Literally liturgical cinema, Ingmar Bergman’s Winter Light begins with a pastor in rural Sweden offering communion to his paltry gathering of parishioners. The extended sequence depicts the entirety of the sacrament, as well as the benediction that follows and the dismissal. It’s reverent, yet something is amiss. The pastor, Tomas (Gunnar Björnstrand), seems distracted and sweaty. As we cut to portrait shots of various worshippers in the pews, the devout faces are outnumbered by the bored, indifferent, and confused. Winter Light goes on to offer one of the defining crisis-of-faith dramas in film history, as Tomas—struggling with his own experience of “God’s silence”—fails to encourage a parishioner who is distraught over the threat of nuclear annihilation (Max von Sydow). Meanwhile, Tomas halfheartedly participates in a romantic relationship with Marta (Ingrid Thulin), a younger atheist. If the film’s theme is often explicitly expressed via dialogue—“God never has spoken because God doesn’t exist,” Marta says— there is also copious theology in Sven Nykvist’s cinematography. Tomas’ office has a window through which the illumination of the movie’s title softly falls. The pastor seems drawn to it throughout the film, even in distress. Indeed, at one point Tomas stands in the dark corner of the sanctuary, a bas-relief of a skull behind him, then retreats to the window’s embrace. Another shot includes Marta (and Winter Light is as much a journey of faith for her as it is for Tomas), standing beside another window, through which a piercing sun enters. This is a movie imbued with the presence of God, even as it simultaneously denies it.
(10/24/2026)
