Last Thursday, I attended a screening of “The Seventh Seal” for PHIL 294: “Film & Philosophy: Ingmar Bergman” at the historic Bardavon Opera House in downtown Poughkeepsie. The six-week intensive course is taught by Associate Professor of Philosophy Christopher Raymond and introduces the philosophy of film through an analysis of Bergman’s thought-provoking work as an auteur. Our class schedule happened to coincide with the Bardavon’s free screening of Bergman’s highly-acclaimed film, making for a serendipitous outing. I hopped in a car driven by Philosophy Department Intern Catherine Borthwick ’24 [Disclaimer: Borthwick is Live Events Chair of The Miscellany News]. We traversed through hilly neighborhoods unfamiliar to myself, containing a handful of vibrantly colored homes. Upon reaching a crosswalk, we stopped so my friend and classmate Jesse Koblin ’25 [Disclaimer: Koblin is Arts Editor of The Miscellany News] could pass; in true New Yorker fashion, they elected to walk to the Bardavon. We arrived downtown and circled the area a few times, discouraged from using the garage due to $20 event parking for a convention happening across the street. After finding a conspicuous lot, a man on the street assured us of its legality despite conflicting messages from nearby placards. The Bardavon’s old-timey sign and facade were lit up, glowing amid a quiet, post-industrial backdrop. We entered and took our seats, watching live organ music before the film began.
[SPOILERS AHEAD]
Why do I bother prefacing my interpretation of this film with a narration of these events? Despite lacking any intensity, my brief journey to the theater mirrored the randomness of circumstance and tonal dissonance likewise contained within “The Seventh Seal.” In the film, medieval knight Antonious Block embarks on a journey through plague-ravaged Denmark after returning from the crusades disillusioned, accompanied by his bitter squire Jöns. The personification of Death—a hooded, pale figure—approaches Block on a beach, a menacing counterpoint to my earlier spotting of Koblin. Understanding his life to be at stake, Block challenges Death to a game of chess that progresses throughout the film. From this visually striking launching point, the viewer is presented a harrowing yet frequently comic account of life during the Black Death.
As Block and Jöns make their way into town, their chance encounters determine the film’s trajectory and the ensuing composition of a traveling party. They pass by a troupe of performers who will later join them: manager Jonas Skat, actor-couple Mia and Jof, and their infant son Mikael. Jöns rescues a mute woman and subsequently threatens her into becoming his servant; her assailant is Raval, a clergy member who originally convinced Block to join the Crusades. This event establishes the repeated structure of happenstance meetings throughout the film. The group watches as the actors perform a strange song and dance in the town center; Skat runs off backstage to make love with Lisa, wife of the village blacksmith Plog. Their flirtation felt remarkably modern, a seeming anachronism which suggests humanity’s eternal infidelity in the pursuit of pleasure. Suddenly the action is interrupted by a group of flagellants, whipping themselves to repent for sins seen as causing the plague. Horrifying imagery of the crowd depicts exhaustion, crying out to a silent God in shots which focus on capturing the intricacy of facial expressions. After the procession leaves, Bergman turns our attention to a bar setting. Jof is forced to perform humiliating acts by Raval and Plog (the latter of whom knows his wife has run off with an actor), only saved from this torment by Jöns. The squire fulfills an earlier promise by attacking Raval, leading Jof and his family to join Block’s group. Drunkenly lamenting the woes of his relationship in a moment of fraternal bonding with Jöns, Plog begs to come along. I was taken aback by the comedic nature of their dialogue in this medieval setting, evoking timeless tropes about unbearable in-laws and petty couples’ arguments; referencing past partners, they mockingly exchange phrases like “why don’t you kiss me goodnight” and “you didn’t notice my new dress,” suggesting our tribulations are nothing new to the human experience. The scene elicited laughter from the audience, demonstrating how classic films can resonate with contemporary life.
After this extensive setup, much of the film’s second half is developed through revisits from prior characters. Plog wins back Lisa, and Skat—fittingly, for an actor—fakes his suicide, only to be visited by Death. He makes increasingly humorous pleas based on his occupation before meeting an inescapable demise, with Death quipping that his “contract” on life has been “terminated.” A woman previously accused of being a witch is burned alive, and Raval dies from the plague while begging for help. Block’s chess match with Death continues, eventually leading to his loss; Death assures Block that the next encounter will be their last. In the final scene, he takes the party hand-in-hand over a hill, a Danse Macabre which reminds viewers of life’s fleeting nature and its inverted conclusion in death. Jof’s family survives by choosing to remain in their carriage overnight instead of entering the castle.
Although these dreary moments matched my expectations, the film was funnier than I thought it would be, noted by others after the screening. This plays into its tonal dissonance, a phrase borrowed from a negative review I read online. I believe that it is better to call the mood multifaceted and divergent. Tonality morphs from scene to scene in order to capture a broad depiction of our search for meaning against the lingering threat of Death. The film’s balancing of serious topics with moments of peasant folly, romantic slapstick or self-referential jokes aids in its thematic effectivity. By highlighting the confusing, drastic shifts in emotion which characterize our daily lives, Bergman’s narrative reinforced two concepts: the inevitability of Death and the consistently unknowable nature of God. The grounding of these existential anxieties is made possible by the recurrence of Death’s chess match and the aforementioned quantity of offhand encounters and reencounters, providing the narrative with solid foundation for its variously distinct conversations. As a fictional character, Death’s omnipresence is bolstered by the reality of the Black Death’s prevalence, enabling fantasy to become an effective means of retelling history; God’s silence ensures nothing is certain except our fated end in the mortal realm.
Leaving the theater, Koblin remarked how the film managed to capture an image of the human experience’s totality within a brief 96-minute runtime. Although I was still collecting my thoughts, this statement is indicative of how seamlessly the story weaves together camaraderie, suffering, farce and more. If you have the chance, I recommend attending The Bardavon’s free film series.