Watching Ingmar Bergman’s latest movie Saraband (2003), unerringly recognising his deepest personal obsessions, his spiritual and stylistic features, nonetheless some critics still ask: What is new in the film? Is Bergman offering anything so far unknown for us?

A weird approach! Why expect – after fifty years of unparalleled and consistently creative filmmaking – examples of the rhetorically vague notion of ‘the new’? Isn’t it enough that Bergman is able to move ahead, to further elaborate a totally coherent and rich universe? Compared to the former masterpieces, and in particular to Scenes from a Marriage (1974) to which it is a sequel or epilogue, Saraband is undoubtedly, disarmingly original in its visual representation and structural articulation.

Notwithstanding the ‘majestic gravity’, the lyrical warmth and sadness are not the only dominant elements in the film. The melodic line, carried in ten distinct movements, often gives way to dissonant two-part harmony, creating violent and painful scenes. Tenderness, subtlety, even humour are not excluded from the fabric of anger, cruelty and selfishness. This is precisely Bergman's interpretation; the bold magic with which he dares to disguise human frailty, wild passions and the nakedness of the suddenly-altering, contradictory emotional motivations.

The story of the elderly couple (Marianne [Liv Ullmann] and Johan [Erland Josephson]), divorced for thirty years, is audaciously ‘coupled’ with the tormented relationship between Johan’s son from a previous marriage (Henrik [Börje Ahlstedt]) and the son’s daughter (Karin, performed with astonishing energy by Julia Dufvenius). A parallel, distorted mirror? Or just another complementary aspect of the voracious need for male power, and the rebellion against its harsh exploitation? Marianne has enough personal experience to understand this and to side with the young woman’s desire and right to set herself free, despite the lethal suffering this may cause to the beloved antagonist father. But Bergman’s merciless irony denies even death to the suicidal father. As the disgusted Johan remarks ruthlessly: his son is unable even to kill himself. What remains is nothing but the awkward theatricality of his doom.

The quartet’s arc is convincingly powerful, precisely because of its disproportionate weight. There is, deliberately, no equality in the importance of the two stories. The next generation appears to be foregrounded, since it seems they are even more vulnerable and trouble laden than the previous generation. They have to resolve their present situation thus the photos of the deceased mother which are periodically inserted seem to disturb the ravaging drama of this duet, whereas Marianne and Johan carry on their long, painful, yet worn-out past.

Still, interestingly enough, despite the self-destructive, aggressive and cynical character of Henrik, eighty-six-year-old Johan becomes even more intriguing and excessive. His bony face betraying his bitterness and narcissism, already bereft of the security of self-confidence; his supercilious dignity; his humiliating deafness, which leads to the ear-splitting music-listening; the shrewd manipulation of his beautiful, young granddaughter; and finally his ultimate weakness and whimpering anxiety as he is begging to get into Marianne’s bed – are these features not utterly strong and intricate? The old man lives and acts like a particularly complex individual, cursed with hatred and indifference, evil stubbornness and pettiness ... Bergman’s characterisation is incisive and harsh and, like so often in his films, he doesn’t hesitate to confront the most unsparing extremes.

In the portrayal of Marianne, both Bergman and Ullmann dare to reveal the novelty related to her age. In the unforgettable close-ups of her face we discover the slightest traits of her fading and enchanting beauty, not just the wrinkles around the eyes, but the changed texture of her skin and pores, the little heaviness in her figure, the fatigue in the melancholy of her smile. And if in the prologue and epilogue she directly faces us, looking at the camera, we may feel the sense of the ‘distancing’ performance itself. Tua res agitur, it suggests, and we gladly accept the personal address.

Filmed in digital video with four cameras, Bergman accepted the challenge to experiment with new technology. True enough, the images are crystal clear, and any aestheticising potential is avoided. Thus, perfection and precision prevail over poetic interpretation, without impoverishing it, displaying the master’s search for his ‘voice’. Ullmann has said that Bergman was not used to and disliked the distance between the actors and himself. Therefore, in the most important scenes, he ignored the presence of the four machines and placed himself in front of them in order to maintain his preference for close contact with his actors. And so his characteristic sensuousness, the tactility of his close-ups, fortunately remains.

Many critics are inclined to see in this movie the signs of Bergman’s sunset. I don’t believe this is the case. Bergman’s work is more vigorous than any mere elegiac farewell. In his irregularity and his use of the unusual musical structure, he is once again creating a new kind of order, new shades within the classical map. It is truly a saraband, a sort of fine and surprising dance, evoking the emotional power and well-known touch of his other movies.