Ingmar Bear-ih-mahn—not quite seven syllables, and somewhat less musically mellifluous on the tongue than Federico Fellini—but then whose memory is so faithful as to recall the enthusiasms of four years past? Which is not to suggest that Ingmar Bergman is merely the Federico Fellini of 1960 (and even less that Fellini was merely the Bergman of 1956); only to reaffirm a few platitudinous sentiments on the transience of our earthly affections: my old flame, I can't remember her name; yesterday's kisses are just memories; it's a long, long time from May to December; etc., etc. Bergman seems durable enough to survive what James Baldwin has dubbed his “precarious vogue,” but are we?