The only thing that can be heard is Eva's imperfect attempt at Chopin's piece, yet the camera lingers on Charlotte's face. With them both trying to bond over music, the scene is thoroughly serene. One of their first unuttered dissonances is remarkably shown in the piano scene. The length that Bergman goes to surely takes patience, but this finely tuned rhythm is what makes the grit of their relationship even more hard-hitting.Īs their conversations grow sorer, we discover the past and the revelations, maturely anchoring both slants without vilifying one another. It's downright brutal and distressing, but only then do they feel real. At this point, all their silent thoughts come to light unapologetically, all at once. ![]() It's not until later when everything gets progressively intense: the dialogue becomes more direct, the past becomes barer, and the pain becomes truer. All the love, although is never explicitly told, seems to shift back and forth between genuine and performative. In the absence of the dialogue, the camerawork takes over, capturing their unspoken words that are locked away in their guarded chambers while each one tries to play by their socially acceptable roles and norms. During its first minutes, the dialogue between Eva and Charlotte sometimes takes detours from the actual gist of what Bergman is trying to tell, all while hinting a deeper theme underneath its surface that is still clearly evident every now and then. The essential is faint to the ears and overlooked to the eyes. In its first act, Bergman uses dialogue brilliantly to show context but rarely to expose them. The dialogue establishes the two stark personas as it cuts deep into them. Between the cinematography and the dialogue, the two form an intense, often unnoticed relay race that composedly begins to unearth a giant, ambivalent force of love and hate. Despite being a melodrama in spirit, Autumn Sonata is very controlled in its overarching outlook of long-repressed feelings. Quietly confrontational and in a way, obtrusively unassuming, these shots reduce their facades away, layer by layer, motif by motif, until there’s no room left to hide.īergman's script is attentively constructed all over the gentle but assured emotional exposition -in the silence, everything unfurls and in the clutter of words, the truth conceals. These close-ups perform as an unceasing microscope to capture every minute detail of their face features’ mobility: eyes twitching, forehead lines folding, downturned mouth, to their constantly vivid and unconcealed pores we notice one thing and many things at once, as they unfold and as they fade. It’s so restrained to the point that the diegetic space we’ve left with feels more and more claustrophobic with time. Together with cinematographer Sven Nykvist, Autumn Sonata’s camerawork moves slowly and often follows the actors’ movement then zooms in on them, only for the frame to be crammed with their faces, fully focusing on their emotions and expressions. Like some of his tortured family depictions, Ingmar’s aesthetics are never really reliant on being extremely adorned, but underneath those dusty sepia-tinged frames, it’s a skilfully choreographed piece of dramatic triumph. This thesis, manifested along with a stellar cast, truthful direction, revealing dialogue, and incarcerating cinematography, bring an honest, unposed face to its distrust-rooted delineation. ![]() the emotion, in general, is a fuzzy concept to describe, and their existence to each other can be as all-encompassing as they can be outwardly incongruous. As much as the concept of emotion can be defined in terms of universal semantics, such as anger, sadness, fear, guilt, love, etc. Here, t here are countless feelings embedded meticulously, but all of them are tied up by one notion in common: the perplexity of emotion itself. ![]() Through the estranged relationship between a daughter, Eva (Liv Ullmann), and her concert pianist mother Charlotte (Ingrid Bergman), Ingmar Bergman gazes at their stirring spectacle of disquieting, perpetuated emotional injuries. Autumn Sonata, the first and last collaboration between the two incomparable Bergmans: Ingmar and Ingrid Bergman, is one of those hefty formidable dramas. From Scenes from A Marriage to Cries and Whispers, his grip on this heavy subject has long been both celebrated and cerebrated. In cinema filled with dysfunctional family dramas, Ingmar Bergman’s works often loom conspicuously.
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