Ingmar Bergman 1918-2007

I grow weary of memorials. Now Ingmar Bergman. Bergman died today on Faro Island. He was 89. This morning I was on a soundstage watching a scene I wrote playing between a woman who may be crazy, or may be experiencing the direct intervention in her life of a God she doesn’t think exists. She has an angel, or, as the angel describes himself, “Maybe a really clever aneurysm.” In the scene she is surrounded by death and fear and she thinks the end is near. She asks the angel to stay with her. The angel says he can’t. Whatever happens, she will have to face it by herself.

Am I saying my writing is on a level with Bergman’s? Nope. I’m just saying I wouldn’t be sitting on a soundstage watching actors perform something I wrote if it wasn’t for Bergman being in my head. And Fellini. And Truffaut. And all the other genuine masters who came before and now are gone.

Tack så mycket.