It was cold—twenty degrees
Celsius below zero. I woke up as usual at five o’clock, which means I was
woken, drawn as if in a spiral by some evil spirit out of my deepest sleep, and
I was wide awake. The day’s work consisted of the scene between Ismael and
Alexander, in Fanny and Alexander,
and I was worried because the scene in question might be beyond the capacity of
my brave young actor in the title role, Bertil Guve. But the coming
collaboration with Stian Ekblad as Ismael gave me a jolt of happy expectation. The
first inspection of the day was thus completed and had produced a small but nevertheless
positive profit: if Stina is as good as I think, I can manage Bertil-Alexander.
I had already thought out two strategies: one with equally good actors, the
other with a principal actor and a secondary actor. Now it was a question of taking
things calmly, of being calm. At a quarter to eight, I was fetched and driven
to the studio. Those once so reputable studios
were decaying. They produced mainly videos, and any staff left from the days of
film were disorientated and downhearted. The actual film studio was dirty, not
sound-proof, and badly maintained. The editing room, at first sight comically
luxurious, turned out to be useless. The projectors were wretched, incapable of
keeping either definition or stills. The sound was bad, the ventilation did not
function and the carpet was filthy. At exactly nine o’clock, the day’s
filming started. It was important that our collective start was punctual. Discussions
and uncertainties had to take place outside this innermost circle of
concentration. From this moment on, we were a complicated but uniformly
functioning machine, the aim of which was to produce living pictures. The work quickly settled into a
calm rhythm, and intimacy was uncomplicated. The only thing to disturb this day
was the lack of sound-proofing and the lack of respect for the red lamps
outside in the corridor and elsewhere. Otherwise it was a day of modest
delight. From the very first moment, we all felt Stina Ekblad’s remarkable
empathy with the ill-fated Ismael and, best of all, Bertil-Alexander had at
once accepted the situation. In that strange way children have, he gave
expression to a complicated mixture of curiosity and fear with touching
genuineness. The rehearsals moved on smoothly
and a quiet cheerfulness reigned, our creativity dancing along. Anna Asp had
created a stimulating set for us. Sven Nykvist had done the lighting with that
intuition which is difficult to describe, but which is his hallmark and makes
him one of the leading lighting camera men in the world, perhaps the best. If you
asked him how he did it, he would point out some simple ground rules. He could
not—or had no wish to—describe the actual secret. If for some reason he was
disturbed, pressurized or ill at ease, everything went wrong and he would have
to start all over again from the beginning. Confidence and total security
prevailed in our collaboration. Occasionally I grieve over the fact that we
shall never work together again. I grieve when I think back to a day such as
the one I have depicted. There’s a sensual satisfaction in working in close union
with strong, independent and creative people: actors, assistants, electricians,
production staff, props people, make-up staff, costume designers, all those
personalities who populate the day and make it possible to get through. Sometimes I really feel the loss
of everything and everyone concerned. I understand what Fellini means when he
says filming to him is a way of life and I also understand his little story
about Anita Ekberg. Her last scene in La
Doice Vita took place in a car erected in the studio. When the scene had
been taken and filming was over as far as she was concerned, she started crying
and refused to leave the car, gripping firmly onto the wheel. She had to be carried
out of the studio with gentle force. Sometimes there is a special
happiness in being a film director. An unrehearsed expression is born just like
that, and the camera registers that expression. That was exactly what happened
that day. Unprepared and unrehearsed, Alexander turned very pale, a look of
sheer agony appearing on his face. The camera registered the moment. The agony,
the intangible, was there for a few seconds and never returned. Neither was it
there earlier, but the strip of film caught the moment. That is when I think
days and months of predictable routine have paid off. It is possible I live for
those brief moments. Like a pearl fisher. |
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