The Seventh Seal
(1957, Ages 17 and Up)
2/1/19
I don’t shy away from dystopian fiction in general, but some—especially movies—that feature apocalyptic plots or backdrops can often leave me feeling bored, depressed, or both; think zombies, epidemics, global catastrophes, and the like. Some I have enjoyed more than others: Children of Men had an intriguing end-of-the-world scenario and was actually pretty exciting. These are few and far between for me, though. Upon watching this film, however, I realized that part of my aversion was due to the head-bashing reminder of the seemingly inherent ugliness of humanity that such stories seldom fail to bring up. While that implication isn’t absent here either, it’s made more bearable not only by a setting more aesthetically interesting, but by the fact that its protagonist has far more on his mind than just “Eat, sleep, have sex, kill, live another day, repeat.”
Antonius Block, a Swedish knight, and his squire, Jöns, have fought ten long, grueling years in the Crusades, and are now at long last journeying home. But the Sweden they return to is not the one they remember. As the Black Plague ravages the land, most of those still alive are half-mad with terror and despair, crying out to God for relief and mercy. Made all the more morose by such bleakness, Antonius finds temporary solace only in the chess matches he plays with himself. One night, during one such game, he is approached by a pale figure in a pitch-black cloak, none other than Death himself. Unwilling to die just yet, Antonius strikes him a bargain: they will play a single round of chess, allowing Antonius to live for as long as it lasts. But should he lose, he must surrender his life without question. And now, with those few precious days he has bought for himself, Antonius fights to find answers to theological and existential questions that haunt him, before he leaves this hellish world for good.
Having formally studied more literature than cinema, I was previously unaware of how influential this film is to this day. While it didn’t get nominated in the Best Foreign Language Film category for the 30th Academy Awards, it has still had an enormous impact on numerous filmmakers and actors alike, from Woody Allen to Monty Python. Considered by many critics to be on par with such greats as Citizen Kane, The Godfather, and Gone with the Wind, it not only cemented Ingmar Bergman as a legendary director, but has since become a staple in critical analysis and film study the world over.
Many historians have noted The Seventh Seal’s historical inaccuracy. For example, flagellation, in which people would brutally whip themselves in penance for their sins, was never practiced in Medieval Sweden, nor large-scale witch persecutions there in the 14th century. But this really doesn’t matter, nor should it, because the plot of The Seventh Seal is intended as an allegory, an experience, its symbolism a reflection of our own modern lives and points of view. As a matter of fact, this movie feel less like a movie than it does an olden stage play. Incidentally, Bergman had directed some Shakespearean plays before making this film. What really stood out to me was the dialogue. Though not as heavy as that of Shakespeare, it is still very dramatic and poetic, delivered with so much beauty even when the words are at their most serious and dismal. So even if the lines feel scripted and unrealistic, the conviction behind them does not:
ANTONIUS: Who are you?
DEATH: Death.
ANTONIUS: Have you come for me?
DEATH: I have long walked at your side.
ANTONIUS: Yes, I know.
DEATH: Are you ready?
ANTONIUS: My flesh is frightened. My heart is calm.
(Antonius stands up; Death sweeps out his right arm and approaches, preparing to take him.)
ANTONIUS: Wait just a minute.
DEATH: You all ask that, but I give no reprieve.
ANTONIUS: (Conversationally.) You play chess, I understand.
DEATH: How do you know?
ANTONIUS: (Smiling.) Oh, I know it from poetry and from old legends.
DEATH: (With no vanity whatsoever.) If I may say so, I am considered an excellent player.
ANTONIUS: (Confidently.) You cannot be more skilled than I.
DEATH: Why do you want to play chess with me?
ANTONIUS: (Shortly.) That’s my affair.
DEATH: (Unruffled.) As you wish.
The film’s title is particularly significant: derived from Chapter 8, Verse 1 of the Book of Revelation:
“And when the Lamb had opened the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven which lasted about the space of half an hour.”
And it is this theme of silence that accounts for much of The Seventh Seal’s power. Not solely the absence of sound, though Bergman does utilize that very effectively. There is no music during the opening or ending credits, for example, in order to set the tone of solemnity. And in one of my favorite segments, Jöns tries to rouse a man lying against a rock in order to talk to him, only to find he is actually shaking a hollow corpse; upon Antonius’ questioning, Jöns never tells him straight out that the man is dead, but instead—and quite calmly—answers by complimenting the man’s “eloquence” despite his “story” being “most depressing”:
(Antonius and Jöns continue riding side by side on horseback.)
ANTONIUS: Which way is [the inn]?
JÖNS: I’ve no idea.
ANTTONIUS: (Puzzled.) What did he say?
JÖNS: He didn’t answer.
ANTONIUS: (Even more puzzled.) Was he mute?
JÖNS: Well, you couldn’t call him mute, sire. In fact, just the opposite. If anything, he was very eloquent.
ANTONIUS: Oh!
JÖNS: Yes, extremely so. But the story he had to tell was most depressing.
But the more crucial type of silence being addressed here is the perceived absence of God. Namely, the idea that God ignores humanity, or worse, doesn’t exist at all. Every person who has ever lived on this earth has wondered what the meaning of life is, and our protagonist is no exception. Though he is a valiant knight with his heart in the right place, Antonius feels no stronger, wiser, or purer than any other human being. Far from it. Having fought so long and so hard, having seen so much agony and death, he feels cold, bitter, and empty. Exacerbating these feelings is his desire to find some kind of meaning, however small, almost as though his existence up to now has been devoid of it. Never once has God appeared before him or given any other physical sign that he is indeed listening. This, according to Antonius, begs the question: Because Man is so weak and blind and confused, why can’t God show himself and actually give answers, instead of forcing Man to struggle in body and in heart in trying to follow Him?
ANTONIUS: (Kneeling before the confessional.) Can it really be so terrible to want to know God with the senses? Why must he always hide behind unseen miracles and vague promises and hints about eternity? (Looks up heavenward.) How can we believe in those who do have faith when we’ve lost our own? What will happen to those of us who want to believe but cannot? And what of those who neither can’t believe nor want to?
[. . .]
ANTONIUS: (Grasps the bars of the confessional, sounding desperate.) I want knowledge, don’t you see? Not faith, not legends, not blind acceptance, but—I want God to give me his hand, to show me his face, to talk to me.
DEATH: (Posing as a priest.) But he is silent.
ANTONIUS: I cry out to him in the dark. But sometimes it seems as if there is no one there.
DEATH: It could be no one is there.
ANTONIUS: If that is true, then all of life is meaningless. Nobody can live with death before his eyes if he thinks oblivion lays at the end.
Touching back on the “play” comparison, I believe some of the characters represent a specific religious point of view, which drives their motivations and defines their personalities. In this sense, I’m reminded of characters from traditional legends and fairy tales, whose traits are meant to symbolize and thereby teach us about some aspect of real life. Though this may paint them as somewhat one-dimensional, their traits are similarly symbolic in ways that virtually any modern audience can understand and relate to, socially and psychologically. This is especially intriguing and illuminating when juxtaposed with Antonius’ doubt and aching desire for spiritual truth. Jöns, though a loyal servant and friend to his master, is cynical and filled with contempt for the church, the atheism to the knight’s agnosticism. Just the concept of God strikes him as nothing but ludicrous crap, fallen for by the gullible and desperate, manipulated by the pompous and greedy, and misconstrued by the sadistic and mentally unstable:
JÖNS: (Completely disgusted.) All this talk about damnation. What kind of fools do they think we are? No one in his right mind would swallow that.
ANTONIUS: (Scoffs.)
JÖNS: Go on, sneer at me. But I know what I’m talking about. You’ll see. I’ve heard all the nonsense that people babble at each other.
ANTONIUS: (Smiling dismissively.) Yes, yes . . .
JÖNS: (Mimicking him scornfully.) Yes, yes! All the stupid stories about Our Father in Heaven and Jesus Christ and the angels and the Holy Ghost—I was never convinced.
At the other end of the spectrum, we have Jof, a traveling juggler. Though childish and naïve, he is a kind and devoted family man to his wife, Mia, and infant son, Mikael. I think part of Jof’s optimism stems from the fact that he has loved ones to return to and that he knows will be there to support and comfort him, and vice versa, unlike Antonius, whose own wife may or may not still be alive. But Jof also has the mysterious ability to see deities, like Baby Jesus and the Virgin Mary, as they walk upon the Earth. Or so he claims. Regardless, his unwavering belief in these visions strengthens his faith and inspires his dreams, no matter how far-fetched they may seem, and tells him that there is indeed both a point to life and life after death:
MIA: (Wistfully.) I want Mikael to have a better life than ours.
JOF: (Confidently.) Mikael will be a great acrobat when he grows up. Or else, a great juggler. He’ll perform a trick that no one has ever done.
MIA: (With a little exasperation.) What trick are you talking about?
JOF: (Matter-of-factly.) To make one of the balls stand completely still while it’s up in the air.
MIA: No one can do that!
JOF: (Undaunted.) You mean that we can’t do it. But one day, he will.
MIA: (Lays in Jof’s arms comfortably.) Another fantasy.
[. . .]
(Jof and Mia laugh together playfully; Jof begins to practice his juggling.)
MIA: Jof?
JOF: Heh?
MIA: Stay right there. Don’t talk.
JOF: I won’t say a word.
MIA: I love you.
(The two gaze at each other lovingly.)
But even though Antonius has little to look forward to even without Death literally waiting to take him, I don’t find him as depressing as he could have been. Bergman provides him—and us—with some uplifting moments as well without being overly silly or sentimental, or ruining the film’s somber atmosphere. There is a beautiful sequence in which Antonius and his party are offered strawberries and milk by Jof and Mia on a grassy hill. Partaking in this humble but pleasant meal, surrounded by the warmth of friends and summer, he holds up the bowl of milk in both hands and drinks from it as if receiving Holy Communion, and makes a heartfelt speech to match the reverence of the gesture:
ANTONIUS: I shan’t forget this moment. The stillness of the twilight. The strawberries, and the bowl of milk. Your faces lit up by the sun. Mikael sleeping in the wagon, Jof sitting there, strumming. And I won’t forget what we’ve been talking about.
(Mia passes him the bowl of milk.)
ANTONIUS: I’ll bear the image between my hands, as carefully as if it were a shallow bowl filled to the brim with fresh milk. (Takes a long, satisfying drink.) And this shall be to me a sign . . . and of great sufficiency.
This is an extremely rare moment of the entire movie in which Antonius shows any genuine happiness; for all the sorrow in his heart, he has not lost the ability to appreciate the beauty and joy that life has to offer even in an era of such horrific tragedy. Accordingly, he is deeply grateful to be a part of such a wonderful and precious moment.
On the surface, The Seventh Seal may look like one of those high-brow artsy films that can only be enjoyed by the scholarly or the pretentious. But this couldn’t be farther from the truth. Bergman uses religious allegories, heavy and complex though they may be, to reach audiences on a more universal and human level. I see it as neither a glorification nor a condemnation of Christianity exclusively, but rather as an exploration of spiritual crisis and how faith may or may not guide people in their personal walk of life. Though we will all meet Death someday, how willingly we go in the end is as much a mystery as the Holy Spirit itself.
CREDITS:
All images, audio, and links belong to their respective owners; no copyright infringement is intended.
MAIN THEME:
“The Call” – Briand Morrison and Roxann Berglund
Antonius Block, a Swedish knight, and his squire, Jöns, have fought ten long, grueling years in the Crusades, and are now at long last journeying home. But the Sweden they return to is not the one they remember. As the Black Plague ravages the land, most of those still alive are half-mad with terror and despair, crying out to God for relief and mercy. Made all the more morose by such bleakness, Antonius finds temporary solace only in the chess matches he plays with himself. One night, during one such game, he is approached by a pale figure in a pitch-black cloak, none other than Death himself. Unwilling to die just yet, Antonius strikes him a bargain: they will play a single round of chess, allowing Antonius to live for as long as it lasts. But should he lose, he must surrender his life without question. And now, with those few precious days he has bought for himself, Antonius fights to find answers to theological and existential questions that haunt him, before he leaves this hellish world for good.
Having formally studied more literature than cinema, I was previously unaware of how influential this film is to this day. While it didn’t get nominated in the Best Foreign Language Film category for the 30th Academy Awards, it has still had an enormous impact on numerous filmmakers and actors alike, from Woody Allen to Monty Python. Considered by many critics to be on par with such greats as Citizen Kane, The Godfather, and Gone with the Wind, it not only cemented Ingmar Bergman as a legendary director, but has since become a staple in critical analysis and film study the world over.
Many historians have noted The Seventh Seal’s historical inaccuracy. For example, flagellation, in which people would brutally whip themselves in penance for their sins, was never practiced in Medieval Sweden, nor large-scale witch persecutions there in the 14th century. But this really doesn’t matter, nor should it, because the plot of The Seventh Seal is intended as an allegory, an experience, its symbolism a reflection of our own modern lives and points of view. As a matter of fact, this movie feel less like a movie than it does an olden stage play. Incidentally, Bergman had directed some Shakespearean plays before making this film. What really stood out to me was the dialogue. Though not as heavy as that of Shakespeare, it is still very dramatic and poetic, delivered with so much beauty even when the words are at their most serious and dismal. So even if the lines feel scripted and unrealistic, the conviction behind them does not:
ANTONIUS: Who are you?
DEATH: Death.
ANTONIUS: Have you come for me?
DEATH: I have long walked at your side.
ANTONIUS: Yes, I know.
DEATH: Are you ready?
ANTONIUS: My flesh is frightened. My heart is calm.
(Antonius stands up; Death sweeps out his right arm and approaches, preparing to take him.)
ANTONIUS: Wait just a minute.
DEATH: You all ask that, but I give no reprieve.
ANTONIUS: (Conversationally.) You play chess, I understand.
DEATH: How do you know?
ANTONIUS: (Smiling.) Oh, I know it from poetry and from old legends.
DEATH: (With no vanity whatsoever.) If I may say so, I am considered an excellent player.
ANTONIUS: (Confidently.) You cannot be more skilled than I.
DEATH: Why do you want to play chess with me?
ANTONIUS: (Shortly.) That’s my affair.
DEATH: (Unruffled.) As you wish.
The film’s title is particularly significant: derived from Chapter 8, Verse 1 of the Book of Revelation:
“And when the Lamb had opened the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven which lasted about the space of half an hour.”
And it is this theme of silence that accounts for much of The Seventh Seal’s power. Not solely the absence of sound, though Bergman does utilize that very effectively. There is no music during the opening or ending credits, for example, in order to set the tone of solemnity. And in one of my favorite segments, Jöns tries to rouse a man lying against a rock in order to talk to him, only to find he is actually shaking a hollow corpse; upon Antonius’ questioning, Jöns never tells him straight out that the man is dead, but instead—and quite calmly—answers by complimenting the man’s “eloquence” despite his “story” being “most depressing”:
(Antonius and Jöns continue riding side by side on horseback.)
ANTONIUS: Which way is [the inn]?
JÖNS: I’ve no idea.
ANTTONIUS: (Puzzled.) What did he say?
JÖNS: He didn’t answer.
ANTONIUS: (Even more puzzled.) Was he mute?
JÖNS: Well, you couldn’t call him mute, sire. In fact, just the opposite. If anything, he was very eloquent.
ANTONIUS: Oh!
JÖNS: Yes, extremely so. But the story he had to tell was most depressing.
But the more crucial type of silence being addressed here is the perceived absence of God. Namely, the idea that God ignores humanity, or worse, doesn’t exist at all. Every person who has ever lived on this earth has wondered what the meaning of life is, and our protagonist is no exception. Though he is a valiant knight with his heart in the right place, Antonius feels no stronger, wiser, or purer than any other human being. Far from it. Having fought so long and so hard, having seen so much agony and death, he feels cold, bitter, and empty. Exacerbating these feelings is his desire to find some kind of meaning, however small, almost as though his existence up to now has been devoid of it. Never once has God appeared before him or given any other physical sign that he is indeed listening. This, according to Antonius, begs the question: Because Man is so weak and blind and confused, why can’t God show himself and actually give answers, instead of forcing Man to struggle in body and in heart in trying to follow Him?
ANTONIUS: (Kneeling before the confessional.) Can it really be so terrible to want to know God with the senses? Why must he always hide behind unseen miracles and vague promises and hints about eternity? (Looks up heavenward.) How can we believe in those who do have faith when we’ve lost our own? What will happen to those of us who want to believe but cannot? And what of those who neither can’t believe nor want to?
[. . .]
ANTONIUS: (Grasps the bars of the confessional, sounding desperate.) I want knowledge, don’t you see? Not faith, not legends, not blind acceptance, but—I want God to give me his hand, to show me his face, to talk to me.
DEATH: (Posing as a priest.) But he is silent.
ANTONIUS: I cry out to him in the dark. But sometimes it seems as if there is no one there.
DEATH: It could be no one is there.
ANTONIUS: If that is true, then all of life is meaningless. Nobody can live with death before his eyes if he thinks oblivion lays at the end.
Touching back on the “play” comparison, I believe some of the characters represent a specific religious point of view, which drives their motivations and defines their personalities. In this sense, I’m reminded of characters from traditional legends and fairy tales, whose traits are meant to symbolize and thereby teach us about some aspect of real life. Though this may paint them as somewhat one-dimensional, their traits are similarly symbolic in ways that virtually any modern audience can understand and relate to, socially and psychologically. This is especially intriguing and illuminating when juxtaposed with Antonius’ doubt and aching desire for spiritual truth. Jöns, though a loyal servant and friend to his master, is cynical and filled with contempt for the church, the atheism to the knight’s agnosticism. Just the concept of God strikes him as nothing but ludicrous crap, fallen for by the gullible and desperate, manipulated by the pompous and greedy, and misconstrued by the sadistic and mentally unstable:
JÖNS: (Completely disgusted.) All this talk about damnation. What kind of fools do they think we are? No one in his right mind would swallow that.
ANTONIUS: (Scoffs.)
JÖNS: Go on, sneer at me. But I know what I’m talking about. You’ll see. I’ve heard all the nonsense that people babble at each other.
ANTONIUS: (Smiling dismissively.) Yes, yes . . .
JÖNS: (Mimicking him scornfully.) Yes, yes! All the stupid stories about Our Father in Heaven and Jesus Christ and the angels and the Holy Ghost—I was never convinced.
At the other end of the spectrum, we have Jof, a traveling juggler. Though childish and naïve, he is a kind and devoted family man to his wife, Mia, and infant son, Mikael. I think part of Jof’s optimism stems from the fact that he has loved ones to return to and that he knows will be there to support and comfort him, and vice versa, unlike Antonius, whose own wife may or may not still be alive. But Jof also has the mysterious ability to see deities, like Baby Jesus and the Virgin Mary, as they walk upon the Earth. Or so he claims. Regardless, his unwavering belief in these visions strengthens his faith and inspires his dreams, no matter how far-fetched they may seem, and tells him that there is indeed both a point to life and life after death:
MIA: (Wistfully.) I want Mikael to have a better life than ours.
JOF: (Confidently.) Mikael will be a great acrobat when he grows up. Or else, a great juggler. He’ll perform a trick that no one has ever done.
MIA: (With a little exasperation.) What trick are you talking about?
JOF: (Matter-of-factly.) To make one of the balls stand completely still while it’s up in the air.
MIA: No one can do that!
JOF: (Undaunted.) You mean that we can’t do it. But one day, he will.
MIA: (Lays in Jof’s arms comfortably.) Another fantasy.
[. . .]
(Jof and Mia laugh together playfully; Jof begins to practice his juggling.)
MIA: Jof?
JOF: Heh?
MIA: Stay right there. Don’t talk.
JOF: I won’t say a word.
MIA: I love you.
(The two gaze at each other lovingly.)
But even though Antonius has little to look forward to even without Death literally waiting to take him, I don’t find him as depressing as he could have been. Bergman provides him—and us—with some uplifting moments as well without being overly silly or sentimental, or ruining the film’s somber atmosphere. There is a beautiful sequence in which Antonius and his party are offered strawberries and milk by Jof and Mia on a grassy hill. Partaking in this humble but pleasant meal, surrounded by the warmth of friends and summer, he holds up the bowl of milk in both hands and drinks from it as if receiving Holy Communion, and makes a heartfelt speech to match the reverence of the gesture:
ANTONIUS: I shan’t forget this moment. The stillness of the twilight. The strawberries, and the bowl of milk. Your faces lit up by the sun. Mikael sleeping in the wagon, Jof sitting there, strumming. And I won’t forget what we’ve been talking about.
(Mia passes him the bowl of milk.)
ANTONIUS: I’ll bear the image between my hands, as carefully as if it were a shallow bowl filled to the brim with fresh milk. (Takes a long, satisfying drink.) And this shall be to me a sign . . . and of great sufficiency.
This is an extremely rare moment of the entire movie in which Antonius shows any genuine happiness; for all the sorrow in his heart, he has not lost the ability to appreciate the beauty and joy that life has to offer even in an era of such horrific tragedy. Accordingly, he is deeply grateful to be a part of such a wonderful and precious moment.
On the surface, The Seventh Seal may look like one of those high-brow artsy films that can only be enjoyed by the scholarly or the pretentious. But this couldn’t be farther from the truth. Bergman uses religious allegories, heavy and complex though they may be, to reach audiences on a more universal and human level. I see it as neither a glorification nor a condemnation of Christianity exclusively, but rather as an exploration of spiritual crisis and how faith may or may not guide people in their personal walk of life. Though we will all meet Death someday, how willingly we go in the end is as much a mystery as the Holy Spirit itself.
CREDITS:
All images, audio, and links belong to their respective owners; no copyright infringement is intended.
MAIN THEME:
“The Call” – Briand Morrison and Roxann Berglund
EPISODE SONGS:
“No One Escapes” - Sean Zarn
“No One Escapes” - Sean Zarn
“A Final Triumph” - Sean Zarn
All other music and sound clips are from the English dub of The Seventh Seal (directed by Ingmar Bergman; distributed by AB Svensk Filmindustri)
Download the full 15-minute episode here!
The Seventh Seal on Wikipedia
Ingmar Bergman on Wikipedia
The Seventh Seal on Ingmar Bergman's Official Website
The Seventh Seal on IMDb
The Seventh Seal on Rotten Tomatoes
The Seventh Seal on Common Sense Media
The Seventh Seal on Tv Tropes
Buy The Seventh Seal on Amazon
Buy The Seventh Seal at Barnes & Noble
Buy The Seventh Seal on Ebay
^^ Back to Movies, Short Films, and Other Works of Cinema
Download the full 15-minute episode here!
The Seventh Seal on Wikipedia
Ingmar Bergman on Wikipedia
The Seventh Seal on Ingmar Bergman's Official Website
The Seventh Seal on IMDb
The Seventh Seal on Rotten Tomatoes
The Seventh Seal on Common Sense Media
The Seventh Seal on Tv Tropes
Buy The Seventh Seal on Amazon
Buy The Seventh Seal at Barnes & Noble
Buy The Seventh Seal on Ebay
^^ Back to Movies, Short Films, and Other Works of Cinema