The Rite (1969)Is art dangerous, or is it made to seem so by some because of the dangerous forces it conjures within us? The Rite (1969) is a drama by Ingmar Bergman about a trio of thespians charged with "indecency" after a recent performance, leading to an investigation spearheaded by a sniveling, bureaucratic judge named Abrahamson (Erik Hell). The performers--led by the collected (if milquetoast) Hans Winkelmann (Gunnar Björnstrand), and completed by the volatile Sebastian Fisher (Anders Ek) and Hans' neurotic wife, Thea (Ingrid Thulin)--present their case in varied ways, culminating in a demonstration of their ritualistic act, one that leaves their audience aghast.
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The Rite is broken up in to several small acts, delineated by their locations, which often includes revisiting the "interview room" where Abrahamson interrogates the performers. The first act begins with an ambiguous and informal meeting on a hot Sunday in an unspecified foreign country. Charges of indecency (and perhaps pornography) are merely implied at this point, and Abrahamson leverages his authority to try to intimidate his prey, using his false civility to compel his victims to lower their defenses. He offers them drinks, though the availability of such refreshments varies for each subsequent encounter based on his whims. From the start, lines are drawn that establish who is in control, even if only in passive-aggressive ways. More is revealed from act to act about this altogether small collection of characters in this svelte drama. And piece by piece, the audience sees the full picture of the complicated relationships and motivations behind these four characters. Sebastian--who rarely removes his wraparound shades--is having an open affair with Thea, though their bickering makes their relationship seem like a farce. Hans should be the anchor that grounds the otherwise chaotic trio. He is a savvy social strategist, displaying a kind of subservient attitude to disarm others, like Abrahamson. This leads them to react in ways that ultimately benefit him, even if it isn't immediately evident. For example, when Hans comes to Abrahamson for his "interview", he behaves as though he were scared of the spineless judge, and offers to bribe him to avoid him interviewing Thea. Abrahamson believes that he has the upper hand in this negotiation, and defies the troupe leader's request. What Hans is really doing is stroking the petty man's ego, which all but encourages him to interrogate Thea. This gives Hans a measure of power over his skittish wife while simultaneously placing her interrogator in a position where he loses control of his own repressed urges.
Between Abrahamson's interview room and other assorted locales--from hotel rooms, a bar, and so on--each scene explores both the personality of the weak-willed judge and the three individual performers. When Abrahamson interrogates Sebastian, he discusses that the hot-tempered actor is bisexual and accidentally killed his former partner. In response, the aggressive performer verbally lashes out at Abrahamson, who meekly attempts to diffuse the encounter with servility. And when Sebastian threatens violence, the judge crumples out of abject fear. But Abrahamson's terror comes less from the threat of physical harm than a deeper rooted, existential horror that Sebastian's "performance" summons. Shortly afterward, Abrahamson visits a church, where he bends the ear of a priest in a confessional (performed by Ingmar Bergman, himself), trying to come to terms with his meekness. If there was a moment of moral reclamation for Abrahamson, this would have been it. Yet the petty official is lured back into indulging his moral turpitude by Hans' own meek performance. Despite appearing sedate--at least compared with Sebastian and Thea--Hans steers the behavior of the others more effectively than anyone else. When he in private with his wife and colleague, he puts on a kind of performance--ever the consummate actor. For his unfaithful wife, he volleys between chastisement and exasperation at her emotional tumult; but with Sebastian, he exerts his masculinity by showing that he is the more collected, responsible man by managing the finances of the man who has otherwise made him a cuckold. Hans excels at manipulating those around him (ironically) by appearing to not manipulate them at all. As all great directors, he merely sets the stage, and everyone else does the hard work of convincing themselves to see things his way in the end. This suggests that Hans is a Machiavellian mastermind, devoid of integrity; on the contrary, he and his comrades are under the scrutiny of a man who is all but devoid of art. Little is known of Abrahamson, short of what he volunteers to Sebastian and the priest about his propensity toward hyperhidrosis and his heart condition. But Abrahamson could not be a more boring, craven cog in the judicial machine if he tried. He has stifled the part of his heart that cries out for art and existential stimulation, becoming nothing more than a slave to the state. When the performers put on a demonstration of their infamous show for him, Abrahamson is completely ill-equipped to process the experience. His soul has become a barren wasteland, where no seeds of inspiration can flourish. The Rite doesn't present art as necessary through the sacrifices and hardships of its performers, but emphasizes how Man cannot live without artistic enrichment. The danger comes when it is treated as anathema, destroying those who are afraid to challenge their perceptions.
Recommended for: Fans of a tight and fast-moving drama that explores the existential significance of art. The Rite has earmarks of some of Bergman's best films--especially The Magician--and its highly theatrical bent means that audiences accustomed to films with echoes of stage production will be especially drawn to it.
Between Abrahamson's interview room and other assorted locales--from hotel rooms, a bar, and so on--each scene explores both the personality of the weak-willed judge and the three individual performers. When Abrahamson interrogates Sebastian, he discusses that the hot-tempered actor is bisexual and accidentally killed his former partner. In response, the aggressive performer verbally lashes out at Abrahamson, who meekly attempts to diffuse the encounter with servility. And when Sebastian threatens violence, the judge crumples out of abject fear. But Abrahamson's terror comes less from the threat of physical harm than a deeper rooted, existential horror that Sebastian's "performance" summons. Shortly afterward, Abrahamson visits a church, where he bends the ear of a priest in a confessional (performed by Ingmar Bergman, himself), trying to come to terms with his meekness. If there was a moment of moral reclamation for Abrahamson, this would have been it. Yet the petty official is lured back into indulging his moral turpitude by Hans' own meek performance. Despite appearing sedate--at least compared with Sebastian and Thea--Hans steers the behavior of the others more effectively than anyone else. When he in private with his wife and colleague, he puts on a kind of performance--ever the consummate actor. For his unfaithful wife, he volleys between chastisement and exasperation at her emotional tumult; but with Sebastian, he exerts his masculinity by showing that he is the more collected, responsible man by managing the finances of the man who has otherwise made him a cuckold. Hans excels at manipulating those around him (ironically) by appearing to not manipulate them at all. As all great directors, he merely sets the stage, and everyone else does the hard work of convincing themselves to see things his way in the end. This suggests that Hans is a Machiavellian mastermind, devoid of integrity; on the contrary, he and his comrades are under the scrutiny of a man who is all but devoid of art. Little is known of Abrahamson, short of what he volunteers to Sebastian and the priest about his propensity toward hyperhidrosis and his heart condition. But Abrahamson could not be a more boring, craven cog in the judicial machine if he tried. He has stifled the part of his heart that cries out for art and existential stimulation, becoming nothing more than a slave to the state. When the performers put on a demonstration of their infamous show for him, Abrahamson is completely ill-equipped to process the experience. His soul has become a barren wasteland, where no seeds of inspiration can flourish. The Rite doesn't present art as necessary through the sacrifices and hardships of its performers, but emphasizes how Man cannot live without artistic enrichment. The danger comes when it is treated as anathema, destroying those who are afraid to challenge their perceptions.
Recommended for: Fans of a tight and fast-moving drama that explores the existential significance of art. The Rite has earmarks of some of Bergman's best films--especially The Magician--and its highly theatrical bent means that audiences accustomed to films with echoes of stage production will be especially drawn to it.