Ingmar Bergman’s masterpiece Shame had its premiere on September 29, 1968. In the U.S., the National Society of Film Critics would name it the best film of the year, and Liv Ullmann as best actress. A visceral film about a terrifying war with harrowing action on-screen, it is unlike any other Bergman film, in both style and content (perhaps one reason why, Pauline Kael, who usually was cool to the efforts of the Swedish auteur, could properly describe it as “a flawless work and a masterly vision.” (On the other hand, it is very much a Bergman film, with a troubled marriage at its center, perennial theme of humiliation, and invariably impeccable compositions.)
It was, however, not universally beloved at the time of its release. Similar to Jean Pierre Melville’s stunning Army of Shadows, released a year later, Shame was then seen through the lens of the heated politics of the moment—and many found it lacking, or worse. Back in 1965 Dylan had already noted “Everybody’s shouting/which side are you on”—and this was certainly the case, and was certainly understandable, in the impossible year of 1968, which was a year for choosing sides.
But that wasn’t what Shame was about. Rather, in Roger Ebert’s words, “this angry and bleak film . . . was against all war, and argued that it didn’t matter which side you were on.” Bergman’s defenders might gesture at the fact the film was conceived and written in the less heady days of 1967—but this is not a movie that needs defending. Rather, and like Army of Shadows, not being of its moment is one reason why the film is timeless—in fact, these films are not only as fresh as the day they were released, they are, unfortunately, alive with pressing contemporary relevance.
Shame takes place in the then-near future, in the midst of a civil war taking place in an imagined Baltic Republic. Musicians Eva and Jan Rosenberg (Ullmann and a reliably brilliant Max von Sydow—and as MCC’s traveling companion has pointed out, “Rosenberg” is probably not a random choice of name; in addition, it is also no surprise that they are “artists”), have found space outside the conflict, on an island where they get by living off the land and bringing berries (again with the berries?) to market. It turns out, however, that this war does not come with an opt-out box, especially as the rebels forces (or are they government forces?) encroach, from the air, and on the ground.
Being “against war” is an iffy prospect—suggesting the resort to some pretty cheap and facile moral high ground, but, not surprisingly, Bergman isn’t after that, either. Rather, with its unwillingness to choose sides (or even name sides—the film is dizzyingly disorienting as to who is doing what to whom, and why, and it leaves the combatants’ allegiances and alliances unfathomable and shifting), Shame is able to explore profound questions, big and small. These include the narrow question of how interpersonal relations will hold up under real stress, and harrowing, broader question of (here in the director’s words), “how much of a fascist are you and I harboring inside ourselves? What sort of a situation is needed to turn us from good Social Democrats into active Nazis?” Let’s say the film is not optimistic.
Among the many scenes we will not soon forget are Shame’s harrowing interrogation sequence, with its terrifying, matter-of-fact physician on hand to tend to its victims; the bewildering arrival of armed thugs, eager to score points with propaganda interviews; the radical reversal of fortune, and ultimate fate, of a third key character in the film—the once-reputable public official and one-time friend of the Rosenbergs, Jacobi (long-time Bergman affiliate Gunnar Björnstrand). And then there is the final sequence. Let’s call it “uncompromising.”
Watch this film, which is one of Bergman’s greatest efforts. But don’t watch it before bedtime. I’m not kidding.
Liv Ullmann and Max von Sydow in Shame
The War Comes Home
Brought in for Questioning
Stay or Go?