The Seventh Seal is poetic, existential, grim, somber, witty, and on the whole a medieval treatment of an eternally relevant curiosity of human race - the existence of god and the inevitability of death. It draws up a desirous balance of solemn and the carefree, the harsh and the satirical. A medieval knight named Antonius Block and his squire Jöns have just returned from ten wasted years in the Crusades to a Sweden in the throes of the black plague. Block is the most philosophical, perceptive, and inquisitive character who is never tired of seeking answer to an ever-contemporaneous inquiry into the existence of god. Jöns is verging on the cynical side of the inquiry, maintains an expression of scornful derision toward Block, and most prominently a strict enforcer of civil rules.
We also meet a simple actor named Jof who holds a simple vision of life and a believer in the god, his wife Mia radiating eternal love and affection, and their infant son Mikael, a metaphoric object of future and hope. Vacillating between his inability to believe and his dissatisfaction with unbelief, Block fulminates against God’s frustrating elusiveness on the one hand and the God-shaped hole in his own heart on the other. "Why must he always hide behind unseen miracles and vague promises and hints about eternity?" Block complains. Yet he also asks, "Why can’t I kill God within me? Why does he live on inside me, mocking and tormenting me till I have no rest, even though I curse him and try to tear him from my heart? Why, in spite of everything else, does he remain a reality — a maddening reality I cannot get rid of?" Besides struggling with doubts about God’s existence, Block also resists death in the hope of performing a single meaningful act before dying. He challenges Death, the grim reaper, in a game of chess only to temporize his search for god. The reprieve is granted by Death who intermittently engages in his usual pitiless acts to remind us the inevitability of him. Block does get an opportunity to perform his meaningful act before the film ends — even in a way cheating Death — ultimately this gives him no consolation or peace. Instead, his only respite from his existential dread occurs, notably, during an encounter with the playful couple, Jof and Mia, in which Block briefly shares in their peaceful existence, enjoying a simple meal of wild strawberries and milk. In final, Block and his company with the exception of Jof, Mia, and Mikael accept lurking Death in a moment of submission. In The Seventh Seal, Bergman scrutinizes life and death as a philosophical problem rather than living it as a man. He portrays agnosticism and existential angst with recognized expressions of excitements, but allows religious allegiance to appear only in archaic and repulsive forms. Throughout the film, each encounter with Death gives way to an earthy humorous episode reminding us the endless proceedings of a mundane life. Like Block, Bergman never attempts to enter into Jof and Mia’s uncomplicated way of life, yet still somehow seems to draw comfort from it. By the film’s end it’s clear that although the director has no wish to be like Jof and Mia, he nevertheless values their way of life and doesn’t wish to see them deprived of it. Bergman expresses his impression of Death in the following:
"I was afraid of this enormous emptiness, but my personal view is that when we die, we die, and we go from a state of something to a state of absolute nothingness; and I don’t believe for a second that there’s anything above or beyond or anything like that; and this makes me enormously secure."
A communion is meticulously performed before a dwindling congregation: a school teacher, Marta, a troubled parishioner, Jonas Persson and Jonas' wife, Karin. But the religious ceremony has lost its significance for its message-bearer, pastor Tomas, who has a crisis of faith. Tomas's inner predicament is fittingly captured by a series of close ups, a characteristic of Bergman's cinematic signature. Tomas is callous and uncaring to the woman, Marta, who loves him. His interactions with Marta are mostly mechanical and ultimately acrimonious. When an apprehensive and suicidal Jonas seeks peace on a perceived imminent nuclear holocaust, equivocating Tomas offers his own uncertainty. Jonas gives in to the internal crisis, laden with faith, and commits suicide. The most bare and visually somber of Ingmar Bergman's religious trilogy, Winter Light, the second film of the trilogy, is a film in transition. It marks Bergman's final exploration of religious faith, or of the reasons to doubt the lack thereof, and serves as an overture to the psychological drama, the last part of his trilogy. Similar to Through a Glass Darkly, minimal cast, dialogue, and scenery suffuse the film, squeezing out the atmospheric tensions of the plot to its fundamental essence: God's silence. The unique use of monologues, elongated silences, and extreme close-ups convey emotional plights of the characters and paint a picture of emotional isolation. In perfect harmony are the barren landscape, seasonal climate, and Tomas' illness that further reflect the cold emptiness of his soul. In the final scene, Tomas returns to the obligation of the ceremonial communion attended by a meager mass. Tomas is seen to minister the vacant words for those who solicit comfort from their lofty meaning, extract from them stamina for their spiritual solace and emotional composure.
In 1963 Bergman published the screenplays for Through A Glass Darkly, Winter Light, and The Silence in a single volume. In an introductory note the director gave his reasons for uniting the three films, a rationale that has influenced their reception over the past fifty years, Bergman wrote: "These three films deal with reduction. Through A Glass Darkly - conquered certainty. Winter Light - penetrated certainty. The Silence - God's silence - the negative imprint. Therefore, they constitute a trilogy." Film critics and historians absorbed this construct into their reviews and essays for years. In his 1969 analysis of Bergman's films, titled Ingmar Bergman, Robin Wood grouped the three films under the chapter heading " The Trilogy", without further mention of the concept. Others' greeted Bergman's statement more skeptically. Despite the fact that some critics felt the idea of a trilogy was rationalization after the fact, there is evidence that Bergman had considered the films a trilogy all along. Decades later Bergman recanted. In 1999, the director collaborated with film critic and friend Lasse Bergstrom to review all of his films. What resulted from these sessions is Images: a book of Bergman's personal reflections on his life's works. After almost thirty years of recognizing the trilogy as a trilogy, Bergman shifted his opinion: "Today I feel that the "trilogy" has neither rhyme nor reason. It was a Schnaps-Idee, as the Bavarians say, meaning that it's an idea found at the bottom of a glass of alcohol, not always holding up when examined in the sober light of day." Now film scholars, and Bergman's loyal audience are faced with the challenge of reconciling the director's two conflicting statements of intent, one made in the throes of creation, the other at a distance of decades. Despite Bergman's skepticism, however, the idea of the trilogy is permanenetly ingrained in the critical discourse that his work has inspired.
