In Changing, Liv Ullmann's remarkably frank memoir, the distinguished actress recalls the shooting of Persona, her debut film with Ingmar Bergman, as "the first time I met a film director who let me unveil feelings and thoughts no one else had recognized...a genius who created an atmosphere in which everything could happen—even that which I had not known about myself." At a time when film stars have almost become interchangeable commodities, Ullmann's famous collaboration with Bergman serves as a needed reminder that actors need not be obsessed with fat paychecks and the whims of their agents.

Although Bergman worked with a number of brilliant actors throughout his career—Max von Sydow, Bibi Andersson, and Erland Josephson are merely among the most famous—Ullmann's distinctive blend of vulnerability and self-assurance was ideal for Bergman's purposes and her compelling presence in films such as Persona, Scenes from a Marriage, The Passion of Anna, and Autumn Sonata was a catalyst for some of his most powerful and innovative work. These films explored themes that would resurface in the Bergman scripts that Ullmann herself eventually directed—the chasm between aesthetic brilliance and personal inadequacy and the rancor, and often irreparable damage, wrought by marital strife.

While Ullmann's first two features as a director—Sofie and Kristin Lavransdatter—were lavish and slightly leaden period pieces that were far removed from the concerns of Bergman's chamber dramas, her subsequent decision to direct two Bergman scripts, Private Confessions and her most recent effort, Faithless, tacitly acknowledges both the burdens and advantages of being an artist whose legacy will always be discussed in tandem with the career of her mentor and former lover.

Both Private Confessions and Faithless examine the marital entanglements that have often inspired Bergman's films (as well as the plays of his beloved August Strindberg). Private Confessions, however (a film that features characteristically brilliant performances by Pernilla August and Max von Sydow), inspired by the unhappy marriage endured by Bergman's parents, is safely rooted in a conservative, early twentieth-century past. Despite the rage on display in the protagonists' stormy marriage, a tentative sense of moral uplift is achieved at the film's conclusion.

Faithless, on the other hand, does not evoke the distant past; this portrait of love gone awry, while compassionate, is also unrelenting and does not offer any facile solace. In other hands, this chronicle of the devastating impact of an apparently harmless affair upon a marriage would seem moralistic and old-fashioned. Yet Bergman, the unrepentant agnostic, is not interested in traditional Christian mores or family values. Instead, his film, loosely autobiographical, is both an agonizing self-indictment and a detached inquiry into how minor deceptions can spiral in to personal catastrophe.

The framing story of Faithless depicts a film director (straightforwardly called Bergman and played by the director's old friend Erland Josephson) who is attempting to formulate a screenplay based on painful memories of a youthful love affair. Marianne, the young actress he engages to help him (brilliantly played by Lena Endre, whose undiluted intensity bears comparison with the young Liv Ullmann) eventually embodies a character who resembles the old man's ex-lover as his scenario coalesces into a full-fledged film clef. Avoiding finger pointing, Ullmann and Bergman incisively demonstrate how all of the protagonists are—at least to some extent—victims of self-deception. We are never encouraged to entirely condemn or wholeheartedly embrace any of the characters. Markus (Thomas Hanzon), Marianne's infinitely patient husband and a brilliant musician, becomes, by the film's end, subservient to his own suppressed rage. Marianne's lover, David (Krister Henriksson), although often abrasive and childish, is also blessed with an impish charm. And Marianne herself, an enormously sympathetic figure, seems irreparably stymied by her own indecisiveness.

Cineaste interviewed Ullmann last September, shortly before the American premiere of Faithless at the 2000 New York Film Festival. Without denying her artistic debt to Bergman, she cogently pointed out both his strengths and weaknesses, while also sharing her thoughts concerning acting technique and the direction of actors.—Richard Porton

Cineaste: Unlike Faithless, Scenes from a Marriage appears to end with at least a partial reconciliation between the estranged protagonists. Given the current film's downbeat ending, can we conclude that Bergman is growing increasingly pessimistic?

Liv Ullmann: I'm not sure if he's growing more pessimistic, but I think that, somchow, he's come face to face with himself in this last screenplay. That's tough—a priest isn't listening to him, no one else in fact is listening to him. The optimistic part of this is that he now will be able to put all this behind him. Unlike Private Confessions, Bergman finds himself (in the part played by Erland Josephson) completely alone—except for a woman who comes and helps him, lending him a woman's voice and relieving his isolation a bit.

Cineaste: Does this explain why Bergman didn't want to direct the film himself?

Ullmann: It might, because it's tremendously personal. He didn't know what choices I was going to make as a director, but he didn't interfere. He knows me so well, though, that he probably expected that I would make certain choices—and maybe he wanted me to make them. I told him that perhaps he should direct it, precisely because the script was so personal. But he dismissed this, and told me that he was excited about the choices I might make as a director. It will always be considered a Bergman film—if it's good it's still a Bergman film. It's a privilege, but it's still a difficulty.

Cineaste: Although you made many distinctive choices as a director, you didn't change any of Bergman's dialogue, did you?

Ullmann: No, I didn't change a word or a comma, because I knew from acting with him that he's very protective of his lines. But, since it was a five-hour script, I had to do a lot of cutting. The film is mainly composed of Lena Endre's monologues, but people don't seem to notice this. Since she's so alive, they almost have the impression that they're listening to a dialogue between two people.

It was obvious that some things had to go because he wrote three drafts. The first one was magnificent, and because I was acquainted with that I could also incorporate some parts of it in the second script. Then he made changes and produced what became the final script. I believe that he's publishing the first script and that's fine.

Cineaste: And the Josephson character—who is called Bergman—essentially functions as a script editor. He wants to transform raw autobiographical confessions into art. And this, of course, is what Bergman the director always did.

Ullmann: Yes. In a certain sense, the film resembles what Bergman did with his script. He imagined a woman, and since he draws from reality, he had me in mind. Bergman says, "Come here and sit in my window, these are my lines—what do you want to do with them?" And I continued this process by providing my own images and my own experience. That's where Lena comes in; during pre-production, she contributed her own experiences to the script.

Cineaste: Did it then become important for you to develop a close collaboration with Lena Endre?

Ullmann: Yes, it was a real collaboration. Very few actresses are able to do what she did. She's superb, because you don't really feel that it's an actress—you feel that it's a woman. During the filming, if she seemed too much like an actress I would have her redo the scene. It was as if she was saying, like some Method actors, "Aren't I clever?" When I pointed this out to her, she would immediately recognize the problem and rely on herself rather than acting technique.

Cineaste: This is interesting in light of your own work, because you've written of your early interest in Stanislavski. Of course, Stanislavski's techniques are not necessarily identical with what has been termed 'The Method' in the United States.

Ullmann: Stanislavski's technique is great and it really isn't the same as The Method. The Method is more artificial—at least for me. I know it works for some people. I did a play once on Broadway and the person rang the doorbell and never came into the living room where I was sitting on stage. Later I found out that both the person ringing the doorbell and the actress playing the maid were Method actors. They hadn't seen each other for a long time and talked among themselves, while I sat alone on stage for what seemed like an hour. I don't believe in this. When Lena performs, I think she follows Stanislavski's approach. She knows her lines, but she just uses herself as the cloth from the weave—she becomes the cloth.

Cineaste: And what is your role in this process?

Ullmann: My role is to do the blocking, create a proper atmosphere and to think of things that will inspire her. I try to be a great listener, and if there is something she wants to do I can just say one word—because I've been an actress myself. A word is good, but long discussions are never good. I never overpower them with my own emotions. I've thought out the emotional structure for the entire movie, but the person in front of the camera at a particular moment is the one who is creating something. If they're good enough, they will always add something to what you've given them.

Cineaste: This is reminiscent of a famous, if perhaps apocryphal story, that Bergman asked you to focus on your lips during one of your most famous scenes with Bibi Andersson in Persona.

Ullmann: To my recollection, he didn't even say that, though. If you say to someone, concentrate on your lips, you get too self-conscious. We talk about experiences. Men are sometimes better directing women, because they have a certain openness and can make themselves naked in ways women can't.

Cineaste: Bergman, of course, has always elicited very strong performances from women, and many of his most memorable protagonists, such as the characters in Persona, are women.

Ullmann: Yes, but if at the time of Persona he hadn't met me, and hadn't sensed that I understood him and the part, I think my role would have been written for Max von Sydow. He uses actors who he thinks understand him.

Cineaste: There's also quite a sharp contrast between this tone of Faithless and Private Confessions.

Ullmann: Faithless is much more despairing—that's in the writing. I tried to add grace and forgiveness. But there is only so much that you can do through the control of the images. In Private Confessions, the priest is the listener; that's taken away in Faithless and replaced with the figure of Bergman. Bergman is the listener; he's guilty and won't forgive himself and doesn't believe in God. Although he doesn't believe in God, he believes that 'holiness' will set you free.

Cineaste: What do you mean by 'holiness?'

Ullmann: If you look at the husband, who is a composer, you see a figure who also resembles Bergman. For him, great art, in those rare moments when you achieve something special, approaches holiness. Of course, I am volunteering my interpretation. I am guessing that this is what he would say. That's not my view of life. But we shared many things in common; although we lived together once, our friendship has lasted much longer. But I have done so much more than just working with him; I've worked with many other people.

Cineaste: There's a reference to Strindberg in Faithless and you've played Nora in A Doll's House. What is the importance for you of the Scandinavian theatrical tradition?

Ullmann: I put a little picture of Strindberg in Bergman's workroom. Bergman is much closer to Strindberg than I am; somehow they are two twigs from the same branch. I'm sure that there are differences as well, but he's much closer to Strindberg than to Ibsen. He's directed Ibsen, but now more frequently goes back to Strindberg. For me, Strindberg is very negative. He can be wonderful, but I'd much rather work in an Ibsen play because I think his work is very modern. Some lines may be old-fashioned, but he's a writer who, like Shakespeare, continues to live and I don't think that Strindberg does.

Cineaste: Of course, in Faithless, unlike Strindberg or Ibsen, it's hard to distinguish the victim from the victimizer.

Ullmann: Ingmar believes that the woman is the victim, but I don't agree with him. Neither does Lena. I do think that the child is a victim. If you make wrong choices, you will suffer; perhaps after seeing the movie you won't make those choices. The child can't watch a movie or make choices, which is why she's a victim and why I emphasized her.

Cineaste: The matter of making choices is also important for Nora in A Doll's House.

Ullmann: Exactly, and that's why she stops being a victim. She goes out the door, is face to face with herself, and makes a very positive, to me at least, choice.

Cineaste: Of course, in Faithless the characters' choices don't seem particularly deliberate. Marianne seems to view her relationship with David as frivolous. It's not a grand passion, but a mere fling.

Ullmann: Yes, she wants to have a little sugar in her life. Some of our worst choices are made that way. We think that we can just have a little fun and then go back to the way things were before. We didn't think that it would have these consequences. It's so stupid.

Cineaste: Although you didn't change the dialogue, you chose to emphasize the little daughter's role in ways that weren't apparent in the original script.

Ullmann: In Scenes from a Marriage, which Bergman wrote and directed, the couple has two children but you never see them. They didn't have any importance in the movie, but I wanted to do something different since I know how tough it is for children when people divorce. Very often it's good, since children shouldn't live with people who hate each other. But the people who are considering divorce should think how they're making the children part of their anguish.

I wanted to show that the child is, in many ways, invisible for these people. They're in pain and she says that she wishes that she hadn't done that to her child, but, despite her regrets, she does it anyway. When I speak to women about the scene when she's heartbroken after telling the children, they tell me that they don't feel sad for her. Whereas, I only feel sad for her. On the other hand, when young men look at this scene, all they can think of is the child's fate. They think, 'Oh, my God I can never allow my child to go through this.' That is a great change, because much older men—even if they love their children, don't have the same 'hands on' attitude that younger men have today. This movie was written by someone who never had a 'hands on' attitude. It doesn't mean that he's incapable of loving the child. He just has a different perspective, so it wasn't part of the script.

Cineaste: What significance should we attribute to the fact that the name of Lena Endre's character, Marianne Vogler, appears to synthesize two women you played in previous Bergman films—Elisabeth Vogler in Persona and Marianne in Scenes from a Marriage?

Ullmann: It hangs together. In Scenes from a Marriage, the husband says, "I'm leaving you, I'm going to Paris with a woman." And this story is recounted in Faithless, when David goes to Paris with Marianne. The Marianne that I played in Scenes from a Marriage is the wife that David left to go to Paris with this other woman. Both are called Marianne, so you can make all sorts of fantastic connections. Every viewer should have the freedom to do that.

Everyone also has the freedom to make connections with Elisabeth Vogler from Persona. When I played Elisabeth Vogler, I didn't know very much, but I just knew I was playing Ingmar. That's why I said that Max von Sydow could have played that part. I thought at that time, "I will just watch Ingmar and I will try to act like him." In the current film, the character called Bergman is like the character he made into a woman and I played as Elisabeth Vogler in Persona. You can have great fun with this.

Cineaste: Perhaps it's also attributable to the fact that, since Bergman hits upon many of the same themes in all his films, all of these motifs seem part of one ongoing narrative.

Ullmann: That's true, but this is the last one, because he's never been as face to face with himself as he is in this one—although he called one of his movies Face to Face. He was not face to face with himself in that movie—I don't know who was face to face with whom in that movie.

Cineaste: There's a striking moment when, after being discovered in bed by Markus, David and Marianne laugh. Was that present in Bergman's script?

Ullmann: We wanted to do it that way, because, in one of her monologues, she tells Bergman that this was like something out of a Feydeau farce. We had a great time doing it; it was almost like a sitcom. The strange thing was that, when the actor playing Markus first came in, he never noticed that they were laughing. It was tough for him to do it somehow. When we did it again and the camera was on him, he finally noticed that they were laughing. He stopped and exclaimed, "Why are you laughing?" He became so angry during his close-up as they continued to laugh. Not only was his character angry, he was also angry with me and with the other actors. It provided him this horrified look; part of this, of course, has something to do with the fact that he's a great actor. They laugh out of nervousness; just as in church you sometimes want to cry but start laughing hysterically. I've also had this on stage—when I've started laughing and couldn't stop. It's something that actors dread. It's a worse fear than forgetting your lines.

Cineaste: As in many Bergman films, munch of the power in Faithless derives from your use of sustained close-ups.

Ullmann: The cinematographer knows how close I want things to be. I will always film a two shot and a long shot first and then go to the close-up. We don't usually rehearse this, but often the cinematographer will know when I want a close-up. Unless something is wrong technically, I try not to ask for more than one take. Sometimes the actor asks for another take, but this seldom happens.

Cineaste: Some directors exhaust actors by demanding take after take.

Ullmann: I don't understand that. With these actors, it's not necessary. In my experience, I usually find that actors are best on the first take. During the second, they repeat themselves. I did a second take, however, in the scene when Lena is sitting in the window and crying over her child. It was incredible the first time she did it. But it seemed too clever. After the second take, it was amazingly quiet in the studio. Nobody applauded, but when she went out all the technicians congratulated her. The first take was a great performance, but the second one told us what the character was really thinking and feeling. Of course, you have to work with the cinematographer and ensure that she has the best lighting and that no one says 'cut' before I do.

Cineaste: You worked with Sven Nykvist on Private Confessions. Are there differences between his approach and the choices favoured by Jörgen Persson, the man who shot Faithless?

Ullmann: Nykvist and I speak the same language—we know each other so well. The man who shot Faithless is a great cinematographer, but is more technical and I was sometimes afraid that he'd talk too much. That's fine for him, but if he says, "Move a little, so we'll have more of the tree," the actors don't care. But he was really fantastic.

Cineaste: You also worked with Erland Josephson several times before, having directed him in Sofie, as well as acting with him in Scenes from a Marriage.

Ullmann: Yes, and we are very close. And if anyone knows Ingmar better than me, it's Erland. They've known each other since they were young. I think what he gives to this person called Bergman—Ingmar said he couldn't think of another name—is enormously touching. He shows us an elderly man who is longing to be kissed one more time, to be held one more time. And, in addition, having the fear of isolation and death.

Cineaste: On the one hand, he has an affinity with David, but also has the wisdom now to realize his folly.

Ullmann: Exactly.

Cineaste: Marianne says to David that, "We have an affinity in our misery," and that seems to be a key line.

Ullmann: Yeah, a lot of people have that. When they've done all of these things together, they're stuck together with their misery. In a way, it's a sad thing to be tied to someone merely because of the misery that you've shared, But that happens a lot. It happened to me. There's nothing in the film that I don't recognize from my life. And a lot of elderly and middle-aged people notice aspects of their own lives here. Maybe, after watching it, they'll be more careful.

Cineaste: So this film expresses your jaundiced view of contemporary society, as well as just marriage?

Ullmann: If we don't have any values anymore, if nothing we do means anything, then we'll end up feeling very gray. In the end, then, love is not important, other people are not important, and even you yourself are not important. When values decline, it takes all the fun out of living.

Cineaste: Have you considered acting in films or on stage again?

Ullmann: No, it's not part of my plan. Actually today somebody called me about a play on Broadway. Even though you say that you'll never act, something will come along to prompt you to say, "Oh my God, that's incredible." I probably won't, but to be offered this was tempting. I feel more fulfilled as a director. The only trouble is that it takes me two years to do a film—one year for preproduction and writing the screenplay, then we shoot the film, and then you travel with it. If you're thirty or forty, that's great. But now, to know that it's two and a half years of your life, you have to choose carefully because you don't want to waste any time.