Vale

Ingmar Bergman died today.

Once, in an effort to fulfill my dream of becoming Australia's premier authority on the cinema of Scandinavia, I went to a course thing on the films of Ingmar Bergman. It was run by David Stratton (who as it turns out is just in real life as he is on telly. Margaret was always my favourite, though), who told a bizarre story about being naked in a sauna in Finland with Harriet Andersson* in the 1970s or something, and who made me realise that my dream may never be realised as long as he, David Stratton, lives**.



* Sometime lover and leading lady of Ingmar.
** Fortunately for David Stratton, I have since decided that becoming Australia's premier authority on the films of Scandinavia might be a bit of a big ask, so he need fear me no longer. That being said, I may have my eye on being Australia's (or possibly Switzerland's) premier expert on Danish cinema instead now, and I can think of at least one person who might be standing in my way. Hmm***.
*** Just in case you are getting the wrong message here, rest assured that I'm not insane. Or murderous.