[This post is part of the Viewer Vomit #7 blogothon organized by The Moon Is a Dead World. And make sure to check out the various links to other bloggers' reviews; some very interesting viewpoints out there indeed.]
Hour of the Wolf (Vargtimmen; 1968; Ingmar Bergman) is
an anguished, painful, intense film that had been made with exquisite
precision.
I’m willing to admit that this is a film I do not
“get” intellectually; but emotionally it gets under your skin—or it did to me,
at least—disturbing and confusing this viewer, leaving much food for thought—and
worries about sleepless nights.
An incredibly personal film, full of dense symbology
unique to itself, Hour of the Wolf is the result of director Bergman trying to
make sense of a nervous breakdown he had at the time.
