Back from the Crusades (where he no doubt carried out some unspeakable acts in the name of God) Antonius Block (Max von Sydow), discovers his homeland ravaged by the plague as he struggles with a crisis of faith. As if that wasn't bad enough, he also runs into Death on the beach, and challenges the reaper to a game of chess to buy himself a little time as he wrestles with metaphysical conundrums. The duel, played on a beach beneath lowering skies, provides us with one of cinema's enduring images and, perhaps, misleads us about the true nature of Bergman's film. I'd always assumed it to be a grim, dour affair with dull, lengthy periods of intellectualising. Well, the film is certainly bleak, but it's also completely absorbing and rewarding.
Block travels the countryside with his squire (Gunnar Bjornstrand), and finds on his journey a country in the grip of a religious fervour that promises nothing but damnation and offers precious little in the way of comfort. Burnings and ritualistic acts of flagellation are carried out in the name of a God who is conspicuously absent, which does nothing to help Block resolve his inner torment. They meet up with a number of characters: Jof (Nils Poppe), a juggler, his pretty wife Mia (Bibi Andersson) and their small son Mikael; Plog (Ake Fridell), a blacksmith whose wife has absconded with the leader of the tiny travelling theatre of which Jof and Mia make up two-thirds; a girl saved by Block's squire from Raval, an evil former monk who, ten years before, duplicitously persuaded the squire to join the Crusades and who ultimately comes to a distasteful end. Each gives Death an opportunity to add them to his list as they encounter one another on various routes that ultimately lead to the estate of Block and the wife he hasn't seen in ten years.
The bleakness of the film is offset by the endlessly fascinating scenarios created by Bergman – many of the incidents are inspired by a mural the director would study as a child while attending his preacher father's lengthy sermons – and a flavourful taste of the dark ages. Block's crisis is always the motivating force behind the story and the incidents that take place within it, but is never allowed to dominate or control. As Block searches for some sign of God all he witnesses is the devil's work. He questions a young girl sentenced to burn for sleeping with the devil and bringing the plague down upon the countryside. He asks her if the devil exists, for he must surely know God. 'Look into my eyes,' the girl replies, 'The priest and the soldiers could see him there. They wouldn't touch me.' 'I see nothing but terror.' Block remarks, and you can feel his desolation.
The subject of God, his existence, and the ways in which his presence is made known to us, were an abiding obsession with Bergman, and formed the core of many of his films (comedies aside). This, one of his earliest films, is by far the most direct in its probing, as is probably befitting of a young director at the beginning of his career. For this same reason it is probably also one of his most accessible films. Even those untroubled by the questions that obsessed Bergman so completely, should find enough going on to take something away from the film.
As The Seventh Seal begins with an iconic image, it also ends with another: Death, carrying his scythe and leading his party of seven on a macabre dance against a brooding sky. It was a spur of the moment decision to film it, and exists only because Bergman and his cameraman were taken by a dramatic cloud formation in the distance. In fact the decision was so impulsive that the figures aren't the actors at all, but members of the crew and a couple of curious tourists.
Block travels the countryside with his squire (Gunnar Bjornstrand), and finds on his journey a country in the grip of a religious fervour that promises nothing but damnation and offers precious little in the way of comfort. Burnings and ritualistic acts of flagellation are carried out in the name of a God who is conspicuously absent, which does nothing to help Block resolve his inner torment. They meet up with a number of characters: Jof (Nils Poppe), a juggler, his pretty wife Mia (Bibi Andersson) and their small son Mikael; Plog (Ake Fridell), a blacksmith whose wife has absconded with the leader of the tiny travelling theatre of which Jof and Mia make up two-thirds; a girl saved by Block's squire from Raval, an evil former monk who, ten years before, duplicitously persuaded the squire to join the Crusades and who ultimately comes to a distasteful end. Each gives Death an opportunity to add them to his list as they encounter one another on various routes that ultimately lead to the estate of Block and the wife he hasn't seen in ten years.
The bleakness of the film is offset by the endlessly fascinating scenarios created by Bergman – many of the incidents are inspired by a mural the director would study as a child while attending his preacher father's lengthy sermons – and a flavourful taste of the dark ages. Block's crisis is always the motivating force behind the story and the incidents that take place within it, but is never allowed to dominate or control. As Block searches for some sign of God all he witnesses is the devil's work. He questions a young girl sentenced to burn for sleeping with the devil and bringing the plague down upon the countryside. He asks her if the devil exists, for he must surely know God. 'Look into my eyes,' the girl replies, 'The priest and the soldiers could see him there. They wouldn't touch me.' 'I see nothing but terror.' Block remarks, and you can feel his desolation.
The subject of God, his existence, and the ways in which his presence is made known to us, were an abiding obsession with Bergman, and formed the core of many of his films (comedies aside). This, one of his earliest films, is by far the most direct in its probing, as is probably befitting of a young director at the beginning of his career. For this same reason it is probably also one of his most accessible films. Even those untroubled by the questions that obsessed Bergman so completely, should find enough going on to take something away from the film.
As The Seventh Seal begins with an iconic image, it also ends with another: Death, carrying his scythe and leading his party of seven on a macabre dance against a brooding sky. It was a spur of the moment decision to film it, and exists only because Bergman and his cameraman were taken by a dramatic cloud formation in the distance. In fact the decision was so impulsive that the figures aren't the actors at all, but members of the crew and a couple of curious tourists.