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Cover credit: I’d say I didn’t design that cover except I’d be lying.

The Influence of

By Sarahfina Rose

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The Influence of Ingmar Bergman

‘’If you were alive in the ’50s and the ’60s and of a certain age, a teenager on your way to becoming an adult, and you wanted to make movies, I don’t see how you couldn’t be influenced by Bergman’’—Martin Scorsese (Mercury).

Ingmar Bergman and the shark from JAWS, Hollywood 1975.

The list of filmmakers inspired by Swedish director Ingmar Bergman is seemingly endless. His fanclub includes, but is not limited to, influential contemporary artists such as Tomas Alfredson, Woody Allen, Lukas Moodyson, Milos Forman, Stanley Kubrick, Michael Winterbottom, Mike Hodges, Thomas Vinterberg, Alexander Payne, Terence Davies, Sally Potter, Olivier Assayas, David Lynch, Wes Craven, and many others. That’s just the short list. Bergman, in turn, has drawn inspiration from filmmakers he’s admired, such as Akira Kurosawa, Andrei Tarkovsky, and the filmmakers of silent cinema, just to name a few. Let us examine some films by directors who have been influenced by Bergman time and again.

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Bergman and Spain:

Amantes (English: Lovers: A True Story; 1991) has been compared to Bergman’s take on sexuality and religion, and director Vicente Aranda has been influenced by him (‘’Names of the Spanish culture reminiscent of Swedish filmmaker Ingmar Bergman’’). I’ve seen ongoing discussions about it and even thought whilst watching the film, ‘’This feels kinda Bergman- esque,’’ particularly Persona (1966) and The Silence (1963), both of which caused controversy in Sweden and were heavily censored as a result. Also, icy blonde Bergman women for the win.

Maribel Verdú and Jorge Sanz in AMANTES (1991).

I discovered awhile back that Bergman and Spanish filmmaker, Luis Buñuel, have actually been influenced by each other (well, more so the latter), which explains a lot. So I’m not crazy seeing the similarities between Viridiana (1961) and The Virgin Spring (1960), both films released a year apart (see Reactions to THE VIRGIN SPRING discussion on Piazza). The Silence has been classified, too, in the same ranks of Buñuel’s Belle de Jour (1967) (Michaels 21-67).

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The famous openning montage of Persona (some frames intentionally repeat in the middle of the film) is very reminiscent of an early Buñuel experimental film, particularly Un Chien Andalou’s (1929) shocking surrealism:

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Sally Potter’s 2012 film GINGER & ROSA harbours obvious parallels to PERSONA (1966) (Thorsteinsson).

It would be the time, I believe, when Bergman’s films were released internationally and Buñuels films, too, were having more exposure outside Mexico, Spain and France. Bergman, anyway, has been cited to have said of Buñuel’s work in particular, ‘’Buñuel nearly always made Buñuel films,’’ (Wilson), rehashing what another critic said about his own work: ‘’Bergman does Bergman,’’ or something along those lines (Marshall). At the same time, he says he doesn’t necessarily appreciate Buñuel, but he respects him. He also observes that Buñuel moved ‘’in the same field as Tarkovsky’’ (Bailey) which I think is a good thing since he regarded Tarkovsky very highly. Bergman had always interested himself in other directors’ works (even though he’s been unfairly harsh towards the greatest ones like Michelangelo Antonioni—one of my personal faves—, like, ‘’God Bergman, you’re great, but get your head out of your ass’’). Bergman only regarded La Notte (1961) and Blow-Up (1966) (which, in turn, inspired Francis Ford Coppola’s The Conversation; 1974 —both films went on to inspire the less than impressive Brian De Palma film Blow Out; 1981) as Antonioni’s masterpieces. He says of Antonioni that ‘’he never learned the trade’’ and that he ‘’never understood him’’. It wasn’t until Bergman met Antonioni face-to- face that he began to admire him ‘’because I have suddenly understood what he is doing,’’ he says (Wilson). Regardless of Bergman lashing out at some of his fellow artists (what I don’t understand is that despite how much he adored the work of Kurosawa, he flat-out denounced him as an auteur: ‘’Yet Kurosawa,’’ he is quoted, ‘’has never made a Kurosawa film’’), he seemed to Gulino-Waller 6 interest himself in other filmmakers such as Spielberg in Jaws-era, Kurosawa during Virgin Spring, and even Coppola post-Godfather. In his own words:

Among today’s directors I’m of course impressed by Steven Spielberg and Scorsese [Martin Scorsese], and Coppola [Francis Ford Coppola], even if he seems to have ceased making films, and Steven Soderbergh—they all have something to say, they’re passionate, they have an idealistic attitude to the filmmaking process (Wilson).

Gene Hackman in THE CONVERSATION (1974).

Coppola and Kubrick:

Ironically, both Coppola and Kubrick, who wrote a letter to Bergman in 1960 (Marshall), are (were) both majorly influenced by Antonioni whom Bergman felt ‘’expired’’ on his way to greatness, ‘’suffocated by his own tediousness’’ (Wilson). Hm. Whatever, Bergman. I don’t know how thrilled Coppola was to hear that from his idol, as Bergman is Coppola’s ‘’all-time favourite because he embodies passion, emotion and has warmth’’. Like most of us, Coppola became enraptured with Bergman after viewing the iconic The Seventh Seal (1957) (‘’Top 10 Things You Didn’t Know About Francis Ford Coppola’’). I kind of do see the influence of Bergman on his films, more so the later ones, but even in the late ’60s-early’70s decade, I’d throw The Rain People (1969) on the table and The Conversation—mainly the atmospheric, seasonal climate shots, crumbling relationships between people, and isolation. I gather if Alfred Gulino-Waller 7

Hitchcock and Bergman somehow collaborated on a film, it would look something like The Conversation. Also mirrors. Yes, in Conversation, there are literal mirrors, labelled for all to see:

Since mirrors are a huge part of Bergman’s oeuvre.

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Now, The Rain People proceeded Scenes from a Marriage (1973) but the similarities are uncanny:

And mirrors:

Shirley Knight and James Caan in THE RAIN PEOPLE (1969).

Not to mention the intentional out-of-focus technique exploited by Bergman’s style of student filmmaking.

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PERSONA vs. THE CONVERSATION:

[Top]: Liv Ullmann; [Bottom]: Cindy Williams.

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Now, doesn’t this look like a shot from a Bergman film?

Shirley Knight and Robert Duvall in THE RAIN PEOPLE (1969).

Also, performance and memory of the conflicted characters in these two films, running themes for Bergman. Which brings me to my next topic:

Mirrors, Facades and Duality:

“When I look in the mirror in the morning there is no one there.” -Richard Nixon

“Man must break the charm of his reflected image by accepting the reality of its unreality. If he is to make progress toward truth, he must pass beyond the ‘mirror without radiance which offers him a surface where nothing is reflected.’ “(Lacan Sincerity and Authenticity 1972)

-Malcolm Bowie “Lacan” Fontana Press 1991

Bergman was no stranger to literal mirror shots as well as parallel storylines within his work. Coppola seems to have taken a few cues from the Master of Mirrors. Take The Gulino-Waller 11

Conversation, for instance. There are not only literal mirrors and shots of isolated apartments to reflect Harry Caul’s (Gene Hackman) emotional state, but there are also several characters who mirror one another: Harry’s girlfriend, Amy (a Coppola favourite, Teri Garr from Close Encounters of the Third Kind; 1977), reflects Harry’s assistant, Stanley (John Cazale), and Harry’s east coast rival, Bernie Moran (Allen Garfield) reflects Harry himself. Such as Frost the Clown (Anders Ek) and his wife, Alma (Gudrun Brost) predict the future of Anne (Harriet Andersson) and Albert (Åke Grönberg) of Sawdust and Tinsel (1953), or even how the couples of Sawdust reflect the relationship of Jof (Nils Poppe) and Mia (Bibi Andersson) of Seventh Seal. Alternatively, even the two couples of Scenes from a Marriage reflect one another.

Let’s examine the relationship between Harry and Stanley, as it is one of the key moments of Conversation, and Harry’s most important relationship in the film. I was glad to know Coppola shared my vision—I arrived at the theory of the parallels between Stan and Amy—way before I listened to the DVD commentary. Once I listened to it, I was relieved to know my theories were not complete bullshit. There is, indeed, a purpose for Stan’s existence and a direct line to him and Amy. In the first scene where Harry is analysing the audio track with Stan, we randomly intercut with a flashback of Harry’s slice of life. It’s an odd placement—first time watching the film, I assumed this flashback scene to be happening in the present, something that Harry does immediately after work every day. Much like Cría Cuervos (1976), there is no obvious indication that it is a flashback, and one might assume it’s happening in the same time frame. It’s not. The film’s ‘’dietetic structure is very different from classic narrative cinema,’’ in that ‘’the sequences sent in the ‘present tense’ are apparently presented chronologically...These events are Gulino-Waller 12 episodic,’’ as the film also flashes back and forward constantly, reflecting ‘’discrete episodes’’ in paranoid Harry’s world. In this way, there is an intentional abnormality in the continuity editing, with no clear linear time or closure at the end of the film. ‘’Closer examination reveals how’’ Coppola and supervising editor Walter Murch ‘’actively worked against transparency’’ (something that becomes a part of Harry’s character), ‘’drawing attention to the complex narrative structure of the film’’ (Allinson and Jordan 61). Because the two events of the ‘’What a stupid conversation’’ scene and the ‘’I’m your secret’’ scene are depicted one after the other with no indication of any change in time frame, we assume them to be chronological. Only later (after the scene in Amy’s apartment we cut immediately back to the warehouse) do we learn that Amy’s and Harry’s breakup happened the night before that morning Harry and Stan went to work. Harry visits Amy the same night of the assignment presented in the famous openning scene. The time frame becomes more clear in the screenplay, as the Amy and Harry scene happens chronologically before the warehouse scene, whereas the film randomly intercuts between the two scenes. In the film, it might appear at a glance that Harry and Stan are analysing their data two days in a row, but notice they never move from their first starting points, and they practically wear the same clothes (even if this might be routine), but notice Murch’s technique for the ‘’flash-forwards’’, in that way, the flashbacks are not made obvious. There’s a later scene where Harry experiences a premonition dream of the (SPOILER ALERT) murder before it happens, and yet it’s not presented as a dream, instead intercutting with Harry’s more obvious foggy dream in a park, further confusing the chronology (more in the Dreams section). This ‘’radical’’ editing choice in ‘’its rejection of cinematic convention...defies continuity editing and spatial/temporal logic’’ (characters die, and are brought back to life before we witness their actual deaths and characters in different time frames appear chronologically) (Allinson and Jordan 62). Murch intentionally tried to trick you there, aha. We see Harry visit the apartment of his American Pie girlfriend and we find out he also owns her apartment and pretty much keeps her locked up like some Rapunzel (based on a reoccurring dream Coppola had as a boy). We witness Amy’s growing frustration in dating this man she knows nothing about. He won’t tell her where he works, what he does for a living, and so on. Amy proclaims she will leave Harry if this goes on any further. Basically, it’s a foreshadow of the next scene. After the flashback, we return to the present time frame, in the warehouse where Stan basically mimics Amy in asking Harry too many questions. Naturally, this pisses Harry off and he tells Stanley to mind his own business. Like Amy and Harry in the previous scene, they get into an argument, and Stan throws down his glasses and leaves (I interpret the act of Stanley leaving his glasses at his station as symbolising the end of their relationship, as we never see Stan wear the glasses again for the rest of the film). There’s a deleted scene between this where Harry returns to Amy’s apartment to find her gone (Krug). Both Amy and Stan have left Harry in just 24 hours. In the following scene after this, at the surveillance convention, Harry discovers that Stanley has all but left him to work for his arch enemy, William P. ‘’Bernie’’ Moran. Same

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[Top]: Robert Duvall and Cindy Williams; [Bottom]: Bibi Andersson.

Gulino-Waller 14 parallel storylines here. Stanley, unlike Amy, almost crawls back to Harry after they kiss and make up, and at the party, Harry asks Moran’s model, Meredith (Elizabeth MacRae) if she would leave a man if he told her nothing. Meredith, of course, says yes because ‘’How would I know if he loved me?’’ With the deleted scene of Amy leaving Harry, this scene makes more sense. Without it, it feels a bit random. After all, in the final cut, Amy only threatens to leave Harry, but we don’t see her physically carrying out the threat. There’s only an implication that she may or may not leave Harry. No, she doesn’t return in the film, but it’s still open to interpretation. Rather, Harry’s question to Meredith seems more directed at Stanley with the missing Amy scene, even though Harry phrases it to mean a lady friend. Still, Stanley is the closest thing Harry has to a real friend, and what did he do? He left Harry for the same reasons as Amy. There’s also possible homoerotic overtones to their relationship, that will be explored in the Homoerotic section. As for the theme of performance and memory, Harry constantly tries, to little avail, to bury his past, but in the end, his memory returns to haunt him and repeat itself. Harry also tries to keep up a performance of professionalism, hence his penchant for raincoats, as if to protect himself from the outside world. In the end, the facade crumbles as Harry mentally destroys himself. Harry isn’t the only one performing a role. There’s the couple he’s hired to bug, Ann (Cindy Williams) and Mark (Frederic Forrest), both of who work at the company of Ann’s

Gene Hackman in THE CONVERSATION (1974). husband, The Director (Robert Duvall), or at least we assume he’s her husband. Either way, there’s a suspected murder pot, also involving The Director’s right-hand man, Martin (pre-Star Wars Harrison Ford), and each player in the scheme takes on a persona, for appearances sake. Gulino-Waller 15

No one is who they seem to be, no one can be trusted and tables are turned. Though the film leaves us with open-ended ambiguous questions that never get answered, ultimately it’s sheer exhibitionism that keeps the truth from bubbling to the surface. That’s a very Dr. Isak Borg (Victor Sjöström) from Wild Strawberries (1957)-like treatment, is it not? Borg has performed the role of a physician, ‘’happily’’ married with a son (Gunnar Björnstrand), but is he really? His daughter-in-law, Marianne (Ingrid Thulin) reveals to him that his son actually despises him, just as Marianne and Evald pretend to be happily married and even stage a break-up, as if that is to be expected of them. All for the sake of facades, no?

[Top]: Bibi Andersson and Victor Sjöström in WILD STRAWBERRIES (1957); [Bottom]: Elizabeth MacRae and Gene Hackman in THE CONVERSATION (1974).

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Breaking the Fourth Wall with PERSONA vs. BLOW-UP:

[Top]: Liv Ullmann; [Bottom]: David Hemmings. Gulino-Waller 17

Vs. THE CONVERSATION vs. THE GODFATHER: PART III:

[Top]: John Cazale; [Bottom]: Sofia Coppola.

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Coppola’s never stated Bergman as an influence directly, but he has said in the DVD Commentary to The Conversation that he’s drawn direct inspiration from Tennessee Williams’ plays such as A Streetcar Named Desire and other literature like the 1927 German-Swiss novel Steppenwolf by Hermann Hesse, as well as various filmmakers (he didn’t list all of them, mostly just Antonioni, maybe Kurosawa, he cites Kurosawa a lot). But I see Bergman wiggled his way in there. Not so much The Godfather (1972) (I’m looking for it?). Unless you count the way Coppola uses the camera, as well as the theme of Performance with facades, but that’s about it. A really neat article outlines the theme of Performance and Family in The Godfather which makes me think of Bergman:

If there is a relationship, then it forms an unusual, unspoken dynamic. It creates a scene in which what is being said is less than what is actually going on. Michael may well know about his brother’s orientation, or at least suspect, but he cannot say it. Fredo must suspect that Michael knows, but he must put on a show, just in case. And Michael may well understand that the his brother is putting on a show. Everyone plays along, because putting on a show and playing along is a universal practice in The Godfather. It may be the point of The Godfather. …Fredo is leading a double-life. But he isn’t the only one leading a double life. Almost every Godfather character leads one life internally and one life for public and family consumption. …The Godfather is really the story of a marriage. It begins with the wedding of Carlo and Connie. It ends with Michael ordering Carlo’s death, Connie storming into Michael’s office to scream about killing her lowlife husband, and Michael falsely denying responsibility to his wife Kay (Diane Keaton). Ultimately, this is the double life of the story itself. The wedding introduces the Corleones as a family based on love and loyalty. Over three hours, The Godfather erodes this facade and exposes the Corleone family as a fraud. Family members play their roles and pretend not to notice the big picture. The family is not held together by love and loyalty. It is held together by power and deception (Bowen).

Honestly, I couldn’t have said it better myself. Jonjo Powers adds to that from his new book, A Small Perfection: John Cazale and the Art of Acting:

What is interesting is that Fredo doesn’t ‘’get’’ Michael, or anyone else for that matter. An introvert, he is always looking inward. He is always guarding his self- image against perceived assault from others. …He is playing a role for an audience that is required to applaud. But, just as he misjudged Paulie, he misjudges everyone else. He doesn’t really know Michael; he’s too focused on trying to win his brother’s approval (50). Gulino-Waller 19

The Las Vegas Scene between Moe (R.I.P. Alex Rocco ) and Freddie (John Cazale)—(more on this in the Homoeroticism section)—slowly exposes the performance Freddie puts on a day- to-day basis. But hey, it’s Vegas, the place where people come to be somebody else, right? Due to the very possibly homoerotic overtones to the scene, ‘’he [Michael] sees beyond any façade Fredo has created. He knows his older brother for who he really is’’ (Powers 53). Not to mention the parallel storylines between Connie (Talia Shire) and Fredo that Bowen points out. The Godfather is very gendered, is it not? It’s a man’s man’s world. But. Puzo focuses a lot of the ‘’woman issues’’ through Fredo, such as domestic violence, sexual frustration and hysteria, you know, these were labelled as solely ‘’woman problems’’ but you cannot simply pin it on that. Fredo may be the weakest male character, and even weaker than the female characters, but in a way it’s forcing us to look at stigma. Fredo could have been a woman and his plot would have the same effect. But you have Connie for that. Okay, so we have his little sister Connie. Connie and Fredo are like, almost the same person. They’re the babies of the family, they’re spoiled rotten, they’re the ugly ducklings—Sonny (James Caan) and Michael (Al Pacino) are described as movie star good looking, whereas Fredo and Connie are described as ‘’not handsome’’ and ‘’not quite pretty’’ (Puzo16-9)—and oddly enough their stories parallel one another. I fail to understand why Puzo didn’t just combine their characters. Connie is abused by her husband Carlo (Gianni Russo), Fredo is abused by his lover I mean supposed-to-be babysitter Moe Greene. Each of them have puppy dog crushes on their...hubbies. To them, Carlo and Moe (rhyming names too) are the greatest thing since peanut butter, and super hot like Greek Gods (at least in the book). But they’re dicks with a capital D. Hey, they could be twins, too. Sonny and Connie are *like this*, close as peas in a pod, so of course when Sonny learns Carlo is beating the shit out of his baby sister, he wants to rip the guy’s balls off and stuff them down his throat. Sonny is not my favourite character but fuckyeahasskicking. But Connie be like ‘’Oh Carlo’s not hurting me, Sonny, he’s the most wonderful person in the world!’’ and Sonny’s answer? ‘’Like Hell he is. He’s got a nose like a penis!’’ But you cannot convince Connie otherwise. She justifies Carlo’s violence to Sonny in the same way Fredo justifies Moe’s violence to Michael. ‘’Oh, Mike, get your eyes checked, me and him are best buddies!’’ And Michael’s answer? ‘’Oh, so I’m sure that’s just new eye shadow, huh?’’ Michael kills Carlo and frees Connie; Michael also kills Moe and frees Fredo. Fredo gets over it, Connie does not. She hates her brother, spits on his fresh dug grave, never talks to him until 1958. Rewind. Godfather: Part II (1974). Connie and Fredo’s stories also parallel one another here, but whereas the focus was pushed on Connie in the first film, the spotlight now shifts to Fredo in Part II. Both Connie and Fredo come back completely transformed. First, they were ugly ducklings, now they become swans. Fredo’s got a nice dark Cuban tan and a Clark Gable moustache. Connie is A++ Brunette Bombshell movie star glamour like this side of Natalie Wood meets Priscilla Presley. Major boners! They’re both living the glitz n’ glamour of Hollywood life, marry/are engaged to two blonde Americans they don’t love (Mama Corleone (Morgana King) remarks sarcastically, in Sicilian, mind, that their spouses deserve each other) and parade themselves around like little hoes. They both disrupt Gulino-Waller 20

Anthony’s communion party at the Tahoe estate, seeking out Michael’s help for their obvious depression. Michael doesn’t trust Connie’s fiancé, and he looks down on Fredo’s junkie wife, Deanna Dunn (Marianna Hill). Michael, though, disowns Connie for her irresponsibility, even though she has hurt herself on purpose since Carlo’s death to gain Michael’s attention. Michael doesn’t so easily dismiss Fredo. He doesn’t trust him, believing him to be ‘’weak and stupid’’, but wants to ‘’bring him home’’. So basically, Michael loves his brothers more, a love only shared between men, whereas he shuts out the women in his life. Misogynistic prick. Later, he kills Fredo and makes Connie his consigliere in Part III (1990), so there’s some odd opposite outcomes here. We expect Fredo to get the bigger piece of the pie as a man by default. But no, in the end, it’s Connie who sits on Lady Macbeth’s throne. So again, why did Puzo not just make Fredo a woman? Well, because these issues inserted on males is not very socially acceptable as it is, hence stigma. At least he had one male character to show how fucked up society is. Maybe Fredo’s not the favourable character but he’s a helluva good one.

Talia Shire as Constanzia ‘’Connie’’ Corleone in THE GODFATHER: PART II (1974). Gulino-Waller 21

Marianna Hill and John Cazale in THE GODFATHER: PART II (1974). Photo by Steve Schapiro © 1974 Paramount Pictures Corp.

Some might even argue Fredo’s marriage to Deanna is purely a lavender marriage, otherwise known as a sham marriage, which was not uncommon in Hollywood at the time (Fowler), or at least Deanna’s a ‘’beard’’ to conceal Fredo’s sexual orientation (gdelgiproducer). If there was a Doom Book open right now, Fredo’s name (alongside Dee Dee’s) would no doubt be in it, along with all his other underground lifestyle identities. They’re completely dysfunctional and sadly, a perfect pair. Fredo may be the more quirky and eccentric of the two, but Deanna as well, does not seem to have all her screws in place. What’s most alluring about Gulino-Waller 22 their rocky marriage, however, is how much like Harpo and Sofia of Alice Walker’s The Color Purple, they defy their stereotypical gender behaviour. On the surface, it appears Fredo is text- book masculine, in that he chases women the way lions chase zebras. ‘’The recurrence of this behavior…and the unbothered reactions of those who witness [Fredo’s] behavior lead to the understanding that [his] behavior is the norm—male-initiated heterosexual conduct’’ (Lapite). Deanna, too, is a typical Hollywood movie star, who’s all sex appeal and no substance. She’s feminine in every way: she takes great pride and care in her appearance and she’s a social butterfly, catching every opportunity to sleep around and flirt with every man who’s not her husband. In that way, ‘’the sexual hierarchy is rooted in conventional understandings of gender roles’’ (Lapite). Underneath their public image, though, Fredo and Deanna Corleone overturn expected gender roles of the 1950s. Deanna assumes the masculine role in the relationship, whereas Fredo is, according to the book, a finocchio, otherwise known as a Mama’s Boy. The fraud of their marriage is soon exposed in the Lake Tahoe scene (sorry, it’s the Italian dub) where Deanna publically humiliates Fredo for not being ‘’a real man’’. That’s Deanna’s own way of hinting that her husband lacks balls, and probably in more ways than one. Why they don’t divorce each other and get it over with is beyond me, but instead, they choose to keep up the performance to save themselves from public scandal (although it’s not helping much, their marriage instead results as a source of shame). By the time Deanna marries Fredo, she’s put out to pasture by Woltz’s studio, so she needs Fredo for his power, position and his money to keep living the high society life she so desperately craves. Fredo, no doubt, needs a trophy wife to cease the rumours of his apparent closeted homosexuality. ‘’The theme of this event seems to be insinuating that, though heterosexual love and marriage was ‘outwardly’ normal and ‘pure’, beneath the surface was a false love forged by pressure, limited self-expression, and the biased opinions of a strict and confining society’’ (Podonsky). Meaning, strict heterosexual standards is the norm, therefore, many people living in the glass closet during this time—especially in Hollywood—were forced to suppress their true feelings and marry into a false expectation. Connie, on the other hand, writes Gene D. Phillips, reporting what Coppola says on his DVD commentary, ‘’ ‘has these fancy boyfriends. That’s the only way she can rebel against her all-powerful brother, who killed her first husband.’ ’’ Continues Phillips, ‘’The wretched marriages of Fredo and of Connie reflect how ‘the family unity is really starting to break down in this period’…referring to [Coppola’s] pervasive theme about the role of family in modern society’’ (123). It also brings to mind Bergman’s criticism on institutions such as family and marriage. In fact, Fredo and Deanna remind me very much of Frost and Alma. Both Deanna and Alma bring shame to their husbands, Frost and Fredo, with their promiscuous scandals. The Tahoe Party scene almost mirrors Frost the Clown’s story at the beginning of Sawdust and Tinsel. Frost and Fredo are forced to perform the act of controlling their wives in front of their family members, and instead of renouncing them, their family hangs in the background, either silently disproving, wishing encouragement, or feeling embarrassed for them. Yet, neither of the family members interfere directly. The Godfather is the story of a mob family, whereas Sawdust and Tinsel is the Gulino-Waller 23 story of a circus, and yet the family institutions are the same. The family plays a central role in most Bergman films, just as the theme of family is reoccurring in any Coppola film (even Spielberg). However, in a Bergman film, happy families are rare. Even Sawdust and Tinsel has an unhappy family unit, despite that circuses stick together through its worst times. Anne and Albert want to leave the circus but can’t even if they can physically, but psychological entrapment keeps them there, because the circus is the only home they’ve ever known, it’s basically their life. The world outside the circus is scary and challenging. The circus is their family, and they know they have someone to fall back on. Frost the Clown for instance. They could’ve disowned him. But they didn’t. The circus is a unit, a team. They keep him around despite the shame. Outside the circus, Frost would have been rejected. The two couples in the story—Albert and Anne, and Frost and Alma go on playing mistress and man, man and wife, even though in the end it’s nothing more than a façade.

Anders Ek and Gudrun Brost in SAWDUST AND TINSEL (1953).

The source of Marianne and Evald’s unhappiness in Wild Strawberries stems from the prospect of having children. Evald doesn’t want her to have the baby, and she does, but begins to change her mind after meeting Dr. Isak Borg’s mother, who is a sour, bitter woman in her old age, and who can blame her? None of her children or grandchildren bother to visit her despite her gifts and kind reminders. Marianne is deathly afraid that this will be her eventual future. Gulino-Waller 24

Bergman criticises family institutions and if his families are ever happy, it’s usually a young couple in love before they can be burdened by marriage and children (e.g. Marie (Maj- Britt Nilsson) and Henrik (Birger Malmsten) in Summer Interlude (1951), but even they become unhappy due to the fact that Marie is a work-alcoholic, and later, she is struck down with the black dog of depression after Henrik’s sudden death). Next, consider Sawdust and Tinsel. Even Anne and Albert contradict this rule. Did Albert leave his family because he couldn’t stand being institutionalised? His wife, anyway, leaves him because she couldn’t stand the circus, which is anything but conformity and institution, it’s completely apart of ‘’normal’’ society. Anne and Albert, though not legally married or tied down by raising kids, aren’t happy nonetheless. They express desire to be institutionalised. Anne wants a man to marry and take care of her. Albert longs for a ‘’normal’’ family unit again, that isn’t the circus. Also consider Anne and Albert’s desire to be converted to a traditional family in the same way Michael in The Godfather wishes to become a legitimate businessman. However, in order to do that, Anne and Albert must remain in the circus, just as Michael must continue the murdering family business he so desperately wishes to break away form, not only for himself, but as a promise he makes to his wife, Kay. The goals to escape from the current trade, once and for all, are never settled. Like any Bergman film, in Coppola films, the characters never get what they want. Jof and Mia of Seventh Seal are perhaps the only truly happily married couple of Bergman’s films I can recall (surprisingly happy in spite of the circumstances—a kind of Joseph, Mary and Jesus—who represent a virtuous simplicity that overpowers evil). Despite the death that surrounds them, they attempt to raise their son in the best and happiest conditions as possible (they rarely fight, unless it’s over Jof’s visions, and even then, they peacefully reconcile). Bergman completely challenges family values, where the vulnerability of having children is a death sentence rather than a bundle of joy: the possibility that they can grow up and rebel against you, despise you, abandon you. Where marriage is a prison. Where a young couple in love, though happy for awhile, don’t have the chance of a bright future together. Maybe it’s because Bergman came from an unhappy family: his strict overbearing father, with physical and psychological forms of punishment that not even his beloved mother could erase. Even his own doomed young romance. Therefore, that explains a lot. If he’s not happy, then no one in his films can be happy. Apparently. Nevertheless, just because Coppola’s films have themes of window dressing, doesn’t mean it’s necessarily Bergman influenced, but since he’s no doubt constantly exposed himself to Bergman, it can’t be a coincidence. I want to say Coppola applies a very Bergman approach to his films, and yet the problem with Coppola is that I don’t really see him as an auteur. He tends to administer other director’s styles—Hitchcock, Bergman, Antonioni, etc., but where’s Coppola in all this? His early experimental, Indi art-house films feel the most Coppola, particularly The Conversation and Rain People, as these were films he wanted to make, and not had to make to get out of financial debt. Yet, when I watch a Coppola film, it never fully feels like a Coppola film in the same way when I watch a Bergman film, it’s obviously a Bergman film and can belong to no one else. For Gulino-Waller 25 example, if I were to cover up Coppola’s name on Finian’s Rainbow (1968) or The Outsiders (1983) I would never know it was the same man who directed The Godfather and Apocalypse Now (1979). I feel the opposite where it concerns his daughter, Sofia—her films are truly one of a kind, and when I watch a Sofia Coppola film it always feels like a Sofia Coppola film—but when I watch one of her father’s films, it feels more like Coppola trying to imitate Hitchcock or Kurosawa, or what have you, and I fail to peel back the layers to find the real Coppola’s style. Therefore, he’s more on the Far Side of Paradise for me, whereas Bergman remains unquestionably Pantheon. Had Bergman been alive today, would he make no mistake in saying that ‘’Coppola never made a Coppola film’’ or would he go on to applaud Coppola as ‘’nearly always making a Coppola film’’? I guess the world will never know.

Coppola and Kubrick CONT’D (with a little bit of Lynch):

I definitely see Bergman parallels in The Godfather: Part II. It’s literally What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? (1962) meets The Silence: the emotional disconnect with the younger attractive sister, Anna (Gunnel Lindblom) and the older ill sister, Ester (Ingrid Thulin) even though their personalities are a bit reversed from Michael and Fredo. Anna is more sensuous and sexually adventurous whereas Ester is more intelligent (but there’s a point in the film where she’s smoking like a chimney which parallels Fredo to a ‘T’). The scenes of the little boy, Johan (Jörgen Lindström), who wanders into the hotel reminds me of Michael’s isolated hotel room in Cuba, not to mention Silence takes place on the verge of a war, and Cuba’s on the tip of the iceberg concerning the revolution. Also the obvious language barriers, vaguely reminds me of the narrative inside the Frame Narrative of Vito’s story (just watch it without subtitles, you get Silence vibes). In fact, Johan reminds me of a rehash of Anthony/Vito, since Anthony doesn’t technically exist in the original Puzo novel and Young!Vito is only mentioned. I bet 5 bucks Coppola based both characters on Johan. I have yet to see people compare these two films, but the shots if not the exact storyline are just so...similar in ways. I know it influenced The Shining (1980) but I would go out on a limb to say it influenced Coppola on the second Godfather. Godfather two also reminds me of Hour of the Wolf (1968) and Cries and Whispers (1972) with the repressed desires theme, which goes back to Amantes, blim blam. I’m telling you man, you think I’m making this shit up. Or maybe I’m just watching waaaay too much Bergman, therefore, I’m picking up on it everywhere. Just ‘cause I see it doesn’t mean it’s there or intentional, but to me, this is uncanny. Especially because Coppola has flat-out admitted Bergman as his favourite director, so of course I’m gonna go try find Bergman in his work. Naturally, Coppola, or anyone who’s been influenced by Bergman, hasn’t copied his style, Bergman’s somewhat untouchable, but many filmmakers have alluded to him, Kubrick very subtly so. Plus, Coppola loves these early ’60s flicks, and has remixed them and become inspired by them on more than one occasion. Psycho (1960) for Dementia 13 (1963), Blow-Up for The Conversation, and hell, the famous violent end scene of Bonnie and Clyde (1967) for The Godfather. Sonny’s death is almost twin shots, same exact technology that they used for Warren Beatty’s death, minus the pears. Anyway, I just wouldn’t be surprised if Bergman was in there Gulino-Waller 26 somewhere, indirectly or not (as illustrated by Marty Scorsese’s quote, any aspiring filmmaker growing up in the ’50s and ’60s couldn’t not be inspired by Bergman). I think Coppola is unconsciously inspired by him. I won’t talk too much about The Silence’s influence on The Shining, since the similarities are a little too obvious, but I do want to examine it briefly in its relation to Silence vs. Godfather: Part II.

Facial Eclipse:

Ingrid Thulin and Gunnel Lindblom in THE SILENCE (1963).

This shot in particular of juxtaposed faces is VERY famous from The Silence (there’s quite a few of these in the film), and has been parodied, mimicked and copied by many other films afterwards. The Tim Rice-Elton John musical AIDA poster uses this image and probably many more.

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Here is a list of films that copied the shot (obviously except the films on there that are Bergman). Persona uses it, too.

PERSONA vs. THE GODFATHER: PART II:

[Top]: Liv Ullmann and Bibi Andersson; [Bottom]: Diane Keaton, Robert Duvall, Al Pacino, and John Cazale. Gulino-Waller 28

Many similar shots in Persona have notably influenced the David Lynch film Mulholland Drive (2001):

Bergman also uses a similar shot from Persona and Silence in Shame (1968):

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Not to mention Lynch’s use of mirrors:

SUMMER INTERLUDE (1951). Gulino-Waller 30

Aaand...whatever the hell this is:

[Top]: Bibi Andersson and Liv Ullmann; [Bottom]: Laura Harring and Namoi Watts.

Obviously, Bergman’s image is haunting whereas Lynch just seems pretentious.

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I fail to understand if Bergman was the first to come up with this visual, but it’s a damn good one and I wouldn’t be surprised if he was the genius who invented this shot. It’d still be genius even if he didn’t invent it. The first film where he used the shot is Thirst (1949):

Apparently, this was the first film to use this shot, which has also been used in the 1955 film, La Pointe Courte (Renaud). Whether Agnès Varda was aware of Bergman is not made certain.

Phillipe Noiret and Silvia Monfort in LA POINTE COURTE (1955).

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LA POINTE COURTE vs. PERSONA:

[Top]: Phillipe Noiret and Silvia Monfort; [Bottom]: Liv Ullmann and Bibi Andersson.

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Even still, a film which followed after La Pointe Courte but came before The Silence, titled Last Year at Marienbad (1961) uses the shot:

Delphine Seyrig and Giorgio Albertazzi.

Therefore, Bergman may very well be the inventor of this image. Woody Allen parodies the shot in his film Love and Death (1975):

Jessica Harper and Diane Keaton.

Love and Death is a not a serious work, but rather a long Woody Allen joke of Seventh Seal meets Persona meets The Silence meets...everything else Bergman. Gulino-Waller 34

THE SILENCE vs. THE GODFATHER:

[Top]: Ingrid Thulin and Gunnel Lindblom; [Bottom]: Gabriele Torrei and Al Pacino.

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The image below is actually just a production still and not an actual shot in the film, which I think they should have used but whatever. The shot is used as a metaphor of sorts for lack of communication, as well as loss of identity, which is why it’s so iconic and famous.

John Cazale and Al Pacino in THE GODFATHER: PART II (1974). Photo by Steve Schapiro © 1974 Paramount Pictures Corp.

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BRAM STOKER’S DRACULA (1992):

Gary Oldman and Winona Ryder.

Bergman uses the shot once more in AUTUM SONATA (1978):

Liv Ullmann and Ingrid Bergman.

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More Kubrick, Duality, The Silence vs. The Godfather: Part II, Other Stuff:

Ingrid Thulin in THE SILENCE (1963).

I dunno, just the atmosphere in both these images. There’s some in The Shining, too.

THE GODFATHER: PART II (1974)

Gulino-Waller 38

Jörgen Lindström

The kids in the windows, I mean, c’mon!

Oreste Baldini

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There’s a shot behind the kid, still looking out the window. In the above image, Johan is on a train but still.

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Very Shining-esque.

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Did someone say The Shining? Fuck yeah:

[Top]: Jörgen Lindström; [Bottom]: Lisa and Louise Burns.

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Is it just me or does this shot remind anyone of Wild Strawberries? I wouldn’t be surprised as

[Top]: Shelley Duvall, Danny Lloyd and Jack Nicholson; [Bottom]: Ingrid Thulin, Victor Sjöström, and Bibi Andersson. Gulino-Waller 43 it shows up on Kubrick’s favourite films list (Ally the Manic Listmaker). I don’t think a lot of people realise The Shining was inspired by The Silence, visual-wise, because there’s so many isolated hotel films. But it does directly stem from The Silence, Kubrick doesn’t even lie. There’s a shot from the openning montage of Persona which Kubrick stole I mean borrowed:

[Bottom]: Billie Gibson.

Kubrick also incorporates a ‘’mirror scene’’ in The Shining in order to explore the duality of Jack’s (Jack Nicholson) persona, which definitely goes back to the roots of Bergman:

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One such scene shows Wendy serving Jack his breakfast in bed. The scene begins as a mirror shot of Jack lying in bed eating his food. The reversed shot is maintained throughout much of the scene, formally hinting at the notion of duality throughout the framing. ...Halfway through their conversation, the scene shifts to a normal, nonmirror shot. Jack discusses his feelings of déjà vu and the sensation that he has been at the hotel before. ...Coupled with the use of the mirror and reverse framing, the scene takes on added complexity. ...The image includes the real character and his mirror image. This is another example of how the framing reveals the dual nature of Jack’s character. The framing of Jack and his mirror image indicates that perhaps that Jack’s two personas are merging. Jack and his alter ego, the public and the private, are becoming less distinguishable (Falsetto 162).

Bergman’s Persona much?

Jack Nicholson and Shelley Duvall in THE SHINING (1980). Gulino-Waller 45

Oh, and there’s plenty of hotel shots in The Godfather films, too:

This shot kinda reminds me of this shot from the first Godfather:

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... (just a little):

There’s a very interesting story behind this shot...I stumbled upon it whilst browsing a film editing article. Of course, the article mainly focused on Walter Murch, considered the Godfather of Editors among Editors (responsible for the beautiful work he did on The Conversation). Unfortunately, I lost the article along with Coppola’s interview. Pretty sure everyone knows the story, and although it’s been summarised and retold many times, I wanted the actual quote. In a nutshell, Coppola had a gun to his head with the Nazis at Paramount, and after they wrapped up shooting, he spent many zombie nights in the editing room, accompanied by his best friend from film school, George Lucas, trying to ready a final cut for its originally planned Christmas release (in the end, shooting wrapped up in early August 1971, and the finished film was finally released on March 14th, 1972, three months after the planned release date of Christmas Day 1971). Looking over the hospital scene, Lucas realised there were no empty shots of the hallways to build suspense. All the shots of the hospital that they had contained shots of actors entering and exiting the scene. Realising Lucas was right, Coppola had to make a fast decision. They didn’t have time for a reshoot...the film was already over budget and not on time, so what Coppola did was take snippets at the beginning and end of a film strip before Michael walks in and out of frame. He pasted it together (literally cut and pasted it, this was before they had computer editing), and in order to make it appear as one long static shot, all he had to do was extend the frame multiple times. And whoo-la, you got your empty creepy hallway that’s just asking for Jack Nicholson to jump out with an axe. But yeah, thank George Lucas for this shot. Gulino-Waller 47

Coppola’s use of interior shots (no pun intended) of highlighting furniture such as doors, chairs and windows is eerily reminiscent of Bergman’s style, although probably a coincidence (you’ll see what I mean by the pun on page 108).

[Top]: Al Pacino; [Bottom]: Gunnel Lindblom and Ingrid Thulin.

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Story-wise, there is a point in The Silence when Ester runs out of vodka and she asks the hotel butler ‘’Do you speak French? English? Dutch?’’ and the butler doesn’t understand a word she’s saying because it takes place in a fictional country with a fictional language. So, she has to ask him for more alcohol in sign language. It’s a slightly frustrating and comical moment, even for Bergman, which kinda brings to mind Babel (2006), as Silence is a Tower of Babel tale.

Gulino-Waller 50

It vaguely reminds me of the scene in Godfather: Part II in the Havana, Cuba cafe scene where Fredo asks the Cuban waiter, ‘’Por favor, how do you say Banana Daiquri?’’ It’s just those little moments a lot of people wouldn’t notice because it’s so subtle. Deadpan humour. Lee Marvin humour? Yup (Michale’s like, ‘’Sit your skinny mick-wop ass down and shut the fluff up.’’).

Someone appropriately describes Michael as ‘’a melting robot’’ which is why this scene is so damn funny.

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Both scenes represent a lack of communication both literally and metaphorically. Of course, Ester, as a translator for foreign books, is extremely knowledgeable about languages, however, the fictional language present in The Silence is unknown to her. The scene exists not only to illustrate Ester’s wide educational background in linguistics, but also her physical frustrations in communication. For once, she can’t speak a language she feels she should be aware of, and it bothers her. She clearly can’t communicate with her sister, and yet she can ask for vodka from a Butler who can’t even speak Swedish. The Banana Daiquiri scene in The Godfather: Part II serves similar purpose, except it exists to display Fredo’s lack of knowledge, rather than advantage. Like The Silence, there’s more than one language barrier at play. The bulk of the scene, anyhow, rests on the underlying grievances that these two brothers simply can’t communicate. But Michael speaks Spanish (or at least understands it). And Fredo’s Spanish is as rusty as the Waiter’s Sicilian. Nevertheless, he gets his Banana Daiquiri, just as Ester gets her vodka. They both never get what they want from their siblings, so why is it that some stranger who doesn’t even speak their language is able to meet their needs? Why Coppola decided to shoot this scene as a comedy—a drastic break in the film’s tone—is beyond me. Or, maybe it’s just unintentionally funny, which brings me to my next topic.

Bergman and Humour:

As dark and serious as some of Bergman’s films are, when he manages to slip in comedy, he uses it sparingly and wisely. Humorous elements aren’t always recognised in Bergman films but when they do appear, it’s often mixed with horror and absurdity (such as the scene when Death (Bengt Ekerot) saws down the tree in Seventh Seal). When Coppola tries to, albeit unsuccessfully, slip in comical moments in Godfather: Part II to produce anguish and idiocy, it doesn’t quite have the same effect as a Bergman film. Not only does it take me out of the moment, but it leaves me asking why he decided to place it there. Like, ‘’OK that was weird.’’ It’s kind of like watching The Maltese Falcon (1941) and then seeing Humphrey Bogart go and order at McDonald’s. I lose that dark world Coppola spent so much time building. I know according to his DVD commentary, he often tried to lighten up the mood by playing pranks on his actors, on and off camera. So, either a) they were shooting on the night of a Full Moon or b) high on something. As a side note, at least the two gentlemen pictured above were drunk, so there’s a rational explanation. Fucking hippies. Or are they too old to be hippies? In their 30s here, they passed the cut-off, but in the ’60s they were hippies, okay. Fucking bohemians. Are they high enough? When Bergman pulls comedy, whether it be schtick or camp, it makes sense. When Coppola does it, it’s like, ‘’Don’t. That’s…weird.’’ And it’s not the actors. In Dog Day Afternoon (1975) they’re both hilarious, and it’s not a comedy, it just makes sense. Like any Bergman film, Sidney Lumet reinforces the ropes of dark humour (more often than not, Cazale’s Sal plays it straight to Sonny’s larger-than-life Pacino, and it’s both funny and tragic, just as Death in The Seventh Seal can make the audience feel two emotions at once). But then in Godfather II I’m just like ‘’Why?’’ There are instances where it works, such as the, what I dub Gulino-Waller 52 the ‘’Don’t do it, hoe!’’ scene where Fredo comes to Havana. As the Bellhop—who only tries to do his job—reaches for his luggage, Fredo awkwardly swings around the guy, grabs the one satchel back, possessively, like ‘’DON’T DO IT HOE.’’ The Bellhop seems puzzled. Fredo walks ahead of him, helps himself through the Hotel entrance, and glances back at the slaphappy Bellhop with a stonefaced expression. Funnily enough, Coppola didn’t say anything about everyone turning his dark serious script into an unintentional (intentional?) comedy. Why did Cazale decide to run through this scene with a Buster Keaton stone face with no indication in the script? I dunno, comedy can still be funny with a mix of dryness. Maybe he just didn’t want the bellhop to see he lined black underwear in the suitcase of 3 million. 99.10% of men who wear black underwear are closet whores. Isn’t that what the book was trying to imply, though, that Fredo was a closet- kidding, not kidding. ‘’John [Cazale] shows his adept ability to handle a comic moment without ever breaking the continuity of his character’’ (Powers 92). Indeed, he always managed to play it straight, even when the crew behind the camera or his co-star were cracking up (in the Banana Daiquiri scene, you can clearly detect Pacino fighting the giggles, as part of some private schoolboy joke between him and his best friend he collaborated with more than two dozen times on the off-Broadway stage, not because of the line delivered, before he catches himself and the smile fades as quickly as it comes). There are instances, though, where Fredo is meant to be sad, such as Fredo’s confession during the cafe scene (before the Banana Daiquiri line). ‘’There’s no attempt by John [Cazale] to play that for a laugh. If the audience laughs—and they did—let them. But, for Fredo, it’s serious’’ (Powers 93). Not unlike sad ‘’humour’’ as Frost the Clown’s segment in Sawdust and Tinsel does so well. Frost’s story isn’t even funny, it’s just tragic. When taken out of context, the lines between performer and the person behind the performer doesn’t blur—the differences are realised. However, when Coppola writes comical moments for Fredo, I’m not sure whether it’s to publically humiliate him like Frost, or for some other purpose, but it doesn’t have the same grim edge to it, even if he’s an incredibly sad character and Cazale handles comedy well when necessary. Oh well, Coppola, you tried.

Defining Spaces:

‘’People often remark that you remember the faces in Bergman, and that’s absolutely true. But you also think of the spaces between the people, and the spaces in which their interactions unfold. It’s the way it is in life: it’s real space, physical space, but it’s also something else–an arena, of dreams or nightmares or fantasies, or a battleground’’—Martin Scorsese (Mercury).

Unlike Bergman, Coppola may not always understand when absurd wisecracks are appropriate, however, in terms of visual information, he does know how to use his spaces well. For a hippie director, I mean. Bergman seems to favour close-ups of his actors to an almost embarrassing extent. He frames his actors very realistically and sometimes not flattering at all (the extreme close-ups of Gulino-Waller 53

Marie in Summer Interlude as just one example). I love how Bergman frames the ballerinas’ feet or chooses extreme close-ups (ECU) of Marie’s cakey stage make-up. On stage, they look glamorous, spinning in their gorgeous tutus. Up-close, they’re the complete opposite of glamour, there is almost something heartbreaking in their endurance, and the toll it has on their bodies from the sweat on their faces to the cracked soles of their feet. Or even the way he chooses to frame Märta (Ingrid Thulin) in Winter Light (1962). Not just the repulsive rashes on her hands, but even her face, with all its holy pores. Thulin was a beautiful actress but Bergman finds her most vulnerable, naked moments by choosing not to frame her with make-up or soft glow. He paints her in not her best light with his preference for fine sharp-focus to bring out the crisp details. Or even Wild Strawberries. Bergman forces us to confront Dr. Isak Borg as an abstract face, being reduced to wrinkled flesh, eyes, nose, hair or mouth. His extreme close-ups illustrate his characters’ inner isolation from the world and their emotional torment. ‘’Bergman and director of photography Sven Nykvist tried to focus on the unattractive side of each actresses’ face, so when you showed them half-illuminated in shadowy light, they would look something not of themselves’’ (Carnevale). He also seems to adore barren landscapes to bring out that isolation. Seasonal climate, for starters. He also favours mirrors and reflections. The scene in Summer Interlude, for instance. He reverses the conversation of Marie and the Ballet Master (Stig Olin), first framing Marie’s reflection and the Ballet Master in front of the mirror before reversing the shot of the Ballet Master’s reflection and Marie in front of the mirror. Then there’s Sawdust and Tinsel. At first, after the young mistress Anne is raped by the pretty boy theatre actor Frans (Hasse Ekman), we first assume the shot of them lying in bed is not a reflection until Anne gets up and crosses over to the mirror. It’s such a tricky shot but so well done that it doesn’t even feel like a reflection right off the bat. Not until that ‘’aha’’ moment. In order to further his narrative, Bergman uses very minimal composition and tight close-ups, as well as keeping the camera relatively stationary, aside from the occasional pan if he wants you to see something in the corner of the frame. Otherwise, his technique is very controlled. Bergman’s cameras are, for the most part, rather static, and connect to his emotionally detached, stoic, and heavy atmosphere by having his viewers feel confined to his films (the theatre of Summer Interlude or the church of Winter Light). His pacing is slow and meticulous, and his mise-en-scène very formal and traditional. There is always a sense that the characters or the audience can’t escape the doom or the torment, and it’s a sensation which leaves you feeling cold. He knows how to use frames to his advantage in not only advancing the actor’s performances, but furthering the emotional investment and direct stirring response from his audience. Coppola, too, uses both open-form and close-form framing devices appropriate to his visual style. Open-form tends towards realistic film expressions. There is an apparent haphazard frame composition which temporarily cuts off action and space, thus, action will continue off- screen. Open-form manipulates the film form, which suggests vastness, loneliness, isolation and

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There is nothing truly flattering about this ECU and yet there is something charming and beautiful about the way her eye shadow is caking off:

Maj-Britt Nilsson in SUMMER INTERLUDE (1951). desolation, as seen in Bergman’s Island Trilogy, or a Terrence Malick film. Bergman often interweaved both the open and closed form, not unlike Elia Kazan’s On the Waterfront (1954), which ‘’idealizes the modern exercises of self-conscious form and political reality’’ (Belton 121). At the beginning of his career, most notably his Silence of God Trilogy, Bergman mainly incorporated the aesthetic of the closed-form (although Seventh Seal uses both open and closed form). Once Bergman made himself aware of the work of Lang and Hitchcock (closed), and Renoir and Rossellini (open), he began to embrace the open form. In a Bergman film, God is often the chief gardener, where ‘’God sees these objects, events, people’’ which goes beyond the film’s story, as seen in The Seventh Seal (‘’Bergman’s characters are engaged in their world like characters in an open film’’), rather than the head of the spy ring as one would see in The Conversation (closed) (Braudy 70).

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Or, what Coppola would call ‘’Orson Welles’ Point-of-View’’:

THE GODFATHER (1972)

Open form: world of film is a momentary frame around an ongoing reality; things seem to have an existence independent of the film narrative; the frame is like a window, opening a view on a world in which other views are possible; character is more important than surroundings; director discovers a space; director shares a found world; viewer made to feel comfortable, expansive; many possible meanings; audience is invited into the film; participatory gaze; teaches us about the rest of the world; inconclusive, ambiguous endings (‘’Open and Closed Form in Film’’).

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Open form:

THE GODFATHER: PART II vs. THE SEVENTH SEAL:

[Top]: Al Pacino; [Bottom]: Max Von Sydow. Gulino-Waller 57

Coppola uses open-form well, but he also favours closed-form framing, a visual element that goes back to theatre. There is a rule in theatre where actors must always face the audience, whereas film cannot break down the fourth wall (although plenty of theatre and film have broken these rules over time, having actors face the camera in a film or turn their backs to the audience in a stage play. Note these are all unconventional methods). Closed-form. That means the composition is deliberate and fully formed, where visual elements are carefully arranged in front of the camera and held in balance. Conversely, in closed-form films, the camera often anticipates the dramatic action. ‘’Melodrama and bourgeoisie comedy...demonstrate’’ this ‘’preference’’ of ‘’closed form’’ framing (Allinson and Jordan 39), which Coppola illustrates well. Symmetry and balance is the key. Sitcoms are often filmed in closed-form, with the couch generally in the centre of the stage, facing the audience, the staircase to the left, and the door to the right. This way, everything that happens on the stage is in full view of the audience. Even if the setting of a sitcom changes to a kitchen—The Golden Girls (1985-1992) often favoured the kitchen scene— the framing is still a self-conscious style of presentation. Kubrick as well as Spanish auteurs Pedro Almodóvar and Luis Buñuel use these framing devices. A closed-form example in Buñuel’s oeuvre is most notably the parody in Viridiana (1961) of Leonardo Da Vinci’s iconic painting The Last Supper. Buñuel arranges his actors in front of the camera, and briefly, they each break the fourth wall as they strike parody poses of Jesus’ Apostles and pretend to take a photograph. As they look ‘’directly at the camera’’ this ‘’becomes a taboo in classic narrative

VIRIDIANA (1961) and always an anti-cinematic gesture’’ (62). This is not unlike Coppola’s various family photos that repeat constantly throughout The Godfather films. But he also incorporates balanced, figurative designs in various shots of non-family photographs that break the fourth wall. Gulino-Waller 58

For instance, this shot is as much of a closed-form:

As this shot:

THE GODFATHER: PART III (1990) Gulino-Waller 59

And so on. Films such as Hitchcock’s Rear Window (1954), Antonioni’s Blow-Up, Coppola’s The Conversation, and De Palma’s Blow Out, are all considered ‘’closed’’ films (Belton 119). Closed-form tends towards formalistic film expressions and a distortion of form over subject as content. Whereas open-form film’s frame is like a window, and characters seems more important than architecture or landscape to create a sense of loneliness, closed-form films create confinement, and the prospect of no escape. ‘’The counterpart in closed films...is the involuntary enclosure, the physical prison and the prison of the self. Both Lang and Hitchcock are fascinated by the courtroom, the closed context of judgment in which the audience and the jury are identified...The accused in the courtroom, the traveler in the haunted house, the innocent in the prison or the insane asylum are all variations of the basic closed-film situation. Like such characters, we in the audience are trapped without the possibility of transcending or understanding why this has all happened, unless we identify with the director who has brought this world into being’’ (‘’Open and Closed Form in Film’’).

Closed form:

THE GODFATHER: PART II (1974)

Bergman, though unlike Hollywood films in his approach, also knows how to define spaces and frame his subjects symmetrically in terms of conveying confinement. Psychological entrapment is one of the main themes of his films, therefore, he highlights claustrophobic spaces, again, as seen in the church scenes in Winter Light, as well as the theatre scenes in Summer Interlude.

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Closed form:

Gunnar Björnstrand and Max Von Sydow in WINTER LIGHT (1962).

Coppola, too, often arranges his actors in front of the camera in a very deliberate fashion. This is what filmmakers call ‘’proscenium arch’’, where the mis-en-scène is consciously structured within the confines of the frame. Space seems enclosed and self-contained rather than continuous as one would see in an open-form frame. Why Coppola uses composition similar to Bergman where seen fit, I’m not sure, but they both have backgrounds in theatre, so that may explain the reason. Not that these framing devices can be attributed to one director’s style, unless your film itself is an ‘’open’’ or ‘’closed’’ film, but it’s worth noting, in relation to Bergman, how Coppola defines spaces to illustrate power dynamics, psychological entrapment, isolation, and so forth. In contrast, a Coppola film does not make use of many close-ups as a Bergman film. Gordon Willis, who photographed (some of) Coppola’s films, was not so much in favour of close ups as he was long shots. ‘’I think there’s a lot of drama in a little person in a lot of space,’’ Willis explains. ‘’I’d rather see the soprano die of tuberculosis in a long shot, for instance, than 29 close-ups of her going cough, cough, cough’’ (Feeney).

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Faces:

‘’The most beautiful of all is that you’re close to the human face, which is the most fascinating subject possible for the camera. On TV a few days ago, I saw a little of Antonioni’s new picture, The Passenger. And you know, I am an admirer of Antonioni, I’ve learned so much from him, but I was struck by the moment they cut from his film to a closeup of Antonioni himself, for the interview. As he was sitting there, here was his face, so normal, so beautiful and so human - and I didn’t hear a word of what he was saying, because I was looking so closely at his face, at his eyes. The ten minutes he was on the screen were more fascinating than any of his, or my, work’’—Ingmar Bergman (Carnevale).

Ingrid Thulin’s painful nine minute monologue in ‘’The Letter Scene’’ from WINTER LIGHT (1962).

At least Bergman began to appreciate Antonioni later in life. That was a very nice thing of him to say about someone whose work he used to tear apart. Ahem. Coppola prefers to scrutinise his actor’s faces and how they’re affected by the actions around them rather than face violence and sex head-on as Quentin Tarantino might. That’s not to say Coppola holds back in his violence—there are many scenes in The Godfather films, after all, which are notoriously gory—and yet the most profound scenes are weighed on performance rather than action. Such as the Funeral Parlour Scene in the first Godfather where Vito Corleone (Marlon Brando) shows the frightened undertaker, Amerigo Bonasera (Salvatore Corsitto) his Gulino-Waller 62 son’s bullet-riddled body (Jimmy Caan playing dead). As the blanket on the corpse is pulled back, Coppola decides to move our attention away from the body and shift our focus on reaction shots of Bonasera’s disgust (16 seconds of his face) and Brando (54 seconds) as he tearfully mourns, ‘’Look how they massacred my boy.’’ Recall Norma Desmond’s (Gloria Swanson) famous line from Billy Wilder’s Sunset Boulevard (1950) (in my opinion, one of the greatest movies ever made): ‘’We didn’t need dialogue. We had faces.’’ That couldn’t be more true. Though Bergman and Coppola do not eliminate their dialogue, the way their faces speak echoes Silent Cinema techniques. Bergman often conveyed Silent Cinema in his work. Coppola may not be a Silent Screen Buff (his films are a bit on the talky side, so is Bergman on occasion), but he must have made himself aware of the power of faces. I don’t know about his other films, but I do know for a fact that Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992) takes cues from silent films and German expressionism, where the Vampire genre originated. Oh. And plenty of mirrors (Vishnevetsky), such as the famed ‘’mirror scene’’ (Callie). That’s one of the ways Coppola uses the camera very well, is when he’s not focusing on action, but his actors. Such as the ‘’Superman’’ scene in Godfather II, he wisely chooses to pan away from the action on the stage. Instead, we only hear the men’s remarks about the performance, mostly O.S. (‘’I see it, and I still don’t believe it!’’), and witness only the suggestive expression of Fredo Corleone, and how his face remains stoic and expressionless for eight straight seconds to highlight his predicament. Longest eight seconds in the world, although it could’ve been worse. It could’ve been like 8:55 of Thulin staring directly at us, reciting an entire letter. Not that these actors are hard to stare at for that long. It is startling how incredibly long Bergman holds a single, static shot of his actors that blows Sofia Coppola and George Lucas out of the water. It just kind of starts to make you feel like you want

Gulino-Waller 63 to tear your hair out. At least we can marvel at their lovely faces even when they deliver no lines of dialogue. Thulin, in my opinion, is one of the most interesting actresses to look at, but then again, all of Bergman’s people are beautiful. They tried their best to make Thulin “ugly” in Winter Light. It proved to be an impossible task! I don’t know where he found them, but they all possessed a great look. I don’t mean Hollywood Hottie, I just mean they had the same types of mesmerisation. That’s not to say they weren’t handsome—you can’t resist the power of Swedes—but I prefer to see these rare, exceptionally honest types on screen as opposed to Hollywood’s bland ideas on beauty. Coppola, too, always finds some interesting looking people to film, that isn’t Winona Ryder or Gary Oldman (excuse the fuck out of me, he only wanted boring young, hot people for Dracula). At any rate, I’d rather stare for three hours at the likes of Teri Garr, Allen Garfield, Cindy Williams, Frederic Forrest, Abe Vigoda, Morgana King, John Cazale, Mackenzie Phillips, or some other non-Cover Girl beauties instead of the sexy vampires that dominated Dracula, no offense. Even old ‘’washed up’’ Al Pacino is much more fun to look at in Part III than young Al Pacino. Which reminds me of Michael’s reaction to his deformed twin brother’s betrayal. The camera lingers on his face for a good few minutes, sometimes intercutting with Fredo, but during the majority of his realisation, the other characters are ghosts off-camera. I counted. This one shot alone (of Michael’s reaction) spans 13 FPS. 13 frames. The scene itself is 1:52, and that’s just one shot. ‘’The feat of carrying an entire movie just from reaction shots had only been achieved once before, in the work of Akira Kurosawa,’’ writes Alex Carvenale. The Godfather’s pivotal scenes relying entirely on reaction shots relates to Persona in that ‘’[Liv] Ullmann’s face never moves when we stare directly at it; given the task of playing a mute, every small moment in her representation seems like either an instruction or an exaltation’’ (Carvenale).

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From the original screenplay, second draft:

CLOSE ON MICHAEL

A growing feeling about his brother.

...

MED. VIEW

Fredo's party standing on the ramp, looking down at the spectacle. They're a little woozy from the drinks and late hour. Michael is with them, but now we sense he is using this time, with all exhausted and drunk, to come to some important conclusions.

...

CLOSE on Michael turning away. Not because of the spectacle which he finds disgusting, but at what his brother is saying.

FREDO (O.S.) ... but seeing is believing. Ole Johnny knows all the places. I tol' you... can you believe it?

If Michael would ever allow himself to cry, it would be now.

FREDO (continuing) The old man Roth, would never come; but Johnny knows these places like the back of his hand...

FADE OUT.

Roll credits!

(Why he writes ‘’continuing’’ in a parenthetical, I don’t know. Also, why does it FADE OUT? Did someone turn off the lights? It’s like the running gag in The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou (2004) where the submarine of Team Zissou constantly suffers a power outage every time a visceral piece of information is revealed, or the characters are about to embark on ‘’an adventure’’. ‘’OMG Fredo’s the traitor!’’ Boom, out goes the lights. ‘’Aww not again! Son of a bitch, I’m sick of these dolphins.’’ Sure, blame it on the dolphins why don’t you? It makes you think the movie’s over. Thankfully, the final cut does not do this, and just cuts to the next scene.)

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I want to compare Ullmann to Cazale in her amazing ability to play an entire role without a single line of dialogue except for ‘’No, don’t!’’ and ‘’Nothing’’. It’s not unlike Cazale’s Sal in Dog Day Afternoon who, although not completely mute, plays the part in absolute silence, and mostly sitting in a chair or slinked against a wall throughout the duration of the film, while he quietly broods, watching Pacino’s Sonny fly all over the place:

John’s performance is a study in stillness. For an actor, stillness is often a most challenging concept. Doing nothing, after all, is antithetical in the minds of most actors. The founder of the Method, Constantin Stanislavsky, wrote of the challenges a student had when the instructor asked him to go to the stage and simply sit in a chair. The student fidgeted and fumbled, seemingly unable to just do nothing. John [Cazale] didn’t have that problem. As Sal, he shows no inclination toward acting. He is still. So still, in fact, it seems he never even blinks. As the film goes on, his stillness goes on longer and longer. Juxtaposed against Sonny’s frenetic energy, it becomes ever more striking. But, John [Cazale] proves the Tao paradox, ‘’Do nothing and accomplish everything.’’ His stillness makes him more dangerous. He is like an animal who keeps still, watching its prey unblinkingly, just before it suddenly strikes (Powers 129-30).

Indeed, most actors want to ‘’do’’ stuff. Cate Blanchett was initially reluctant to play the part of Susan in Alejandro González Iñárritu’s Babel, for her character is lying down on the floor, after having accidentally been injured by two local farm boys, for most of the entire film. Or, even Pedro Almodóvar’s Hable con ella (English: Talk to Her; 2002). The two female leads are literally comatose for the entire film, save for the two segments featuring the girls in their waking state before they fall into a coma. As a spoiler, only one of them wakes up. It must have been a trying and challenging role to play asleep for hours every day of shooting. I wonder how Faye Dunaway fared as practically bedridden from beginning to end in The First Deadly Sin (1980). She is a method actress herself, extremely talented and taught by none other than John Cazale’s acting teacher, Peter Kass, the notoriously renowned ‘’holy madman of the threatre’’. Surely, she approached the role of Frank Sinatra’s dying wife in the same manner as Cazale or Ullmann would have. Ullmann, anyway, seems to have suffered no real challenge in playing a mute to the very bubbly and talkative Andersson. They were essentially the female versions of Cazale and Pacino, haha. Roger Ebert writes that, ‘’Shakespeare used six words to pose the essential human choice: ‘To be, or not to be?’ Elizabeth, a character in Ingmar Bergman’s ‘Persona,’ uses two to answer it: ‘No, don’t!’ ...Their visual merging suggests a deeper psychic attraction. Elizabeth, the patient, mute and apparently ill, is stronger than Alma, and eventually the nurse feels her soul being overcome by the other woman’s strength’’ (Ebert). Beat that bitches, the Power of Silence. It’s the only reason why Sal of Dog Day and Michael in Godfather are considered such ultimately lasting characters on film, however, Bergman beat them to it with Ullmann’s Elisabet. Gulino-Waller 66

By the way, as extra bit of trivia, 1974 was the year that Hollywood studios stopped using Technicolor three-strip cameras (meaning three frames would be exposed at the same time, each on a separate strip of film), therefore, The Godfather: Part II was the last major American motion picture shot in Technicolor’s dye imbibition process. The film used...get this, monopack camera stock and matrix printing. Yup. Afterwards, Technicolor shut down their dye plant. Too bad they don’t make movies like this anymore, but the camera was too bulky. Back to Coppola’s faces. In that way, much of the scene is left open to our imagination. Sometimes, what we don’t see on camera communicates more effectively than what we do see on the screen. Now, didn’t Bergman say that the most interesting thing on camera was the human face? He observes in his own words that, ‘’The human face is the most cinematographic thing that exists’’ (Macnab 9). Yup, Bergman. You loved your faces. As Diane Keaton writes in her 2014 book, Let’s Just Say It Wasn’t Pretty, ‘’The most amazing aspect of the human face is its ability to show expression. More than anything, our face identifies who we are’’ (Keaton 18). I must admit, that, although not a huge fan of Kubrick (granted that 2001: A Space Odyssey; 1968 is epic eye candy), he also made very good use of the way he arranged his actors in front of the camera. They didn’t have to be Hollywood Hottie, and yet he knew where to find his people’s most maddening, intense and beautiful gazes. I think, like Bergman, he could make all types of people seem captivating. (The exception to the rule being Jack Nicholson’s butt-ugly face.)

So Kubrick has (had) the Kubrick Stare:

Malcom McDowell in A CLOCKWORK ORANGE (1975).

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…and Bergman has…uh…what I call the Liv Ullmann Face:

Because only Liv Ullmann nailed it, no one before or since. Although Sissy Spacek came close. Gulino-Waller 68

Damn close. Might I add that Bergman obsessively framed Ullmann (whom he conducted a 42- year long love affair with), similar in fashion to the way Coppola obsessively framed Cazale and Teri Garr, and Kubrick obsessively framed Nicholson, like the fanboy he was. But that’s a topic for another day.

(Homo)Sexuality and (Homo)Eroticism:

BUT I’M A CHEERLEADER (1999)

Bergman’s films often explore sexual anxiety where the female characters seem to be more in tap with their sexuality than the men, or characters are awakening sexual frustrations (Through a Glass Darkly; 1961). He’s also no stranger to lesbianism and unbalanced relationships between even more unbalanced siblings (The Silence, Cries & Whispers, Through a Glass Darkly…I’m sure the list goes on). Bergman’s women, in particular, seem to desire lesbian relationships. Bergman never explored close relationships between men—bromance, male homosexuality, or otherwise—but he seemed keen on the close relationships between women—both platonic and sexual. He was a womaniser, so I don’t know what that tells you. It’s not that he doesn’t have great male characters with meaningful relationships (Max Von Sydow and Gunnar Björnstrand are a dynamic duo, I like to call them the Al Pacino and John Cazale of Sweden), but you rarely see them express intimacy or erotic desire to the extent of his female characters. For instance, the scene in Persona when Elisabet Volger (Liv Ullmann) slaps Nurse Alma (Bibi Andersson) and vice versa, it is a VERY sexual moment and brings to mind the scene in Point Blank (1967) where Chris (Angie Dickinson) beats on an unwavering, unaffected Walker (Lee Marvin). The scene has underlying sexual implications where one character acts out her frustration through physical violence. Sex in The Godfather films is tackled in the same way as a Bergman film, or Amantes—its stone cold approach, and characters expressing sexual Gulino-Waller 69 repressions through violence. In relation to Ester and Anna of Silence, the relationship between Michael and Fredo is something that transposes beyond basic eroticism. Yet, sex is only spoken about, or hinted at. We never see, for instance, Moe Greene physically abusing Fredo, but it’s talked about and implied. Rather, the violence happens off-screen, and there are no obvious visual cues indicating Greene’s and Fredo’s warped relationship—no bruises on Fredo or anything hinting abuse—and yet Michael immediately picks up on it, given Coppola’s choice of disturbing mise-en-scène. Fredo can’t not get ‘’slapped around’’ and he might as well be repeatedly groped, as something of a symbolic castration. A man taking physical abuse from another man insults his manhood, hence the real reason Fredo’s illicit activities shame the

I never saw the famous ‘’Kiss of Death’’ scene as sexual in nature, it’s purely synonymous with ‘’Et tu, Brute?’’ family. Moe beating the living crap out of Freddie carries strangely sexual overtones and creates an ‘’unusual, unspoken dynamic’’ (Bowen). They may not physically be sleeping with each other, but it’s a physical relationship on another level. Thrashing someone physically is as personal as one can get without having sex. ‘’It’s obvious that Fredo is Moe Green’s lap dog’’ observes Jonjo Powers. ‘’He moves behind Moe and begins to massage his shoulders, demonstrating the intimacy of their relationship’’ (51). I know, it’s so creepy! Gay men living in the glass closet isn’t creepy, but the strange dominant-submissive dynamic between Moe and Freddie is, in the very least, disturbing as hell. ‘’Lesbian sexuality is never consummated directly in Persona,’’ writes Lloyd Michaels (142), just as sexuality between men in The Godfather films is never acted on directly. Instead, it’s achieved in other ways, such as physical abuse, ‘’queer stares’’ (to quote Lloyd Michaels) and the mythological Kiss of Death (where the two brothers who look nothing alike go to a strip club or a big party or possibly both, where they get drunk Gulino-Waller 70 and Andy Warhol KISS; 1963. Avant-garde, baby!). George S. Larke-Walsh writes in his book Screening the Mafia that ‘’male-male intimacy’’ appears threatening in only classical gangster films where ‘’kissing is used as a show of respect or brotherly unity, but it can also signal violence and death.’’ The act of affection between males-only in the world of The Godfather series carries double meaning: lovemaking and destruction (or Love and Death as Allen appropriately assesses). There’s a similar match-cut of the Kiss of Death scene in The Godfather: Part III where Vincent Mancini (Andy Garcia) kisses and makes up with his enemy, Joey Zasa (Joe Mantegna). But things quickly escalate as ‘’the show of respect turns into a display of aggression’’ where Vincent’s kiss turns into a vampire action, I kid you not. Vincent tries to

The scene is kinda unintentionally funny, but so is the whole movie. The majority of the film’s backlash is the fact that it slides into comedy more often than not, because the messy script didn’t know what it wanted to be. chew Joey’s ear off, another classic trope. ‘’Therefore, scenes of physical intimacy are displaced by the constant threat of violence’’ (Larke-Walsh 175). In comparison, Persona’s homoeroticism ‘’is especially apparent in one of the final scenes, which involves a vampire sexual fantasy [sorry that’s a Spanish student film recreation but a very excellent shot-by-shot remake to get the Big Picture] wherein Alma slices her arm and Elisabet sucks some blood from the wound ’’ (Michaels 142). Vampire scenes are not uncommon in homosexual pictures, as ‘’blood’’ represents ‘’semen’’ (Podonsky). That’s Bergman’s version of the Kiss of Death. Bent, Bergman. Bent. Fuck me. It’s a damn good scene. Gulino-Waller 71

Aside from the Il bacio della morte (‘’Kiss of Death’’ ) scene employing the ‘’Et Tu, Brute?’’/ seductive ‘’Kiss of Death’’ Trope, it also handles the Gay Groom in a White Tux Trope. Yeah, this scene is full of tropes, but that’s Douglas Sirk melodrama for you. Was that the intention? Yes, I understand the costume decisions here a little. Michael is like the Angel of Death in that he’s completely dressed in black, save for a white dress shirt underneath his suit. Fredo is the complete opposite of him, in a white suit and contrasting black dress shirt. OK I get it. Fredo’s dressed in a completely pure colour here, so we know he’s the sacrifice. It doesn’t mean he’s innocent, it just means he’s the opposite force of Michael. Hell, Coppola is a huge reader of Hermann Hesse, who describes the symbolic meaning of white and black on the chess board (Read). Recalling legendary French director (because the French know their shit) Claude Chabrol’s satire Masques (1987)—a film full of classic tropes and Bergman-like facades, not to mention the ongoing game of chess in obvious parody of Seventh Seal—‘’In the end, black can win.’’ Why this line is not voted as part of AFI’s 100 Movie Quotes is beyond me. So black wins. Boo yeah. Fredo and Michael in this scene are like chess pieces, but they’re also caught in a grotesque portrayal of incestuous marriage. Kay said it, not me. In The Godfather Returns, Kay admits she is Michael’s third wife, not his second, in that firstly, he was married to his family, ‘’another kind of family’’. Number Two, he was married to Apollonia. And lastly to Kay. But above all relationships in his life, his family, and his Family always come first (Winegardner 414). A holy trinity? Far from it. Michael and Fredo’s brotherly love ‘’is not only familial but ‘unselfconsciously homoerotic...their ideal world is...a locker room; no women need apply to this dreamy brotherhood’ ’’, recalling ‘’the male camaraderie; betoken a homosexual undertone’’ of The Outsiders (Phillips 210). But eh, you can spend a whole semester analysing this scene, as the tyrannical film professor had done so graciously for us in The Freshman (1990). Regardless, I don’t really believe the Kiss of Death scene is sexual in nature, I never saw it that way. Although yes, homo-erotica will insert a temporary desire, rather than a long-term orientation. The Kiss of Death between Michael and Fredo is merely temporary, because it only happens one time. If they were kissing each other on the mouth all the time, it’d be like ‘’Whatever, so they kissed again,’’, and it might lose its dramatic impact. Granted that the original screenplay had them kiss twice. First time, out of love, second time, out of hatred, as an intentional match-cut: same shot but slightly different to provoke character evolvement:

MED. CLOSE VIEW

Michael and Fredo in an embrace; they kiss one another.

MICHAEL I've arranged for a plane; we're going to Miami in an hour. Try not to make a big thing of it.

He kisses his brother once again.

MICHAEL (Sicilian) Gulino-Waller 72

I know it was you, Fredo. You've broken my heart.

Slowly, understanding, Fredo backs away from his brother, taking the kiss another way.

But to me it’s purely a Judas Kiss betrayal scene. But stories that use the trope as a selling point (not just in Vampire films), often illustrate the act as impelling sensual, seductive and deadly consequences. Fatal sex, much? Because vampires and evil is sexy, Nurse Alma knows that. After the said kiss is delivered, it often ends the relationship right then and there. Hence, homoerotic. Elisabet and Alma’s relationship seemingly ends after their desire—sexual or otherwise—is consummated through the vampire scene, in the same way Fredo’s and Michael’s bromance ends after New Year’s Eve (literal bromance, with actual brothers). However, I think critics who like to pick up on sexual undertones or overtones to the Kiss of Death are just reading too much into it, in the same way critics like to overanalyse The Silence’s ‘’phallic symbolism’’. What phallic symbolism? It’s just a tank for Christ’s sake. That’s not to say Bergman doesn’t utilize symbolism, but at the same time, sometimes what appears on the screen in a Bergman film is just is what it is. In Against Interpretation, Susan Sontag comments, ‘’Ingmar Bergman may have meant the tank rumbling down the street in The Silence as a phallic symbol’’ (9), or he may not have. She then continues to say, ‘’Those who reach for a Freudian interpretation of the tank are only expressing their lack of response to what is there on the screen’’ (10). Meaning that audiences often feel obligated to find hidden meaning in a Bergman film because they either a) don’t understand what they’re seeing on the screen or b) need to feel like what they see is more than it what appears to be. ‘’It’s not what it seems,’’ as Derek would say in The Swan Princess (1994). It needs to be more than a tank, right? Not necessarily. Obviously, there is a kinky relationship between Johan, his aunt and his mother. A male patient from a single family in Alice Miller’s The Drama of the Gifted Child, has a mother who ‘’insists on certain conventions and does not allow the child to be aware of his narcissistic and libidinal needs in any way, let alone express them.’’ Though she does not let the child act on his own sexually driven instincts, the mother instead turns to a sick ritual of ‘’regularly massaging his penis until puberty.’’ Given this troubled, and then not considered sexually abusive relationship with his mother, the patient was unable to maintain healthy relationships with women in that ‘’he remained emotionally tied to the Oedipal and pre-Oedipal mother.’’ He experienced both a love- hate relationship for her and stifled sexual impulses, as something of erotophobia (Miller 61). Johan obviously loves his mother unconditionally but towards the end of the film, he seems to want to free himself from her. Whether the tank stands in for Johan’s sexual repressions is arguable. Whether Johan is really seeing the tanks or if it’s all in his head is left open to interpretation as well. He seems to be the only one who notices the manifestation, either as part of his active imagination, or his natural childlike curiosity. That can be one explanation. Or, the tanks really are there, and everyone else is simply disinterested in the coming war, because what else is new? Recall the scene in Part II where Michael witnesses a Cuban revolutionary suicide bomb himself. No one else bats an eyelid but the event deeply induces Michael into an epiphany. Gulino-Waller 73

Can the same be said for The Silence’s tanks? Maybe, maybe not. We can spend 10,000 years debating whether sexual symbols are present in ordinary circumstances such as kisses or tanks, or not, it all boils down to an individual’s perception on said films. There’s a million films, books, and songs called Kiss of Death by the way. This is a really nice article that outlines all the possible literary and cinematic nebulous homoeroticism that crops up in The Godfather and other mobster/Latin films, but all this is attributed to the genre and not necessarily Coppola’s style. More here. What is considered part of Coppola’s auteur though is his boldness in framing the male body. The only other film I can think of that does sexually objectify male actors that’s more traditionally practiced with females is Amantes. The film is extremely unique (perhaps more unique than a Bergman or a Coppola film) in that it revolves around two women and the theme of exploitation, only this time, the women are not the victims of abuse, but rather the predators. I think it’s interesting that the film chooses to frame Paco played by Jorge Sanz (based on José Garcia San Jaun) more provocatively than the women. We only catch glimpses of the women in full nude (Luisa played by Victoria Abril, based on Francisca Sánchez Morales) is often behind Paco and dominates him sexually. It’s mainly butt porn where the women are concerned. Not even their breasts or…am I allowed to say vagina?... are revealed in full light. Paco becomes the object of the women’s sexual desires, therefore, he is always often the center of focus in front of the camera, and none too masking him in full nude. Even when his fiancé, the blinded-by-love virginal Trini (played by Maribel Verdú of Pan’s Labyrinth; 2004, based on Dominga del Pino Rodriguez), is only seen naked from the waist down, reportedly to convey her exposure, or at least according to Verdú it ‘’would emphasize the sadness and pathos of Trini’s gesture’’ (‘’Lovers: A True Story (1991) Trivia’’). It’s highly unusual that films choose to sexually objectify men. Women are usually the toys in these types of erotic films, such as the film Aranda was inspired by, Bigas Luna’s Las Edades de Lulu (English: The Ages of Lulu (1990), where the titular character is seduced by her older brother and his best friend). Not to mention, in all the films we’ve viewed so far, women are oppressed by masculine authority. Not the case with Amantes. This film chooses a vulnerable male protagonist rather than a woman and a child. This is John Cazale turf, and I have yet to see many films like Amantes that portrays men in this sort of delicate fashion (unless it’s Fredo Corleone). Granted, Paco is a bit cocky and annoys me, and he may be no John Cazale, but he is also vulnerable and dauntless, therefore, it’s understandable, based on his level of good- naturedness, why he becomes sexually objectified by these two women.

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Oh, and another thing, they only shoot the heterosexual kiss from a profile angle, and the same sex kiss from behind, as if to hide the lips locking from our view? Homophobic, much?

Orange girl sure gets around. She’s almost in every shot. Camera hog.

Not to mention, the famous pornographic ‘’Superman’’ scene happens mostly off-screen, as mentioned above, although the homoerotic implications are subtly referenced. In a nut (no pun intended), Michael shamelessly exploits Fredo to entertain his visiting guests (Shameless; 2011- present before Emmy Rossum), all VIPs and politicians he hopes to pocket and expedite his investment in…who the fuck cares. Wait, it gets better. Fredo’s choice of venue is a seedy club hosting a sex show, starring a hot male Cuban porn star (I wish I was making this up) by the stage name ‘’Superman’’, and I don’t mean the comic book, in Fredo’s own words. By the way, very little of The Godfather: Part II, other than the Kiss of Death, is fable. Superman was an actual African-Cuban night club entertainer, so Coppola did his homework (i heart literati). Ahem. While all the guests are laughing in good-natured disbelief at the size of Superman’s 14- inch erect penis—some sources say 18—(and anally raping a virgin off-camera…I’ll make you an asshole you can’t refuse), there is an eight-second cut of Fredo staring, unblinking and almost trembling, like he’s sexually aroused by the guy’s...uh...really big unmentionables. As Hyman Roth’s (the great late Lee Strasberg) classic bit of dialogue foreshadowed: ‘’Michael, something something is bigger than U.S. Steel.’’ And Superman’s something something is bigger than your long, cucumber nose (Keaton 99). What a great line.

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[Top]: John Cazale; [Bottom]: Liv Ullmaan…and they drew on her eyebrows, why?

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‘’What is important is not these displays of sexuality but rather the reactions, or lack of reactions, to each of these expressions of sexuality’’ (Lapite). Fredo’s the only one in the room, mind, who experiences such a reaction (not unlike the scene in Persona where Elisabet decides to become a mute. What’s deeply affected her happens O.S.). As mentioned above, the action taking place on stage is not the focus. The camera instead chooses to remain on Fredo’s face during the duration of the sex show and how he reacts to it. The scene, not unlike Persona’s and The Silence’s lesbian theme, only slightly suggests Fredo’s closeted homosexuality, just as Alma and Ester bury their lusts deep in their subconscious. The classic straight-gay trope. Many of the personality conflicts Fredo has with Michael and other Made Men are because of his issues dealing with his extremely repressed sexuality, occasionally leading to drunken one-night affairs, and his overcompensation by cultivating a reputation as a Vegas ladies’ man. This gives him the impression of being inconsistent, flighty, and unreliable, all traits that attract the wrong kinds of attention and are liabilities for a man looking to make himself useful in the family business. ‘’Is it possible that the excessive public promotion of his heterosexuality, particularly to family, is suggestive of a closeted gay man?’’ (Bowen). If that’s not gay erotica I don’t know what is. (The Superman scene is also included to show how hedonistic Havana was before Castro came to power, but who’s really paying attention to that? Funnily enough, history repeats itself once more with the Fall of Saigon. Havana was a hotspot for the Mob, Hollywood and other rich American tourists, then when Castro stepped up, all that became outlawed. Saigon was a major Red Light District, but now prostitution is against the law in Vietnam, although it hasn’t completely been eliminated.) And Fredo dumped the two showgirls and took off with Superman. Just kidding. Apparently, though, this was a famous legend that happened to none other than Marlon Brando (Stein), who was long rumoured to be bisexual (Siegel). The story has been printed numerous times, so I don’t know how true it is, but who cares? It’s La Habana de Tropicana, where anything can happen, including orgies and movie stars swinging both ways. I guess that’s why Coppola wisely chose Havana for his homosexual undertones. Thatta boy! The Conversation also perhaps employs a homosocial, if not homoerotic overtone to Harry and Stanley. In the surveillance convention scene where Harry tries to win his assistant back, Jonjo Powers detects that, ‘’Perhaps Stan is playing hard-to-get. One of the best ways to draw someone out is to withdraw from them; make them engage in a chase’’ (76). Or make them work for you, as in reverse psychology. Harry spends much of the film building up walls that Stan can’t penetrate. Once Stan pushes Harry away, Harry wants him. Powers continues:

It is remarkable how much the scene between the two of them plays like that between two lovers. One feels jilted and rejected; the other feels guilty and remorseful. Harry tries to woo Stan. He wants him back, but doesn’t necessarily want the responsibilities of the relationship. He doesn’t want to have to consider someone else’s feelings. Stan is hurt and hesitant, but wants to return to Harry and continue working with him. But, he wants a closer relationship. He will not ask for that directly, but instead indicts Harry for his secrecy. Gulino-Waller 77

...Ironically, there is parallel plotline between Harry and Amy, the girl with whom he has a sexual, but not necessarily romantic, relationship. Immediately, following his conversation with Stan, he finds a pay phone and tries to call Amy. Coincidence (76-7)?

I think not! Just as Persona, where the female intimacy is only achieved through heterosexual relationships with men (Alma’s story about the orgy with the two strange boys on the beach that she shares with Elisabet, as well as the sudden appearance of Elisabet’s husband), or repressed lesbianism being ‘’dictated by heterosexist norms’’ (Michaels 142), the same can be said of Coppola’s men. Men in a Coppola film often reach or consummate male bonding only through their heterosexual relationships with women (e.g. Michael and Kay, Amy and Harry, etc.), and yet their most important relationships come through with the men they work with day and night. They prefer to shut out their women, either closing doors on their faces or not sharing their secrets, or they unforgivably pound into their women at bedtime as if trying to stamp out himself and his unacceptable (homoerotic) urges. It leads one to consider male sexuality; and especially male sexuality in the total absence of female sexuality. For Bergman, there’s an absence of male sexuality to make room for ‘’a critique of patriarchy and society at large’’ (Michaels 144).

Time travellers! Doesn’t that sleek thing in the foreground look like a laptop and/or a tablet? It’s not, but it kinda resembles one. Gulino-Waller 78

The world is ruled by men, and it is implied this is what has caused Elisabet’s vow of silence. There are several sequences where Bergman explicitly portrays Elisabet witnessing Vietnam War news footage, being disturbed out of her mind by a photograph of the Jewish Holocaust, and not wanting to resume her responsibilities as a wife and a mother—all institutions and disasters initiated by men. Also, note that the scene where she loses her voice, so to speak, she is in the midst of performing the role of Electra. She simply refuses to be tied down by patriarchy, or accept the text-book definition of how a woman is expected to identify with the role society lays out for her. Coppola usually only explores the worlds of white, heterosexual, cisgender and often times Christian men—the dominant norm—but one can’t simply ignore that he doesn’t shy away from male homosocial desire and the threat that sexually charged women often pose to this world (there, too, lies an expectation of male ‘’norms’’). Next, notice the parallels between Moran and Moe Greene ‘’using’’ Stanley and Fredo ‘’as a pawn in a game against his [Stanley’s] former boss’’ and Fredo’s brother. ‘’Does Stan choose to work for Moran as a way to get back at Harry?’’ Powers asks. ‘’Was he trying to make him jealous?’’ (76). Michael may not be ‘’jealous’’ of Moe/Fredo, but he’s hands-down over-protective of his sweet precious brother. Harry certainly appears jealous that Moran has stolen his best man. Stanley is pitted against these two surveillance giants, just as Fredo is pitted between Moe and Michael as the source of their argument, and what ultimately seals Moe’s fate, according to Sally Tessio in the book, NOT the casino buyout, as they would’ve taken the casino anyway, whether Moe was dead or alive (‘’We got this, we’re Professionals!...er sort of’’). From The Godfather: ‘’Tessio remembered the stories he’d heard about Moe Greene slapping Freddie Corleone around one night in the Vegas hotel. He began to smell a rat...Moe Greene was a dead man, he thought’’ (398). Exploitation of men in these types of films is extremely rare. One would normally expect two strong men experiencing a fall out over a woman, and yet Coppola, at least in these two films released a couple years apart, prefers to probe into a different possibility. What’s more, he has the same actor (John Cazale) portray two different vulnerable characters abiding to the laws of male dominance. Likewiswe, I like this breakdown of gender roles. Neither Stanley nor Fredo have much power in the worlds they reside in. Stanley’s a mere assistant to a ‘’notable’’ in the surveillance industry. It’s clear from the out-set that he isn’t an equal. He’s the youngest guy there, no matter his skills, so there’s age discrimination. The Godfather of course establishes a specific hierarchy. Fredo only has his nose inches away from the cream of the crop due to his family’s association. Essentially, Fredo/Stan have as much influence and control as Elisabet does in Persona. Both are forced to stand to the side, and watch their boss/brother battle it out with another man with equal superiority. They have little say to who’s prize he’ll end up as in the game of tug-of-war. Elisabet’s pretty damned fed up with having her strings pulled by these socially acceptable practiced norms, so perhaps the only way she can safeguard herself is retreating into a shell. Embarking on a love affair with her nurse seems desirable, as the power of female bonding often overcomes male dominance, and although a love triangle does not ensue between herself, Alma, and her husband, Elisabet and Alma begin to reject their ‘’position in the symbolic Gulino-Waller 79

order’’ (Michaels 144). Fredo and Stan, unlike Elisabet and Alma, remain passive victims and do nothing to overcome their conformity to the laws of other men. Fredo tries, albeit unsuccessfully, to make something of himself ‘’on [his] own’’, without his brother’s help, and ends up getting into trouble. Yet, he certainly didn’t try to escape Moe Greene. Stan attempts to ‘’move up’’ by leaving Harry, but he transitions from one prison to another, and ends up working for a man who treats him with less respect than Harry. Even when he tries his tantalization against Harry, he does little to adjust his situation (notice he doesn’t even change out of the Moran suit for the party...although to be honest, Coppola just liked his buddy in suits. His words not mine). Fredo/Stan are classic passive-submissive males, in a paradox of power struggles, and even if they constantly try to switch their roles, they often remain compliant to whatever happens. Even as Fredo attempts to run away from Michael in Godfather II, he eventually comes home, with little persuasion, because it’s in his nature: obedience. When Michael eventually takes him out of the family business, he (surprisingly) doesn’t argue against that either. Stan doesn’t torture Harry for long. Keeping someone he wants close by him at arm’s length proves impossible for him to endure. Harry confides in him, briefly, and at the party, they kiss and make up. That was easy. Harry and Moran fighting over (and exploiting) Stanley creates a weird love triangle, but one that never resolves. We never find out if Stan chooses to remain with Moran or if he eventually returns to Harry. The Conversation presents us with as many questions as it does answers. ‘’How might we account for [Coppola’s] rejection of linearity, character-motivated causality and closure in favour of complex temporal organisation and ambiguity? The answer lies in his conception of film as representing reality in all its confusion, rather than as neatly structured fiction. [The Conversation] is not about a well- made fiction leading to satisfaction. The preference for an elusive and unsettling representation of an elusive unsettling reality over a satisfying conventional fiction typifies a distinctly European attitude to filmmaking,’’ rather than a conventional Hollywood approach (Allinson and Jordan 63). It’s either Coppola’s true Italian roots calling to him, or the influence of a certain Swede, possibly both. Essentially, a Coppola and a Bergman film are about human relationships, and the circumstances in which they have these relationships (either through God, art, business, or otherwise). Powers adds that:

It is interesting that John [Cazale] recognized this [The Conversation] as a story about relationships, professional associations, friendships, and romances playing out all through the film. Harry watches some of these relationships, he records others, and he dabbles in the rest. But, he resists fully embracing any. When his occasional girlfriend Amy disappears from his life, the closest relationship he has is with Stan. Even then, he stops short. ...he [Stan] is attempting to achieve a greater level of intimacy with someone whom he works with everyday, but doesn’t really know. Gulino-Waller 80

...Stan underscores Harry’s resistance to human connection, making his descent into paranoid isolation all the more tragic (81-2).

All of Harry’s relationships in the film come through his work, and yet, not unlike Michael at the end of Godfather II, he loses everybody who loves him. Stan is the link to Harry’s relationships with humans, just as the majority of Bergman’s characters can only find human connections through God...or in Anna’s case in The Silence, sex. These films assert that we can only understand our relationships with God, sex, art, etc. if we understand the relationships we have with the people around us, and vice versa. Shut out those we love the most, the ones who really matter, and it leaves us with doubt (as illustrated by Winter Light). Pastor Tomas Ericsson (Gunnar Björnstrand) withdraws from the closest things he has to friends. In the end, he’s withdrawn from and doesn’t understand God. Your funeral, dude. Dracula is one of the few Coppola films that does showcase explicit homoeroticism (Callie), even if male bonding has always been a theme present in a Coppola film (Apocalypse

DRACULA’s Kiss of Death.

Now, The Outsiders, The Conversation, The Godfather, etc.). It would be a mistake not to. It’s a vampire film. Vampires and werewolves are nothing but symbols of sexual predators, with no limits to their sexuality. Sometimes vampire lore is ‘’associated with homosexuality to further delineate them as outsiders’’ (‘’Francis Ford Coppola’s Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992)’’). Homoerotic undertones have always existed in Stoker’s original novel, which Coppola remains the most faithful to above all other adaptations. The controversial character of Lucy Westenra (Sadie Frost) happens to be a Scarlet Woman like Kay Adams. With her fiery red tresses and her ‘’sexually aggressive manner’’, she poses a threat to male sexuality (not unlike the role of Gulino-Waller 81

Catwoman in the Batman franchise). Writes David Mazzucchelli in the Afterword to Batman: Year One, ‘’If there’s a ‘No Girls Allowed’ sign on their Batcave/Clubhouse, it’s because girls are icky. That’s why Catwoman is dangerous—she represents a maturity the boy’s aren’t ready for. (The live TV show got a lot of mileage from this dynamic)’’ (102). As Lucy is raped and bitten by a werewolf, her behaviour drastically changes, prompting her to become vulnerable, and thus, she is killed out of mercy. ‘’In sacrificing Lucy,’’ writes literary scholar, Kathleen L. Spencer, ‘’the four men [her three suitors and Van Helsing] purge not only their fear of female sexuality generally, of which she is the monstrous expression, but also—and more importantly— their fear of their own sexuality and their capacity for sexually-prompted violence against each other’’ (Chown). Unlike The Godfather films, the sexuality in Dracula is pretty much spelled out. Nothing happens off-screen, or is vaguely implied. Coppola leaves nothing to the imagination because he captures it all on camera. Says Coppola of James V. Hart’s screenplay, he wanted his extravagant vampire film to look ‘’like an erotic dream’’ , the ‘’sultry’’ subject matter being the main element that appealed to him (Higgins Jr.). Then there’s Stoker’s anxiety over his friend, Oscar Wilde’s trial over charges of sodomy, which explains the source for Dracula’s closeted homosexuality (also recall Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray; 1890 whose title character is a hedonistic man keen on both men and women). Although there has been debate over Stoker’s opinions on homosexuality, as he became increasingly homophobic towards the end of his life. However, considering homosexuality was once a crime in England, it could have very well been internalised homophobia from a closeted Victorian man (Genc). More here. Vampires aren’t the only ones in Coppola’s Dracula who express a deeper same-sex affection, but Lucy and her relationship with Mina (Winona Ryder) suggests something deeper than a sisterly bond, something that’s only hinted at in the original novel through their love letters to each other. Oh, Coppola, you finally overcame your homophobisim (just kidding, he was never homophobic, he can just get away with more in the ’90s than he could in the ’70s, apparently):

Thomas Kretschmann and Oliver Jackson-Cohen action in DRACULA T.V. Series (2013-2014). Gulino-Waller 82

The Colour Red (or that...orange thing...depending on how you look at it):

THE PASSION OF ANNA (1969) vs. THE GODFATHER:

[Top]: Liv Ullmann; [Bottom]: Diane Keaton and Robert Duvall...when he still had his hair.

Seriously, I never noticed this. Red is prominent in several colour Bergman films, most Gulino-Waller 83 notably Cries and Whispers. Bergman writes in one of his autobiographies, Images (1990):

All my films can be thought of in terms of black and white, except for Cries and Whispers. In the screenplay, it says that red represents for me the interior of the soul. When I was a child, I imagined the soul to be a dragon, a shadow floating in the air like blue smoke and a huge winged creature, half bird, half fish. But inside the dragon, everything was red. ...all our interiors are red, of various shades. Don’t ask me why it must be so, because I don’t know. I have puzzled over this myself and each explanation has seemed more comical than the last. The bluntest but also the most valid is probably that the whole thing is something internal and that ever since my childhood I have pictured the inside of the soul as a moist membrane in shades of red (Holland).

Bergman’s slight use of colour saturation (notably red) is highly crucial in The Passion of Anna (1969):

The Passion’s dreary colors are periodically punctuated by bright, saturated reds, which carry an array of suggestions where sensuality and violence overlap. The blood of sheep slaughtered by a madman is rendered in painfully bright red. Anna, when Andreas breaks down and attacks her after she confronts his callousness, is clad in a bright red kerchief, intensifying the sense of violent disintegration. Yet in the film’s most cinematically beautiful sequence, Andreas and Eva are bathed in a rich, sensual red that illuminates their desperate passion (cwellum).

Kay Adams-Corleone in The Godfather is often dressed in red. Pablo Villaça outlines a very nice analyses on the change in colour scheme regarding Kay’s wardrobe. The bright reds/oranges that she wears in her costumes are meant to symbolise her status as an outsider. As her character progresses throughout the trilogy, the bright colours become less frequent as she loses her defiant battle against her dictator husband. For Kay, losing her red is her loss of identity. Red often symbolises passion. In the beginning of the film, she’s in love with Michael. But as he slowly exposes himself as a monster, she loses that love for him, so she ceases wearing colours (Villaça). Another interpretation I’ve seen brought up is that Kay is the manifestation of ‘’the Scarlet Woman’’. This could mean a) promiscuous, b) immoral or c) dominant (Karina). Kay is neither a or b but she is, at least in the original book, domineering. C it is, then. In the book, she holds a certain power over Michael (that becomes stamped out in the film for misogynistic reasons). Michael jokes that she is his Don, meaning he will only listen to her authority and no one else’s. Though he doesn’t see her as an equal, she assumes the role of the man in the relationship. Vito even worries his effeminate son is gay, at least for awhile, hah (yes, Mike is actually pretty ‘’feminine’’ in the book, with manicured nails, the works. Although Gulino-Waller 84

Pacino is a bit more ‘’masculine’’ than Michael’s novel physical description, I also won’t say he was totally miscast in the ‘’femme’’ department). ‘’His skin was a clear olive-brown that would have been called beautiful in a girl. He was handsome in a delicate way. Indeed, there had been a time when the Don had worried about his youngest son’s masculinity’’ (Puzo 16). There you have it. See, Freakin’ Michael Worshippers, or Fangirl Ga-Ga’s over Al Pacino’s abs or whatever you’re drooling over, Fredo’s not the only one. ‘’Oh Gah!’’

Religion:

I won’t discuss religion in great detail (as I’ve already discussed it here and here) but it’s worth noting. Ingmar Bergman was the son of a Lutheran minister, but he, himself, was no churchgoer (he was only captivated with the gothic architecture and medieval paintings but nothing more) so this probably explains his weird, cynical relationship with religion in his films. I can’t really pinpoint if he’s satirising or criticizing religious institutions, but he doesn’t seem to be peaches-n’-gravy about it either. Granted, there is a difference that he stresses in his films between the spiritual and the religious. Not saying his films that sprinkle religious and/or spiritual elements are expressing his own views—per se—but one can look at his films to perhaps arrive at a conclusion, or mere speculation, about how he might have felt personally about religion and spirituality (he at least seems to be kinder towards spirituality than he does organised religion).

THE CONVERSATION (1974)

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Coppola also inserted a lot of his own personality traits into Fredo. Actually, as I was reading The Conversation screenplay (the final draft from 22 November, 1972), I drew an immediate connection between the way Coppola wrote the character of Harry Caul and the way he wrote Fredo in The Godfather: Part II screenplay (the second draft from 24 September, 1973). Both Harry and Fredo are troubled men with odd relationships concerning the Catholic religion. There is a scene in The Conversation, for instance, where Harry relates to Ann some private moments in his life that he’s never shared with anyone (this is presented through a dream sequence in the film, whereas in the screenplay, he follows Ann to a park. Although due to Harry losing grip on his absolute reality towards the end of the story, this may not actually be happening): ‘’I hated a Nun because she slapped me…but I loved the Virgin Mary because she gave me anything I wanted whenever I prayed to her.’’ It should become immediately apparent that all these instances from Harry’s past are actually Coppola’s own memories from his early life. He reprises this semi autobiographical technique when expanding Fredo’s story in Part II. Similar to Harry, Fredo loves the Virgin Mary unconditionally because she gives him anything he asks for when he prays to her, even if he has an overall troubled relationship with the Catholic religion (whereas Harry was struck by a nun, Fredo was sexually molested by a parish priest). It is implied in the unofficial novel sequel that Fredo was repeatedly sexually molested by the local parish priest, Father Stefano, which was the main cause for Fredo not doing well in school and confining himself to his bedroom where he continued to live under his parents’ roof until age thirty. Michael passes off his brother’s withdrawal as egotism, but doesn’t fully understand what truly caused Fredo to draw into his shell, or discontinue his religious studies. Ever since Fredo was ten, he wanted to become a priest:

The Corleones became active in their new church. At first even Vito attended. Fredo went with his mother to mass almost every day. When he was ten, he stood up at supper and announced that he’d had a talk with Father Stefano, his mother’s favorite celebrant and also his boxing coach, and decided to become a priest. The family exploded in congratulations. That night, Michael sat on the fire escape and watched his mother parade Fredo around the neighborhood. By the time Fredo returned, his face was covered with smeared lipstick (Winegardner 365-66).

The neighbourhood women aren’t the only ones who find Freddie Corleone irresistibly innocent and charming. When Fredo takes up boxing training as well as religious studies under Father Stefano, he becomes a strong teenager (‘’Fredo emerged quite unexpectedly at thirteen as a strong and powerful young man. Though undersized,’’ (368)) which no doubt attracts the Father. It is not known whether Fredo was first violated at the tender age of ten or first taken advantage of at thirteen when he began his transformation, but due to his vulnerability he no doubt became an easy target. The sexual molestation must have taken place between the ages of thirteen and sixteen:

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Michael couldn’t have pinpointed a moment when all this changed, when Fredo’s clumsiness became something darker, when the self-sufficiency became sullen self-absorption. It must have happened gradually, but to Michael, it seemed that one moment Fredo was a weakling, the next he was a strong, serious young man, and the next he was locked in his room for hours at a time. At sixteen, Fredo announced what everyone but his mother already assumed: he no longer wished to become a priest (369).

It continues to affect Fredo throughout the rest of his life. At the wedding of his niece, Sonny’s daughter Francesca, he is painfully reminded of Father Stefano, and confesses to the reader it’s the main reason he drinks so much:

It was a rough thing to handle, though, who could blame a guy for wanting to drown his sorrows? Fredo knew even as it was happening that he was drinking too much, but under the circumstances it didn’t seem like a federal offense. Also, there was the matter of the priest at the ceremony—a dead ringer for Father Stefano, the priest who’d made Fredo want to be a priest: same lopsided smile, a plume of black hair combed just the same way, same slim-hipped build, like a long-distance runner’s. Fredo tried not to think about Father Stefano, and most of the time he succeeded—months passed without so much as a momentary image— but at those rare times he did think of him, Fredo would end up drinking too much. If people everywhere didn’t drink to forget, half the songs on the radio and three-fourths of the world’s distilleries would disappear (300).

In the film, Fredo’s relationship to God is less complicated, but his ‘’conception of religion’’ is still ‘’childlike’’ (MacDowell). Coppola admits in The Godfather: Part II DVD commentary that Fredo’s ‘’Hail Mary’’ philosophy indeed stemmed from his own childhood:

I was always a magical kid. All I had to do was say a Hail Mary, and it would come true. That story Fredo tells in Godfather II—every time you say a Hail Mary you catch a fish—that was me! I once caught twenty-two fish because I said twenty-two Hail Marys. And then all of a sudden, you say the Hail Mary and it doesn’t work, in the most profound sense you could imagine. It just makes you realize that being a human being is not to have everything go the way a child wants it to go.

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James Gounaris and John Cazale.

The ongoing relationships these two directors had with God shows up in their films repeatedly, but it doesn’t necessarily stand for their beliefs, and their upbringing shouldn’t be held entirely responsible for how they choose to depict religion vs. spirituality in their films.

Dreams:

Dreams are ever present in both directors’ works. Bergman’s dreams, especially, are prominent. Coppola may not incorporate dream sequences as often in his films, although Dracula feels like one big long dream, and his most recent film Twixt (2011) explores a quirky and unusual subconscious. However, The Conversation employs many of Coppola’s reoccurring childhood dreams, which renders the film’s many questionable scenes mysterious. For example, the ‘’dream sequence’’ in The Conversation was originally intended to be the end of the film, but due to public outrage over the fog, Coppola quit and made a last minute rewrite (according to his commentary). But of course, we don’t know if this is a dream or not. It’s not unlike the scene in Persona where Elisabet’s husband (Gunnar Björnstrand) visits the two women on the island. Blogger Constantin Berzan notes that:

…is it a dream or not? Here is what the screenplay has to say:

After a few hours of heavy sleep, she [Alma] is awakened by a feeling of paralysis — a stiffness seeking its way in towards her lungs and groping at her heart. The fog rolls in through the open window and the room floats in a grey Gulino-Waller 89

half-light. She succeeds in raising her hand to the bedside lamp — but no light comes. (p82)

This seems to support the dream hypothesis, since flipping a light switch in a dream often leaves the lighting unchanged. (The dreaming brain creates its own optimum lighting conditions.) (Berzan).

THE SILENCE Plot vs. Freud vs. GODFATHER II Plot and Analysis (and Freud):

More obvious is the relationship between Michael and Fredo mirroring Ester and Anna. But aside from jealousy, and the younger sibling being more adept and successful, in ways, and the older sibling being frustrated and sick, there is the implied incest with Ester and Anna that critics like to pick up on between Michael and Fredo. I don’t think there’s any real homoeroticism going on with Coppola (maybe except Dracula and The Outsiders, the latter of which he had to edit down immensely due to ‘’concerns about length and possible homoerotic overtones’’ (Dauth)), but in the Godfather II screenplay, he does write a rather disturbing Oedipal Complex for Fredo. To him, Michael’s like a drug he’s literally addicted to, or in Coppola’s own words, ‘’high’’ from Michael’s attention. Coppola sums it up in one run-on sentence, and it’s pretty creepy:

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Fredo puts his arm around his brother; he is high with the first attention Mike has ever given him, as though finally he is being taken seriously; as though his brother needs him.

It’s pathetic, sad and disturbing all at once. In the scenes where the brothers are expressing a platonic love, tension tends to boil over in the room. They’re both two-sided coins, either suspecting the other (Mike) or keeping a secret (Fredo). The ‘’love’’ between them, too, can also be said to be unrequited (as Coppola continues to emphasise, Fredo wants Mike, and Mike needs him, not wants him. The bastard doesn’t even trust him for a second because ‘’he’s weak and stupid, and stupid people are the most dangerous of all’’). There is actually more than one power struggle here, because at least in the screenplay, Tom (Robert Duvall) also has a complex, and craves Mike’s attention, resulting in Fredo and Tom fighting over him, as if things aren’t complicated enough. I know, right? We missed out on a huge brotherly love-triangle. Luckily for us, Tom’s entire story arch is deleted from the film because Coppola felt the original idea was too congested and lacked a sense of direction in where the real story needed to go. Tom’s subplot was, in turn, reserved for Part III, which never happened as Bobby Duvall pulled over a financial disagreement, so, essentially, (Posh Jaws) Part II only revolves around the two sharks...er...brothers rather than the three. ‘’Oh Lord, there’s another one!’’ I still think a threesome would have been interesting, nonetheless, even if we got enough male love triangles in The Conversation. They are based on the Borgias, so to me this makes total sense but I dunno, it just ended up not happening. If Bergman was able to break down the sex wall in Sweden circa 1960’s, I can’t understand what the problem would be in America in the 1970’s. Fredo does not exactly fall under the Oedipal theory, and yet there is an underlying homoeroticism that crops up, more or less sexual in nature. It leans more towards the absence of Fredo’s unresolved issues with his father, rather than his sexual confusion. The film fails to realise this, but according to the screenplay, when Mike gives his brother any bit of attention, no matter how small, Fredo’s vampiric thirst for attention escalates into a dangerous adrenaline rush (note, vampire scenes). He craves attention, and is pretty spoiled like his sister, Connie, actually (who uses very similar means to gain Mike’s attention). He is used to being coddled by his family, who pampers him as a child (well, Vito spoils all his children, the bloke, and you wonder why they all have issues). Fredo, though, has special needs as a child, due to his constant illnesses and learning disabilities. His mother, Carmela, though not particularly ashamed of Fredo, spends most of her early life concerned over her middle child. Hence, she keeps Fredo under her apron strings until he is thirty, which is not the wisest way to handle that situation. Rather than try to teach him how to be self-reliant with all his mental handicaps, his mother thinks it safer for him to remain at home under her careful watch. His family also never explains to him why he is different (not that there is much awareness on mental illnesses and learning defects during this era), so every time Fredo hiccups, they turn their heads the other way rather than interfere. Because y’know, it’s so much easier to brush things under the rug and pretend they don’t exist, or it’s not a problem, rather than take responsibility for it. That being said, Gulino-Waller 91

Fredo becomes accustomed to making mistakes and having his family cover up for him, or pat him on the back for doing wrong (recall how Michael practically rewards Fredo for not taking care of his wife’s outburst during the Tahoe party). Fredo eventually becomes aware of this, and develops an unhealthy boy’s Oedipus Complex. To put it in the terms of Freud (that fucktard) the father threatens the son’s masculinity, hence the sexual desire of a son for his mother to retain his masculinity. In the view of the basic reasoning, Freud stresses the boys giving up the mother to retain his masculinity has to do with his assumption that one cannot be a proper male unless one is the dominant partner in a heterosexual relationship. A boy must therefore relinquish his mother or be a failure as a male. Yet, Fredo, with obvious masculine power struggles, actually has Daddy Issues. He knows he is not the favourite (no, that would be Michael) and so he scrounges to please his father whatever the cost, all the time resenting his younger half. He is the Don’s most obedient son, and up until his exile, Fredo never shames his father with womanising behaviour. Fredo only falls out of grace with Vito because he fails to protect him, and then further angers Vito with his sexual exploits. Rather than try to win favour back into his father’s care, Fredo continues to fuck up (literally) and ends up on his father’s Shit List. Fredo, unlike Mike, does not intentionally become a rebel to purposely anger his father. He’s just naive and for the first time away from home, dangerously begins to explore his sexuality. Apparently, none of his parents informed him about the birds and the bees (Dr. Jules Segal expresses concern about Fredo’s unprotected sex— he contracts various STD’s—and seriously considers giving Freddie a father-son talk about protected sex). Who’s fault is that? Carmela, at least, wants to keep Fredo young and innocent forever, and that doesn’t last long. Vito, too, shelters his middle son in fear that Freddie will eventually end up like Sonny (a sex crazed maniac Man’s Man) or Johnny (Al Martino)—a Ladies’ Man rumoured to be a finocc’ or fruit or whatever you wanna call it, trying to recover from a million divorces and mistresses. Unfortunately, Fredo’s parents’ fears come true. Fredo eventually gives up his heterosexual attachment to his mother in order to become more of a man. He wants to be more masculine like his older brother, Sonny (who negatively influences Fredo), and thinks the only way he can do that is chase women that aren’t his mother and sister (which, according to Sicilian culture, is actually a sign of weakness for a man rather than a sign of strength. However, America is a backwards country, apparently, and chasing women is the only way to assure a man he’s not gay). We all know, notwithstanding, that Fredo’s anxiety to go to such great lengths to prove he’s straight as a line ends up disfavouring him more than favouring him. His mother is sick with heartbreak when she hears of her son’s promiscuity, and his father completely disowns him. Fredo tries and fails to make up with his father, and by the end of Vito’s life, the two are barely speaking. Freddie is not allowed to come home unless he stops screwing anything that walks, and when his father finally croaks, Freddie never sees him again or makes amends. Michael assumes the role of Father after that and what do you think happens? Now it’s Mike that Freddie tries to please, and also because Fredo never made up with his father, so pleasing Mike is the only way he can fulfil that obligation. As mentioned above, Fredo at first Gulino-Waller 92 does not accept Mike as the Father. Mike threatens Fredo’s masculinity (i.e., threatens to castrate him), and for the time being, Mike also has a supposed (well, according to Freud’s fucked up analyses of the situation), Mike continues Vito’s heterosexual attachment to their mother. Gross. This is only hypothetically speaking, as Freud’s theories are not literal. Nevertheless, pretend it’s all true, therefore, Mikey is clearly the more powerful individual by virtue. Masculinity in this society and for Freud means not only heterosexuality but also dominance in heterosexual relations; this dominance would be threatened if the mother-son relationship were not radically rejected by the son. Mike does gain a wifey later, which transfers his power over his mother to another woman and his children—apparently, the only two things that really makes a man (rolls eyes). An aging Carmela later depends on Mike, who moves her into his gigantic Tahoe estate. Mike, actually, wants to reunite the entire family, whose nuclear dynamic divided over the years. The ’50s, after all, was that desired return to normalcy, and establishing that nuclear family dynamic assures that. I’m getting somewhere, I promise. Ahem. Because Fredo moves into Lake Tahoe, now he, too, is dependable on Mike. This power struggle continues to symbolically castrate him (men depending on other men, let alone their baby brothers? Outrageous!). Fredo also develops that feminine thing called ‘’penis envy’’ (Freud assumes ‘’male dominance’’ in his unexamined statement that girls are castrated because they have no penis). The constant reminder that Fredo is not a ‘’real man’’—whatever the fuck that means—is simply implying he’s more woman than man, and lacks a penis. Harsh. Apparently, Mike’s role as Father castrates Freddie’s penis (I’m not making this up, it’s Freud’s bullshit theory), and if that’s the case, Mike has the bigger dick. Might I remind you that he’s the younger brother? Oh Lordy Lord, that’s gotta burn. Thus, in Freud’s Oedipal scenario, Fredo is threatened with the loss of his masculinity, not by the dominance of his father, but by the dominance of his kid brother. Allow me to stress the key word here: kid. You’re welcome. In Freud’s account, the boy resolves his Oedipus Complex by repressing his love for his mother and identifying with or internalising the authority of the father. In Fredo’s unique case, though, Fredo has to repress his love for his brother, at which point, his male dominance installs only when he loathes his brother’s authority. Freud’s version has the boy resolve his Oedipus Complex by giving up his desire for his mother and identifying with the patriarchal power of the father over his wife and children. He acquires a superego that embodies the patriarchal rules. The son desires his mother and sisters and hates the father, but in the end, he accedes to the law of the father that allows him manhood only if he gives up his mother. Fredo accepts his father’s control (unlike Mike), and follows his father blindly, as do all the sons. Fredo does not completely accept Mike pulling his strings, but in the midst of resenting him, he also represses a desire for him (not sexual, but a desire to be Mike’s center of attention). In order to resolve his complex, Fredo has no choice but to accept Mike as the Father and bow to his laws. He also has to give up his desire for Mike, and turn that attachment to a woman who is not his mother or sister. Fredo, though, can’t institute any dominance over his wife, and they never have children to establish the so-called patriarchal rules of dominance, therefore, Fredo turns instead to exercising his control Gulino-Waller 93 in bed with other women. It’s the only way he can feel like ‘’a real man’’, and it’s the only way he can feed his starved superego, or lack, thereof. Because Fredo never really becomes an absolute father and husband (the patriarchal family man that all his brothers, but him, achieve— in the book, he never even gets married) in spite of being an Uncle to all his siblings’ gazillion kids, he fails to abdicate the family role, and also fails at becoming ‘’a real man’’. Supposedly, at least by the standards of Sicilian culture and the 1950’s society expectations of adult males. The last resort he has is by exercising sexual control over other men, which is the total solution, according to Freud, in fulfilling his repressed desire for Mike. His sex with women is his mask to hide his insecurities, but his sex with men is his totem for control, which prepares him to join the world of males. His main passion in life is for wealth and power, not for sex. He wants desperately to be a part of the man’s world. Also, because Fredo craves any amount of attention, he’ll settle for anyone, even a stranger: man, woman, purple people eater and otherwise. He needs someone to adore him in a way his brother can’t, even though it becomes clear in Coppola’s screenplay, it’s his brother that he really wants (I’m not shitting you, go read the damn thing). Mike can’t ever meet his needs, thus, Fredo turns to alcoholism to deal with all this, and according to Coppola, the alcoholism is a substitute for Fredo’s addiction to Mike. Wait, it gets better. When Mike finally decides to let Fredo into his inner circle, Fredo can die of happiness. He’s ‘’high’’ from brotherly love. Mike takes the place of all those uppers, downers, laughers, and screamers that Fredo relies on. Conclusively, he’s a sad existence. All he wants is to be treated importantly with respect (his tagline-in a thick Boston accent: ‘’I’m smaht and I want respect!’’), to be paid attention to, to be taken seriously. He just wants to enter the world of adult males, rather than being treated like a child or an incompetent, powerless woman (because women get doors shut on their faces all the time in this series, and Fredo, too, gets the Nora Helmer treatment). Believe it or not, I obtained all that information from just that one measly line in the screenplay. Coppola pretty much sums it up; one doesn’t even have to watch the whole movie to get that. Freud, baby. There is a great similarity in Fredo’s ‘’I’m smart!’’ scene to the vampire scene in Persona as well. Both scenes are shot in silhouette, by a window, with the two characters sitting at first. Alma often tries to stand, though, in order to dominate Elisabet. Elisabet doesn’t even need to stand. It’s perfectly clear where the power in the scene is being distributed. But as Alma’s sanity crumbles, she loses the battle, although constantly tries to gather her bearings and appear more composed physically than her mental state allows. Alma, like Fredo, is extremely frustrated, while Elisabet remains silent like Michael. Elisabet and Michael appear almost unsympathetic to Alma and Fredo’s plea as Alma bangs her hands on the table and Fredo uses the chair to appear like a praying mantis on his back, submissive, desperate. ‘’Fredo never gets out of the chair. He could have chosen to stand toe-to-toe with his kid brother, but he would never dare. Fredo never challenges upward. He’ll bully someone beneath him...mutter empty threats’’ (Powers101). Alma attempts to chastise Elisabet, whisper darkly in her ear that Elisabet will never defeat her. In reality, she already has and Alma can’t bear it. Alma is a textbook case Gulino-Waller 94 of manic depression. She zooms from highs to lows to calmness to tantrums faster than the Energizer Bunny. Eventually, Alma gives in, and slices her arm, offering herself to Elisabet (whether this is really happening or is all in Alma’s head is not made certain). In comparison, after Fredo’s outburst is over, ‘’Fredo collapses back into the chair in disbelief and defeat. He finally made his case, and nobody cares’’ (Powers 102). Elisabet and Michael instead react in stone cold silence. It becomes clear when comparing these two scenes side by side that Andersson and Cazale were the only capable actors who could play these parts. None of them strive to rob the scene from Ullmann and Pacino (the bigger stars at the time), none of them were going for the Oscar, not that either of them were nominated (the Oscars, anyway, wouldn’t nominate a foreign actress in a foreign film, even though she was nominated for a BAFTA Award and won the Guldbagge and NSFC Awards. Unfortunately, Persona received no Oscar noms for the Best Foreign Film category. Cazale was never nominated or won a single award for his performance as Fredo, even though it’s one of the most iconic roles in American film history). And yet, it’s their character’s crowning moment, and the single most memorable performances in these two films. The scenes are also comparable to Anna’s confession of her hatred and loathing towards Ester in The Silence. One might even say the same for Cazale’s performance as Sal in Dog Day. ‘’Sal’s presence, after all, is dominant in the movie, providing the central suspense’’ just as Ullmann’s presence as Elisabet in Persona is the leading cause-and- effect for Alma spiralling downhill. Whereas Cazale can be compared to the likes of the bouncy Alma in Persona as the neurotic Fredo, he’s much more the mute to Ullmann’s Elisabet as Sal. Cazale and Ullmann ‘’complete the scene, rather than hijack it. He [Cazale] feeds Mr. Pacino’s frenetic energy as Sonny, sending him into overdrive’’ (Powers 130-1) just as Ullmann’s Elisabet drives Andersson’s Alma to mere insanity with nothing but her silence and the unreadable, unfathomably deep sockets of her gorgeous, endless eyes like windows. Continues Powers, ‘’The two actors [Pacino and Cazale] also demonstrate the power of trust. They had known each other for nearly a decade by the time they filmed this movie [Dog Day]. Mr. Pacino has said he regarded John [Cazale] as not only an acting partner, but as something of an older brother as well’’ (131). ‘’I felt that there was a special trust between us,’’ says Pacino. ‘’It’s hard to explain. It’s something that I felt when I worked in theater with my relatives. It is wonderful to work with someone in your family, someone you’ve known for a long time. One understands why members of the same family of actors like to work together, there is a subtext because one is known at another level. ‘’I felt that for John Cazale,’’ he adds, referring to the late actor as part of his family (Jorge). The same can perhaps be said of Bergman’s cast. Bergman, if it isn’t already apparent, frequently collaborated with the same people, over and over. He often reversed the roles of his actors to demonstrate that they could each equally play any role Bergman wrote for them, as extra bit of fun, not unlike Pacino and Cazale reversing their roles between Godfather II and Dog Day (whereas Fredo is eccentric and Michael the strong silent type, it’s the other way around in the following film). Gulino-Waller 95

For instance, Gunnar Björnstrand’s role is reversed from Seventh Seal in Winter Light. There are many comparisons between the characters of Antonius Block and Tomas Ericsson, for one, but here, Björnstrand plays the religious man in self doubt rather than the one who prefers to laugh at God, as his character Jöns the squire does in Seventh Seal. In Winter Light, Max Von Sydow, who plays the knight Antonius in Seventh Seal, now plays the fisherman Jonas Persson in Winter Light, who kills himself out of fear of a coming atomic war. Jonas seeks comfort from the pastor, who does not respond to Jonas’ need. Jonas is a bit similar to Antonius in that he is a bit God-fearing. Tomas is more like Antonius, though, in that he no longer has the answers and chooses to reject God’s existence. Also note Tomas’ and Antonius’ trauma of the war (perhaps Antonius is a past life of Tomas, who is reborn as a pastor, as he was a knight searching for spiritual answers. Instead of the plague, he’s suffering a cold, only that Jonas takes on the physical likeness of Antonius. Maybe Antonius is Jonas’ past life instead and Jöns the squire who mocked death only because he was secretly afraid returns as the pastor who has lost his faith. I dunno, either or). Both Tomas and Antonius though begin disillusioned, but Antonius somewhat—although he doesn’t necessarily achieve his goal—he comes to accept his fate, or just really doesn’t have a choice. At the outset of the film, Antonius states that he is in quest of one action that would give meaning to his life. At the end of the film, he finds that meaning by distracting Death and thereby allowing Jof and Mia to escape. Tomas, though, doesn’t arrive at a certainty in his fate, nor does he restore his faith in humanity and their potential in the eyes of God. When Death finally enters the castle, Antonius trembles, recites his prayers, and hopes to be rescued. Jöns mocks him saying “there is no one to listen to your lament. I could have purged your worries about eternity, but now it’s too late. But feel, to the very end, the triumph of being alive.” Tomas reacts similarly to the suicide of Jonas. He seems relatively detached, if not mocking, of Jonas’ plight. Rather than help him, or reassure him as a pasture should, he shoots down any hopes of God he may have left. If Tomas can’t believe in God, how can he expect the handful of loyal congregation to not lose their faith? I don’t even think Jonas took his own life due to his paranoia of a nuclear attack from China, but it was Tomas, his last shard of hope, who just depressed the holy crap out of him. ‘’Like, thanks, dude. But no thanks. You obviously don’t care so I don’t. Fuck it.’’ Bergman not only constantly reversed the roles of Sydow and Björnstrand (they appear, once again together, in Through a Glass Darkly —three Bergman collaborations, which is why I call them the Pacino and Cazale of Sweden. Not counting Wild Strawberries, as they had minor parts and didn’t even share the screen), but he also frequently had Andersson and Ullmann co- star, as well as Andersson and Thulin (listing all the collaborators of Bergman will take forever, but browse any of his cast lists and you’ll see all the same people). Ullmann and Andersson are once more trapped on an island together in a battle of lust in The Passion of Anna, only this time Max Von Sydow takes the place of his acting partner Gunnar Björnstrand as their heterosexual go-between. They also collaborated once more in Scenes from a Marriage, although Andersson only appeared in one episode. In total, Andersson made 13 movies with Bergman and Ullmann Gulino-Waller 96 made 10 (plus a daughter). As Pacino might put it, ‘’That’s why there are many actors and directors who continuously work together, because that trust creates a work

[Top]: John Cazale and James Gounaris; [Bottom]: Ingrid Thulin and Jörgen Lindström. Gulino-Waller 97

environment that’s more enjoyable and creative’’ (Jorge). So fuck nepotism, the criticism that Coppola continuously receives unfairly. If you work well with someone, even if that someone is a friend or family member, then by hand of God, stick with it. Bergman had a method we all could follow and no one accused him of nepotism, even when he had frequent affairs with his leading ladies, resulting in a shit ton of marriages and divorces, butthat’sanotherstory. In The Silence, note the freaky family dynamics of Ester, Anna, and Johan. Many people have picked up on a weirdly incestuous relationship not only between the two sisters (Blakeslee), but also between Anna and her son (Wilson). Anna can only express herself in terms of sexuality. She is unable to have human relationships without having sex. The interactions between her and Johan are more appropriate for lovers. They also sleep naked together. At a

Jörgen Lindström and Gunnel Lindblom in THE SILENCE (1963). glance, it’s not weird. I didn’t think much of it at first. It’s not that unusual for children to see their parents naked at least once, and they only sleep without their clothes because the country they are vacationing in is sweltering hot. To Americans, extreme intimacy is strange, I don’t know why. Homoeroticism or family incest may be Bergman’s intention, but there is that culture clash that one has to keep in mind. In terms of The Silence, I didn’t think there were ulterior Gulino-Waller 98 motives at first. As the film progresses, it’s clear Ester is more than jealous of her more beautiful sister being able to get laid. She acts as though she wants to sleep with her sister. She admits finding Anna in the arms of a man is ‘’humiliating’’ for her, not only because it insults her womanhood, or lack, thereof, but she seems heartbroken. Literally heartbroken, as though she’s been dumped. So Bergman is definitely intending more. It’s not the first or last time he’s ventured incestuous families. I can’t say the same for Coppola, but Fredo and Michael—like any pair of average siblings—need each other like an old married couple, at the same time, they can’t stand each other. Probably not as much as Ester and Anna though. Anna even wishes her sister dead. Fredo unintentionally injures Michael, and Michael eventually kills him (but Fredo’s intentions meant well, and any harm that came to Michael was an accident). Plus, it’s clear Michael still deeply loves his brother, and regrets murdering him for the rest of his sorry ass life. When Anna wishes ill will on Ester, you can’t help but believe her. Ironically, Ester, who has been ill throughout the length of the trip, falls deeper ill after Anna curses her. Anna eventually abandons her and doesn’t seem to regret it. As for Ester’s fate? The ending is ambiguous. Anna takes her son and leaves the country, leaving Ester in the hotel, her illness taking its toll on her. I think Ester will eventually die, if not from her disease, then from heartbreak, most certainly. It’s also not clear who Johan prefers more. But it’s definitely a love triangle. In the beginning of the film, Johan naturally favours his mother, Anna. He seems stand- offish at first to his aunt. Godfather II is the complete opposite of this. Anthony (James Gounaris), Michael’s son, is ‘’crazy about Uncle Fredo’’ (Winegardner 359), even prefers him as a father figure over his real father (sounds a bit like M. Night Shyamalan’s Signs; 2002). But Michael is never there for Anthony. He communicates with him, mostly, through notes. He flakes out on Christmas because he’s on a business trip, and has his men buy a gift for Anthony. Anthony, at first, tries to please his father, as is natural for kids. He tries his hardest to win Michael’s affection. It’s easier with Fredo, because Fredo’s a big kid himself. They have the same interests, and Fredo’s just altogether more warm and fuzzy. When Fredo is murdered by the hands of his own brother, Anthony is devastated and never gets over his death (‘’He didn’t stop crying for days’’). The trauma of losing his favourite uncle carries over into adulthood: Anthony ‘’never again went fishing’’ (360). Thanks, Mike, you fucked up your kid for life. In The Silence, Johan seems afraid of his aunt, due to her illness. She’s also a bit more stand-offish because she works hard as a translator for foreign books. When she tries to touch Johan, he recoils and runs to his mother. ‘’Is Anna only allowed to touch you?’’ she asks. Anna is perhaps not the best role model for a mother due to her promiscuity but she possesses the maternal qualities that Ester does not. Later, though, when Anna takes Johan away with her, Johan seems detached from his mother, after having witnessed her making love to a strange man. It’s like he begins to blame Anna for their problems (or maybe he’s jealous, I dunno), and starts to see her in different light. He also seems to have developed a soft spot for Ester, when she writes him a letter about the words in the foreign language, which he brings with him on the train. He wants to stay with Ester but Anna forces him to leave. Again, the film has no closure. There’s nothing but open-ended uncertainty. Gulino-Waller 99

I dunno, probably reading too much into it, but like any Bergman film, there’s just something more beautiful about his work that you really can’t mimic.

[Top]: James Gounaris an Al Pacino; [Bottom]: Gunnel Lindblom and Jörgen Lindström. Gulino-Waller 100

Continuing the Coppola comparisons— PERSONA vs. THE GODFATHER: PART II:

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SHAME (1968) vs. THE GODFATHER: PART II:

Every little detail down to the placement of the wine glass on the table, the trees out-of-focus behind them, and the over-the-shoulder shot. Gulino-Waller 102

Even this shot from Shame looks similar:

Liv Ullmaan and Gunnar Björnstrand.

I mean, Coppola could have shot the Havana, Cuba scene in Godfather two from any angle. He could have chosen a profile view instead. But no, he chooses to shoot the scene from behind the vulnerable character as they spill their shame and regrets, with the looming, intimidating source of repression glowering in our view. How’s that for Bergman?

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THE PASSION OF ANNA vs. THE GODFATHER: PART II:

[Top]: Max Von Sydow and Liv Ullmann; [Bottom]: John Cazale and Robert Duvall.

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[Top]:Max Von Sydow; [Bottom]: John Cazale.

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THE SILENCE vs. THE GODFATHER: PART II:

[Top]: Birger Malmsten and Gunnel Lindblom; [Bottom]: John Cazale and Al Pacino.

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WILD STRAWBERRIES vs. THE GODFATHER: PART II:

[Top]: Ingrid Thulin and Victor Sjöström; [Bottom]: Al Pacino and John Cazale.

I’m not arguing that Bergman invented these shots or that it’s particularly unique to his oeuvre, but since Coppola has cited Bergman as a personal favourite of his, watching some of his films have Bergman qualities in specific shots, such as the way he frames his subjects and defines spaces. If I watch a Coppola film, and one particular shot leaps out to me that says ‘’That reminds me of Wild Strawberries,’’ it doesn’t mean Coppola is directly referencing that film, it Gulino-Waller 107 just means that particular image reminded me of something Bergman would do, and I can perhaps pin the influence, hence why it’s worth noting.

Woody Allen:

[Top]: Ingrid Thulin and Gunnel Lindblom; [Bottom]: Kristin Griffith, Mary Beth Hurt and Diane Keaton. Gulino-Waller 108

Woody Allen is perhaps more obvious than Coppola where The Silence is concerned (e.g. Interiors (1978), Another Woman (1988)... ‘’I-wish-I-were-Ingmar Bergman’’ style films of Woody Allen):

[Top]: Jörgen Lindström; [Bottom]: Diane Keaton.

Let me stress the keyword here: Interiors. You’re welcome. Interiors explores the deteriorating Gulino-Waller 109 relationship between three sisters, a common theme for Bergman, who loves his fair share of repressed sibling desires. Allen’s use of mirrors and Gordon Willis’ cinematography in Interiors (Willis is also the D.O.P. of The Godfather films), is a direct obvious visual reference to Bergman:

The 2010 film, Submarine directed by Richard Ayoade pays homage to Allen’s Interiors, which in turn, pays homage to Bergman’s Silence.

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Interiors was mostly praised but criticised as well for mimicking Bergman’s style without understanding it. Vincent Canby of The New York Times writes that, “It’s almost as if Mr. Allen had set out to make someone else’s movie, say a film in the manner of Mr. Bergman, without having any grasp of the material, or first-hand, gut feelings about the characters. They seem like other people’s characters, known only through other people’s art” (Tobias). Much like a Bergman film, Interiors also focuses on a manipulative mother (Geraldine Page) and her control over her three daughters. Writes Scott Tobias, ‘’White on black titles. No music. Cut to interior shots of an empty, meticulously appointed Long Island beach house on a foggy morning, before we see Diane Keaton with her hand on the window, as if trapped in this suffocating place’’ (Tobias), an openning scene all too familiar to fans of Mr. Bergman. Male characters are not prominent, recalling Persona and The Silence (Kael), and the youngest daughter Joey (Mary Beth Hurt) becomes the film’s emotional center (Spencer).

Oh, and the colour red. Boom:

Geraldine Page and E.G. Marshall.

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Particularly, the window shots in Interiors are reminiscent of Persona:

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Allen says of Bergman:

When the area of concern in cinema shifted from the external world to the internal, Bergman developed a grammar, a vocabulary to express these inner conflicts brilliantly. Part of this grammar was the use of the close-up in a way it hadn’t been used before. Very close and very long, long, long static close-ups. The effect is so exciting because it’s infused with his special genius (Macnab). Gulino-Waller 113

Food for Thought: Terrence Malick?

I have yet to see anyone mention Terrence Malick, but there seems to be slight parallels to his auteur style in comparison to Bergman, most notably The Tree of Life (2011) versus Wild Strawberries:

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THE SILENCE vs. THE TREE OF LIFE:

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Gordon Willis:

Another film which did not initially occur to me is Cinematographer Gordon Willis’ first and only directorial debut, Windows (1980). Best known as the DOP who frequently worked with Coppola and Allen (which might explain the slight Bergman parallels in his visual style), he’s been dubbed The Prince of Darkness (a nickname he actually hated) for his trademark use of shadows. Though I haven’t seen Windows been compared to Bergman, just the title and the shots alone have the style of a Bergman film, although lacking in storytelling. Some shots remind me a bit of Hitchcock as well, particularly this shot reminiscent of Rear Window:

Windows tells the story of a shy, sweet mousy stutterer, Emily Hollander (Talia Shire), who is unknowingly stalked by her sultry-voiced seductive best friend, Adriana Glassen (Elizabeth Ashley), who harbours an unrequited crush on Emily. There’s much dramatic irony at play, as we already figure out the mystery from the get-go that Adriana hired a sadistic taxi cab driver, Lawrence Obency (Rick Petrucelli) to break into Emily’s apartment, sexually assault her, and record it all on tape for Adriana to play back over and over as she obsessively spies at Emily through a telescope from across the bridge. The Detective working Emily’s case, Bob Luffrono (Al Pacino and Dustin Hoffman’s love child, Joseph Cortese), begins to fall in love with her, thus igniting Adriana to experience a jealous rage. Though the screenplay lacks, your eyes are married to the screen for 96 minutes, the performances are exceptional, and the themes feel Bergman meets Hitchcock-esque. The lesbian lust, like Persona and The Silence, is never crowned on screen, but there’s plenty of voyeurism and sexual poetry from a tortured artist. The Gulino-Waller 116 film was poorly received, and garnered much backlash for its negative portrayal of lesbians. Roger Ebert himself gave the film only two stars. Oh well, at least it’s pretty to look at.

[Top]: Elizabeth Ashley; [Bottom]: Liv Ullmann. Gulino-Waller 117

Even the posters of Windows and The Silence looks similar:

Gulino-Waller 118

Also, fuck yeah lesbians:

[Top]: Ingrid Thulin and Gunnel Lindblom; [Bottom]: Talia Shire and Elizabeth Ashley.

Gulino-Waller 119

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