“I had this fleeting hope…that everything wouldn’t turn out to be illusions, dreams and lies.”

Ingmar Bergman was a director of many different talents, with his prolific career producing countless masterpieces across numerous genres, each one seeing the famed auteur venturing deeper into his own understanding of the human condition. As a result, it is difficult to pinpoint an exact style, with the director working within the confines of so many different genres, creating a multifaceted body of work that is as enduringly powerful as it is gorgeously poignant. However, one theme that does appear to be persistent throughout the majority of his work, manifesting in one way or another quite relative consistency, are existential issues. In fact, its almost impossible to name a filmmaker more preoccupied with venturing into the depths of our nature than Bergman, who frequently attempted to extract some of the most fundamental human qualities, putting them on screen and actively investigating what it is that makes us who we are. In this regard, one of the most important existential themes that has bewildered philosophers, artists and laypeople alike is the subject of faith, something Bergman was certainly not a stranger to exploring in his film – and as the quote at the beginning of this review states, he was willing to venture deep into treacherous narrative territory in order to find the truth about a particular issue. His faith-based trilogy is often seen as his most significant attempt to look into some of the most rudimentary aspects of belief, with Winter Light (Swedish: Nattvardsgästerna) being the centrepiece, mostly due to its status as perhaps the most challenging of the three (which we’ll inevitably discuss when we get to Through a Glass Darkly and The Silence eventually), not only for how Bergman provokes certain themes that are normally considered to be best left untouched, but also the bleak and harrowing nature with which he explores these ideas, relentless in his pursuit of some underlying truth in the midst of uncertainty.

The film is focused on Tomas Ericsson (Gunnar Björnstrand), a humble pastor in a small Swedish town, who navigates between different parishes throughout a single day. The problem is, despite being looked on as an upstanding representative of God, Tomas has grown disillusioned with his own faith, particularly through his interactions with some of his parishioners, who tend to challenge him, especially in the wake of his wife’s recent death, which has thrust Tomas into a depressive state, forcing him to lose all the passion he once held for his vocation. Amongst them is Märta (Ingrid Thulin), a schoolteacher who outright professes her non-belief in any deity, but only finds herself gravitating towards the parish as a result of her undying devotion to Tomas and her fervent pursuit to have him fall in love with her. Tomas has always managed to avoid her advances, hiding behind his cassock as a way of fending off her admiration, which only causes her to try and convert him to her atheistic point of view even more. However, Tomas reaches a breaking point with the arrival of Jonas Persson (Max von Sydow), a humble fisherman who is undergoing his own existential crisis, a result of being too over-informed about current affairs, including recent developments that lead him to believe the world is on the brink of nuclear war, which causes him to adopt an apocalyptic vision that causes tension within his family, who are growing both worried and weary of his nihilistic musings. As a last-ditch attempt to save him from complete moral oblivion, Jonas’ wife (Gunnel Lindblom) arranges for him to meet with Tomas, who does what he can to convince the hopelessly lost man to retain some faith – but instead of convincing Jonas, the pastor finds himself inadvertently losing his own belief in God, growing disillusioned with the mythology of a benevolent creator, who is more than willing to incite malice into the world, and watch idly by as his creations desperately try and work their way out of perpetual suffering – but what value is a priest without faith?

One of the most fascinating sub-genres of storytelling that has rarely been given as much attention as it should is the proverbial “priest drama”, whereby we’re introduced to some religious figure who is held up as some upstanding member of the community through their fierce commitment to their faith, while secretly struggling with their own beliefs, mostly the result of certain real-world events that cause them to abandon hope in some divine being. Many daring filmmakers have attempted to fashion works that ask the harrowing but deeply resonant question of what happens if someone who has committed his or her life to celebrating a particular belief suddenly finds themselves confronted by a lack of conviction themselves? Winter Light is an intrepid work that is quintessentially the work of a director whose intentions were always kept strictly humble and within the realm of what is recognizable and relatable. Existence was always something Bergman was intent on exploring, and there are few channels more compelling to look into the more intimate quandaries we all experience than faith, something that is far from as binary many would have you believe. What is most significant about a film like Winter Light is, despite carrying clear signs of being a work borne from the director’s own unanswerable moral dilemma, the story never leads the viewer to change their own thinking, rather challenge it in a way that could either be a revelatory moment, or a consolidation of our own belief. This approach, while not always one that yields the result an artist seeks, is a constant source of inspiration in terms of how it strips life of its superficiality and reduces it to the bare minimum, from which a melancholic investigation into existence can take place, facilitated by a director whose works always reflected something quite profound.

Deeply personal, but yet so incredibly compelling, Bergman’s work is so powerful in how it conveys certain ideas without being overwrought or unnecessarily convoluted, while still brimming with complex forays into certain unspoken issues. There’s a general sense of elegance with which the director executes this story, never once appearing to tend towards heavy-handed commentary, rather choosing to keep everything internal and honest, even if it may be alienating to those searching for some resolution. A common thread throughout many of Bergman’s films, particularly his more challenging ones such as Winter Light, is how they refuse to offer any clear answers to some of life’s most unsettling questions. He was a filmmaker that consistently set out to explore different facets of existence, while not intending to reach a discernible point of conclusion – for Bergman, a story wasn’t about the destination, but rather the journey we take getting there. It can be frustrating and disconcerting, especially when dealing with something as sacrosanct as faith, but it makes for absolutely compelling viewing, as the director seems to be tapping into some disquieting sense of the self that speaks to a broader truth we all harbour in some way. He navigates unimpeachable truths, while still touching on more debatable themes, managing to make statements on both sides without portraying his position as ambivalent. There’s something very special about an artist producing something that is clearly a work-in-progress, whereby, rather than proposing themselves as the ultimate authority on a particular subject, they are working through these same issues alongside the audience, questioning these facts of life at the same pace as we do, and coming to terms with the reality that, on occasion, life doesn’t make much sense, and that some things can’t have the same pleasant resolution as another.

Winter Light is quite an impressive film, which seems wildly reductive to say about something directed by Ingmar Bergman, whose entire career can be considered a series of moments revelatory artistic brilliance. However, this is a potent reminder that beneath the iconoclastic reputation and almost universal adoration, Bergman was a director always willing to put in the work, mainly through infusing each frame of his films with a sincerity borne from his own existential quandaries. Brutally honest, bleak beyond compare and truly insightful into the human condition, facilitated by an artist whose visions were always set on something far larger than could be condensed to a single set of ideas, its difficult to not view a work like Winter Light as anything less than a poignant masterpiece, a bleak film that carefully avoids becoming too nihilistic or overwrought, especially considering its brittle subject matter. The film provokes serious questions will venturing far beyond the confines of other works of existential pondering. It’s a gorgeous film, anchored by incredible performances (the trio of Gunnar Björnstrand, Ingrid Thulin and Max von Sydow are astonishing, each delivering compelling and lived-in portrayals of complex characters), and made with a kind of earnest simplicity that may appear unremarkable, but through which several insightful themes can be interwoven. Winter Light is a fascinating, intimate portrait of faith, and the crisis of imperfect belief, and while it may be quite harrowing or disconcerting, it is a truly worthwhile experience that once again stands as one of Bergman’s absolute masterpieces.