Johan Borg (Max von Sydow) is a painter who lives with his wife Alma (Liv Ullmann) in the relative isolation of the Swedish countryside. They have retreated here to escape the rush of the modern world, so that Alma may spend the rest of her pregnancy in peace. However, everything is not quite as it seems, as Johan slowly starts to encounter some unsettling visions, and his wife (who is hopelessly devoted to him), begins to share the same sense of dread. Unwanted visitors start to weave their way into the lives of the couple, leaving foreboding messages and indicating that danger is about to befall this ordinary family. Over the next few days, they find themselves growing increasingly agitated – whether it be the invitation to a nearby castle, where they’re thrown out of their depths and forced to socialize with a group of vaguely sinister aristocrats, who have no qualms in evoking the secrets of the past that both Johan and his wife would prefer to keep unspoken, or the eventual realization that spirits walk those corridors, and are waiting to prey on the vulnerable individuals that are hoping to just exist in quiet isolation without the troublesome mysteries of the island haunting them. Slowly, Johan finds himself descending into madness, and Alma has to stand idly by and watch as he gradually loses his mind are failing to avoid surrendering himself to whatever entity seeks to tear them apart.

Ingmar Bergman’s work has always been defined by a clear ability to work alongside the entire scope of filmmaking – whether it be lavish chamber dramas like Cries and Whispers or Fanny and Alexander, or more intimate, small-scale work that hearkens back to his time as one of Sweden’s finest theatre directors, Bergman always managed to imbue his films with the brilliance that defined the entirety of his professional life and gave him an almost folkloric reputation as one of the definitive arthouse directors of the past century. Hour of the Wolf (Swedish: Vargtimmen) certainly belongs in the category of the latter, and as one of Bergman’s only forays into true horror, it stands out in his remarkable career as an example of the director’s deft ability to venture beyond the confines of a traditional story, as well as exploring other genre conventions with the meticulous detail, and incredible passion, that was present in every one of his films. It sees Bergman, along with two of his finest collaborators in Max von Sydow and Liv Ullmann, venturing into the realm of pure, unhinged psychological despair, pushing themselves into a kind of cinematic inferno, in which they emerge unscathed, but having just taken part in one of the most excruciatingly astonishing portrayals of madness, leaving an indelible impression that would stand as one of the pinnacles of their decades-long collaborations. It’s a truly remarkable film, where the only aspects more impressive than the haunting story and striking visuals was the commitment of those involved to evoke real terror in a way not even the most well-versed horror auteurs have ever been able to do.

In talking about Bergman, it seems insufficient to describe them as being anything less than beautifully-composed visual landscapes. There are few filmmakers who have ever been able to so effortlessly oscillate between the lavish and the paltry, while still allowing the same amount of gorgeous imagery to pervade through both. A less-popular opinion, but it has always appeared that Bergman benefitted from the medium of black-and-white, with his sensibilities making better use of the direct aesthetic provided by the format. This works particularly well for a film like Hour of the Wolf, in which the appearance benefits the story, rather than the alternative (which we could say about a film like Cries and Whispers, which had a beautiful narrative, but where the real meaning was evoked through the use of colour and framing to get into the minds of these characters). In this film, there’s nothing to distract from the two main characters, with the audience becoming gradually more unsettled through the stark presentation of their gradual mental decline. The centrepiece of the film, the titular “vargtimmen” is one of Bergman’s finest sequences – taking place almost entirely in the dark, with only the slightest outline of a face, or the flicker of a candle, immersing us in the haunting recounting of the “hour in which most die”. Contrast this quiet moment with the two more frantic sequences in the castle at occur on either side, in which the stark imagery evokes a sense of complete dread, and it’ll become clear how the stylistic choices were indelibly intertwined with the potent themes of madness that Bergman was seeking to convey.

Imagining Bergman’s career without his repertory ensemble of regular actors is impossible, as they were just as responsible for elevating his films and making them the extraordinary achievements that they are seen as today. Max von Sydow and Liv Ullmann were two of the finest, and certainly stand as some of his most iconic collaborators. Hour of the Wolf sees the two titans acting across from each other and doing some of their finest work, with Bergman deriving the exact qualities from them that would go on to make these actors such indelible parts of film history. Two very different performances that share common thematic ground in terms of what they have to convey, both actors are at the very peak of their talents here, with von Sydow’s Johan being a quiet, pensive artist who has been harbouring dark secrets that he hopes will never come about, while Ullmann’s Alma is far more than just a long-suffering wife. What’s most interesting about Hour of the Wolf is its approach to personifying these characters through the lens of horror conventions – despite being quite an intense foray into the realm of psychological terror, there is a perceived lack of a traditional villain. The spirits that haunt the couple are certainly unsettling, but they don’t occupy the position of malice, being messengers rather than perpetrators. Bergman indicates that the true antagonists are the main characters themselves, or rather their minds. Johan in particular is shown to be someone who is trying to maintain his sanity, which is becoming increasingly difficult to do, especially with the provocations brought about by his dreams and the waking visions he encounters on that bleak island. Both von Sydow and Ullmann experience moments of unhinged insanity, and they demonstrate themselves to be the embodiment of restraint because even in the bleakest moments, they never approach excess in any way.

Bergman’s films are remarkable for many reasons, but one of the most interesting aspects of his work is that each one of them can be broken down to only a few themes, with the director building a story around them, whether the boldest epic or the smallest psychological drama and constantly weaving the story through this theme. Hour of the Wolf is focused on two very different themes: marriage and terror (for some, this may not be mutually exclusive). The manner in which Bergman intertwines the insecurity Alma feels towards her relationship, and the metaphysical despair that is brought on by Johan’s erratic behaviour, is masterful and evokes a sense of disconcerting dread that persists throughout the film, always keeping the audience on edge, where we are never quite sure where the story is going to lead us. Right from the outset, Hour of the Wolf is defined by a very unsettling tone – the bleak, arid landscapes combined with the isolation of the characters and the eventual emergence of unwanted presences all combine into a truly discomforting journey into the minds of these characters. Bergman warps the concept of reality, being inspired by his own nightmares and the unsettling European folk stories that he had encountered through his career, forming them into an unsettling portrait of madness. It’s an unconventional approach, but it results in something entirely unforgettable. The film does lack some of the warmth that Bergman would go on to make use of, even in his most heartbreaking stories, but it is intentional, as the director is clearly seeking to put us in a state of despondency, so we too can momentarily feel the same foreboding terror as these characters.

Hour of the Wolf is set in a perpetual state of dreamlike distress, where the story combines the desolate anxiety brought about by the portrayal of the growing instability of these characters, and the intimate surrealism that is often unappreciated in favour of more absurd portrayals of the infallibility of existence, converging into a deeply complex, but potent horror film, where the atmosphere is responsible for every moment of unhinged terror. Bergman was a master of restraint, and even when working from a story that had the capacity to be so endlessly excessive, he manages to reign it in enough to convey the deep sense of melancholy that underlies the film and allows it to flourish into this complex portrait. Not necessarily only about one man’s descent into madness and his subsequent disappearance, but more the story of the limitless bounds of love, Hour of the Wolf is an incredible piece of psychological horror, a film that seeks to get into the mind of the viewer, presenting us with a poignant tale of the human condition, and the lengths to which our minds can envelop us and force us into perceiving the world differently. Chilling, unsettling and utterly brilliant, Hour of the Wolf is definitive proof that Ingmar Bergman had masterful control over his craft, and could command any genre or convention, shaping it into yet another remarkable exploration of deep existential issues that is thoroughly enthralling, and truly unforgettable.