A few years ago, I was taken by a theatre-loving friend of mine to a double header of Ingmar Bergman plays produced by the Amsterdam Theatre Company. Comprised of After The Rehearsal and Persona, it was one of the most extraordinary things I've ever seen. I was familiar with Persona, but After The Rehearsal was new to me. It centres around a theatre director and his relationship with his young, beautiful lead actress - as he's about to dose off in his office backstage one evening, she enters and begins to subtly, perhaps even to herself, seduce him. The encounter gives rise to a dialogue which provokes the audience to notice the enormous gulf between them, but also something undoubtedly and uncomfortably erotic - does she know what she's doing or not? The play is intersected by flashbacks, set in the same office, of the director's last encounter with this young actress' mother, his former leading lady, now in late middle age and who had by this time succumbed to the alcoholism that we learn would be her ultimate undoing - she also tries to seduce him, but with painful forthrightness. I think I love Bergman the most because of our shared instinct for and fascination with the vulnerabilities of women; he portrayed them all so astutely, so beautifully, capturing at once their delicacy and potential for evil - I think he loved women. Perhaps I'll devote another post entirely to him someday.
One of the many reasons this particular performance stuck with me was my friend explaining why the Amsterdam Theatre Company was so brilliant: the actors who make it into the company remain for a tenure of at least a few years, sometimes decades, and play various parts in the repertoire of the company; they also have no ambition for Hollywood because of the language barrier (so they keep the best actors) — but perhaps most importantly, all the cast sleep with each other in the first few months and so all fears of dynamics changing or tensions being lost are worked through and forgotten swiftly.
I must obviously caveat that this is conjecture. Still, it's the type of conjecture I like the most - because it at once challenges an old adage that suggests that once the leads have given into whatever mystical desire they've conjured in their own performance, they can't reproduce a fabricated tension on stage, which is stupid because they're literally actors, and also, most importantly, it rings true.
In my experience, in the process of creating with others, things that could be mistaken and often are, for sexual tensions, are actually points of creative attraction that have to be worked through (not necessarily acted on) in order to get to the next level of creative intimacy. I can only speak for myself, but I've encountered it so many times now I simply cannot deny its truth. To deny the truth of this would be to deny the role of libido in the creative act. If you prefer to avoid the idea of creativity being a sexual energy, we can call it a passionate one. Libido drives the creative force outward and occasionally toward collaborators — and also, speaking from experience, it's better you understand it than let it run wild. Since I became familiar with this much misunderstood creative tension, it's brought me to some of the work I'm most proud of and people who have become close friends and creative mentors (of varying sexes and orientations, as these things are irrelevant in the creative imagination, I might add). I tell you this in case you are young enough to avoid some of the trouble I got into: remember that creativity is an aspect of libido; it's like sex but not - don't confuse them. And once you have a handle on those passions, extraordinary things can spring from them.
Lou Andreas-Salomé believed in chastity for the greater good of intellectual focus, remaining in an unconsummated marriage for forty years and channelling all her libidinal charge towards her work (I, er, don't recommend this) — but then, she appeared to be irresistible to almost every man she ever met, from youth (Nietzsche proposed to her when she was 21) all the way to middle age when she met Rilke (who turned up at her door one day, uninvited and already in love with her). I wonder whether the chronology lines up to demonstrate my point above - that perhaps she took charge of her creative energy as she came to realise it ran wild around her. You meet those people, every so often, who almost hum with libidinal energy. This has only posed a problem for me on rare occasions; for Salomé, it seemed to be a common occurrence.
This is all to say that in the process of creating something like music, there tends to be a union of energies that work on the basis of attraction and frequently not in the linear or heteronormative sense. It's part of the mystical, reverential aspects of art for which there is no accounting or ordination - no academic ontological rationale can clasp hold of it and give it rules. It's what makes creativity so beautiful and art so resonant. Still, it poses potential pitfalls, even dangers - and so I recommend holding those reins tightly and making them do your bidding consciously rather than the other way around. Take dutiful, thoughtful pride in the power this beast can provide you. As Bergman himself said, in so many words (though I would in a perfect segway omit the 'negative'), in a 2001 interview with Reuters:
"I have learnt that if I can master the negative forces and harness them to my chariot, they can work to my advantage."
Mastering one's "forces" in creative union might just be the making of you. This is the spirit of The Lovers, in my understanding.
Perhaps the greatest chat up line I ever heard in my glory days was “let’s collaborate”.
What's fascinating about Bergman—to me, obvs—is how devoted he was to his art, placing it above everything else. Women were at the center of that art. He wouldn't resolve fallouts with his ex-wives so he would remain emotionally, artistically and contradictorily fed. Even after fame, money and reputation, art was still his main thing. We don't see that anymore. Especially if you consider it from a two-sided perspective: he loved cinema more than anything _and_ cinema loved him back. (Perhaps the closest we would get today is Kendrick and his love for the game?)
I also think Bergman was never afraid to portray the truth as he saw it—whether in friendships, love, family or dreams. The first scenes of Shame comes to mind, when Eva says to Max "You can't be so sensitive, I can't stand it."
You have to be immensely committed to art to continue like this after becoming known worldwide. Because it's not subtle, it's not sugarcoated—it feels so real and you know Max it's just him.
And the aesthetics: austere yet deeply memorable on so many levels. I think you touched on some of that in 'what he wrote.' It's very Bergmanesque, isn't it?
I could keep going, but I'm sure you're busy.
I'd love to read your full take on him though.
Also, thanks for this blog