Now in his late eighties, Ingmar Bergman declared twenty-five years ago that Fanny and Alexander would be his final film. But what's a retired artist to do while holed up in his private island without having his hand at creating something. So, in a sense Bergman wasn't lying if you don't consider any projects that he doesn't direct and if you define "film" as a project that was strictly meant for the big screen—paralleling President Clinton's claim about not having sex with an certain intern. Bergman's largely autobiographical script for Faithless was directed by Liv Ullmann in 2000 and bears all the stylistic marks of a Bergman film, and he written and directed a number of television projects—with his 2003 Saraband making the rounds in U.S. arthouses.

European television is nothing like American television, which relies on formulaic sit-coms and easily produced "reality" shows. Europeans love movies, and their television programming includes generous helpings of films—whether theatrical or made specifically for TV viewing. With Bergman turning his attention to Swedish television, he hasn't had to work especially hard—editing his Scenes from a Marriage and Fanny and Alexander into palatable television segments, and creating original dramas that all stem from his own experiences with dysfunctional families and guilt complexes. Thus, his recent work tends to run together as one large canvas—a reliable formula for Bergman that some may find repetitious, yet I sure wish we had THAT kind of television fare on this side of the Pond.

It would be helpful to see Scenes from a Marriage (now available on a stellar DVD production from The Criterion Collection) before watching Saraband since it's a follow-up to the earlier film—taking place thirty years after Marianne (Liv Ullmann) and Johan (Erland Josephson) have divorced—but it's not absolutely necessary. Bergman structures the film to stand on its own as well. Sitting behind a large collection of photographs, Marianne cues us quickly about her lawyer career (convenient for her divorce), about the two daughters she never sees, about Johan's previous infidelities and his coming into wealth, and how she's thinking of visiting him for the first time in thirty years.

Marianne ventures to Johan's beautiful but simple country home, finding him aging none too gracefully. He resents the housekeeper, who he suspects harbors a desire to marry into his wealth and protects him from visitors; of course, he soon asks Marianne why she is visiting after a thirty year absence as well—wealthy people can never be certain of other people's motives. The only person who brings any joy into Johan's life is his granddaughter Karin (Julia Dufvenius), but she's hopelessly attached to his 61-year old son Henrik (Borje Ahlstedt) from his second marriage. Mutual hatred marks the relationship between Johan and Henrik, and this has grown ever since Henrik's wife Anna died a couple of years ago. Johan cannot understand how such a beautiful soul could have ever fallen in love with his detestable son.

This is only the beginning of the dysfunction, as we learn of Henrik's obsessive dependence on daughter Karin, who now serves as a surrogate companion to compensate for his beloved Anna—she even sleeps in his bed. Like her father, Karin has musical talent, but she is faced with a quandary. Should she remain with her father or pursue her musical dreams and go off for training, knowing that he is likely to fall apart without her—to the point of suicide.

Bergman's film demands attention, and the Swedish master clearly understands how to involve the audience with his somber material. The conflicts are intense and intimate, enhanced by the darkened interior sets and the fact that rarely do more than two people ever occupy a scene. Naturally most frames contain classic Bergman style photography with extreme close-ups lingering on each actor's face far longer than any other director would risk. With Bergman, this is a given stylistic choice that we've come to expect. Lately his subject matter and psychological landscapes also tread familiar ground.

These are dysfunctional issues that we've been through before with Bergman, making us privy to his own struggles as a emotionally crippled father who could never fully connect with the people in his life. But even though Saraband travels the same paths as the aged director's other recent projects, a formulaic Bergman journey far surpasses the generic dramas we are subjected to on American television. He offers no definitive answers, but certainly understands how to paint human misery in muted colors and thus offers explanations. The one hopeful note he sounds borders on the mystical—an evasive feeling that you may one day actually touch a loved one. Perhaps Bergman continues variations on the same theme, hoping for just that effect.