Why I Love Max von Sydow’s Performance in Shame | Little White Lies

In Praise Of

Why I Love Max von Sydow’s Per­for­mance in Shame

14 Apr 2019

Words by Adam Scovell

Close-up black-and-white portrait of a man with a thoughtful, melancholic expression
Close-up black-and-white portrait of a man with a thoughtful, melancholic expression
The Swedish-born actor is at his trans­fix­ing best in Ing­mar Bergman’s 1968 drama.

With a career as long and accom­plished as Max von Sydow’s, choos­ing a sin­gle role to cel­e­brate is dif­fi­cult. This is not least because of the aston­ish­ing amount of vivid, canon­i­cal roles he inhab­it­ed under the care­ful gaze of Ing­mar Bergman, a direc­tor whose abil­i­ty to pro­duce detailed, com­plex dra­mas en masse still feels incom­pre­hen­si­ble in hind­sight even today. But, aside from famed knights play­ing chess with death, unfor­tu­nate Chris­t­ian patri­archs and humil­i­at­ed magi­cians, von Sydow’s star­tling abil­i­ty to play frag­ment­ed, col­laps­ing per­sonas is nev­er bet­tered than his role as Jan in Bergman’s Shame.

One of two films the direc­tor released in 1968 star­ring von Sydow (the oth­er being Hour of the Wolf), Shame fol­lows the volatile rela­tion­ship between two con­cert vio­lin play­ers, Eva (Liv Ull­mann) and Jan (von Sydow), as they deal with the increas­ing­ly vio­lent incur­sions made into their lives by an ambigu­ous civ­il war. Iso­lat­ed on the island in which they live, their seem­ing­ly idyl­lic lives are slow­ly and method­i­cal­ly torn apart by both sides of the war, high­light­ing the frac­tures in their rela­tion­ship and the flaws in their characters.

Sim­i­lar to the films made around it in the same peri­od, such as The Pas­sion of Anna and Per­sona, Bergman rat­tles a small hand­ful of paired char­ac­ters around the island of Fårö, pro­vid­ing nar­ra­tive sce­nar­ios to lever open fine psy­cho­log­i­cal cracks into gap­ing men­tal wounds.

Though Shame is equal­ly marked by one of Ullmann’s most pow­er­ful per­for­mances, von Sydow’s is the more unique sim­ply due to the remould­ed pow­er dynam­ics: deal­ing with the trau­ma of war through a frac­tured rather than con­fi­dent, hero­ic mas­culin­i­ty. At the begin­ning of the film, it is Eva who is lead­ing the pair in their day-to-day lives as the tur­moil rum­bles clos­er to their lone­ly farm.

Jan finds him­self cow­er­ing on the stairs with his head in his hands at the slight­est moment spent with his own thoughts. He is hyper­sen­si­tive to the world around him – a rare char­ac­ter trait for a sane male role in a war film – brit­tle to the point of catalep­sy and far from the clichés of men who are often por­trayed as dic­tat­ing the sce­nar­ios of wartime dra­mas. Jan is a man who des­per­ate­ly avoids con­fronta­tion of any sort but is faced with being stuck in the absolute worst kind of con­fronta­tion; a seem­ing­ly ran­dom bom­bard­ment of destruc­tion on all levels.

It is in von Sydow’s per­for­mance where this com­plex mix­ture of unsta­ble, del­i­cate naivety and occa­sion­al lash­ing out comes from. His move­ments quite lit­er­al­ly see him lag­ging behind, clum­sy; his eyes nev­er fail­ing to find the exact spot where his ner­vous char­ac­ter has man­i­fest­ed phys­i­cal­ly through the short­com­ings of his own body. I believe in liv­ing in hope,” he sug­gests, but it is a short lived, nev­er quite formed prax­is built on sand.

His hope is seen to be mur­dered in shocked glances; when his house is burned to the ground or as he and his wife are shuf­fled through detain­ment build­ings and inter­ro­gat­ed about col­lu­sion with vague ene­mies for exam­ple. This is far from their world of per­form­ing Bran­den­burg con­cer­tos and grow­ing berries. The fact that this is almost sole­ly con­veyed through the move­ment of the character’s body rather than through a con­stant stream of weighty dia­logue attests to the skill of both actor and director.

Jan slips fur­ther in his des­per­a­tion, though not into a hope­ful void of igno­rance or even escape. He instead becomes more and more hard­ened by the world he is liv­ing in and in par­tic­u­lar by the evo­lu­tion of Eva who becomes more fran­tic, sleep­ing with the pre­vi­ous may­or (Gun­nar Björn­strand) for mon­ey in manip­u­la­tive exchange for see­ing the pair go free from deten­tion. This action alone sets up the role for von Sydow to inhab­it per­fect­ly as he seem­ing­ly reverts to an almost ani­mal­is­tic desperation.

Ter­ror floods him as he wit­ness­es the actions of his own hands. Hid­ing the mon­ey the major gave them, Jan is con­duct­ed to shoot him by an invad­ing mil­i­tary par­ty. At first his old char­ac­ter shines through, unable to even hold the gun which slips from his shak­ing hands. But his jeal­ousy and his grief at the loss of his world tight­ens his fin­gers as he shoots the man clum­si­ly sev­er­al times. It takes a sol­dier to fin­ish the man off. Jan is iron­i­cal­ly devoid of mer­cy though only through his own sheer incom­pe­tence as a killer.

He cries at his weak­ness, his lack of strength but also the reflec­tion of the bru­tal­i­ty around him that his body is start­ing to dis­play, sim­ply out of an instinct to sur­vive. In sim­i­lar roles, von Sydow has shown this evo­lu­tion of a calm, ratio­nal human descend­ing into depraved, des­per­ate vio­lence. His patri­arch in The Vir­gin Spring or his writer in Hour of the Wolf go through a sim­i­lar process until some­thing with­in is hor­rif­i­cal­ly released, often through unfair, world­ly cir­cum­stances beyond their control.

But von Sydow’s per­for­mance in Shame is real­ly the most hyp­not­ic of these evo­lu­tions, if only because, with that last dying breath of the character’s opti­mism, he epit­o­mis­es the sin­gle para­dox at the heart of all con­flicts: the deeply human will to sur­vive no mat­ter what bes­tial cost is con­sid­ered as pay­ment in return. You can’t be so sen­si­tive,” sug­gests Eva ear­ly on, though it’s an uncon­scious­ly cal­lous wish that she’ll soon regret; blind to how far peo­ple can slip beyond the humane.

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