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All These Women

Ingmar Bergman doing funny is like Woody doing serious – he can manage it, but when he tries too hard at it, in a “This’ll break that gloomy/wacky stereotype!” way, the result’s more odd than anything else. Thus this would-be farce about a pompous music journo interviewing the female companions of a cellist dissolves into hapless slapstick with fireworks exploding in the front room, said journo in drag with a lampshade on his head, and endless rounds of mugging and squawking about in lieu of proper gags. Everyone hated it of course, and this was probably Ingy’s point, the cantankerous old sod.

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