Put forward here is the concept of minister as nonbeliever, a man without faith.  “God’s silence” disturbs him, but at the end he carries on with the hope that what Bergman adverted to as an answer from God will blessedly arrive.  It may be that Tomas will stop surprising his ex-lover with the odd “indifference to Jesus Christ” which she says the reverend’s personality is marked by.

I believe most of Bergman’s films are failures, but Winter Light, albeit not flawless, succeeds.  Typically it is directorially outstanding.  Consider the naturalistic sequence outdoors, after a man has committed suicide, when wind-blown snow and the noisy rapids point to nature’s inexorable power and fascination.  Consider the captivating scene where Tomas’s car is at a railroad crossing.  The film is serious without being great, exquisite without being a masterpiece.

(In Swedish with English subtitles)

From The 70s: “California Split”

I have not been watching very many 2018, ’19 and ’20 movies because current flicks are so blasted familiar and dull and, of course, woke (and thus play it safe). (Once Upon a Time in Hollywood is an exception.) I’m mostly sticking with films from the past. The 1974 California Split, by Robert Altman, is not a good movie—the situations it presents are absurd—but it isn’t uncomfortably familiar or dull or woke either. Revolving around two shallow gamblers, it doesn’t play it safe. The film is a mess, however.

It rambles on preposterously, with no character development. George Segal is in a dopey, underwritten role but his acting succeeds except in the drunk scenes. Elliott Gould is a grabber, appropriately zestful. Ann Prentiss is unreal and miscast, but such supporting players as Joseph Walsh (Sparkie) are fine. Gwen Welles, who died of cancer at 42, is pleasant. Occasionally California Split is vulgar. In a good scene in Altman’s Nashville, Miss Welles reveals her attractive buttocks. Here, Gould reveals (discreetly) his unattractive penis. Spare me.

From The 70s: “California Split”

I have not been watching very many 2018, ’19 and ’20 movies because current flicks are so blasted familiar and dull and, of course, woke (and thus play it safe). (Once Upon a Time in Hollywood is an exception.) I’m mostly sticking with films from the past. The 1974 California Split, by Robert Altman, is not a good movie—the situations it presents are absurd—but it isn’t uncomfortably familiar or dull or woke either. Revolving around two shallow gamblers, it doesn’t play it safe. The film is a mess, however.

It rambles on preposterously, with no character development. George Segal is in a dopey, underwritten role but his acting succeeds except in the drunk scenes. Elliott Gould is a grabber, appropriately zestful. Ann Prentiss is unreal and miscast, but such supporting players as Joseph Walsh (Sparkie) are fine. Gwen Welles, who died of cancer at 42, is pleasant. Occasionally California Split is vulgar. In a good scene in Altman’s Nashville, Miss Welles reveals her attractive buttocks. Here, Gould reveals (discreetly) his unattractive penis. Spare me.

Regarding “Penny Serenade”

George Stevens‘s self-produced Penny Serenade (1941) is a film about a happy marriage. A terrible contingency causes the marriage to nosedive, but maybe, just maybe, all will be well again. PS is lovely but, alas, sentimental. It ends up being a heart-warmer and nothing more. All the same, one admires Irene Dunne and Cary Grant for their likability and Stevens for his directorial control.

Regarding “Penny Serenade”

George Stevens‘s self-produced Penny Serenade (1941) is a film about a happy marriage. A terrible contingency causes the marriage to nosedive, but maybe, just maybe, all will be well again. PS is lovely but, alas, sentimental. It ends up being a heart-warmer and nothing more. All the same, one admires Irene Dunne and Cary Grant for their likability and Stevens for his directorial control.

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