the early seventies along with the old Adyar Bookshop that stood nearby.
‘We all want to fuck young girls,’ observed Polanski in his own defence. He was using the word broadly: he sodomised her as well, having first drugged her.
I’m pretty sure it was in a Bergman film I first heard anyone speak in a non-Latin foreign tongue. To this day I delight in the intonation of the Swedish tongue on the rare occasions I hear it.
I once had a Swedish mule in my wing who’d never set eyes on the Wide Brown Land. He had to conjure it up from what he could hear beyond the wall. Arrested at the airport, taken straight to Goulburn.
How comforting to hear again the Swedish tongue and to see once more those vivid, wind-swept pines on the Baltic isle upon which Bergman shot so many of his seminal black and white features, and how very slow-moving those features seem today. It was on the stony beach in front of Bergman’s Faro farmhouse that the knight, played by a typically grim and gaunt Max von Sydow, had his fateful game of chess. Walking back to my vehicle having just watched Saraband, shot in 2003, Bergman’s final film as director starring Liv Ullmann at sixty-five, the older the fiddle the sweeter the tune, I realised for the first time that the impact Bergman’s films had upon me as a teenage virgin was largely attributable to the close-ups of the face of Liv Ullmann. Why, even now in my seventies, I could recognise every freckle as she faced off against Max von Sydow in Shame, filmed in ’68. I wonder to what extent other cinephile ephebes may have imprinted on Ullmann, thanks to Bergman, as the archetype of feminine allure. Sven Nykvist, his cinematographer, prefers natural light, which doesn’t amount to much in those hyperborean latitudes, and focusses heavily, in every film he shoots, on facial expression, notably those of Bergman’s paramours, Liv, Harriet, Bibi et al. And we now know what we merely suspected back in the mid-sixties, that the human being sees a human face through dedicated facial-recognition software, quite distinct from other components of the visual optics. A face is not an arse, whence I guess the proscription on doggy sex in the Holy Kabbala. In his screenplays Bergman flaunts his ‘Stradivarius’, which is what he called her, she tells us so herself, and seeing again at the Arc such a paean to Ullmann as Persona, I recall how I felt with my face so close to hers when she would have been in her twenties. I recall my awe at what I should have deemed our unaccountable proximity, as well as the deference I would have shown any man who seemed to interest her, which in those days was Bergman, with whom at the time she was brawling in the aforementioned Faro farmhouse off the Gotland coast. In Dheeraj Akolkar’s 2013 documentary, Liv and Ingmar: Painfully Connected, Ullmann at seventy-five complains with a smile of what a recluse he was, what a terrible temper he had, how he wouldn’t let her off the isle to socialise. I noted in Faithless, 2000, directed in the style of Bergman by Ullmann but scripted by Bergman, that the octogenarian Bergman has Erland Josephson, cast as “the theatre director called ‘Bergman’” attention Norwegian novelist Karl Ove Knausgaard, explaining a condition he calls, apologetically, ‘retrospective jealousy’ which is likewise alluded to in Scenes from a Marriage, 1973.
So there clearly existed a problem, yet sexual love, as the young intuit, extends beyond one life. It pre-exists and survives us. Only because of this could we enter so willingly the servitude of marriage. The one with whom we fall in love is intriguingly familiar and fixed at the age of first sighting: he never loved who loved not at first sighting. Sex is a beastly business thus bestowing the beast’s eternal present, so that there could be no such torment as retrospective jealousy. There is only jealousy.
In the year after the screening of Scenes from a Marriage on Swedish TV the divorce rate in Sweden increased fifty percent.
None, incidentally, was ever ‘retrospectively’ jealous of a legally married spouse as he had no choice but to take the bad with the good. Bergman was twenty years older than Ullmann when she left her (psychiatrist) husband for him; a very successful ladies’ man, the theatre director called Bergman. Long life and large progeny, unusual in world history. Married five times and fathered nine children, including one with Ullmann whom he never married, but by age eighty-five he’d begun to rue the cost of the Sexual Revolution, which more or less began in Sweden and probably with him. A bit of a pandar in the working of his cinematic spell, the sexual magus, but all these sightings of Max von Sydow drew my mind to the platinum-blond decedent, because Mumbles’ funeral was held on the Tuesday after the Ullmann-cum-Bergmanfest concluded with Cries and Whispers, 1972, and when Jesus meets his mother at the Fourth Station of the Cross, which stood in the nineteen-sixties in the garden of the Presentation Retreat, she is portrayed as pretty much the same age as Jesus.
Her mandatory fecundity.
Bergman was still making movies long into the age of the digital edit; that said, Donald Fagen still writes songs that appeal to me and I would argue for Gaucho as the last great analogue studio production.
Apologies for the stench but I am rather dirty at present, even a bit on the nose with kin, as it seems I took a turn outside Jim Murphy’s Airport Cellars and certain of my daughters are keen to cite it as evidence that I can no longer care for myself on the farm, which is bullshit. Oh yes, I forget how to open the car door and found myself fumbling with the fast glass switches, but that could happen to anyone.
Some of us wear hearing aids and most of us boast dentures
We’d never drive our four-wheel drive on four-wheel drive adventures
And we’d hoped to die in the prime of life before incurring censure
But we all wound up in this nursing home afflicted with dementia
And by the bed is a Dixie cup
And you take a sip and you tough the fuck up
Bergman’s Faro farmhouse is preserved as a shrine and remains as it was at the time of the auteur’s death. It contains a video library in which the elderly Bergman could sit and watch such films as Crocodile Dundee, though maybe he didn’t actually watch that film, though he had a copy.
Maybe he couldn’t watch all of it.
Toothbrushes their uses
The platinum-blond decedent had something in his hands I’d not noticed, given they were clenched into fists and lashed with the ligature and rigor mortis was setting in. Tosh, who’d been meaning to play golf but would now have to write and submit an incident report before ceasing duty, drew my attention to it as he deployed the nine eleven: it was the end of a sharpened toothbrush, a common prison shiv. Tosh indicated puncture wounds to each of the inmate’s thighs which, in contrast to those I’d seen or thought I’d seen, were jagged and bloodied. Making no attempt to resuscitate the man, although required to do so, Tosh began marking out the perimeter using tape from the office. Each DIC must be treated as a crime scene.
‘Remps up the buzz. Any pulse?’
‘No.’
‘Good.’
‘What do you mean ramps up the buzz?’
‘This is a choke and stroke. A choke and a stroke from a man of the cloth, our Reverend Rocky Buzzacott, wirst of the wirst. Choke and a stroke gone wrong.’
‘Why isn’t the AS here? Doesn’t the OIC have to confirm from the FRO what action has been taken?’
‘Sittle down Leddy. All is under control. Duty Off has been informed and is notifying the filth.’
‘And the ambulance?’
‘Yis.
