Wild Strawberries (Bergman, 1957)

The garden has grown green and full of regret. It’s full of ripened fruit, bitter with the taste of hollowed gestures, and the cold hands of phony love. On the lazy footpaths winding into the unseen corners of the yard is a frail and disturbed figure, shaken by the lashing of tongues, his skin hardening like a shell.  He’ll grow to become a faceless wrinkle of a man, emptied of the whirling sands of a soul.

But in the blue eyes of a ghostly frolic somewhere in his past, written in the curled ivy of wild hair brushed from her cheek, there are words, blurred from the dusty eyes of a dying man. But the only word, clear through a frustrated squint is that of “redemption”.