Trying to write about Ingmar Bergman’s Fanny and Alexander (1982) leaves me feeling a bit like Moses coming down from Horeb (or Sinai; take your pick). It blinds me, reduces me to ash and dirt and filth. The movie says what it says. Any attempt to reduce it to mere words is a betrayal, a bit of flim-flam best left to a monograph, if left to anything at all. Yet I’ve got this silly promise, an engine for self-improvement (or... Read more