Ingmar Bergman's 'The Passion Of Anna', seemed a masterpiece when I first saw it, in 1969, in an art house cinema in London, on my own. That intense experience overwhelmed me, and has remained in my head, although I have never seen it again until today. It is still powerful. The underlying menace, metaphorically epitomised by animal abuses outside, in grim weather, is reflected by the inside scenes. Andreas, a sophisticated 'outsider' - Max Von Sydow, troubled by divorce, no money and with a ravaged sense of failure and inadequacy - links up with a highly successful architect and his wife. The opening shot of Andreas on a rooftop, ineffectually repairing some ridge tiles, is a portent of his impracticality. The interiors are intimately photographed, in dramatic contrast to the island shots, where Nykvist gives us a broader view. There is a trapped sense of an intellectual but isolated group who can cope no better with life than the people who live permanently on the island. Bibi Andersson and Erland Josephson have their own conflicts and inner turmoils; Erland plays Elis the architect, and reveals the classic dilemma of the successful man. He has converted a windmill just to store his photographs. Hundreds of white boxes on shelves classified as emotions, catastrophes, violence; they have no real purpose, he says. He cannot allow his knowledge of human frailties to cloud his mind so he externalises his concerns, storing them safely away. Andreas can only be a solitary part of their world, and he tries to make something happen with Liv Ullman, but that ends in bitterness. The players circle around each other, all questing for something. The arty inserts, where interviews with the actors intrude on the narrative, either irritates or helps; at the time it seemed so innovative but I am now not so convinced it is a good idea. The film is still modern though. In the late 60s it seemed utterly new. The final scene is moving and unnerving. Andreas is abandoned, alone again, pacing up and down, going over the same ground, locked in a doomed circularity. We all have these people in us.

I think, En passion is indeed not a perfect film, but who likes perfection? In fact, I think, up to now, it belongs in Bergman's top 10 and is a great addition to the issues argued in Vargtimmen, Skammen and Rite. All these characters here are not really authentic, but one: Verner, the old man suspected by the villagers on that island to be the animal abuser, and therefore excruciated. Everyone else, including Andreas, Anna and the couple they are friends with, are people who call for problems, get entrapped by them and catapult themselves into an almost-catastrophe. It's interesting that Verner, writes to Andreas, who seems to be the worst of all, i.e. most un-authentic, a suicide note, saying: "I can't look into anyone's eyes anymore", is, to my understanding, the key to the film - self-made problems contrasted with problems created externally. Given Verner's suicide, driven by slander and torture, Andreas' and Anna's issues in their relationship fade, normally, but then an axe gets involved, a stable burns down and a horse runs off, ablazed, kindled by the real animal tormentor who still is on the loose. An inferno.What I like most about this film, though, is its situational context: the island. I can't think of another Bergman film where the environment plays a bigger role than here. All figures are moving in a lost, iced vastness, in defoliated, sparse woods, get stuck in morass and dirt. Animals get brutally tortured and killed, wood gets chopped, wagons bog down in mud. The forlornness and menace of the people in nature is wonderfully captured by Nykvist, mostly in long, high-angle or panoramic shots and is an intriguing contrast to the interior (of the cottages, where the talking, cheating and fighting takes place) - inside there lurks the psychic, outside there's the physical death. That is a great imagery. However, I'm not satisfied with these interview snippets which I think is a nice idea (such as Bergman's verbal directions in the off in Vargtimmen), but it's executed quite poorly.

Ingmar Bergman's 1969 film A Passion (En Passion, misnomered in America as The Passion Of Anna) is a great film, and out of the series of late 1960s films (also including Persona, Hour Of The Wolf, and Shame) dealing with relationships and the self, it may be the best. It stars many of the Bergman retinue of actors: Max Von Sydow as Andreas Winkelman, Liv Ullman as Anna Fromm, Bibi Andersson as Eva Vergerus, and Erland Josephson as Elis Vergerus.It follows Andreas, an ex-convict, as he recovers from his wife's abandonment, on a small farm on a Swedish island- ostensibly Bergman's own Farö, where it was filmed. One day, Anna, a crippled widow, comes to his home and Andreas listens in on the phone call she needs to make. She then accidentally (or not?) leaves her purse at his house, and he reads a letter of her rocky marriage, as he digs through her purse to find her address, and learns of her dead husband's fears for her sanity. When he returns the purse, that night, he meets the Vergeruses, the couple whom Anna lives with. He is later invited over to dinner, and the foursome discuss life and philosophy…..Throughout the film, a number of other subtexts emerge, such as Bergman again breaking the fictive spell of the film by having his four main actors portray themselves talking about their characters. Another side story involves the abuse, torture, and killing of local animals. A local hermit, with a history of mental instability, is suspected. Andreas knows the man, Johan Andersson (Erik Hell), and it's clear he is not the culprit, because he is an old lumbering man, and early in the film the audience glimpsed a young man speedily running away from a scene where he is hanging the puppy that Andreas saves. Nonetheless, as sheep, and other animals, are killed, a band of young vigilante islanders have apparently beaten and tortured the old man to confess. This act of cruelty drives him to suicide, and he leaves a note of thanks for Andreas, for all his kindnesses, that the police bring to him….This film's ending is famous, but has been misinterpreted in many ways. First, Bergman has admitted in print that he did not zoom in to get the graininess of the final images, but merely blew up the shot. As for what it means? Many take it simply as the psychological dissolution of Andreas Winkeleman, which is the final in a series of character dissolutions in this series of late 1960s films….But that's too melodramatic a claim.….The ending leaves a visceral impact, both for its visuals and its often overlooked critical revelation….The film succeeds magnificently, in an understated way that many of Bergman's more famous films do not. It's that good.

This is without question one of Bergman's greatest and most rewarding films, and indeed, one of his most subtle. Like his more iconic work - such as The Seventh Seal (1957), Wild Strawberries (1957), Persona (1966), Cries and Whispers (1971), etc - it presents a rich tapestry of wounded characters and painful memories that are affective on a completely external level. However, what elevates this from a great film to a work of unforgettable genius is in the questions that the film asks - but never answers - and in the window that it offers into the world of Bergman's previous film, the surreal, anti-war parable Shame (1968).Like many of his greatest films, A Passion (1969) looks at characters disconnected from the world in which they inhabit and slowly becoming disconnected from themselves within the process. There are the obvious parallels with Shame - which we will come back to - as well as Persona (1966) and Hour of the Wolf (1966). As with those films, A Passion has strong roots in existentialism; creating a barren landscape that comes to represent the internal psychological state of the characters and that particular sense of deep despair and quiet alienation that drives them to take solace in other, equally damaged souls. We also have a series of continual stylistic juxtapositions and attempts by Bergman to disarm and distract us. The most obvious of these is the use of the narration, which on our first exposure, seems to fulfil no real purpose, instead, merely jarring against the natural, almost-documentary like presentation of the film. Added to this, there is a subtle breakdown in reality happening with the notions of fact and fiction, which is again mirrored externally by the way in which Bergman breaks the fourth-wall of the drama to offer us the opinions of his actors on the roles that they are about to perform.The technique is reminiscent of Toshio Matsumoto's equally compelling psychological examination, Funeral Parade of Roses (1969), only without the obvious kaleidoscopic influences of pop art, psychedelic rock and the spirit of Jean Luc Godard. It also suggests the confessional element of films like Hour of the Wolf, Scenes from a Marriage (1973) and Rite (1969), only in a way that is far more obtrusive. What these scenes represent for me at this exact point in time is somewhat unknown, although they certainly don't feel out of place; especially within the context of that closing shot and the final revelation.The plot here is a maze of pure emotions, with Bergman's cold and clinical narration and ironic deconstruction of the narrative elements turning A Passion into an examination, with characters trapped in metaphorical glass jars and analysed by spectators in order to understand something, not necessarily about the characters, but very much about ourselves. Alongside these deconstructive elements we have characters that seemingly can't be trusted with the information that they have to offer us, with lies, guilt and deceit all swirling 'round us like a whirlpool of blame, disappointment and critical self-examination. The characters are running away from things that there is no real escape from, and the relationship that seems to offer a further window out of their self-imposed exile and malaise ends up leading back again; leaving the characters broken more so than they were at the start of the film. Although it is done subtly by Bergman, the ending of the film is every bit as desolate and apocalyptic as the ending of Shame, or as deconstructive and subversive as the ending of Persona.Alongside the creation of a setting that is barren and desolate, and the claustrophobic feeling created by the use of cramped interiors and a limited psychological space, Bergman also creates tension from the enigmatic quality of his characters and the questions that they present. In one of the film's most fascinating sub-plots, we discover that the animals on the island are being slaughtered by an unseen madman; an intelligent and disturbing idea that further suggests the notions of reality breaking down and the nightmarish thoughts and feelings of the characters spilling out and enveloping them. The identity of this violent and cruel individual remains a mystery throughout, with Bergman leaving us to draw our own conclusions; forcing the audience to question not only the actions and intentions of the character observing this horror, but also whether or not this same horror is merely an extension of the character's crumbling world. This is further illustrated by a third-act dream sequence that not only contextualises the whole of A Passion - and, in particular, the character of Anna - but also the director's previous film, Shame.Without a doubt, this is raw and extremely powerful film-making; evident from Bergman's uncomplicated use of editing and cinematography. As a result, the film looks and feels very much like an obvious precursor to Lars von Trier's later examination into human fragility, Breaking the Waves (1996), with the filmmaker shooting in muted colours with naturalistic lighting, minimal production design, choppy editing and the use of hand-held cameras. This, combined with the towering performance from Max Von Sydow as the central character Andreas Winkelman, and fine support from Bergman's greatest collaborators, Liv Ullmann, Bibi Andersson and Erland Josephson, create something truly astounding and truly unforgettable.