Legendary director Ingmar Bergman rarely gives interviews, but in 1999 he made an exception for journalist Malou von Sivers of TV4 International Sweden. Together with his best friend and frequent collaborator, the renowned Swedish actor Erland Josephson, Bergman discusses life, death, and love in this charged and highly candid interview. Courtesy of TV4 International.

Ingmar Bergman has long been revered as a master craftsman of cinema, a film poet. He uses his intuition to explore his past painful and joyful memories. And his films reflect many of life's emotions, such as terror, love, hate, and fear of death. He seldom gives interviews, but he made an exception together with his lifelong friend, the famous Swedish actor, Erland Josephson. Today Ingmar Bergman is 82, and Erland Josephson 77.

Every Saturday, Ingmar Bergman and Erland Josephson talk on the phone, and the subjects are always the same: life, death, and love. They met in 1939, when Ingmar was 21, and Erland 16. Erland Josephson still remembers the first time they met, when Ingmar entered the room. His charisma was magic, and so was his way of directing. A few years later they started to work professionally together, at Helsingborg's Theatre. And since then, they have been working together for almost 60 years, in films like Fanny and Alexander, Cries and Whispers, and Scenes from a Marriage.

Before the interview, I was wondering–how does one direct one of the most famous directors in the world? When Ingmar Bergman entered the studio, he immediately took over.

Bergman: Could we reduce the top light? We can remove that monitor, or turn it off.

But when the interview starts, and I ask him about his reputation as a "demon" director, the situation changes.

Bergman: Well, these rumours... It's partly old grudges that linger. I was bloody ill-tempered when I was young. I remember once I lost my temper... I lost my rag in a radio studio. I took a bag... Quite a heavy bag, it was full of old seventy-eights... I got so furious that I threw the bag through the glass window. I did behave badly...and was quite volatile. But nowadays when I...or rather, over the past twenty years when I've been unsettled in terms of my work, I've come to see this, clearly, as a lapse of professionalism. I would feel I had failed in my profession. Because I feel that it is enormously important in this fantastic and peculiar environment that a film or TV studio constitutes, where so many different kinds of people have to work together, I feel it's enormously important that there is a gentle, smooth, calm, cheerful, quiet and balanced atmosphere to work in. But at the same time dynamic, so that no one flags, or begins to feel that: "That's it now, we can't go on."

Josephson: I think that the language used between actors and director is full of codes and signals. You could say that Ingmar and [Alf] Sjöberg too–not to mention [Gustav] Molander–can afford to have regular outbursts and the actors can take it, they know what it's about. You would have one outburst per what you called "instruction period." It was the same with Alf Sjöberg. You'd think: "Oh, it's that day."

Bergman: That's true... However, the people that spread these legends about me...usually are people who have never worked with me.

Josephson: When interviewed, actors always speak very highly of Ingmar. And this, of course, annoys some people.

von Sivers: You've made headlines in the past–like when you punched a critic–these incidents have been blown up.

Bergman: That wasn't in a fit of temper. It was entirely premeditated on my part. I saw him sitting there diagonally opposite me. By then he'd been hounding me for some years in quite a nasty way. It was a dress rehearsal... I thought that if I catch him in the interval and land him one, I'll be rid of him for the rest of my life. The paper couldn't possibly let him review my work after that.

Josephson: The paper called me and asked what I thought of violence in the theatre. (Bergman laughs) Not one of the easier questions in my life as an artistic director.

Bergman: The critics' guild held a meeting, declaring you can't behave like that. But I actually think, why shouldn't you?

Josephson: Verbal violence is just as terrible as physical.

Bergman: Having been subjected to it in a major broadsheet year after year, it felt good to do. And I never actually punched him. He was so scared that he sat down before I got there. I grabbed him by the collar and he disappeared down in the middle of all these music stands and that was all. Then I was fined 5,000 kronor because some woman prosecutor wanted to make a name for herself. It was well worth it. But this critic–who fully knew the score–when he couldn't get at me, started abusing Erland, since he knew we were friends. Some of my children and people close to me were involved in the theatre, and he attacked them. May he burn in hell. I hate that man, even though he's dead. I don't hate many people, but him–yes. He was a... I'll never forgive him.

von Sivers: Erland, you were artistic director of the Royal Dramatic Theatre. What was it like to be Ingmar's superior?

Josephson: For the most part it was lots of fun. I had Ingmar there, and Alf Sjöberg, another superb director. A dialogue developed between Ingmar and Alf around the productions and the actors. There was a lot of talk about Ingmar having too much power. He didn't, or things wouldn't have been what they were. (Laughs Better or worse, I don't know... But I was artistic director from '66 to '75, during a much needed process of democratization of the theatre. It wasn't easy to be the boss during that turmoil.

von Sivers: And you can't be liked by everybody when you're boss.

Josephson: When people said Ingmar and Alf had too much power, I'd answer that I thought they had too little power. That was my response.

von Sivers: And you wanted Erland to be your successor.

Bergman: Yes, we arranged that. I discovered that... I was the artistic director for three years, and...

Josephson: Not for ten years, three.

Bergman: I said three.

Josephson: It's because my hearing's bad.

They both laugh; Bergman grabs Josephson's hand.

von Sivers: Thinking about your lives, when I've watched your films and read your autobiographies... I'm a woman, and I also like my job, it's a great job. I only have three children–you two have many more. As a woman and mother, this is a never-ending conflict. You always have a guilty conscience, where am I best needed? (Bergman laughs) Ingmar's laughing... But reading your accounts, the word "father" is barely present. I don't think it's there at all. (To Bergman) Why are you laughing?

Bergman: (To Josephson) You start. We've got many children...many.

Josephson: I've never thought about there not being anything about my father. Or do you mean me as a father?

von Sivers: Yes. You say a lot about your fathers.

Josephson: We certainly do.

Bergman: For some peculiar reason our roles as fathers haven't been included in our confessions.

von Sivers: Because you do expose yourselves and admit to a lot...

Bergman: There was nothing to confess as we didn't have a role as fathers. Perhaps you did, whereas I was...

Josephson: I suppose I did. It must be a sore point with me, or I would have a sensible answer. But it's obvious that I neglected my children. In my defense I've always said it's not all bad that they're not cosseted, that I don't interfere all the time. We're very close–I think. I can't be sure, but I think we're close. That's partly due to their tolerance, partly to the fact that I've taken an interest in them.

von Sivers: You were away a lot when they were little, you travelled... You say somewhere it may have been good for them.

Josephson: One couldn't say for sure, it would be great if it were so, but... But now they're grown up, they show very little aggression towards me.

von Sivers: But you didn't have a guilty conscience?

Josephson: I'm sure I did, but not very. I can't say I did. You want to live as well. They're part of your life, but there are other parts. I think I mention this, that if they suddenly were to feel I lived only for them, it would be a great burden for them, a heavy burden. In that respect, I've made things easy for them! (Laughs)

Bergman: But there's one thing we should add, Erland, and that is that the mothers have been really splendid ladies. Really.

Josephson: They certainly have.

Bergman: They've never slagged us off. They certainly said a thing or two to us, but they have never injected any venom coming out of the bitterness, sorrow or disappointment that they may have experienced. Not one of them. They all have that in common, don't you agree?

Josephson: Yes, absolutely.

von Sivers: You started laughing when I put the question to you. Why?

Bergman: That's because... I had a bit of a row with one of my sons, and I said to him that... "I know that I've been a poor father." Then he roared at me: "A 'poor father'? You haven't been a father at all!" And he may be right in that. I haven't really met any...any criteria in that area. I really haven't. In my life, however...these women, these ladies...who have had my children, they have been generous enough...never to speak ill of me to the children.

von Sivers: What intrigues me is that, judging from your own words, you don't seem to have a guilty conscience. I suffer from it constantly. It's always there, especially in women.

Bergman: That's true.

von Sivers: But not in you.

Bergman: There's one thing I think I should add. I'm very good friends with my children.

Josephson: You're like me, you have a great interest in your children. An honest interest.

Bergman: It's human... I'm interested in them. And another thing, which I can thank my wife Ingrid for, was that on my sixtieth birthday, she arranged for all the children to gather at my place on Färö. All nine of them were there. Several of them were barely aware of each other's existence. But they've all maintained close contact with each other after that family get-together. They discovered they liked each other. The way things are now, regardless of whether I'm there, they all come to Färö on my birthday. And since I find large parties hard work–I only hear in one ear–they all have a fine dinner while I sit by myself with my fishcakes. After that we all spend a fabulous evening together. They have more or less decided that this is a tradition. On 14 July, they all come to Fårö.

Josephson: Are we the last generation to enjoy these generous and indulgent women? Maybe they don't put up with it anymore, we're the last of that line.

Bergman: We two have agreed that in many respects we are dinosaurs. On the point of extinction. (Josephson laughs) A dying breed.

von Sivers: You both describe how rehearsals would go on until late at night. Impossible to combine with small children. So why did you have so many children? (Bergman laughs) You'd imagine you'd come to know your limitations.

Josephson: In those days, even a low income actor could afford domestic help. Things were different in that respect. From necessity, because actresses, like our wives, would be back on stage a fortnight after delivery.

von Sivers: You must have had a desire for that many children.

Bergman: I'd like to say that I don't have any planned children.

von Sivers: They just happened!

Bergman: (Laughs) They happened... My children are all love-children. Very much so. I'm immensely fond of them. And it's wonderful with all the grandchildren. I have grown-up grandchildren, and little ones. I even have great-grandchildren. I'm absolutely enchanted by these little grandchildren that are popping out one after another. I want to be with them, but I can only do one hour at a time, then I have to take a Valium and go to bed, because it's hard work. But I enjoy it a lot. You were talking about women having a guilty conscience. Trust me to try and suppress that... I had a strict upbringing. It was common in those days that you were brought up to have a guilty conscience. A guilty conscience was part of the upbringing. Moreover...I was a rat in many ways, I was a liar and a cheat. I went from one to the other. I behaved like an absolute bastard. In the end this became unbearable for me. I decided not to have a guilty conscience, as I felt it became a form of posturing, to have a guilty conscience about the suffering you cause. So I got rid of my guilty conscience.

von Sivers: How do you do that?

Bergman: A guilty conscience is one thing, feelings of guilt another. I could never liquidate my feelings of guilt. But as I got rid of my guilty conscience, I decided to become the world's foremost in my profession. There would be no limits to my conquests as a professional. It was all closely linked: My feelings of absolute failure...as a human being, and wanting to compensate for this by being as accomplished a professional as was virtually possible. This in turn forced me to make certain decisions. A tremendously ascetic lifestlye. Precision, punctuality, soberness... A rigour which became a trial for my colleagues. I demanded the same of them.

von Sivers: We've been talking about life, and for both of you art–theatre and film–is life. But love and women have also been leitmotifs in your lives. Many women...

Bergman: Here we go.

von Sivers: There still are. Erland is moving in with someone.

Josephson: It has always been important. Of course there have been conflicts...and storms. Despair and joy, and this turmoil in body and soul that love will create.

von Sivers: "Here we go," you said, Ingmar. You're used to it being brought up, your love life. But it's formed an essential part of your lives.

Josephson: Yes, but I resist talking about it. It's hard when it's made public. Often because I feel I've let too many people down in the past. I've had too many shortcomings in these affairs. "Affairs" is the wrong word–episodes.

von Sivers: But there must be many wonderful and enjoyable things to tell...

Josephson: Oh yes, I've been very... I've been very much in love, I am in love–continuously. It's a tempting profession. You very soon become very intimate with the people you play against. A love affair in the workplace is the most natural thing that can happen. It's considered such a strange thing. I think it's perfectly reasonable that love springs up in the workplace.

von Sivers: You just sit there smiling, Ingmar.

Bergman: I've always marveled at how–we two go back many years–how girls would chase Erland, he never had to do anything. When I've fallen in love with someone, I've always had to work hard at it. But Erland and Sven Nykvist never had to do a thing. The girls just fall madly in love, and I can never understand...

von Sivers: Why?

Bergman: I could never understand how they did it. I've always had a devil of a job being something of love's carthorse all my life.

Josephson: I don't agree with you there.

Bergman: You can't be a judge of that.

Josephson: (Laughs) I suppose I can't!

Bergman: No, you can't. You don't know how it works. If you want a brief description of me... On the subject of Bergman and love: I have always been deeply in love...for as long as I can remember. It started with my mother. I was madly in love with my mother. She was so beautiful. But she had of course had a puritanical upbringing, so any tokens of affection were out of the question...because I was a boy. But if you were ill–my mother was a trained nurse–so when you were ill, then she would let loose all her enormous love. No wonder I was ill all the time! But as she was a nurse she'd see through me... And this has continued...

von Sivers: Looking at the women in your life, they last about three years and then you find someone else... Five years, you say.

Bergman: Five years.

von Sivers: That's barely enough time to get started.

Bergman: But then I met Ingrid. That lasted for twenty-four years. Then Ingrid died, or we would have carried on. But in that Ingrid came to the decision that she wanted to marry me, all other traffic ceased.

von Sivers: Was it true love, or had you matured? It was true love.

Bergman: Yes. And it was a matter of...I was fifty-two when we got married, and I was coming out of puberty then, pretty much. And this marriage, that I subsequently lived in, was immensely close. The funny thing was that Ingrid looked so much like my mother. That could have had some significance, somehow. We had such a deep understanding...so that...everything came together there. What is also funny is that, on the other hand, it shows what wonderful girls they all were. I'm good friends with all these girls.

von Sivers: It's hard to believe when you read how you treated some of them. It's hard to understand how they could be so forgiving. Your first wife, for example, who contracted TB. While she was in treatment you met someone else. To be abandoned in these circumstances... To do that, and still remain friends... It's quite amazing that they've been so generous. There could have been so much bitterness and hate.

Josephson: Somehow the bitterness subsides. I have also caused a lot of bitterness, which has subsided. You go through it together, that's something you can't avoid. I'm also very good friends with my ex-wives.

von Sivers: When reading about you I get an impression of two lady-killers, also from your autobiographies.

Bergman: (To Josephson) Try not to look too flattered...!

von Sivers: Still you describe yourselves as ugly when you were growing up. (To Josephson) You did in your book The Colour.

Josephson: It might have been there.

von Sivers: Your head was big, you had red hair...

Josephson: And also curly hair and masses of freckles. In those days you were bullied for being a redhead. When I look at photographs I'm surprised that I felt so ugly. You can't tell from photographs, but I felt horribly ugly.

von Sivers: Did this feeling have anything to do with you becoming an actor? To be someone. To play the lover, become someone else...

Josephson: I played many romantic roles in Gothenburg, and enjoyed it immensely. It was a great achievement for me not to be so embarrassed about my body and all that. It was an enjoyable time in that respect. But the same... Bergman's looking highly amused... What?

Bergman: What...? I'm just delighted, listening to you makes me enthusiastic.

Josephson: (Laughs) Also, it appealed to my mixture of shyness and exhibitionism. Being on stage is very good for that. I didn't want to be either seen or heard, but I quote Isaac Grunewald: "A day without being in the papers is a lost day." In that respect I'm really quite ambivalent. To tie it up: I was of course very easily seduced, as I was so fond of being noticed and appreciated, especially by women.

von Sivers: Who fell in love with you?

Josephson: I suppose that many did. And I fell in love with many of them.

von Sivers: (To Bergman) You also describe yourself as ugly: spotty and sickly...

Bergman: I really was hideous. I was tall and stooped. I was terrifically skinny–as thin as a scratch on a negative. On top of that I had appalling acne. I felt enormously ill at ease with my body and with all the hormonal storms that I was subjected to. Furthermore, the girls thought...that I looked enormously comical. I had a difficult time with girls, there's no doubt about that. During my schooldays I had a hard time with girls. There was one girl who took pity on me. She must have been around fourteen. I was sixteen. That's where it started. She was really quite fat. She must have been twice my size and not very attractive. That's where it all started. She was really sweet and we used to do our homework together. And my mother, who kept a close eye on the chastity of her children, she thought this girl was so ugly that she couldn't possibly be a threat to little Ingmar's chastity. But that's just what she was. We started practicing diligently at her house on a shabby, saggy couch.

von Sivers: It must have felt like a vindication for you. The pimply boy that no one wanted...

Bergman: Of course, eventually I got that. I got that...I started making films in 1945. And for the first time I experienced this intensely powerful...erotic atmosphere. But that's not quite true, either. As I was so young and insecure...so scared, and knew so little...I spent most of my time being extremely angry. I was constantly shouting and kicking up a row. It wasn't actually until after a few years, when I began to master my profession, that this incredible feeling of attraction and affinity appeared within this magic circle created by the lights. That didn't appear until later. I consistently fell in love with my leading actresses. It didn't always result in love affairs, but it certainly was a loving atmosphere.

von Sivers: And there were children...

Bergman: And complications.

von Sivers: A new film and a new love.

Bergman: Yes, that was often the case.

von Sivers: It must have been hard to go through all these separations. It can't just have been a matter of stepping in and out of relationships. It sounds like it's been painful.

Bergman: It's been tough.

Josephson: A feeling of doom...obscurity and strangeness. I avenged my ugliness by being funny. I always had to be funny. I have been dogged by this over the years. Being funny was a way of keeping both myself and the world at a distance. But I've grown out of it, now I'm just dull.

von Sivers: You're still funny.

Josephson: Oh well...I still use it in the struggle for existence. I'm skeptical about this thing of "being oneself." I'm not sure what that means. I'm quite happy not having a core. I have to remember having said that! (They all laugh)

Bergman: So you don't go and say: "I'm quite happy having a core." In contrast to Erland, who says he's quite happy not having a core... Is that what you said? It's a bit different for me. Instead I rather feel that I live in a terrible state of chaos that I have to keep a check on. If I don't keep a check on it, I will perish in my chaos. I could perish in this chaos.

von Sivers: Is that why you like to be in control?

Bergman: As regards the world around me, and as regards myself, I'm extremely organized and controlled. I detest any kind of improvisation. And nowadays...I don't have a social life at all. Since Ingrid passed away five years ago I don't meet any people outside my work. Erland and I met at the theatre, or talk on the phone. We never go out together, or have dinner.

von Sivers: Why did this stop?

Bergman: I've never found it difficult to be alone. On the contrary I've felt a great need of solitude. Ever since I was a child I've liked being on my own, playing alone, pottering about on my own. Solitude has never been a problem for me. But then I had those exceptional twenty-four years with Ingrid, where I cam to experience something extraordinary: a close relationship. That could never be recreated. So now I have reverted to solitude. But to this I now have to add my sense of deep loss. Because I carry that with me every day. Although my need of company...hasn't changed in any way, it remains nonexistent. But I do love my time at the theatre, at the rehearsals. But I also love my solitude at Fårö.

von Sivers: We haven't said much about death.

Bergman: No...

von Sivers: Do you dislike talking about it?

Bergman: No.

von Sivers: Most people do.

Bergman: Why? It's an absolute reality... Both Erland and I have good reason to contemplate it.

von Sivers: I think of Strindberg, whom you both love, of his play Thunder in the Air. There are in the accounts of ageing a feeling of reconciliation, together with the pain. I get the same feeling when listening to you. I don't know if this is just my impression. Is it wishful thinking on my part, that ageing brings reconciliation?

Bergman: (To Josephson) Do you want to start, or shall I?

Josephson: You start. I can carry on.

Bergman: We should talk in chorus, as we both feel the same way about growing old. We were never told it would be so hard. It's hard work. It's very hard work. Especially when you feel yourself waning, and your ailments begin to take over. Ridiculous, slightly humiliating ailments begin to take over. Before you get used to this, and they become part of your life, you have a hard time. Ageing is strenuous work. It isn't something often talked about. We should talk more about it. Ageing in itself is a full-time job. Making yourself function in a reasonably dignified manner. We've talked about this.

von Sivers: Your way of talking about your ailments is a mixture of seriousness and joking.

Josephson: Joking about it is like casting a spell. And there is a comical side to it. If you spend five minutes trying to button a cuff link you start laughing after four minutes, seeing the ridiculous side of it. But I also have to say that I'm very reluctant to die. Much more so than Ingmar. I don't want to die. Ingmar is more resigned to the thought, but then I'm younger. Not resigned.

Bergman: We had an agreement, we even used to joke about it...I would die first. Ingrid would sit with me and hold my hand. Ingrid would be the last person I saw. She was going to take over everything on Fårö and everything was to go on as before. And then this happened... Probably the cruelest thing to befall me in my life and which has crippled me. Ingrid suddenly died. Not suddenly, it took a year. To go on living now is for me so utterly irrelevant. I try...I try to fill in the gaps in my knowledge. I try to keep my life in order. I keep set hours. I get up at six in the morning. I work methodically until noon. Then there's the theatre. I try to maintain a strict order. To me... To me life itself is a heavy burden. That I'm never going to see Ingrid again...is to me deeply distressing. It's a dreadful thought. You see, I really felt that Ingrid was still there. I had an uninterrupted conversation going on with her. She wasn't altogether gone, she was still near. But then notions of life and death as existence and non-existence clashed violently. "That means I'll never see Ingrid again." Then Erland and I had a good conversation about it, which meant an awful lot to me. Erland asked: "What are your thoughts on the matter?" I said: "I'm very doubtful at the moment." "But I think I'll see Ingrid again." Because I do believe in other realities, I always have. I think I'll meet Ingrid again. And Erland wisely replied: "So affirm that belief." And that's what I've been doing. I'm not actually afraid of dying. On the contrary, really. I think it'll be interesting.

von Sivers: So this is where you differ.

Josephson: Yes, I think it's ghastly. I don't want to. But I know that I eventually will be defeated by my body. When it gives up. I know I said several years ago, when I felt it approaching, that I somehow had to find a philosophy of dying. It's as if you're just going with the stream, instead of deciding where to put in the oars and start rowing for yourself. I prefer to do my own rowing, and not be caught off guard. I suppose my fear has lessened the past few years.

von Sivers: Have you found a philosophy?

Josephson: No.

von Sivers: You've helped Ingmar.

Josephson: We've talked about this, but... Well, maybe, I don't know, something has changed in me.

Bergman: I feel that the one thing that would be really appalling, would be to end up a vegetable. Or to be a burden to other people. If my dying spirit had to live in a body...where the organs were increasingly undermining me. To me that would be rather gruesome. Though there are possibilities... You can actually decide for yourself if you want to go on living. I hope that I'll have the presence of mind to make that decision.

von Sivers: You would take your own life?

Bergman: Absolutely. And that's not posturing on my part. It will be a completely natural ending to do that while I have my wits about me, and still have the capability to plan and organize it.

Josephson: I fully share that view. It's nice to have Ingmar and Ulla there, to control my mental faculties. I ask them if I'm going senile.

Bergman: You see, we've promised each other this... As I mentioned earlier, Erland and I have an agreement that we will gauge each other's senility potential. Haven't we?

Josephson: We won't know who's judging who, and then we'll just lie there laughing. (Bergman laughs) Hey guys, it didn't work!

von Sivers: Is there still curiosity and joy, the desire to experience new things?

Josephson: We may be sad, but neither Ingmar nor I have lost our cheerfulness. I don't think so. We laugh a lot.

Bergman: Yes. But that's necessary, really. It's all you can do, isn't it?

Josephson: While we still have our teeth...

Bergman: Even when they've fallen out...

Josephson: We'll still be laughing.

Bergman: We'll be laughing about that. "Look, there go my teeth..." You see, throughout my life, ever since I was a little boy, I have been tremendously curious. And my curiosity...on all possible and various levels, because there are many kinds of curiosity–but my curiosity actually is boundless.

Josephson: There's even a recognized disease called loss of curiosity. You lose your vital force. Picture the phone conversations between these two curious persons.

Bergman: We have a lot to talk about. I feel it's a wonderful gift. With time we've come to realize what life has bestowed on us: This contact we have with one another, this friendship. This intimate friendship.

After four hours, I know that the reputation of the "demon" director is not deserved. I have met two fascinating men who created a magical atmosphere in the studio. What happened? Two old men–who don't walk very well, who don't hear very well, and don't see very well–but, in their magic circle, love became brilliant, death present, and life itself full of joy and yet at the same time painful. Perhaps their secret is their childish curiosity and lust for life, and their knowledge that if they stop working, life is over. When they leave, I'm a little bit in love.