Ingmar Bergman

It was a good year to come of age. I must have been eighteen when I saw Wild Strawberries for the first time. With it came the understanding that cinema could be more than I'd ever imagined. I had already had a little push in a distinctly non-Hollywood direction a year earlier when Et Dieu Creá La Femme shook me up in the nicest possible way. But it was the cinema of Ingmar Bergman, whose death has just been announced, which somehow prepared me for the New Wave which was to follow.