All These WomenIngmar Bergman has been remembered--somewhat understandably, if somewhat unfairly--as a filmmaker whose works lean toward the abstract or depressing (or maybe even abstractly depressing). And yet there's that old saying, popularized by Roald Dahl (via Gene Wilder in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory): "A little nonsense now and then, cherished by the wisest men." All These Women stands apart from Bergman's oeuvre as a full-on farce, replete with slapstick, innuendo, and (up to this point) vibrant color. The story is about a foppish biographer named Cornelius (Jarl Kulle) and his mission to immortalize a wealthy cellist named Felix, which is constantly thwarted by his subject's many, many paramours et al. Hilarity ensues.
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Cornelius may be the protagonist of All These Women, but he is as unappealing and obnoxious as they come. He is self-absorbed, ingratiating, flattering, smarmy, scheming--yet stupid--and many more adjectives that would make this already overloaded sentence break under the weight of them. When Cornelius arrives at Felix's opulent palace (the money must be pretty good for a cellist in the 1920s, the era in which the film is set), he starts fawning over Tristan (Georg Funkquist), Felix's valet, who Cornelius mistakes for the maestro. (That they presumably look alike becomes a running gag in All These Women.) When he discovers his mistake, he turns up his nose at the helpful valet, in but the first of many unlikable behaviors by the conceited, boorish, lecherous, insecure...oh, wait, I'm doing it again. Of course, were it not for Cornelius' myriad character flaws, it wouldn't be nearly so amusing to see him feebly navigate the proverbial harem of women with which Felix adorns his homestead. This includes his stoic, elegant wife, Adelaide (Eva Dahlbeck), who practices her pistol marksmanship on several giant marble busts of her husband's head, and coordinates a schedule between her husband's mistresses for his affections. The mansion is apparently owned by the eldest of Felix's lovers and his first patroness; despite this, he afflicts her with the unflattering name of "Madame Tussaud" (Karin Kavli). (Other than his own wife, Felix has apparently branded his consorts with names of his choosing.) Cornelius awkwardly introduces himself after mistaking another woman for his wife, a detail corrected later by Adelaide and the maestro's "official mistress", dubbed "Bumblebee" (Bibi Andersson), who bothers to seduce Cornelius out of sport. "Traviata" (Gertrud Fridh) is Felix's murderously jealous protégée (who, fortunately for Cornelius, is a bad shot with her pistol), and her current rival is the embarrassingly young "Saint" Cecilia (Mona Malm), who--even more scandalously--says she is a distant cousin of Felix's with (as she puts it) "absolutely no morals". Beatrica (Barbro Hiort af Ornäs) is a pianist who accompanies Felix's performances--whenever they actually happen--and in a redeemed cliche, his final lover, Isolde (Harriet Andersson), struts around in a French maid uniform, yet appears to be the only one truly invested in Felix's music. (Ingmar Bergman has always been blessed with a rich stable of excellent actors and actresses, but the casting of Felix's women seems to be nearly a "greatest hits" collection of them.)
Cornelius considers himself to be the only truly qualified biographer to document the life and times of Felix (of course he does), and becomes increasingly exasperated at being refused entry to see him while the maestro is practicing or performing for his ladies. Yet Cornelius rarely makes any serious efforts to meet Felix, aside from ultimately threatening him that if he refuses to cooperate, he will deliberately ensure that he fades into obscurity--as if the decision was his to make. Instead, Cornelius busies himself by snooping through Felix's love letters buried in the basement--next to a massive collection of fireworks, because we needed those for a "Benny Hill"-styled set piece right after--and eavesdropping on catty poolside conversations between the eponymous women. He also strokes his ego while fantasizing about the greatness of his own biography yet to be penned by his absurdly long, red-feathered quill, while lustfully recalling his previous romp with Bumblebee. Wise to Cornelius' narcissistic egomania, Felix's beleaguered impresario, Jillker (Allan Edwall), pulls a couple of photographic pranks on the rat-faced cretin, including convincing him to put on a dress and makeup so as to "fool" Felix that he is a woman, so as to get him an interview with the reclusive musician. As Cornelius creeps around the vast estate, he looks the part of a perfect buffoon between his exaggeratedly long, slender cigar and his two different kinds of pompous eyewear: a pair of pince-nez glasses and a monocle, which often drops for comedic effect, because that's all it's really good for. Despite All These Women opening with Felix's own funeral--almost all of the rest of the film is a flashback to Cornelius' stay at the mansion--the film constantly has its wackiness meter dialed up to eleven. (A notable exception is when Madame Tussaud and Tristan commiserate about what brought them into Felix's orbit.) The comedy of All These Women is reminiscent of something by Blake Edwards, like The Pink Panther or The Party (1968). Cornelius' clumsy, blustering behavior recalls the performances of Peter Sellers in those films, and the imbecile biographer even looks a bit like a caricature of David Niven. When Felix is performing Johann Sebastian Bach's Orchestral Suite No. 3 D-dur (BWV 1068)--which is the only piece he appears to play--the gravity of such a lovely selection is upended when Cornelius struggles to save a bust of the maestro from collapsing off of a marble pillar, and the music abruptly changes into classic vaudeville fare. (When Felix does opt to play something different--ultimately Cornelius' own composition--it actually kills him.) Consider the slapstick-infused scene when Cornelius and Jillker chase one another across the grounds, and spray one another from the fountain in their silly interpretation of a fight. Heck, even the proverbial fourth wall isn't save, evidenced by Cornelius addressing the audience directly at the end of the film.
Critical consensus regarding All These Women has been largely negative, with critics including Roger Ebert going so far as to describe it as Bergman's "worst movie". Watching All These Women, I can't help but feel there's something ironic about that, especially considering what Cornelius is--a critic--and the terribly unflattering portrayal of him and his profession. Cornelius is convinced that everyone else--especially Felix--exists only to serve his own self-indulgent craft (such as it is). He is oblivious to the fact that without artists (like Felix) who produce real work, he wouldn't have anything to write about in the first place. Instead of adopting the role of a biographer out of a genuine interest in Felix's work, he is doing it solely to bleed off of his fame like a parasite and become famous himself. When he arrives--and when he later makes his threat to sabotage Felix's legacy--he talks of how he "tore apart" another musician, taking pride in his erstwhile victim's destruction. Cornelius reminds me of so many modern day critics who abuse their position in the media and exploit artists to espouse their own agendas or present themselves as "better" than the creator of the work they denigrate, convinced that only they are entitled to deem something worthy or otherwise. Have you ever noticed how films that present journalists or critics in a flattering light often seem to enjoy exceptionally high scores on Rotten Tomatoes? Cornelius is essentially an indictment of the absurd joke that comes from assigning an arbitrary value to art based on subjective criteria, especially when left in the hands of a self-righteous, weak-willed troll like Cornelius. Ponder this, and perhaps you'll reconsider just what gives a critic the right to tell you whether you should or shouldn't like something, when it's a question that only you can answer for yourself.
Recommended for: Fans of a zany, self-aware farce that goes against type for the celebrated auteur, Ingmar Bergman. Filled with lots of slapstick and wackiness, All These Women is best suited for audiences that enjoy light-hearted humor, with a deliberately staged appearance that (in that Bergman way) pays homage to the theater.
Cornelius considers himself to be the only truly qualified biographer to document the life and times of Felix (of course he does), and becomes increasingly exasperated at being refused entry to see him while the maestro is practicing or performing for his ladies. Yet Cornelius rarely makes any serious efforts to meet Felix, aside from ultimately threatening him that if he refuses to cooperate, he will deliberately ensure that he fades into obscurity--as if the decision was his to make. Instead, Cornelius busies himself by snooping through Felix's love letters buried in the basement--next to a massive collection of fireworks, because we needed those for a "Benny Hill"-styled set piece right after--and eavesdropping on catty poolside conversations between the eponymous women. He also strokes his ego while fantasizing about the greatness of his own biography yet to be penned by his absurdly long, red-feathered quill, while lustfully recalling his previous romp with Bumblebee. Wise to Cornelius' narcissistic egomania, Felix's beleaguered impresario, Jillker (Allan Edwall), pulls a couple of photographic pranks on the rat-faced cretin, including convincing him to put on a dress and makeup so as to "fool" Felix that he is a woman, so as to get him an interview with the reclusive musician. As Cornelius creeps around the vast estate, he looks the part of a perfect buffoon between his exaggeratedly long, slender cigar and his two different kinds of pompous eyewear: a pair of pince-nez glasses and a monocle, which often drops for comedic effect, because that's all it's really good for. Despite All These Women opening with Felix's own funeral--almost all of the rest of the film is a flashback to Cornelius' stay at the mansion--the film constantly has its wackiness meter dialed up to eleven. (A notable exception is when Madame Tussaud and Tristan commiserate about what brought them into Felix's orbit.) The comedy of All These Women is reminiscent of something by Blake Edwards, like The Pink Panther or The Party (1968). Cornelius' clumsy, blustering behavior recalls the performances of Peter Sellers in those films, and the imbecile biographer even looks a bit like a caricature of David Niven. When Felix is performing Johann Sebastian Bach's Orchestral Suite No. 3 D-dur (BWV 1068)--which is the only piece he appears to play--the gravity of such a lovely selection is upended when Cornelius struggles to save a bust of the maestro from collapsing off of a marble pillar, and the music abruptly changes into classic vaudeville fare. (When Felix does opt to play something different--ultimately Cornelius' own composition--it actually kills him.) Consider the slapstick-infused scene when Cornelius and Jillker chase one another across the grounds, and spray one another from the fountain in their silly interpretation of a fight. Heck, even the proverbial fourth wall isn't save, evidenced by Cornelius addressing the audience directly at the end of the film.
Critical consensus regarding All These Women has been largely negative, with critics including Roger Ebert going so far as to describe it as Bergman's "worst movie". Watching All These Women, I can't help but feel there's something ironic about that, especially considering what Cornelius is--a critic--and the terribly unflattering portrayal of him and his profession. Cornelius is convinced that everyone else--especially Felix--exists only to serve his own self-indulgent craft (such as it is). He is oblivious to the fact that without artists (like Felix) who produce real work, he wouldn't have anything to write about in the first place. Instead of adopting the role of a biographer out of a genuine interest in Felix's work, he is doing it solely to bleed off of his fame like a parasite and become famous himself. When he arrives--and when he later makes his threat to sabotage Felix's legacy--he talks of how he "tore apart" another musician, taking pride in his erstwhile victim's destruction. Cornelius reminds me of so many modern day critics who abuse their position in the media and exploit artists to espouse their own agendas or present themselves as "better" than the creator of the work they denigrate, convinced that only they are entitled to deem something worthy or otherwise. Have you ever noticed how films that present journalists or critics in a flattering light often seem to enjoy exceptionally high scores on Rotten Tomatoes? Cornelius is essentially an indictment of the absurd joke that comes from assigning an arbitrary value to art based on subjective criteria, especially when left in the hands of a self-righteous, weak-willed troll like Cornelius. Ponder this, and perhaps you'll reconsider just what gives a critic the right to tell you whether you should or shouldn't like something, when it's a question that only you can answer for yourself.
Recommended for: Fans of a zany, self-aware farce that goes against type for the celebrated auteur, Ingmar Bergman. Filled with lots of slapstick and wackiness, All These Women is best suited for audiences that enjoy light-hearted humor, with a deliberately staged appearance that (in that Bergman way) pays homage to the theater.