Consciousness, Literature and the Arts
Archive
Volume 15 Number 3, December 2014
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Livingston, Paisley. Cinema, Philosophy, Bergman: On Film as Philosophy Oxford University Press, paperback edition 2012
Reviewed by
Can films ‘do’ philosophy? Livingston’s book grows out of claims about philosophical cinema. He begins by trying to clarify what such claims might mean before advancing his own thesis on film as philosophy. This lays the theoretical and methodological foundations for the final part of the book, where he examines some of the works of the great Swedish filmmaker, Ingmar Bergman.
Livingston begins his theoretical discussion by assessing what he calls the “bold thesis” on cinema and philosophy: “that some films can make historically innovative and independent contributions to philosophy by means exclusive to the cinematic medium.” (20) This thesis quickly runs into problems, not least because the philosophical content of film must ultimately be mediated linguistically in order to become intelligible (thus violating the ‘means’ part of the bold thesis). Livingston therefore rejects the bold thesis and opts for the more modest claim that a film “can usefully express or illustrate philosophical ideas and arguments, be they significantly innovative or not… [philosophical interpretations] can, but need not, focus on the films’ specifically cinematic devices.” (38)
Livingston subsequently tries to clarify what it means to say that a film is ‘doing’ philosophy. This must, presumably, involve more than stimulating philosophical speculation in the viewer. Livingston argues that this claim means that a filmmaker is using the cinematic medium to explore philosophical questions or ideas. This has methodological consequences for philosophically oriented film criticism, as it requires the critic to take account of the filmmaker’s intentions.
Authorial intentions, particularly in film, naturally opens a large critical can of worms. Livingston deftly outlines a position in favor of a ‘partial intentionalism’ which requires the philosophically sophisticated critic to pay attention to the philosophical influences on a filmmaker, provided these also mesh with the resulting film(s).
This brings us to the final part of the book, and the most interesting from a Consciousness and Literature standpoint. Livingston notes that Bergman’s works are explicitly informed by his reading of Finnish philosopher and psychologist Eino Kaila, citing among other things Bergman’s preface to the screenplay of Wild Strawberries: “[Kaila’s] thesis that man lives strictly according to his needs-negative and positive-was shattering to me, but terribly true. And I built on this ground.” (quoted 126) This takes on special significance given Bergman’s well-known aversion for complex philosophical writings, yet few scholars have taken Kaila’s influence seriously.
Kaila claims the primacy of desire or need as the motive for all human behavior. Desire also shapes cognition and belief, vitiating rationality and making knowledge elusive (although not necessarily impossible, as Livingston argues). Furthermore, desire for something unobtainable gets displaced onto other objects, making our own real motivations mysterious to us.
Livingston uses this background to comment in depth on two films, From the Life of Marionettes and Persona, with reference to several other films including The Seventh Seal. The discussion is intricate and difficult to summarize in a few sentences, but some conclusions stand out. Firstly, Livingston argues that Freudianism is an inadequate and actually inappropriate tool for analyzing Bergman. This is so because despite their superficial resemblance, Kaila explicitly rejects Freud, and this has consequences for interpreting Bergman, especially when it comes to From the Life of Marionettes. Briefly, we cannot trust the deeply compromised psychiatrist Jensen in his analysis of the murderer Peter Egermann, and if any character acts as Bergman’s mouthpiece it is Tim, whose monologue delivered into a mirror is redolent of Kaila.
Livingston’s analysis of Persona focuses on the relationship between Alma and Elisabeth. He argues that Alma begins in a state of Kaila-esque self-delusion, but by the end of the film has moved towards a degree of genuine self-knowledge bought at the cost of considerable emotional pain. In this sense she resembles many other Bergman characters. Livingston does not engage the meta-cinematic elements that make Persona such a radical and notoriously difficult film, but he does offer some fresh insights into the film’s central relationship.
To sum up, Cinema, Philosophy, Bergman falls into two distinct parts, the first engaging theoretical and methodological questions, the second applying the first part’s conclusions in a reading of a number of Bergman films. The book is concise and very clearly argued.