N
Nyarlathotep
Guest
ingmarbergman.se/page.asp?guid=3F8B747C-A2B0-44D3-BADF-CA91404FAB50&LanCD=EN
…Bergman describes the ending of the film as the “stirrings of a new faith”. He finds this a difficult section to write. Yet in a conversation with Sjöman he feels he has found a solution:
“Have you ever heard of ‘duplication’? On certain Sundays the parson has to hold two services: one in the main parish and then one in the chapelry, the sub-parish in the next district. Now it is custom in the Swedish church that if there are no more than three persons in the congregation, no service need be held. What I do is this: when Björnstrand comes to the district church, the church-warden comes up to him and says: ‘There’s only one churchgoer here.’ Yet the parson holds the service all the same. That’s all that is needed to indicate the new faith that is stirring inside the parson.”
Later, in The Magic Lantern, Bergman recalls the ending as having come to him during a visit to a church in the company of his elderly father:
"It was an early spring day with mist and bright light reflecting off the surrounding snow. We arrived in plenty of time at the little church north of Uppsala to find four churchgoers ahead of us waiting in the narrow pews. The churchwarden and the sexton were whispering on the porch while a female organist was rummaging in the organ loft. Even after the summoning bell had faded away over the plain, the pastor still had not appeared. A long silence ensued in heaven and on earth. Father shifted uneasily in his seat and muttered to himself and me. A few minutes later we heard the sound of a car speeding across the slippery ground outside; a door slammed, and after a minute the pastor cam puffing down the aisle.
When he got to the altar rail, he turned around and looked at his congregation with red-rimmed eyes. He was a thin, long-haired man, his trimmed beard scarcely covering his receding chin. He swung his arms like a skier and coughed, the hair on the crown of his head curly, and his forehead turning red. ‘I am sick,’ said the pastor. ‘I have a high fever and a chill.’ He sought sympathy in our eyes. 'I have permission to give you a short service; there will be no communion. I’ll preach as best as I can, then we’ll sing a hymn and that will have to do. ‘I’ll just go into the sacristy and put on my cassock.’ He bowed and for a few moments stood irresolutely as if waiting for applause or at least some sign of approval, but when no one reacted, he disappeared through a heavy door.
Father rose from his seat in the pew. He was upset. ‘I must speak to that man. Let me pass.’ He got out of the pew and limped into the sacristy, leaning heavily on his stick. A short and agitated conversation followed.
A few minutes later, the churchwarden appeared. He smiled with embarrassment and explained that there would be a communion service after all, and an older colleague would assist the pastor.
The introductory hymn was sung by the organist and us few churchgoers. At the end of the second verse, Father came in, in white vestments, with his stick. When the hymn was over, he turned to us and spoke in his calm free voice, ‘Holy, holy, holy Lord of Hosts, heaven and earth are full of thy glory. Glory be to thee, O Lord most High.’
Thus it was that I discovered the ending to Winter Light and a rule I was to follow from then on: irrespective of everything that happens to you in life, you hold your communion."
…Bergman describes the ending of the film as the “stirrings of a new faith”. He finds this a difficult section to write. Yet in a conversation with Sjöman he feels he has found a solution:
“Have you ever heard of ‘duplication’? On certain Sundays the parson has to hold two services: one in the main parish and then one in the chapelry, the sub-parish in the next district. Now it is custom in the Swedish church that if there are no more than three persons in the congregation, no service need be held. What I do is this: when Björnstrand comes to the district church, the church-warden comes up to him and says: ‘There’s only one churchgoer here.’ Yet the parson holds the service all the same. That’s all that is needed to indicate the new faith that is stirring inside the parson.”
Later, in The Magic Lantern, Bergman recalls the ending as having come to him during a visit to a church in the company of his elderly father:
"It was an early spring day with mist and bright light reflecting off the surrounding snow. We arrived in plenty of time at the little church north of Uppsala to find four churchgoers ahead of us waiting in the narrow pews. The churchwarden and the sexton were whispering on the porch while a female organist was rummaging in the organ loft. Even after the summoning bell had faded away over the plain, the pastor still had not appeared. A long silence ensued in heaven and on earth. Father shifted uneasily in his seat and muttered to himself and me. A few minutes later we heard the sound of a car speeding across the slippery ground outside; a door slammed, and after a minute the pastor cam puffing down the aisle.
When he got to the altar rail, he turned around and looked at his congregation with red-rimmed eyes. He was a thin, long-haired man, his trimmed beard scarcely covering his receding chin. He swung his arms like a skier and coughed, the hair on the crown of his head curly, and his forehead turning red. ‘I am sick,’ said the pastor. ‘I have a high fever and a chill.’ He sought sympathy in our eyes. 'I have permission to give you a short service; there will be no communion. I’ll preach as best as I can, then we’ll sing a hymn and that will have to do. ‘I’ll just go into the sacristy and put on my cassock.’ He bowed and for a few moments stood irresolutely as if waiting for applause or at least some sign of approval, but when no one reacted, he disappeared through a heavy door.
Father rose from his seat in the pew. He was upset. ‘I must speak to that man. Let me pass.’ He got out of the pew and limped into the sacristy, leaning heavily on his stick. A short and agitated conversation followed.
A few minutes later, the churchwarden appeared. He smiled with embarrassment and explained that there would be a communion service after all, and an older colleague would assist the pastor.
The introductory hymn was sung by the organist and us few churchgoers. At the end of the second verse, Father came in, in white vestments, with his stick. When the hymn was over, he turned to us and spoke in his calm free voice, ‘Holy, holy, holy Lord of Hosts, heaven and earth are full of thy glory. Glory be to thee, O Lord most High.’
Thus it was that I discovered the ending to Winter Light and a rule I was to follow from then on: irrespective of everything that happens to you in life, you hold your communion."