The Seventh Seal

Kyle Crockett
@ttekcorCelyK
Life, death, God, Satan, and faith serve as themes and backbones to countless
films, novels, poems, and other creative avenues. However, perhaps no one has dealt
with these themes with such immersive directness as Ingmar Bergman in his iconic
classic, The Seventh Seal. Through Max Von Sydows turn as Antonius Block, the
tormented knight returning from the Crusades who challenges Death to a chess
match for his own life, and Bergmans allegorical directing style, The Seventh Seal
was a strikingly simple, yet resoundingly gripping. Bergman managed to manifest a
dream, and he dissected the heart of the Christian challenge in the process.
Bergman was one to craft each of his characters, scenes, and story lines so
meticulously that every moment of screen time contributed to his obsessive
deconstruction of whatever ideas he was exploring. In The Seventh Seal, not unlike
Persona, Bergman tackles faith and Christianity, and the challenges that come with
that philosophy. In one of the most memorable scenes, Antonius arrives at a small
church and begins to confess in a jarringly honest fashion. He questions Gods
method of manifesting himself to humanity; furthermore, he questions Gods very
existence. He cries, I call out to him in the darkness. But its as if no one was there.
Perhaps there isnt anyone, Death responds. Then life is a preposterous horror,
declares Block, no man can live faced with Death, knowing everythings
nothingness. Block reached the core challenge of Christianity; is faith alone enough
for man to devote himself to God? A silent God is a theme throughout the film, and it
is no more prevalent than at this moment. Block soon accentuates his own

declaration, as he reveals his clever chess strategies to the priest, effectively giving
Death the answer to Blocks attacks. There is indeed no escape from Deaths
clutches.
The scene is simply delightful, thanks to Bergmans indelible touch. From the
audiences point of view, Block curls into his confessional bench on the left as the
priest (who is actually Death himself) sits in a room beyond Block, separated by a
wall with a caged window no less barbaric than a jail cell. To Blocks right, separated
by the wall of the confessional, is a Godlike statue. Bergman has crafted a visual
mirror of the scenes context. Here Block sits, pouring out his confessions, his
questions, his desperate cries for connection and answers, and God sits motionless,
silent, but always present. Beyond Block lies the only tangible thing in Blocks fragile
psyche: Death himself.
There is also the family of travelling minstrels, Jof and Mia, with their young
son Mikael. Block shares an afternoon under their hospitality, and is moved to his
core by their kindness and the loveliness of the afternoon. Jof and Mias young
family, almost obviously a symbol of the Holy Family of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,
seem to embody the aspects of Christianity with which Block identifies. This begins
to reveal the deep struggle Block has; he wants to believe in God, he identifies with
his message, but how can he believe in God when death surrounds Block?
Before the legendary dance of death, when Death leads Block and his
followers away as Jof watches safe from afar, Jof had a vision of Antonius playing his
chess match with Death, so he gathered his family to escape Deaths clutches. Death
saw them trying to escape, but Block turned over the chessboard in a final attempt

to buy Jofs family the time to escape. His plot was successful, leading to Blocks
defeat in the match, and thus his life. However, he had completed his meaningful
deed; Block had resolved his own struggles with faith and Christianity, finally
choosing to believe in God, and to believe that a life on earthas he saw firsthand
from Jof, Mia, and Mikaelcould be a beautiful and hopeful one. In the end, Block
danced with Death to meet his end, because he finally believed that it was his
beginning.