By Max Goldberg
It’s enough to make you wonder. Not twenty-four hours after headlines announcing Ingmar Bergman’s death at 89 news arrived of Michelangelo Antonioni’s end at 94. Both died this past Monday. They seemed on parallel tracks throughout their careers—producing strings of self-consciously intellectual films bent on existential meaning—making their alignment in death all too temptingly neat of a frame for the heavy eulogizing to come. Still, maybe they would have appreciated the coincidence: a flash of suggested meaning, the intimation of magical thinking.
