I, like everyone, have been thinking a lot about Coronavirus lately. The scope of its contagion and relative mortality rate sure, but likewise its’ social effects, economic effects, and probably most of all, cultural effects have me terribly concerned. Everything is at a seeming standstill; major events worldwide have been cancelled or postponed, as have numerous movies and film productions. No one of my generation has lived through a pandemic of this scale before, it’s terrifying and disheartening. A twenty-first century plague that we have little frame of reference for.
It was appropriate then, or possibly ominous, that just as the severity of this breakout became known, within a day of the first case being identified in my province, my latest order from the Criterion Collection arrived: including among a few other titles, The Seventh Seal –a movie set during the greatest plague of western history. That this would roughly coincide with the death of its star and acting legend Max von Sydow as well, is an added dark coincidence. And I felt compelled to watch it again.
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| Who wore it better? |
Ingmar Bergman’s The Seventh Seal is of course a great film –one of the greatest. A masterpiece of world cinema, it is also perhaps the most compelling contemplation on mortality and existential dread of any movie. It’s grim mood, bitter irony, and heavy themes, for as formidable and intense as they may be otherwise, feel more resonant than usual at this point in time. As we self-isolate and that infection and death toll continues to rise, we see ourselves more and more in this unusual entourage of characters navigating medieval Sweden at the height of the Black Death; whether in the terror stricken mute girl (Gunnel Lindblom), the financially struggling artists Jof (Nils Poppe) and Mia (Bibbi Andersson), the nihilistic Jöns (Gunnar Björnstrand) or indeed the disillusioned Antonius Block himself (von Sydow), desperate to find meaning amid the hopelessness as he does all he can to stave off inevitable Death (Bengt Ekerot), whose shadow hangs over all.And though this is indeed a grim relatability, not much helped by the movies’ gloomy attitude, there is something to be gleaned from its demonstration of the ways art speaks to us in times of crisis.
The Seventh Seal isn’t a movie to necessarily get you through a rough time. Its’ outlook seems ultimately pessimistic, a blatant affirmation of the Danse Macabre: whatever our role, our values, our station in life, we are all united by our mortality, the looming inevitability of death, which we cannot escape. The film takes this very dim outlook, punctuated by the ending in the deaths of most of the main characters, carried off in that iconic line on the hillside. It’s beautiful but ghastly, not very reassuring, and certainly not hopeful.
But naturally there’s a reason Bergman chose the setting he did, and watching it now, while there are certain parallels, the world is still alien. Corpses dot the landscape, between villages there is a total emptiness, priests flog themselves in the streets, and literal dirtiness is hand-in-hand with despair. The Black Death is an effective storytelling tool because it is so stark, such an extreme of dread and suffering that can never really come back, and thus what makes it ideally suited for its contemplation of the great mortal questions. The one at the heart of this movie concerning the existence of God might not seem quite as tremulous now in an age when atheism is relatively common, but when in the midst of a world-changing, even threatening circumstance, such as a growing contagion, that question of faith has a way of becoming relevant again.
“I call out to Him in the darkness, but it’s as if no one was there” says Block. “Perhaps there isn’t anyone,” Death responds. “Then life is a preposterous horror,” exclaims Block. “No man can live faced with Death knowing everything’s nothingness.” “Most people think neither of death nor nothingness,” says Death almost consolingly. “But one day you stand at the edge of life and face darkness” Block confirms.
It’s something of a cliché that the existence of God becomes a notion of great importance in the company or anticipation of death, but there’s a great degree of truth in that, as we have a natural inclination to crave comfort and meaning in our lives and our demise. Perhaps not even a desire for an afterlife but simply a need for certainty, as is the case for Block, as was the case for Bergman throughout his life, having been raised in a deeply religious family but forever haunted by the silence of God and who wrote the script for The Seventh Seal while recovering from stomach issues in hospital.
For many of us, isolated without jobs or the vestiges of our customary routine, we may feel like Block now, fearful of what’s to come and desperate for answers as we are forced to deal with a dark time. But like Block, this isn’t likely to lead to anything conducive, as provocative as his melancholy musings may be. This is a time again when some are questioning their faith and the existence or ignorance of a god meant to care for and protect them. But doing so merely widens their existential ennui and the impression of emptiness. Bergman’s a depressing filmmaker, as marvellous as his films may be; don’t watch The Seventh Seal for Block’s enlightening insights and chaotic spiritual journey during a time like this!
Watch it instead for its virtuousness. The movie, for as bleak as it is, does have hope and a faithfulness if not in God than in humanity. It’s not shown often, but it is there. And if the film were purely the cynical statement on the prevalence of death and nothingness of life that it sometimes appears, wouldn’t Jöns, the avatar of such values, be our protagonist and not Block? As dim as his outlook may be, as stony as the Crusades may have made him, Block’s need to have his faith affirmed defines his love of life -otherwise he might not challenge Death. There’s nobility in that. He looks for the good, the signs of meaning, even in a woman being burned as a witch -because confirmation of the devil means confirmation of his creator. Most of all though, as his fate becomes inevitable and he begins to resign himself to it, he lets each moment simmer, effectively doing prematurely what Jöns seemingly waited till the bitter end for, feeling the “immense triumph” of what time he has left.
“I shall remember this moment,” he says during a rare reprieve from misery in the company of the contented Jof and Mia and their infant Mikael. “The silence, the twilight, the bowl of wild strawberries, the bowl of milk. Your faces in the evening light. I shall try to remember our talk. I shall carry this memory carefully in my hands as if it were a bowl brimful of fresh milk. It will be a sign to me, and a great sufficiency.”
In this moment, which Mia notes is free of his solemness, Block perhaps doesn’t recognize the meaning he has found, his vision so clouded by what he thinks he wants to know. The beauty in the everyday acts and attitudes of people who refuse to succumb to misery, who have reason not to, in both the small and the large facets of their lives in spite of the horrible state of the world -that is what it’s all about. It’s something completely inarticulate to Jöns, so blinded by cynicism, as well as Death, and it’s ultimately why Block facilitates their escape during his last match with the reaper, distracting him with a very obvious attempt at a cheat. Jof and Mia, so full of life and a love for life, must live.
I think that’s the attitude to take away from The Seventh Seal, to not so much be like Block but like Jof and Mia. Their adversary is despair not Death, and unlike Block and the others, they triumph over both. They keep their spirits, their love, their happiness and their hope to weather this storm, all without the driving force of faith and devotion to medieval Christianity -no doubt another point Bergman was adamant to get across. They are his model of human goodness and its enduring future. And if you need any further proof, just look to their names, their child, and the blatant Biblical metaphor they’re enshrouded in. In people like them, Bergman is suggesting, is humanity’s salvation.
And I think now that we find ourselves in a new kind of plague and perhaps a similar existential quandary, it’s important we remember that. Another significant detail, that Jof and Mia are artists, is worth keeping in mind too. It’s possible Bergman intended this just to lift up his own vocation, but think how in these times of social distancing and loneliness we turn to artists: movies and T.V. and books and music and museums that offer virtual tours and plays being performed on youtube and twitch. I wouldn’t go so far to say this is exactly advocating that artists are the future, but they are certainly an important part of our survival, even if just for escapism. I’ve already re-watched a few Marvel movies in my self-isolation -not my favourite kind of movie for sure, but safe and comfortable for this trying time.
The Black Death that this film is set against lasted around ten years and wiped out most of Europe’s population. Coronavirus is nowhere near that deadly and so the respective despairs are incomparable. We will get through this a hell of a lot better than they did. And The Seventh Seal gives us an idea as to how. In dismissing divine intervention and blind faith, it puts the onus on the endurance of the human spirit, how that is what saves Jof and Mia, whether or not Block can see that through his narrow-minded considerations and anguished apostatizing. We must take heed of that.
The Seventh Seal is as brilliant in its ruminations on death and life and the enigmatic nature or necessary fiction of God, as it is in its expert filmmaking and awesome acting. I think it’s also taken for granted how in spite of its grim subject matter, it is actually a really funny movie, as demonstrated in Jöns’ acerbic wit, a perfect Sancho Panza, an assortment of farcical gags, or the one-liners occasionally dropped by Death (“Appropriate, don’t you think?” he dryly notes after choosing black for chess). But perhaps its’ most important genius is the key it holds, amid the more enrapturing despondent musings, to living through difficult crises and coming out with our soul intact. The Danse Macabre goes on, but we mustn’t be so eager to join it.
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