The original Swedish title, Nattvardsgästern, translates into English as: “Holy Communion”. This is a very apt title for the middle chapter of Bergman’s Faith Trilogy, but it is also a dry and obvious one. The International English re-titling of Nattvardsgästern, which the director Ingmar Bergman had no input in, managed to better capture the thematic qualities of his film, as well as the experimental lighting process Bergman and cinematographer Sven Nykvist concieved: Winter Light.

The vast majority of Ingmar Bergman’s filmography was filmed almost exclusively on Summer evenings, during the “magic hours” (roughly six to eight in the afternoon). The effect of this very time-consuming method of natural lighting had given Bergman’s cinematography an endued warmth in past films that made each frame feel full and round. In exception, Winter Light was filmed during November. The contrast is noticeable to anyone who has viewed a number of Bergman’s films previously. The screen feels colder in Winter Light, empty and pessimistic. Even the pastor’s service at the beginning of the film – an undeniable, shut-your-God-damn-face career best from Bergman regular Gunnar Björnstrand – sounds aesthetically chilly, like a winter wind, and leaves your neck-hairs raised.

Bergman’s then wife Kabi Laretei said, upon viewing Winter Light in its final form: “Yes, Ingmar, it’s a masterpiece. But it’s a dreary masterpiece.”

Ernst Ingmar Bergman was born in Uppsala, Sweden, 1918, where he grew up the son of a pastor. The prevalence of Christian imagery and theology in his childhood would inform the symbols and thematic explorations of his films, even after Bergman abandoned his faith. This religious turning-point came for Bergman halfway through filming his unofficial Faith Trilogy, before he began writing Winter Light.

Bergman writes, “These three films deal with reduction. Through a Glass Darkly – conquered certainty. Winter Light – penetrated certainty. The Silence – God’s silence – the negative imprint. Therefore, they constitute a trilogy.” In an interview in 1969 Bergman stated that these three films had originally not been intended as a trilogy, he only regarded them as such in retrospect due to their similarity – hence I use the term “unofficial trilogy”.

The first film in the trilogy, Through a Glass Darkly, ultimately affirms that faith has a metaphysical value (though its plot is considerably more grim than Winter Light’s). After the film was completed, Bergman fell into a deep religious crisis. Winter Light directly reflects this development in Bergman’s life. It bares all of his doubt, his anguish, and his growing intolerance of the Spider God, who watches but always remains silent. By the time Bergman filmed the third chapter in his Faith Trilogy, titled The Silence, he had seemingly made the transition from Faith to reluctant Atheism.

Bergman’s beliefs are cemented in both book-ends of the trilogy; for this reason, neither the first or last films carry much weight. Both Through a Glass Darkly and The Silence expend very little subtilty on their themes. They’re equally guilty of being too preachy, even if they preach opposing doctrines. The middle chapter, Winter Light, falls somewhere in between those certainties, in a void filled with existential angst. It’s this quality that makes Winter Light my preferred film of the Faith Trilogy and one of my very, very favourite films.

Ingmar Bergman was a vicious critic of his own out-put. Even some of his seminal films – Virgin Springs, Wild Strawberries, The Seventh Seal – he regarded as deeply flawed. He took exception to Winter Light. From an interview recorded for Swedish television in 2003, introducing the film:

Arie Nyreröd: “You’re often harsh when speaking of your own movies.”

Ingmar Bergman: “You think so?”

Nyreröd: “But one film that you always mention with tenderness is Winter Light. Why is it so important to you?”

Bergman: “[…] Working in this profession of butchers and whores, you develop this great need to please people. You keep wishing your movies will be successful, that this strenuous effort you put into making a film. […] Well, I was a bit tormented by all that. I felt I was being ingratiating. [So I wrote] strictly about the problems that occupy me. Not for a moment, not for a minute, [did] I want the story to be ingratiating. [I told] the story exactly and precisely the way I envisioned it. […] Which meant that all the light…would be this grayish, shadowless light. November light. Sven and I went up to Dalarna, to a church in Skattungbyn, where we sat from morning till night taking notes. Sven took pictures the whole time of how the light moved through the church. He then invented something that had never existed before, a kind of lamp that could provide a shadowless light. I’m very fond of this movie. I think in a way this is the movie that is closest to me. […] For once I made a film that I consider a brave film.”

Part of Bergman’s favouritism toward Winter Light might be credited to the similarity between the protagonist, pastor Thomas Ericsson (Gunnar Björnstrand), and Bergman’s father, a pastor who also struggled for the attention of his flock. But beneath the autobiographical elements of the plot, there is a thematic exploraion that is far closer to the author, I believe. Vilgot Sjöman’s documentary Ingmar Bergman Makes a Movie was made simultaneously with Winter Light, and documented its production. In it, Bergman claims in interview that he was able to “[realize] who he really was” through the making of Winter Light.

In the final scenes of Winter Light, Thomas realizes that the God he has prayed to his entire life is a silent God, and he can no longer abided it. He’s a God who is incapable of comforting him, and who watches his pain and suffering indifferently. After Thomas confesses his doubt during an evening prayer, he decides he will not host an afternoon-service – the church is empty, anyway, except for a slightly intoxicated pianist. Thomas is about to leave, when Algot, a paralyzed school-teacher, enters the church. He asks to have a moment with his priest. Thomas considers denying Algot, but after a hesitation, he removes his coat and returns it to the rack.

Algot Frövik, Sexton: “The passion of Christ, his suffering… Wouldn’t you say the focus on his suffering is all wrong?”

Tomas Ericsson, Pastor: “What do you mean?”

Algot Frövik: “This emphasis on physical pain. It couldn’t have been all that bad. It may sound presumptuous of me – but in my humble way, I’ve suffered as much physical pain as Jesus. And his torments were rather brief. Lasting some four hours, I gather? I feel that he was tormented far worse on another level. Maybe I’ve got it all wrong. But just think of Gethsemane, Vicar. Christ’s disciples fell asleep. They hadn’t understood the meaning of the last supper, or anything. And when the servants of the law appeared, they ran away. And Peter denied him. Christ had known his disciples for three years. They’d lived together day in and day out – but they never grasped what he meant. They abandoned him, to the last man. And he was left alone. That must have been painful. Realizing that no one understands. To be abandoned when you need someone to rely on – that must be excruciatingly painful. But the worse was yet to come. When Jesus was nailed to the cross – and hung there in torment – he cried out – ‘God, my God! Why hast thou forsaken me?’ He cried out as loud as he could. He thought that his heavenly father had abandoned him. He believed everything he’d ever preached was a lie. The moments before he died, Christ was seized by doubt. Surely that must have been his greatest hardship? God’s silence.”

Tomas Ericsson: “Yes…”