Ingmar Bergman has often been described as the quintessential European auteur, implicitly dissociated from the commercial film industry in which he worked for substantial periods during his career. Even in Sweden’s most commonly referenced work on the history of its national cinema, this form of committed historiography is promoted without a hint of critical reflection. Indeed, its author goes so far as to suggest that following the success of Smiles of a Summer Night (Sommarnattens leende, 1955), Bergman’s ‘home studio’, Svensk Filmindustri (SF), and its long-serving head Carl Anders Dymling more or less presented Bergman with a blank cheque to make whatever film he wished.¹ This somewhat over-assertive assessment has been called into question in some more recent scholarship on Bergman, however.² For instance, it has been noted that the way Bergman’s late 1960s productions were received put him in a precarious situation regarding further film financing.³ Moreover, in the United States, United Artists’ decision to end their distribution deal with regard to Bergman’s films following The Passion of Anna (En passion, 1969) seemed to confirm Bergman’s diminishing standing in the eyes of North American audiences.⁴

Another who commented on the vicissitudes of Bergman’s putative value within the film industry was, obviously, Bergman himself. In his memoir entitled The Magic Lantern, Bergman addresses his worth in the film market and how this perceived value correlated with his ability to attract production funding during various stages of his career. One such example concerns the making of Cries and Whispers (1972) (Viskningar och rop, 1973) in the early 1970s, a period that Bergman describes as marked by difficulties in getting his film projects off the ground:

Bergman’s account of his situation appears exaggeratedly melodramatic. For example, it does not take into account his potential fortunes if he had shown a greater willingness to adapt and cooperate, or perhaps just to wait for offers—an unappealing position to which most filmmakers have been relegated on numerous occasions. In short, even at this time, Bergman’s prospects were presumably not as dire as he would like us to believe.

This chapter examines the somewhat abstract question of Bergman’s ‘worth in the market’. In other words, it will consider some of the appraisals, constraints, restrictions, and forms of resistance that Bergman encountered in his interactions with industry intermediaries (such as producers, agents, censors, and distributors) as he attempted to make films with as little interference as possible and, increasingly, according to his own design; or, as he put it, in accord with his ‘longing for pure artistry’.⁶ The analysis presented here is based on studies of some of Bergman’s preserved business correspondence and contracts. While not yet fully indexed or searchable, this material is held in the archives of the Ingmar Bergman Foundation in Stockholm. Given the rather substantial volume of this archival material, this study has been limited to a consideration of a period of just two years, from 1959 to 1961. Bergman’s North American breakthrough was imminent during this period. At the same time, these years also marked the end of the aforementioned Dymling’s almost two-decade-long reign at SF. Moreover, the period arguably comprised the final years before the Swedish film industry became a state-sponsored enterprise.⁷ The analysis consists of three case studies intended to illuminate a number of comparatively neglected issues while also highlighting the wide-ranging impact of Bergman’s film-related activities. The first case study concerns Bergman’s situation in Sweden in the late 1950s, and the second Bergman’s relationship with and views on the Hollywood film industry, as reflected in his communication with his then-agents. The final case study probes the relationship Bergman gradually developed with the company that became SF’s US distributor from 1958, the independent firm Janus Films, located in Boston.

Working for Svensk Filmindustri

Bergman shot three feature films in the course of just over a year, from 14 May 1959 to 16 September 1960: The Virgin Spring (Jungfrukällan, 1960), the comedy The Devil’s Eye (Djävulens öga, 1960), and Through a Glass Darkly (Såsom i en spegel, 1961), all for SF. Although Bergman’s relationship with SF dated back to 1944, he had made films for other producers on an intermittent basis when, on occasion and during certain periods, SF had declined his services. Bergman was fully aware of the commercial nature of the enterprise in which he was involved and of the need for relatively widespread audience approval. Accordingly, as late as 1958, in a desperate attempt to receive the green light to start production on The Magician (Ansiktet, 1958), Bergman sold the concept to Dymling on the premise that it would end up being one ‘hell of an erotic comedy’ (not altogether truthfully, as he later confessed).⁸

Judging from the preserved correspondence between Bergman and Dymling, the filmmaker’s role in relation to SF seems to have been that of a prolific, reliable, increasingly international, and prestigious contributor to SF’s film catalogue, rather than a consistent creator of the ever-important domestic blockbusters. In addition, Bergman’s prodigious output as a writer of story concepts, treatments, and manuscripts seems to have been an asset greatly valued by SF’s studio chief.

Though never credited as such in Bergman’s films, Dymling repeatedly casts himself in the role of Bergman’s producer in letters between the two, while also commenting on Bergman’s casting, his manuscripts, the qualities of his dialogue, and his expenditure.⁹ Moreover, Dymling’s position as SF’s chief executive meant that he was responsible for a whole range of films; he thus needed to align Bergman’s projects and whims with the studio’s collective output as well as with the broader industrial production context of the company’s studio, Filmstaden (The Film Town).¹⁰

On the whole, the conversation between Bergman and Dymling was conducted in a spirit of goodwill. Nevertheless, their exchanges reveal interesting details as well as notable tensions between the two men. Perhaps unsurprisingly, their correspondence reveals complications and arguments about such issues as the quality of screening copies and the studio’s sound department. At this particular point in time, Bergman seems to have harboured grave suspicions that SF had delivered a substandard copy of The Magician for British distribution and for a screening at the Venice Film Festival in late August/early September 1959. By Bergman’s own appraisal, the copy was full of dirt and scratches, unsatisfactorily lit, and virtually impossible to screen for a paying audience.¹¹ Dymling would have none of Bergman’s criticisms, however, even going so far as to enlist the distributor in question, one C.L. Cattermoul, to certify the copy’s excellence in a written note.¹² Bergman allegedly replied that the note was of no consequence, since, as he described him (in characteristically dramatic Bergmanesque language), Cattermoul was an ‘old, alcoholic hippopotamus’. To this aspersion, Dymling replies ‘[y]ou really have lost your mind’ and simply refuses to accept the filmmaker’s verdict or to consider taking any kind of action.¹³ Instead, the studio executive—and Bergman’s de facto employer—insists on having the last word, quietly asserting his authority in relation to the filmmaker.

Similarly, sound in all its forms proved to be a constant point of contention for Bergman. As evidence of this fact, Bergman disqualified SF’s entire sound department during the filming of The Virgin Spring. He likewise dismissed the supplier of the sound system, engineering company AGA-Baltic, declaring that most of Sweden’s country cinemas could achieve sound reproduction superior to what he was asked to endure in SF’s screening rooms in Stockholm.¹⁴ Dymling does not appear to have been particularly concerned by this withering criticism, however. He replied, ‘there are no sound systems that can satisfy your demands, since you are equipped with slightly primitive—in fact, what might be termed “animalistic”—hearing similar to that of the Norse God Heimdal, who could apparently hear the grass grow’, concluding, ‘there are obvious limits to what you can demand of us’.¹⁵

Amusing as this anecdote may be, it might seem insignificant viewed in relation to the wider state of affairs. Nevertheless, there were other occasions when Dymling’s actions, decisions, and opinions had more far-reaching consequences for Bergman’s work, as the following example from May 1960 shows: Bergman informed Dymling that he definitely wished to produce his next film in colour.¹⁶ Bergman wrote that, together with a number of his crew, he had actively participated in collaborations within the framework of Färgfilmsklubben (‘The Colour Film Club’) during the preceding winter in preparation for this development. Moreover, Bergman reassured Dymling that he had introduced cost-cutting measures (such as limiting the cast to just four featured roles and keeping the number of filming locations down) in order to offset the increased expense that colour film would entail. At this stage, the prospective film was tentatively called The Wallpaper (Tapeten), though it was ultimately renamed Through a Glass Darkly.

At first, Dymling is enthusiastic about the idea of a Kammerspiel-type film, initially speculating about the inevitability of the eventual transition to colour. On the other hand, he is very reluctant to accept the increased costs and queries whether such a development is not perhaps still somewhat premature in Bergman’s case.¹⁷ In a letter posted a week later from the 1960 Cannes Film Festival, Dymling is even more opposed to the idea. He now suggests that the new film would actually benefit aesthetically from being shot in black and white, after indicating that it would require some particularly atmospheric photography that would be very difficult and take long hours to achieve in colour. Bergman should wait to make the transition to colour until he has a good comedy script, Dymling advises.¹⁸

Dymling’s unwillingness to have Through a Glass Darkly shot in colour appears indicative of Bergman’s standing with SF at the time. In 1959, 41 per cent of the twenty-seven feature films produced in Sweden were filmed in colour, whereas in 1960 this figure fell to 32 per cent of the nineteen films made.¹⁹ This decrease reflected the prevailing decline in Swedish audiences and the increasing awareness of a state of crisis, a negative trend about which both Bergman and Dymling were increasingly concerned. Even so, as has been mentioned, SF did make colour films. In fact, Dymling approved several annually from at least 1956 onwards, on occasion even permitting the extra expense involved in using Sweden’s own anamorphic widescreen process, AgaScope. It has been estimated that Swedish colour films produced during this era had budgets approximately twice the size of black and white films.²⁰ Consequently, the colour format was reserved for projects with major appeal to domestic audiences, usually light comedies containing song and travelogue elements and, in SF’s case, starring their most bankable star, actress Sickan Carlsson. Compared to such popular cinematic fare, Bergman’s films might possibly have been considered too limited in their public appeal to justify the increased expense of shooting in colour, despite their international popularity. Or, as one anonymous SF employee told American writer James Baldwin when he visited Sweden in 1960: ‘Bergman “wins the prizes and brings us the prestige”, whereas others could be “counted on to bring in the money”.’²¹

In the late summer of 1960, Bergman claimed that he had decided not to use colour in Through a Glass Darkly after a collective vote taken by the members of Färgfilmsklubben.²² This statement appears suspect, however. It seems more reasonable to interpret his choice as Bergman heeding Dymling’s advice and postponing the introduction of colour in his work until the comedy All These Women (För att inte tala om alla dessa kvinnor, 1964) some four years later. Indeed, extrapolating from this conclusion, the reduction in size, the pared-down chamber-play aesthetics, and the use of almost only black and white while shooting in the (increasingly outdated) Academy ratio of 1.37:1 so characteristic of Bergman’s 1960s films, may be viewed as the result of a growing awareness of financial constraints and/or risk management on the director’s part. In making mass-market commodities with high-art pretentions but no great general appeal, and in an increasingly difficult and shrinking market, Bergman refrained from increasing production costs simply to allow him to continue working as a comparatively independent and consistently active filmmaker.

Lessons on Hollywood

British film historian, critic, and journalist Geoffrey Macnab has on several occasions related the story of how Bergman almost came to be bankrolled by Hollywood during the late 1950s.²³ The specific project most seriously considered was an adaptation of French Nobel Laureate Albert Camus’s final, brief novel The Fall (La Chute). Although the story is set in an Amsterdam bar, the film was supposed to be shot in Stockholm and at locations in either Paris or Amsterdam, financed by United Artists or Paramount, and in English. Cary Grant and Robert Ryan were proposed as the film’s presumptive stars. Furthermore, Hollywood veteran Walter Wanger (of John Ford’s Stagecoach (1939) and Fritz Lang fame) was earmarked as a possible candidate to produce the film, since he controlled the rights to Camus’s book.

Although the plans ultimately came to nothing, Macnab’s account is fascinating, not least because of his source: the correspondence between Bergman and his Hollywood agent at the time. Bergman was signed to Hollywood’s legendary William Morris Agency, located in Beverly Hills, California, as of 1 August 1958.²⁴ More specifically, he was assigned to New York University graduate Bernhard L. Wilens, who acted as his personal representative regarding possible English-language motion pictures. (In his letters to Bergman, Wilens always simply signed off as ‘Bernie’. Incidentally, Wilens later became Clint Eastwood’s agent.) In the resulting correspondence, almost from the start, and just under the surface, one can detect a simmering, implicit discord. This was an encounter between two individuals from essentially different cultures. Although always very polite and acting in what he believed to be Bergman’s best interests, as a Hollywood type through and through, Wilens appeared not to understand why Bergman was reluctant to work in Hollywood—and according to its rules—when given the opportunity.

Bergman, on the other hand, could not quite understand Hollywood. In early December 1959, he responded to a letter from Wilens in which Wilens characteristically talked shop about various studios and powerbrokers being interested in Bergman, by asking four questions (of which two will be quoted as illuminating the character of the exchange). First, Bergman asks: ‘You write that United Artists are extremely interested, but who are United Artists?’²⁵ Second, Bergman submits a bold proposal:

Having explained that ‘United Artists is one of the largest distribution companies in the world’ and given Bergman a mini exposé on Hollywood, Wilens elaborately, though perhaps not delicately enough, answers the filmmaker’s query about Hollywood’s possible willingness to assume the role of benevolent patron in support of Bergman:

After Bergman had been enlightened as to the ways he was expected to adopt, and of his (as yet) limited worth in Tinseltown, the correspondence only continued for another few months, becoming increasingly half-hearted and infrequent on Bergman’s part. Instead, Bergman chose to write to his newly acquired friends at Janus Films in Boston in May, inquiring as to whether he really needed an American agent.²⁷ Janus’s Cyrus Harvey explained that agents were an inescapable fact of life in the American entertainment industry, and offered to assume the role on Bergman’s behalf.²⁸ Bergman remained non-committal, however. Subsequently, in May 1960, Variety reported on Wilens’ negotiations (now with Paramount) and Bergman used this leak as an excuse to cancel his contract with Wilens and the William Morris Agency.²⁹

Bergman’s dalliances with Hollywood were not yet history, however. In the autumn of 1960, he came into contact with agent Katharine ‘Kay’ Brown of Lew Wasserman’s MCA agency after Janus told him of the agency’s prestigious reputation. Bergman eventually signed with MCA as of 1 January 1961. Brown had been an assistant to David O. Selznick and was instrumental in bringing Ingrid Bergman to Hollywood in the late 1930s. She had also visited Stockholm on several occasions. There are no hints of the friction that characterized Bergman’s interaction with Wilens in the exchanges between Brown and Bergman in the early 1960s. Indeed, Bergman soon proclaimed his admiration for Brown’s stately and elegant business prose.³⁰ Despite their rapport, nothing very concrete appears to have materialized from their communication, except Brown’s suggestion concerning a possible collaboration with Ingrid Bergman, who was also her client. This idea obviously came to fruition at a much later date in Autumn Sonata (Höstsonaten, 1978).³¹

Bergman and Janus Films

American film historian Tino Balio has commented that a ‘Bergman craze’ hit the American art-film market in late 1959, at approximately the same time as Bergman’s above-mentioned correspondence with Wilens was taking place.³² By October of that year, no fewer than five Bergman films were being screened in New York. In the ensuing period, adulation for Bergman culminated in American reporters travelling to Sweden to cover the domestic premiere of The Virgin Spring in February 1960; and a couple of months later, Bergman’s portrait appeared on the cover of Time magazine. During the years that followed (1961 and 1962), Bergman was presented with two Academy Awards for Best Foreign Film. According to Balio, much of the credit for Bergman’s rise to stardom must go to Janus Films, an independent distributor founded in Boston in 1956, which was somewhat incongruously located in relation to the main American film-industry clusters in Los Angeles and New York.³³ Janus struck a deal with SF in 1958 and carefully orchestrated the release of film after film, judiciously cultivating the Bergman brand. Both of the company’s founders, Harvard graduates Bryant Haliday and Cyrus Harvey, similarly took the trouble to make the long trip to Stockholm to meet with Dymling and Bergman in person in March 1960. Apparently, the parties established a good rapport early on.

Although Janus Films’ contract was with SF, a lively personal correspondence soon began between Bergman and Harvey, in particular, who was polite and helpful in the extreme with regard to Bergman’s various queries and requests. Accordingly, Harvey supervised the process of getting Bergman’s screenplays published by Simon & Schuster. For as long as their correspondence lasted, Harvey also supplied the avid film collector Bergman with 16mm copies of film classics.

This exchange became more intimate and private as time went on, particularly on Bergman’s part. Soon enough, Bergman’s correspondence with Harvey developed into a kind of outlet for his ill feelings, paranoia, and frustration concerning SF and Dymling. On occasion, for instance, Bergman insinuated to Harvey during the height of his American success that he was being taken advantage of financially. He was palpably frustrated that the contents of SF’s ledgers were not being fully disclosed to him, and that he was being kept in the dark about the extent of the revenue paid to SF by Janus. On 15 July 1960, the second day of production for Through a Glass Darkly (and after having already written a long letter to Janus commenting on the publication process for his screenplay books), Bergman posted a second letter to Harvey in which he wrote:

Bergman received no direct answer to his request, and if Harvey had chosen to disclose this information to Bergman, it might very well have constituted a breach of Janus’s contract with SF. Moreover, at the same time as Bergman was making financial enquiries, there are also hints that he believed Dymling to be making decisions about his films that he neither approved of nor was privy to.

Matters came to something of a head with the American premiere of The Virgin Spring. As mentioned previously, American journalists had been on hand to cover the film’s Stockholm premiere. While there, they had reported that the film’s central rape scene and subsequent retaliatory murders had created a ‘great scandal’.³⁵ In light of this popular uproar, it was evident to Janus that screening Bergman’s original cut in the USA would be impossible. At Janus’s request, Dymling shipped a new, slightly edited version to America. In its turn, this version was cut by a further twenty seconds following an argument between Janus and the New York censors that lasted several days.³⁶ Ultimately, it was this edited version that premiered on 14 November 1960, and that went on to win an Academy Award the following spring.

As soon as Bergman became aware of these developments during the autumn, however, he began bombarding Harvey with letters.³⁷ Bergman wanted to postpone the premiere and demanded that the film be shown with explanatory title cards that spelled out the exact nature of the cuts and how these hurt and deprived him of his rights as an artist. In addition, Bergman claimed to have been stabbed in the back by Dymling while also asserting (somewhat paradoxically) that he did not make more of an issue of the film’s handling with Dymling on account of the latter’s mortal illness.

In his replies to these letters, Harvey attempted to mollify Bergman’s ire. Following the film’s successful premiere, Harvey went on holiday, leaving his partner, Haliday, to answer his business mail for a few weeks. Whereas Harvey, by evidence of his letters, seems to have been supremely patient and cultured with Bergman, Haliday had a self-declared ‘short fuse’.³⁸ In defence of his partner, and to justify their collective actions, Haliday fired off a three-page, single-spaced outburst in response to Bergman’s previous letters just before Christmas, from which the following excerpt is taken:

Bergman replied indignantly, but also admitted to being a ‘prima donna’.⁴⁰ Probably at the behest of his business partner Harvey, Haliday later apologized, and even had his remorseful note translated into Swedish before sending it across the Atlantic.⁴¹

Conclusion

Around the time of the ‘Bergman craze’, American writers, critics, and reviewers attempted to establish ‘the notion that Bergman the filmmaker was detached from market forces’.⁴² In reality, there might have been some truth in this assessment, albeit in a quite limited sense, and above all in comparison with American commercial filmmaking of the era. To some extent, Bergman was free to choose his projects, could personally oversee casting and some of his crew, and was—in Sweden at least—successful in challenging censorship norms. On the other hand, all the apparent success, adulation, and prestigious awards bestowed on him at this time did not quite translate into what Bergman seems most to have wanted to achieve: his aforementioned quest for ‘pure artistry’. His pursuit of ever-increasing, individual artistic liberty, freedom from censorship, and the freedom to decide spontaneously whether to work in colour, was, in a sense, denied him. Deep down—and contrary to many characterizations of his career—Bergman had to accept that industrial and financial logic and limitations, as well as constraints related to personal matters, would always exist, and that they were realities he would need to adapt to, and contest, as he continued his exploration of filmmaking. Consequently, in one sense or another, Bergman’s ‘worth in the market’ was always relative.

Acknowledgement

Thanks to Mariah Larsson and Maaret Koskinen for their comments on early drafts of this chapter.