Ingmar Bergman, hailed as one of the great architects of modern cinema, has slipped his mortal coil. His films will doubtless launch a hundred thousand retrospectives. The recent re-release of his 1957 masterpiece, The Seventh Seal - in which Max von Sydow plays a game of chess with Death – is a timely reminder of the pulling power of his work. But critics will forever argue about the value of his legacy, and whether he was as important and subtle a director as, say, Ozu.

Bergman was an uncompromisingly gloomy auteur. He was born serious. His finest films are obsessed with mortality, faith, and madness. Like many tortured geniuses, he turned his personal anguish into art. Even the light moments weep melancholy.

This in no way diminishes the influence of Bergman’s films. He is the single most important reason why the Swedish film industry has such an impressive cachet. Despite the fact that he worked for the most part in chilly isolation, Bergman has inspired filmmakers like Woody Allen and almost any European auteur you care to mention. They love his doomy rigour, and purity of purpose. They loved the fact that Bergman could mint haunting images from miniscule budgets.

Invevitably, Bergman gradually fell out of fashion in the 1960s as cineastes switched their loyalties to the flashy excitements of Hollywood. In true Bergman style, the director simply continued ploughing his own furrow regardless of commercial pressure to change.

Ironically, there is now a palpable shift towards the kind of cinema Bergman championed as older audiences grow increasingly tired of sensation and computer generated effects. Look no further than The Lives of Others. Bergman wasn’t afraid to tackle the big issues and ask the hard questions, despite the fact that he was more often than not appalled and terrified of the answers. Life in Sweden’s brutal Middle Ages as painted in The Seventh Seal allowed Bergman to launch a searing allegorical attack on religious extremists, political tyrants, and God himself.

His fear that God could not exist if he could possibly condone so much suffering in His name is almost as pungent as the maestro’s fear of death. At his very best, Bergman could be profoundly affecting. And despite his reputation for granite austerity, he was surprisingly brilliant about the sexual chemistry and power-play between men and women. He was married five times, mostly to sophisticated leading ladies. I suspect he will be sorely missed.

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