(Mention over the course of this review of the thematic value and development of certain elements could be considered "spoilers." If you want to come to this movie absolutely fresh, you might want to save reading this review for *after* you see the show to help focus your thoughts.)
Dreams . . . what are dreams? Where do they lead us? Dreams can lead one to a new—and unanticipated—life (*Monika*); they can be the gateway to a better understanding of an old life (*Kris*); they can possess us, and damn us (*Vargtimmen*); they can be the vapor, the chemical, which helps our exposure to the world develop into a fixed image of ourselves . . . and so it is that we come to Bergman's splendid *Kvinnodröm*, called *Dreams* in English. The first moments of the film, at a photo-shoot, tell us what we are to witness: Human beings in development, their postures, their cosmetics, their pretenses; the development takes place in the dark, the pretenses in the light: It is the dark, the unreal dream, which lights the way to reality.
As so often with Bergman, repeated viewings reveal the details which, in truth, are the dark lights which guide the story: the glances and reactions of the secondary characters, the symbols, our awareness of the disjunct parallels and how they intertwine. A silly, irresponsible girl is wiser than a cultured older man, and yet her clear-sightedness is for others, not herself; but it is her silliness, not her wisdom, which brings her a stable reality. A cool and level-headed professional woman is frantic with desire; the cold and barren fruit of her desire turns out to be the ripe fruit of knowledge. The men of our tale have their own dreams: The shallowest has the most depth, the most serious is the most insubstantial, the most heart-felt is the most heartless. A fat man taps his fingers in impatient, impotent lust; an old photographer, wise in the ways of the world, is nevertheless blithe and carefree.
Bergman works with these themes more grandiosely in other works, and yet it is the unsettling intimacy of his treatment here which, for me, has the greater effect. The dark room brings the illumination; the negative is our access to the positive; the dream is the lens to focus our reality. In his conception, in his vision, in his cinematic art, this is Bergman at his finest.
Dreams . . . what are dreams? Where do they lead us? Dreams can lead one to a new—and unanticipated—life (*Monika*); they can be the gateway to a better understanding of an old life (*Kris*); they can possess us, and damn us (*Vargtimmen*); they can be the vapor, the chemical, which helps our exposure to the world develop into a fixed image of ourselves . . . and so it is that we come to Bergman's splendid *Kvinnodröm*, called *Dreams* in English. The first moments of the film, at a photo-shoot, tell us what we are to witness: Human beings in development, their postures, their cosmetics, their pretenses; the development takes place in the dark, the pretenses in the light: It is the dark, the unreal dream, which lights the way to reality.
As so often with Bergman, repeated viewings reveal the details which, in truth, are the dark lights which guide the story: the glances and reactions of the secondary characters, the symbols, our awareness of the disjunct parallels and how they intertwine. A silly, irresponsible girl is wiser than a cultured older man, and yet her clear-sightedness is for others, not herself; but it is her silliness, not her wisdom, which brings her a stable reality. A cool and level-headed professional woman is frantic with desire; the cold and barren fruit of her desire turns out to be the ripe fruit of knowledge. The men of our tale have their own dreams: The shallowest has the most depth, the most serious is the most insubstantial, the most heart-felt is the most heartless. A fat man taps his fingers in impatient, impotent lust; an old photographer, wise in the ways of the world, is nevertheless blithe and carefree.
Bergman works with these themes more grandiosely in other works, and yet it is the unsettling intimacy of his treatment here which, for me, has the greater effect. The dark room brings the illumination; the negative is our access to the positive; the dream is the lens to focus our reality. In his conception, in his vision, in his cinematic art, this is Bergman at his finest.