Review of The Magician (1958) by Tom B — 26 Nov 2010

Bergman made horror films. Not all of his are, but lots. Hour of The Wolf is the more obvious, we think of Persona as a horror film (watch it late in a quiet house in the dark), and this one (gorgeous bul-ray!) opens like Frankenstein and echoes Nosferatu, and struts the languid gothiness of Caligari, beautifully tossed with a twist of the wrist by Sydow gesturing broken contempt for an all-knowing authority.

And sure, obviously, the dedication is above all to truth, and those who cast stones, the hypocrisy of the well-fed who disdain the weak and broken writers and actors and directors, the magicians who live on the fringe in their double-world, and yes, their double-world is obvious, whereas the secret behind-the-bedroom-doors double-world of the respectable, ah, now that is not so obvious.

And why do we find high stakes in the exposure of this hypocrisy? Well, of course when the respectable turn on the liminal ones and hold them up for violators and cretins, thus begins the march of tyranny.

It's a familiar theme, see it in Day Of Wrath, a rather sober treatment of witchery, and of course, the original Frankenstein films, and numerous other horror films seeking to expose the underbelly truths of the socially adapted.

What's so much fun are those lovely sexual gestures and pranks, the magic light show, the cacphonous climactic ironic march of the wooden-soldier police, the babes and their boobs, the feasting and deaths, and the battle between two forces, two enemies opposed, both liars through and through, but one feeling around for something real in the haystack.

And at the end, that lone little lantern creaking and squeaking away where it hangs, bashed by the carriage and cops as they rush away to set a tasty dish before the king. Har! He who laughs last, laughs best!