Ingmar Bergman's 'The Passion Of Anna', seemed a masterpiece when I first saw it, in 1969, in an art house cinema in London, on my own. That intense experience overwhelmed me, and has remained in my head, although I have never seen it again until today. It is still powerful. The underlying menace, metaphorically epitomised by animal abuses outside, in grim weather, is reflected by the inside scenes. Andreas, a sophisticated 'outsider' - Max Von Sydow, troubled by divorce, no money and with a ravaged sense of failure and inadequacy - links up with a highly successful architect and his wife. The opening shot of Andreas on a rooftop, ineffectually repairing some ridge tiles, is a portent of his impracticality. The interiors are intimately photographed, in dramatic contrast to the island shots, where Nykvist gives us a broader view. There is a trapped sense of an intellectual but isolated group who can cope no better with life than the people who live permanently on the island. Bibi Andersson and Erland Josephson have their own conflicts and inner turmoils; Erland plays Elis the architect, and reveals the classic dilemma of the successful man. He has converted a windmill just to store his photographs. Hundreds of white boxes on shelves classified as emotions, catastrophes, violence; they have no real purpose, he says. He cannot allow his knowledge of human frailties to cloud his mind so he externalises his concerns, storing them safely away. Andreas can only be a solitary part of their world, and he tries to make something happen with Liv Ullman, but that ends in bitterness. The players circle around each other, all questing for something. The arty inserts, where interviews with the actors intrude on the narrative, either irritates or helps; at the time it seemed so innovative but I am now not so convinced it is a good idea. The film is still modern though. In the late 60s it seemed utterly new. The final scene is moving and unnerving. Andreas is abandoned, alone again, pacing up and down, going over the same ground, locked in a doomed circularity. We all have these people in us.
Review of The Passion of Anna
