The Seventh Seal

Von Sydow, who would later go on to play both Christ and Satan,asks Death if either one really exists.

It would be a mistake to say, as many people have, that Ingmar Bergman’s dark, desolate The Seventh Seal is about the death (or at least the absence) of God. It is never that simple or that pessimistic. Indeed, I have seen the film three times now, and each time, I come to understand more that it is one of the most affirming films of faith ever made. The trick, as Bergman cleverly reveals, is to separate the preconceived notions of organized religion from the concept of faith. God is found in many different places in this film—in the humor of a jester, in the cries of a newborn baby, in early-morning visions, in a song, in a simple meal. But when the characters hold onto their organized, ritualistic faith, they are incapable of seeing or experiencing God, because they are trying to view God in the way that society has pigeonholed Him. God, Bergman argues, is bigger than that.

The film’s most famous image, of course, is that of Antonius Block (Max von Sydow), a disenchanted knight returning from the Crusades in the Middle Ages, playing chess with Death (Bengt Ekerot), who has accepted a wager that if Block wins the game, he will be allowed to live. We must first recognize Death’s own claims about himself: “No one escapes me,” he insists, but at the same time, when Block asks him to reveal the Divine mysteries, Death shrugs with boredom and utters, “I don’t have any answers. I don’t know.” This is a concept that seems to morn with helplessness—that the only thing that is certain is as clueless as the rest of us.

But Death’s assertion is not so much an affirmation of God’s death, but rather an revelation of where God is not found. Consider where Block consistently encounters Death. When he is not in the dark woods or open roads, all contaminated with the plague, Death is always found within the walls of a church, disguised as a priest. There is a moment in which Block, believing Death to be a priest, desperately pleads, “I want to confess as best I can, but my heart is void. … I want God to put out His hand, to show His face, to speak to me. I cry out to Him, but there is no one there.” In this moment, Block reveals his belief in the Christian faith and traditions, but he admits that this dogma has left him cold because it has rendered God so silent. At this moment, Death turns and reveals himself. The point: God might not be dead, but the church certainly is. The tragedy is in the fact that Block’s religious culture is so ingrained in him that he is unable to separate the two.

Additional moments also point to this notion. When Block and his squire Jöns
(Gunnar Björnstrand) encounters a young girl about to be burned at the stake for being a witch, Block asks her to show him the devil, so that he “can ask him about God.” The young girl, her innocent eyes wild with fear, is clearly in no position to have ever been in communion with the devil, yet she tells Block with all sincerity, “The devil is all around me. He speaks to me. He must—that’s why they’re burning me.” Even this poor girl has accepted the church’s law, though it leads to her violent destruction. When Block turns to a mounted priest and asks him what this girl has done to deserve such a fate, the priest turns and reveals himself to be Death once again.

In sharp contrast to Block’s truth-seeking dilemma, Bergman provides two cheerful traveling actors, the poor but satisfied Jof (Nils Poppe) and his wife Mia (Bibi Andersson). They dress up as pagans, perform their mostly ridiculed shows, and wonder where their next mean will come from. Self-flagellating priests walk by and condemn their performance, but these two characters contain more pleasantry and sunshine than anything else yet presented in the film. Early on, Jof even has a vision of the Virgin Mary and Christ, and that the Divine chooses to reveal itself to a man considered a pagan by the organized church is curious indeed. Here are two people who love one another and are content with what little they have. They seek and find God not exclusively in the church, but literally anywhere they can, whenever they can. They have a lifestyle that has not been shaped or pigeonholed by the religion of the Middle Ages. And their fate speaks for itself: Even as all the other characters in the film are ultimately unable to escape Death, these two are spared.

In this contrast between Block and the actors, Bergman makes his point clear: The Seventh Seal is a condemnation of not God, but organized Christianity, and Bergman seemingly argues that its only accomplishment has been silencing God. These priests and churches, so dogmatic and apocalyptic, do not worship the true God of the Bible, but rather one that they have fashioned and shaped out of their own traditions, emotional repressions, and bitterness. But in the days of the Plague, the church had firmly established itself as the only way to reach God, and without it, salvation could never be found. This is why Block is unable to reconcile with his common sense, which tells him that truth is not found within the church’s walls. He has seen the church’s questionable actions in both the bloody Crusades and the Black Plague, and he can sense the hypocrisy in the established religious order. Nevertheless, he still thirsts after God in his heart, even though the only God he knows is the one that the church has created in its own image. Block’s soul is cold when he turns towards his religion, yet he unable to shake away that doctrine that has been so engrained into his head. Even as Death comes for him at last, he quotes scripture in terror and fear. But it is really God who he cries out to, or cruel, God-silencing dogma?

Perhaps Bergman isn’t just questioning organized faith, but extreme dogmatism in general. Block’s insightful, world-wise squire Jöns has rejected the Christian faith, and even in the face of Death, he states that he refuses to die as a coward, but to experience “the triumph of living” in his final moments. Jöns is certainly a foil for the more pessimistic, dogmatic Block: Both men are disillusioned with life and religion, but they have faced that disappointment by embracing opposite extremes. Block holds onto the last shred of faith that he has left, unwilling to surrender it in fear of eternal damnation. Jöns has found his hell on Earth, and if he believes in an afterlife, he couldn’t care less about it. To him, God exists only in the disillusioned mind, and he has chosen to accept an atheistic, sadistic existence of his own. Unlike the actors, who embrace no dogma and merely live their life in good faith that they will be provided for, Jöns is not spared from Death. He might not be religious, but his dogmatism is just as extreme as those self-flagellating priests, and his stubbornness leads to his demise.

At the beginning of this review, I called The Seventh Seal one of the most affirming films of faith ever made. I also think that it is one of the more revealing films ever made about the nature of faith, and what we choose to put our faith in. For Block, whose cowardice “blocks” him from seeing the truth past organized church, faith is a terrifying thing. For Jöns, who is both insightful and cruel, faith is an outdated nuisance. But for the traveling actors, who are able to view faith beyond the skewed walls of the church, it sets them free. With this film, Bergman has drawn the line in the sand between religion and faith, and reveals that even though the church does what it can to blur the lines, there is a clear difference. One leads to Death, and the other to life. God might be absent from this extreme form of religion, but He is never, ever absent.

If, while reading this your review, you feel that I have skipped over the cinematic techniques of the film, then I plead guilty. But the magnificent imagery, cinematography, acting, and directing have been discussed in so much depth in so many different reviews that I would only feel like a broken record if I stated the obvious again. With this statement, I’m not trying to cheat: The truth is, I have forced myself to approach The Seventh Seal with caution, because when I find myself moved to write on a film that has been as analyzed and interpreted and studied as this one, I have to be absolutely certain that I actually have a perspective to lend that perhaps hasn’t been lent before. That’s why I have avoided so many of the classics, which have earned the identification of “classic” because of all of the written words and audience reactions that have deemed them as thus. I’d rather not be another voice at the swimming pool; ergo, I wait until I have something new to say about the great films before I write about them. This doesn’t mean that I’ll never review Citizen Kane: I find that everything I’ve said I’ll never do around here actually gets done. I’m just waiting for a new perspective. That I feel comfortable enough sit down and have a go at The Seventh Seal, however, indicates that new things can be found in these old, great works of cinema. That’s why they’re great.

Cast:
Man von Sydow: Antonius Block
Gunnar Björnstrand: Jöns
Bengt Ekerot: Death
Nils Poppe: Jof
Bibi Andersson: Mia
Maud Hansson: The Witch

A Svensk Filmindustri production. Written and directed by Ingmar Bergman, from his play Trämålning. No M.P.A.A rating—contains no offensive material, but features themes and images that might be too intense for young viewers. Running time: 96 minutes. Original Swedish theatrical release date: February 16, 1957. In Swedish, with English subtitles.