Bergman’s Dreams (1955) is a bit awkward in execution—mashing character psychology into an arbitrary mold, a THESIS… and, gulp, how many times have I been guilty of this myself—but moving and intriguing nevertheless, saved by the seismic acting talent of the leads.
How’s this for an artificial construction: the film’s “protagonist” is split into three people! You have Harriet Anderson, a young woman who is essentially a child; Eva Dahlbeck, a grown professional woman; and Gunnar Björnstrand, a tragically meaningless old man—three characters intertwined like a braid. The “development” of the character is shared among them in separate but linked storylines. Not only linked, but parallel. It all sounds so abstract, put this way, but the story itself IS well grounded and clearly presented. Bergman has the chops to pull it off, but it does feel forced in this film, or maybe I was just in the wrong mood? I got a paint-by-numbers vibe, but on the other hand, the actors were so impressive, it didn’t bother me.
The title presumably refers to the self-delusions of the characters. Dahlbeck is obsessed with her former lover, a businessman who’s just pathetic and unworthy on all counts. Anderson wants the sweet life, which she thinks her job as a photographic model will deliver her, and when that seems to fall through, she latches onto the opportunity afforded by Björnstrand, who is rich and wants nothing more than to spend money profligately on this gorgeous young woman who so closely resembles (as averred by the painting hung prominently in his lushly decorated parlor) his looney-binned wife in her pre-lunatic youth.
In each case, a hard-nosed third party steps in to set these softies straight:
The businessman’s wife shows up to splash Dahlbeck and her beau with the cold water of her own disillusionment, coolly retrieves her husband back into the fascistic bosom of their domestic bliss—which is HER domain, not Dahlbeck’s—and gives Dahlbeck to understand in no uncertain terms that HER particular Romantic dream is DONE.
Meanwhile, Björnstrand’s estranged daughter shows up to shake him down for a little dough and mercilessly pops the fantasy balloon that he and Anderson have hitherto been mutually inflating, leaving them both in a state of jittery shame, nauseated by the unseemly tawdriness of their shared dream. Anderson slinks away as Björnstrand peers miserably out the window.
Line up those dominoes and knock ’em down, it’s not hard, we’ve seen these tropes a thousand times before! What sets it apart from trite melodrama is the artistry of the acting and the sincerity of the dialogue, as well as the lovely cinematic flourishes: it seems Bergman is reliable for his sublime craft. Great stuff with mirrors again, he loves that shit, to the point where he’s literally splitting the screen at some points!
Harriet Anderson is Monika, by the way, from Summer with Monika. And it must be said, Bergman was romantically linked to her—indeed, left his wife for her! And the way he films her, you can understand why. This pair comes a decade before Godard / Karina, but it’s the same dynamic, each inspiring the other to new artistic heights. Both men were much older than their respective girls, who were both undeniable cataracts of youthful, feminine vitality overflowing all banks. Bergman hated Godard’s films, I know, but I wonder if he ever contemplated (or even perceived) the striking parallel between the muses Anderson and Karina.