I buy lots of books at antiquarian bookstores and then never read them. But I like to own them and hold them in my hands and, on occasion, smell them. Then something happens in the world or in my mind, and I'm glad I saved a particular volume. So it is with the death of
Swedish film legend Ingmar Bergman. On hearing of his passing, I reached for "Four Screenplays of Ingmar Bergman," a book published by Simon and Schuster in 1960.
I also remember college days of seeing Bergman films, such as
"The Seventh Seal." Usually, I'd go with a date and then, over drinks, try to impress her with my insight and sensitivity. I feel kinda bad that date movies these days means you have to take your girl to see
"Miss Congeniality."Of all the famous directors, Bergman may be the greatest writer. Here, for example, is the opening to "The Seventh Seal," a story about a medieval knight in the days of the Black Plague:
The night had brought little relief from the heat, and at dawn a hot gust of wind blows across the colorless sea.
The knight, Antonius Block, lies prostrate on some spruce branches spread over the fine sand. His eyes are wide-open and bloodshot from lack of sleep. Nearby his squire Jons is snoring loudly. He has fallen asleep where he collapsed, at the edge of the forest among the wind-gnarled fir trees. His open mouth gapes toward the dawn, and unearthly sounds come from his throat.
At the sudden gust of wind the horses stir, stretching their parched muzzles toward the sea. They are thin and worn as their masters.
The knight has risen and waded into the shallow water, where he rinses his sunburned face and blistered lips.
Jons rolls over to face the forest and the darkness. He moans in his sleep and vigorously scratches the stubbled hair on his head. A scar stretches diagonally across his scalp, as white as lightning against the grime.
The knight returns to the beach and falls on his knees. With his eyes closed and brow furrowed, he says his morning prayers. His hands are clenched together and his lips form the words silently. His face is sad and bitter. He opens his eyes and stares directly into the morning sun which wallows up from the misty sea like some bloated, dying fish. The sky is gray and immobile, a dome of lead. A cloud hangs mute and dark over the western horizon. High up, barely visible, a sea gull floats on motionless wings. Its cry is weird and restless.
The knight's large gray horse lifts its head and whinnies. Antonius Block turns around. Behind him stands a man in black. His face is very pale and he keeps his hands hidden in the wide folds of his cloak.
The man, of course, is Death, but we'll meet him in a minute. Let's appreciate for a moment the cinematic quality of Bergman's prose, which shines even in translation. Writing Tool #34 encourages writers to "write from different cinematic angles." To do this, the writer has to move the camera -- even when there is no camera. Notice how, through his words, Bergman offers us a wide shot, where we can see the sky, the gulls, and the horizon; and the close-up, where we can see the parched lips of the knight and the scar on the squire's forehead.
Because there will be sound in the movie, Bergman writes with sound: the snores of the squire, the whinny of the horses, the cry of the seabirds. And, of course, we overhear the dialogue:
Knight: Who are you?
Death: I am Death.
Knight: Have you come for me?
Death: I have been walking by your side for a long time.
Knight: That I know.
Death: Are you prepared?
Knight: My body is frightened, but I am not.
Death: Well, there is no shame in that.
Dialogue, even as spare as this, is a form of action, speech that transports us to another time and place. The Knight, as is well known, challenges Death to a game of chess. If the knight wins, his life is saved.
What a great engine for a story. The engine, you may remember from Tool #31, is the question the story will answer for the reader or viewer, in this case: Life or Death? No stronger engine than that.
"A film for me begins with something very vague," writes Bergman in the introduction, "a chance remark or a bit of conversation, a hazy but agreeable event unrelated to any particular situation. It can be a few bars of music, a shaft of light across the street. ... If that embryonic substance seems to have enough strength to be made into a film, I decide to materialize it. Then comes something very complicated and difficult: the transformation of rhythms, moods, atmosphere, tensions, sequences, tones and scents into words and sentences, into an understandable screenplay."
Just as writers learn from metaphors of music, so we incorporate strategies from the visual arts. We write scenes, after all, and create settings, look for telling details and write from a point of view.
Do you have a favorite Bergman film?
