We had a discussion the other day about light and its various uses in motion pictures when someone brought up One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich on which I was the lighting cameraman back in the winter of 1970. The film was based on Alexander Solzhenitsyn's stark account of life in a Soviet labour camp during the Stalin era and for it we built an authentic, full-scale replica of a slave labour camp up in Roros, Norway, quite near the Arctic Circle.

We could, of course, have shot most of the picture in studio comfort in Oslo, but Caspar Wrede, the director, decided that no interior could possibly convey the sense of the biting cold and the gray, depressing atmosphere the set required. We carefully watched the light balances, using virtually only natural light or the kind of light that would normally have existed in such a camp. In fact, we went to great trouble to contrast the cold, flat outdoor light with the comparatively warm interior light of the huts.

At one point in the discussion someone turned to me and said: "Yes, it was a fine film. And your lighting effects made it all look marvelous." Now, theoretically, I should have been flattered by such a remark. Instead, it made me angry. The real achievement in One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich was that, by using natural light–the real lamps glittering in the sub-zero cold–we captured the atmosphere which Ronald Harwood's script required and Wrede's direction demanded. The lighting became part of the interpretation of the story, a vital component with a function of its own of which the audience, nevertheless, was not consciously aware.

Nothing upsets me quite as much as the fellow who congratulates me on my "beautiful photography." That's about the last thing I want to hear. There was a time perhaps, in the beginning, when I did try to make every shot beautiful. That seemed to be the purpose of good photography and it was also what was expected of me. Today, I am far more concerned with the most intelligent and effective use of natural tight to live up to the expectations of the director and the script. Light is a passion for me. I think we all have a great deal still to learn about it and its potential uses. It's not just good exposure that counts. I am quite prepared to go to the limits of over or under-exposure if that achieves the desired effect and builds the right kind of atmosphere. As the years pass I have come to believe more and more that the simplest, most natural approach to motion picture lighting is best and gives us our greatest opportunity to do artistic justice to our subjects.

I see a great many films and I have come to the conclusion that a large number of pictures today are over-lit. Technical perfection in terms of cameras and lenses seems to have been matched by a desire to fill the screen with lots of perfectly placed and calculated light. I just don't go along with this and I have Ingmar Bergman to thank for letting me experiment with a kind of cinematography which, by utilizing true light where possible, seems to me to do greater justice to the medium.

Of course, Bergman is unique. I have had the privilege of working with him since 1951 and, through him, have learned to better understand the ultimate possibilities of cinematography. Because he had worked in the theatre, he was intensely interested in light and its uses and how it can be applied to creating a given atmosphere. Bergman has been making pictures for so many years and he knows everything about the camera as a technical instrument. He has a mind and an imagination that takes in not only the limits of poetic imagery but–equally–the scientific aspects of filmmaking. He has done away with "nice" photography and has shown us how to find truth in camera movement and in lighting.

My next film, which we are now preparing here in Sweden, is again with Bergman, and it stars Liv Ullmann. It is set mainly in a deserted castle and–once again–I shall strive for the greatest simplicity in my lighting. I have already been at the castle with my Leica, taking pictures of the light conditions and the light changes over a full day, so I will know exactly what to expect when we come to filming.

I don't really think we take sufficient time to study light. It is as important as the lines the actors speak or the direction that is given them. It is an integral part of the story and of the direction, and that is why such close coordination is needed between the director and the cinematographer. Light is a treasure chest that is largely unexplored and that, once properly understood, can bring a wider dimension to the medium and a greater appreciation to the audience. But, most of the time, there is not enough time in the preparation of a motion picture to properly explore the availability and the possibility of natural light, and this is where working with Bergman is such a pleasure, because he insists on two months preparation for any film, and during that time there is total integration of the cinematographic problems with the other aspects of the production.

The procedure on all the Bergman films is the same–we followed it on The Virgin Spring, Through a Glass Darkly, The Silence, Persona, Passion, Hour of the Wolf and the latest Bergman picture, The Touch which we filmed last year. We get together, discuss the script in great detail, ask questions, make exhaustive tests on faces and wardrobe, determine the kind of mood and feeling that is wanted for the story, etc.

In these discussions light figures very importantly. Bergman and I will go over the locations at all hours, studying the light and the effects we can get from it. I remember when we filmed Through a Glass Darkly on the island of Gotland in the Baltic Sea. We would go out in the early, gray light, noting the values that were to be had and how these values changed and new light patterns and effects were created whenever the sun broke through. We wanted a graphite tone, one without extreme contrasts, and we determined the exact hours when this mood could be obtained naturally. To Bergman that was as important as the set itself.

We had similar problems when filming Ivan Denisovich for which we wanted absolute realism. We had a model of the camp set up in a hotel and there we discussed the shots because it was simply too cold to do this outside. At one point we needed a setup where the prisoners return to camp, the daylight fading and the warm light from the huts taking over. We rehearsed everything and then waited three hours for the precise ten minutes when the light balance was right for the sequence. I was so preoccupied that I didn't even notice that my cheek became frozen. Later this gave me a good excuse to grow my beard. Theoretically, we should have used a hundred arcs, but we didn't use one and I believe we achieved a truer and more poignant image with the natural light than we could ever have achieved otherwise.

In recent years I have of course been working more and more in colour (though The Touch was only Bergman's fourth film in colour) and have become fascinated by its possibilities. Last year I was cinematographer on The Last Run in Spain and on The Decoy, the first Swedish picture made in Panavision. Later this year I shall be working in India on Siddhartha which Conrad Rooks directs. At one time we considered black-and-white a more classic medium than colour and later, when colour became general, we had such severe technical limitations, with lights blazing everywhere. Then, of course, we learned to light dramatically and we also learned to achieve colour effects with the camera and in the laboratory that we could never have dreamed of in black-and-white.

Lighting cameramen owe a great debt to John Huston for the pioneering work he did in the colour field on such pictures as Moulin Rouge and Moby Dick and Reflections in a Golden Eye. He pointed the way to a new use of colour and to new and exciting effects with desaturated colour. That took both vision and courage because we are in a cost-conscious industry that is not so quick to accept the innovation.

As I have said, I owe a great debt to Ingmar Bergman for he gave me my passion for light. Without him I would have remained just another technical cameraman with no great awareness of the infinite possibilities of lighting. Today, I hate purely technical camerawork. I have a great sense that every picture I work on is different and demands a different approach. And I believe that the audience, supposedly indifferent to lighting subtleties, and responsive only to acting and the story, will appreciate our work. People must do more than see a motion picture. They must have a feeling for it, and my experience has told me that they appreciate and are held spellbound by a certain mood that is created for them by the proper utilization of light. That is the key to it all. That is what photography is all about.

Periodically I am asked whether I do not have a desire to direct. The truth is that I have far too much to do being a cinematographer, considering that one's work in both energy and time-consuming ways reaches so far beyond the actual production phase of a film. What, after all, is the point of going through such pains in lighting a film if half the effects are then lost in the laboratory?

Many years ago, when I made documentaries in Africa, learning to use camera and tape-recorder, I learned to thoroughly respect the job of the director. But I also learned the importance of lighting and the excitement that springs from it. Directors used to get all the credit. These days, more and more people are aware of the cinematographer's work. Of course, in working with Bergman, I am very lucky because, besides our intellectual and artistic closeness, he does have this extraordinary technical knowledge. And maybe we understand one another so well because we are both the sons of pastors.

But a working closeness is an absolute necessity for me with any director. Before filming we must discuss the script in great detail. Whenever I work with a new director I always tell him that we must work very closely so that I can understand what he wants and I can help him. I think a director can be a very lonely man if he is surrounded by people who just want to do a routine job.

Times are changing in the film industry, and I am all in favour of it. We are being permitted to come a little closer to the truth in the way we light sets and people. Not every face has to be beautifully lit. Shadows are a part of our visual life. The Nouvelle Vague in France did a lot for the cinema because of their disregard for convention. We should carry on along those same lines by not being afraid of anything as long as we consider it to be the truth.