The first time I saw Ingmar Bergman was during the autumn of 1942, when I had just gone into the motion picture business as president of Svensk Filmindustri. He was a very young man then, tall, thin, with black hair and burning black eyes. He was still unknown, but trying impatiently to find his way in life and in particular to find an outlet for his erupting creative talents. He began by producing stage plays, on a small scale and with extremely limited resources. I happened to see one of them at the university students' theatre in Stockholm. Here, I thought, was a refreshing young talent, a little crazy perhaps, certainly immature, but with a lot of bold and fanciful ideas. I decided on the spot to find out if he was willing to work in some capacity at the Svensk Filmindustri studio. He was.

He started rewriting some scripts, rather poor ones, I'm afraid, trying to make them worth while. He wasn't too successful. Then one day about a year later came the first Bergman surprise. A script suddenly appeared on my desk, not a scenario but a short novel intended as a film. (For many years, Bergman preferred to present a film in this way before writing the screenplay.) It was Hets, called Torment in the United States and Frenzy in England. I read it; it was a startling experience.

Here was an extremely angry young man–long before such men became the fashion–a writer looking at the world through the eyes of a teen-age rebel, harshly criticizing his parents, offending his teachers, making love to a prostitute, fighting everything and everybody in order to preserve his integrity and his right to be unhappy. The dialogue was full of sound and fury, and it is unfortunate that the American audience has so far seen only a disastrously mutilated version of Torment. I was sure that the film would be an enormous success, and I was fortunate in getting Alf Sjöberg to help write the scenario and to direct the picture.

This is how Bergman started his career in motion pictures. It was also the beginning of long years of cooperation and friendship, full of triumphs and frustrations, joys and disappointments, but always exciting. The relationship between a producer and a writer-director is a delicate and complicated thing, and in this particular case the more so because Ingmar Bergman has continued to be a rebel. He has always been a problem, not only to others but also to himself, and I think he will remain so. He is a high-strung personality, passionately alive, enormously sensitive, very short-tempered, sometimes quite ruthless in the pursuit of his own goals, suspicious, stubborn, capricious, most unpredictable. His will power is extraordinary. There are bound to be misunderstandings and disagreements; we both know this, and they are soon forgotten. After all, we have a common cause: We want to make good pictures.

This common goal has probably been the most important element in our relationship. When I originally became president of Svensk Filmindustri, I didn't realize how an ambitious producer is inevitably caught up in a conflict between artistic aims and commercial interests. My main problem and aim as a producer has been to balance these interests. It is the problem of everyone working in mass media. And I feel that this search for balance has underlined my relationship with Bergman, and enabled him to use the film as a means of self-expression more freely than most directors in the world today are able.

It has not always been easy. I can remember when Bergman got very bad reviews, when he was considered difficult, bizarre, incomprehensible, pretentious; times when he really needed support and understanding. And also when, among the governing board of Svensk Filmindustri itself, I sometimes had to fight rather hard for him. From a financial point of view, a Bergman picture seemed a risky business until not long ago; it was only when Smiles of a Summer Night was shown at the Cannes Festival in 1956 that he won general recognition in Sweden and other countries.

Ingmar Bergman usually keeps me informed of his plans and ideas long before he has put anything on paper. Sometimes, when he is not sure of my approval, he will drop supposedly confidential hints to members of the staff; these are intended to reach me in due time and prepare me for the worst. It was in this way that I learned of his intention to make The Seventh Seal. His precautions turned out to be unnecessary; I could hardly refuse a screenplay of such quality even if I wanted to. As a producer, I was quite aware of the financial risk in a motion picture with so serious a theme. But it promised to be an unusual, an outstanding picture. It had to be done. We discussed the script for several days and nights during the Cannes Festival in May, 1956. We agreed on some changes, and on the cast and the budget. We felt as if we were launching a big ship and we were very happy.

A year or two before, he had told me the story that was to become Smiles of a Summer Night. I thought the idea brilliant and wished him good luck. I had every reason to be pleased with his idea to make a new comedy. For a long time I had encouraged him to write comedies but he didn't dare. His first attempt was the now-famous elevator scene in Secrets of Women; then he wrote A Lesson in Love. But you can never tell what is going to happen to a Bergman idea. Some disappear mysteriously and are never heard of again. Some are dropped even after a screenplay is written. The story of Smiles of a Summer Night turned out to be quite different from the one he had told me about originally, so different as a matter of fact that he could use it for another comedy without anybody noticing the connection–if Bergman should ever run out of ideas, which seems most unlikely.

As a rule he and I discuss a picture in detail and at length before he starts shooting it. Then we go on talking about it after he has finished shooting and editing the picture. I refuse to look at the rushes or parts of the picture. Only when the rough cut is ready do we look at it together. It is one of my principles never to interfere with work in the studio. I want to leave the director alone during the difficult time he must go through. This is not a special privilege given to Bergman but to any director working in our studios.

I have been asked many times by journalists from abroad, particularly from the United States, about the unusual amount of freedom allowed the Swedish film director. This freedom is part of a heritage from the good old days of the Swedish cinema. Svensk Filmindustri is in fact one of the oldest motion picture companies in the world; we started producing pictures more than fifty years ago. The head of the company at the time was a man of pioneer spirit, Charles Magnusson. He had courage and vision. He wanted to give the public something more than cheap entertainment; he wanted motion pictures to become a cultural force comparable to the theatre. In order to raise the standards of production he persuaded two well-known actor-directors of the stage, Victor Sjöström and Mauritz Stiller, to join his company. Magnusson, who was a photographer himself, taught them how to use this new medium. Within a few years they were ready for the great adventure in Swedish film history which began with Terje Vigen, based on Ibsen's poem by the same name, continued with The Phantom Carriage and Sir Arne's Treasure, and came to an end with the Garbo picture Gosta Berling's Saga. Magnusson provided the money but did not interfere; Sjöström and Stiller had an entirely free hand.

Thus the origins of Swedish motion picture production had an intimate connection with the art and standards of the theatre. Ever since that golden age of the Swedish cinema classics, our directors have taken their ideals from the theatre. This approach has been an important influence, and is the reason, I think, that our attitude toward film-making has always been and still is profoundly different from, let us say, that of Hollywood. It is painfully true that the motion picture has a Janus face: it is both an art and an industry. But the tradition established by Magnusson, Sjöström, and Stiller has prevented the surrender of artistic aims to commercial interests.

This difference in attitude explains a good many things. It certainly explains why some Bergman pictures have been produced. It may also explain why some foreign critics seem anxious to place Ingmar Bergman on a pedestal as a kind of prophet, half-hidden in clouds of deep mystery and unintelligible symbolism. We in Sweden don't regard him as a prophet. To us he is a fascinating personality, an outstanding writer-director, an artist of vision–but one with his feet planted solidly on the ground. Above all, Bergman is a link in the chain that joins the past and the present in Swedish film history.