It’s that Ingmar Bergman time of life. Smartmom isn’t sure what’s
gotten into her, but for the past few weeks she’s been hooked on Ingmar
Bergman movies.

Not only is she in a Bergman state of mind, she’s
in a Bergman time of life. And she doesn’t mean peri-menopause. It’s
just that she wasn’t expecting her kids, or herself, to grow up quite
so fast. And she certainly wasn’t expecting her gradual dosage
reduction from the anti-depressants to make her pine so strongly for
somber, slow-moving films on deep, existential themes.

The Oh So
Feisty One’s imminent departure for sleep-away camp — and the
half-empty nest that it will precipitate — has also prompted Smartmom
to consider the meaning of life a la Bergman and spend inordinate
amounts of time in her air-conditioned bedroom watching his deep,
subtitled DVDs.

The end of the school year probably didn’t help
Smartmom’s mood either. The last couple of weeks have been a real
cry-a-thon, what with end- of-year parties, picnics and saying goodbye
to friends.

On the morning of the last day of school, Smartmom
went into the Community Bookstore, where she ran into a woman she knows
from years of drop-offs and pick-ups. She had a forlorn look on her
face.

“This isn’t your last day at PS 321 is it?” Smartmom asked.

“Yes it is,” she said.

“I thought you had one more child…”

“No, this is it. I get teary just thinking about it,” she said.

They hugged.

Their
interaction had Bergmanesque stillness. She could imagine huge Sven
Nyquist close-ups of their sad, tortured faces and the slow
choreography of their hug.

Even if you’re not seeing the world
through Ingmar Bergman glasses, the fact that life seems to be passing
at a breakneck speed could get you feeling that way.

When did
Smartmom’s kids grow up so quickly? The day before yesterday, Teen
Spirit was a spunky 2-year-old (and Smartmom has the pictures to prove
it) obsessed with the dinosaurs at the Museum of Natural History and
his Ocean Alphabet Book. Wasn’t he?

How
did this happen? More importantly, whose idea was it to fill her
Netflix queue with films like “Fanny and Alexander,” “Persona,” “Scenes
from a Marriage,” “Cries and Whispers,” etc?

She has only herself (and the passage of time) to blame.

The other day, OSFO walked in on Smartmom while she was Bergman-watching.

“Why do you keep renting these French movies?” she asked.

“They’re not French,” Smartmom answered not taking her eyes off the screen.

“What are they?”

“Swedish…”

OSFO was halfway down the hall before Smartmom even got a chance to explain the difference.

Smartmom
actually thought OSFO might enjoy “Fanny and Alexander,” Bergman’s
magical portrait of a Stockholm family that has plenty to celebrate and
much to cry about. But it got her sleeping faster than a tab of
Benydryl.

The other night, when Hepcat took OSFO to see
“Fantastic 4” at the Pavilion, Smartmom indulged in Bergman’s early
masterpiece, “Persona.” Slow, deep, penetrating, there are somber
scenes in a mental hospital and carefully composed black and white
shots of two women alone on an island their identities beginning to
merge.

It was during a neighbor’s BBQ that Smartmom found herself
upstairs watching, “Scenes from a Marriage.” Although she could hear
the kids playing Double Dutch and making S’mores, Smartmom couldn’t
drag herself away from Bergman’s slow, talky 1973 television film about
a so-called perfect marriage, which slowly unravels on the screen.

By
the time Hepcat came upstairs she was ready to kill him or at least
have a long, anguished talk about the state of their marriage.

“You
know, I feel like you’re having an affair with your new iPhone,” she
felt like telling him. “OK, so I’m not nearly as young, petite, and
well designed as that versatile little phone. But doesn’t 18 years of
marriage mean anything?”

Smartmom is pretty sure he’d rather whisper sweet nothings into its ear than hers.

Finally,
the other night Smartom watched “Cries and Whispers,” Bergman’s sad,
beautiful film about the death of a woman in a large house surrounded
by her sisters and an adoring nursemaid. The film has a striking color
palette with an emphasis on the color red. When one of the sisters cuts
her private parts with a piece of a broken wine glass Smartmom knew
she’d had enough.

That’s it, Smartmom said aloud to no one.

Smartmom
knew it was time to enter her post-Ingmar Bergman phase (quick change
the Netflix queue before “Wild Strawberries” and “The Seventh Seal”
gets here).

Smartmom was revived: she’d had enough of the meaning of life and it was time to have some fun.

When
the film was over, Smartmom packed up the DVD and put it, appropriately
enough, in its red envelope. She left the apartment and took a
life-affirming walk to Seventh Avenue passing more than one neighbor
walking their dog. She admired the pansies in a neighbor’s front
garden, eavesdropped on a young couple walking hand in hand, stared up
at the moon and into the windows of both Seventh Avenue Books and Park
Slope Books.

Smartmom felt her Bergman mood lifting. His filmic
art had definitely dovetailed with her own mid-life miasma. But she was
ready for something a bit more fun.

Enough is enough, Smartmom thought as she dropped the envelope in the mailbox at the post office.

Anyone in the mood for “Dumb and Dumber?”