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Blindness as the postwar state of youth (cp. Delannoy's La Symphonie Pastorale), Ingmar Bergman the brooding sophomore runs with it. The callow cadet (Birger Malmsten) doesn't even get to the battlefield, during target practice he takes a bullet for a puppy and plunges into an expressionistic inferno (hammer to anvil and giant eyeball, muddy clutches and aquarium siren) to wake up in darkness. "A momentary fit of impatience in the grand scheme" is how a matron describes despair, cold comfort to the aspiring pianist with his Braille typewriter. Hope is an orphaned servant (Mai Zetterling) who soothes his torment, reads to him, and provides a startling flash of milky nudity as she bounds out of bed, flushed with love. Gag material lightens the anguished mood—the protagonist finds work playing in a restaurant with a skinny, seething Gunnar Björnstrand at the violin, too many notes in "Ave Maria," they make do with "The Maiden's Prayer," their boss shakes his head and knocks back a shot of bourbon. "Be careful around blind people, they can suddenly see through things." Practically a John Garfield-Priscilla Lane melodrama, with a soupçon of Borzage as the heroine at the ball feels her beloved stumbling somewhere in front of an incoming locomotive. Still wobbly at the wheel, Bergman nevertheless forges a fierce tactile bond between his characters as Malmsten runs his fingertips over Zetterling's freckles and she impulsively licks his palm. (A sign reading "cirkus" glows in neon while the two cling to each other in the middle of a foggy nocturnal void.) When a flag stuck at half-mast looms over the happy ending, even the people on screen have to laugh. With Bengt Eklund, Olof Winnerstrand, Bibi Lindqvist, and Naima Wifstrand. In black and white.
--- Fernando F. Croce |