“This emphasis on physical pain. It couldn’t have been all that bad. It may sound presumptuous of me – but in my humble way, I’ve suffered as much physical pain as Jesus. And his torments were rather brief. Lasting some four hours, I gather? I feel that he was tormented far worse on an other level. Maybe I’ve got it all wrong. But just think of Gethsemane, Vicar. Christ’s disciples fell asleep. They hadn’t understood the meaning of the last supper, or anything. And when the servants of the law appeared, they ran away. And Peter denied him. Christ had known his disciples for three years. They’d lived together day in and day out – but they never grasped what he meant. They abandoned him, to the last man. And he was left alone. That must have been painful. Realising that no one understands. To be abandoned when you need someone to rely on – that must be excruciatingly painful. But the worse was yet to come. When Jesus was nailed to the cross – and hung there in torment – he cried out – “God, my God!” “Why hast thou forsaken me?” He cried out as loud as he could. He thought that his heavenly father had abandoned him. He believed everything he’d ever preached was a lie. The moments before he died, Christ was seized by doubt. Surely that must have been his greatest hardship? God’s silence.”

Ingmar Bergman’s unofficial (spiritual) sequel to Through a Glass Darkly (1961) is as chilly and sparse as the title suggests. Winter Light begins with a long church service. Tomas Ericsson, played by Gunnar Björnstrand, is a disillusioned, widowed priest, going through the motions of his worship and, as the story unfolds, stricken with the flu. Attending his service are a handful of people including his one-time mistress Märta, an atheist, and Jonas, a farmer who has been driven to despair by the idea of China developing the atomic bomb. After the service, Ericsson attempts to counsel Jonas but fails due to his own worries and his ever-increasing doubts about the existence of God. Ericsson’s decline is exacerbated by his inability to love Märta and his exhaustion.

Halfway through the film, Jonas kills himself, an event that would normally form the dramatic centre of a story, but instead Bergman  presents it as just another step on Ericsson’s path away from God. The setting and the feel of this film: shot with flat lighting mostly in austere interiors, suggests a pared-down approach by the director, and this is reflected in his depiction of the priest’s loss of faith and his realisation that he needs to pretend to believe to support his parishioners.

It’s a film that asks a question about faith, but this faith isn’t answered in the dialogue or the action of the characters – instead the answer lies in the stark, frosty aesthetic of the film. It’s the most Bressonian of Bergman’s films. Watch in a double bill with Diary of a Country Priest (1951).