Wild Strawberries

I've ne'er been often of an Ingmar Bergman fan, just I have respect for much of his exploit. Wild Strawberries is the notable exception, often hailed as his best or second-best work (after The Seventh Seal). I honestly think it's sub-par, irresistibly oppresive in its obvious imagery -- crucifixion motifs and non sequitur dream sequences -- to the point where a legion of film students have been prompted to copycat its overt heavy-handedness for half a c. In fact, I keep thinking around The Big Picture, where the photographic film students accept produced such ultra-sensitive tripe but line up heaps of praise piled upon them anyway. Presumably, the audience is stunned that it can understand the filmic metaphors they have created, and therefore, they moldiness be genius.

Wild Strawberries is exactly this type of film, a short simply often unbearable production around an ancient doctor wrestling with a death that is exactly around the corner. He ends up on a road trip, filled with false starts, wrong turns, and fantastical dream/fantasy sequences, all designed for him to present death and question the existence of God. But nothing is really questioned, it is simply presented as barren and tight, with our hero facing the inevitableness of a void in lieu of the hereafter. The plastic film does non provoke whatsoever questions or debate almost either death or God.


And it comes off as if Bergman ne'er really wants this anyhow. We ar instead invited to notice how clever the film is, what with its clocks with no hands (oooooh, that's deep) and ominous shoetree branches to spook us. But it's not apt. It's obvious. And in the end, it's meaningless.


I've seen Wild Strawberries several times, nigh recently on the newfangled Criterion DVD, which cleans up the transfer and provides a commentary. As expected, that commentary track, offered by one of those pundits (Bergman crony J�rn Donner) who is far also familiar with Bergman's go, is well-nigh pathetic in the path it fawns over Bergman, offering praise for every scene (and every scene of each scene), no matter how mundane it is. In a single sequence, he fawns over the unornamented lighting on a woman's face as subtle and then goes on to state that no one can write dialogue as well as Bergman. He talks about having a meal with a venial actor in the film, a word that lasts for several minutes. And of line, all of this sounds as if it is take, not offered offhand, meticulously plotted well in advance. It's an whole ridiculous addition to a ridiculous movie.


Let the hate mail begin!


Aka Smultronst�llet.