Scenes From a Marriage, the ultimate screen love story, in its fullest rendition in a sequence of six parts, each its own self-contained play, could not strive for more in whatever it has. It's the story most universal to the world's shared culture, the desire to be loved, to question the meaning of it, to be involved in the most universal tradition according to that perceived basic human need, hope and expectation in the form of marriage, and to blindly take on all further bricks for the wall between you and the freedom you once had. This is the epic for day-to-day life, and as like any one of the Roman Empire or the salvation from any historical holocaust, it both intensifies and elaborates every dimension of itself to create the ultimate spectacle and sets the highest standards for production value, not just in general but the talent and delivery on any level technical, aesthetic, or otherwise. But a historical event or biography, depicting a state of overt and momentous chaos which forever changes lives and society, never has and probably never could have the same degree of emotional and cathartic impact of the same kind of magnified, impassioned ode rendition of the worst fears, most crushing emotional devastations, crippling inadequacies, and distilled sense of loneliness of any and everyone's love life in whatever guise. And this is not a saga of good and evil but a saga of two deeply imperfect layman professional people.
Each scene has the deliberate intimacy which extends our sense of how long we are spending in the given time and place with this married couple, so by the sudden cut from the first scene of Episode 1 to the second, we feel we have delved quite far into the nature and character of these two people, and yet we virtually haven't seen anything yet. Nevertheless, each Episode, or Scene, affords merely a snapshot in the lives of these two thoroughly normal, wholly and completely identifiable people. We are repeatedly lured with a sense of looking at their lives through a microscope only to discover we are under the microscope with them, sharing the experience of time and space in their lifelong daily landscapes. Alternately, we are also stunned by the remarkable simplicity of the entirety of situations that comprise Scenes From a Marriage, because they are nothing at all but natural, reflexive, rudimentary. Had the film lasted two hours instead of five, however neatly condensed, and indeed it surely is in its theatrical cut, it would nonetheless be simply two fifths of the experience. Since when can one's present life experience be delineated by one beginning, one middle and one end? There are countless beginnings, middles and moments that seem like the end, because nothing much else is new to the table at the time.
Still, we only see moments in time for these two people where they're involved with each other. Most often, we only see the two of them in one room for a very long time talking to each other, or sharing time. That's the key. They're alone together. They feel alone together. They doubt their feelings because no matter how much or little they love someone else, they're so preoccupied with escaping the feeling every one of us can share with them: The feeling of being lonely.
Liv Ullmann and Erland Josephson move us in every way an actor does, by producing tears with the most honest and aching emotional pain, making us identify with the widest array of demeanors and mannerisms. Ingmar Bergman's script so deeply enmeshes the reality of their characters that it has them running the gamut of individual moods and mutual vibes in an average of a very short time. It's the sole natural effect that the two powerful leads completely embody the truth of the dialogues they exchange and the actions they make. One of the two is hardly vastly superior to the other, but both actors provide strong performances in different ways. Josephson plays Johan, a middle-aged man so used to his insecurities that he's no longer aware enough that they show and doesn't know that they are accepted, and continues to not think that they could be. An actor who has always tempered his presence purely by the level of a character's significance, he becomes so fixed in his nature as older men generally do that he always seems just as convincing when he deflects declarations of his flaws with rationalizations. Ullmann, on the other hand, is a powerhouse of transformation as Marianne, who at one point well into Episode 5 says that she feels like the people she and he were earlier are strangers. That is how we feel about them as well, not necessarily because they've changed, but also because we have seen them confront long-buried sides of themselves in exorbitantly dynamic roles that require actors of truly tireless talent, perspective and discipline.
They're occasionally joined by their peers or family, and each of these performances too are memorable all by themselves. Ullmann shares the screen again with her Persona co-star Bibi Andersson, and as in that film, Sven Nykvist's compositions are completely controlled, but only in its endeavor to depict the actresses doing exactly what they must do. Jan Malmsjo gives a disquieting performance that, don't ask me why, called to mind a Bruce Dern as he was in Black Sunday and the end of Coming Home, Malmsjo playing Andersson's vitriol-spewing alcoholic husband. Gunnel Lindblom has almost the feel of Ingrid Thulin in her brooding undercurrent, playing a colleague of Johan's who isn't used to being polite or tactful but she's endeared by the same dysfunctions in him that Marianne loves and has had to learn to love. There are more, but one should discover them on one's own. Because no matter how wrenching it gets, we are always returned at the end of each episode to obligatory, reassuring images of Faro Island's natural Nordic beauty.
Each scene has the deliberate intimacy which extends our sense of how long we are spending in the given time and place with this married couple, so by the sudden cut from the first scene of Episode 1 to the second, we feel we have delved quite far into the nature and character of these two people, and yet we virtually haven't seen anything yet. Nevertheless, each Episode, or Scene, affords merely a snapshot in the lives of these two thoroughly normal, wholly and completely identifiable people. We are repeatedly lured with a sense of looking at their lives through a microscope only to discover we are under the microscope with them, sharing the experience of time and space in their lifelong daily landscapes. Alternately, we are also stunned by the remarkable simplicity of the entirety of situations that comprise Scenes From a Marriage, because they are nothing at all but natural, reflexive, rudimentary. Had the film lasted two hours instead of five, however neatly condensed, and indeed it surely is in its theatrical cut, it would nonetheless be simply two fifths of the experience. Since when can one's present life experience be delineated by one beginning, one middle and one end? There are countless beginnings, middles and moments that seem like the end, because nothing much else is new to the table at the time.
Still, we only see moments in time for these two people where they're involved with each other. Most often, we only see the two of them in one room for a very long time talking to each other, or sharing time. That's the key. They're alone together. They feel alone together. They doubt their feelings because no matter how much or little they love someone else, they're so preoccupied with escaping the feeling every one of us can share with them: The feeling of being lonely.
Liv Ullmann and Erland Josephson move us in every way an actor does, by producing tears with the most honest and aching emotional pain, making us identify with the widest array of demeanors and mannerisms. Ingmar Bergman's script so deeply enmeshes the reality of their characters that it has them running the gamut of individual moods and mutual vibes in an average of a very short time. It's the sole natural effect that the two powerful leads completely embody the truth of the dialogues they exchange and the actions they make. One of the two is hardly vastly superior to the other, but both actors provide strong performances in different ways. Josephson plays Johan, a middle-aged man so used to his insecurities that he's no longer aware enough that they show and doesn't know that they are accepted, and continues to not think that they could be. An actor who has always tempered his presence purely by the level of a character's significance, he becomes so fixed in his nature as older men generally do that he always seems just as convincing when he deflects declarations of his flaws with rationalizations. Ullmann, on the other hand, is a powerhouse of transformation as Marianne, who at one point well into Episode 5 says that she feels like the people she and he were earlier are strangers. That is how we feel about them as well, not necessarily because they've changed, but also because we have seen them confront long-buried sides of themselves in exorbitantly dynamic roles that require actors of truly tireless talent, perspective and discipline.
They're occasionally joined by their peers or family, and each of these performances too are memorable all by themselves. Ullmann shares the screen again with her Persona co-star Bibi Andersson, and as in that film, Sven Nykvist's compositions are completely controlled, but only in its endeavor to depict the actresses doing exactly what they must do. Jan Malmsjo gives a disquieting performance that, don't ask me why, called to mind a Bruce Dern as he was in Black Sunday and the end of Coming Home, Malmsjo playing Andersson's vitriol-spewing alcoholic husband. Gunnel Lindblom has almost the feel of Ingrid Thulin in her brooding undercurrent, playing a colleague of Johan's who isn't used to being polite or tactful but she's endeared by the same dysfunctions in him that Marianne loves and has had to learn to love. There are more, but one should discover them on one's own. Because no matter how wrenching it gets, we are always returned at the end of each episode to obligatory, reassuring images of Faro Island's natural Nordic beauty.