Television Version

Bergman’s turn-of-the-century tapestry of life, both a sprawling summation of his previous works and a passing of the torch to fellow filmmakers, daring them to do any better. This is, quite simply, life-changing. For years now I’ve been edging towards Fanny and Alexander, putting it off due to the whopping 312-minute runtime of the revered television version, which is universally considered the superior cut. This cut was also Bergman’s preferred version, so with the master’s wishes in mind, I delved headfirst into the first episode of the beloved Swedish epic.

Spanning a fleeting hour-and-a-half, in many ways the first part feels much like that first act of The Godfather (bar Bergman’s delectable surrealist touches), setting in motion a rapidly unfurling introduction to the Ekdahl family, their happiness embellished by lavish meals and festive cheer. Every frame is a painstakingly rendered painting, Sven Nykvist’s lighting giving a deeply nostalgic warmth to the bourgeois environment, one that is so clearly destined to be lost. Candlelight compositions have never looked better (sorry Barry Lyndon), the set design itself constituting the film’s reputation as the most expensive Swedish film ever made for its time. By the time we fade out of the heavenly childhood and Christmas ecstasy, we know the true wrath of Bergman is still yet to come.

In Episode 2, as fate would have it, the tide drastically turns. The waters get choppy, and childhood slips through the fingers. Bergman makes us aware of his presence, grief and death intruding on the utopia we’ve grown so comfortable with. In my opinion, this is the most emotional chapter, representing the fundamental change which goes on to define the children’s unfortunate future. This episode, as cold as it leaves you, is an obvious place to break, the next two episodes (shorter in length than the first two) being a natural place to conclude the viewing. My plan always was to watch this in two viewings, after all, I couldn’t possibly watch a five-and-a-half hour film in one sitting, right? 

Wrong. I needed to know what happened next. Episode 3 is a mere fifty-six minutes, and getting any sleep seemed impossible if I left it here, so, without further ado, I leapt blindly into the next chapter. Instantly, Bergman puts his cards on the table. With each episode opening on a shot of the river that runs through the town, this time a slight adjustment had been made. Where before, the river flows calmly, waves overlapping gently in the wind, here rain patters on the surface of the water, signalling a disheartening shift in tone. This is the episode that embraces everything Bergman represents; death, pain, torment, rumination. The bitter and inalienable truths of life, the ones you discover once childhood has regrettably ran its course. Here, Fanny and Alexander becomes much more than a costume drama, a period piece, or a Shakespearean epic. It turns into a horrifying, cold-blooded ghost story.

After the conclusion of Episode 3, an hour and twenty-four minutes remained. Although it was certain to mean a stiff back, a deep depression and the disposal of the rest of my day, finishing this masterpiece was the only option. It’s been years since I’ve been this invested in a story, this eager for resolution, however tainted or tumultuous it may turn out. By the time the film ended, the cathartic state it left me in was, quite literally, the cinematic high of a lifetime. Considering nearly three hours are missing from the theatrical version, I’m clueless as to what possibly could have been cut out. Every interaction feels essential, each scene articulating the unlimited power of a child’s imagination, viewing it under the exact same lens as the spiritual, the supernatural, or the little miracles the more faithful among us perceive to be divine intervention. Alexander’s visions of death, of masochistic/religious crusades, of towering, mangled puppets come to life, evoke many nightmarish subtexts, but ultimately represent the overwhelming nature of a strong and creative young mind. It’s the full breadth of a little world, lost in the inherent evil of a big one. This may be over five hours in length, but it flys by as if it were two. To view it in one sitting was effortless, so give your time to it, and, I promise you, you won’t feel a wink of regret. It’s Bergman at his very best, a last cry of defiance against mortality. No world has felt so sickly and rich as this, cementing its rightful place as the greatest depiction of childhood committed to film.