What's love got to do with it?

We watched the fourth episode of Ingmar Bergman's classic 1974 TV miniseries, "Scenes from a Marriage," in Couples Therapy tonight.

Let me tell you something about this massive, wrenching film if you've never seen it: Just when you think you've hit a point of emotional saturation so thick that it can't possibly get any thicker, any more tense, any more gripping, Bergman goes off and proves there's one more layer of desperation to reveal and an even more honest appraisal of a marriage to be found.

I mean: Whoa.

The first night we watched it, I rather smugly said to S2 and Dr. R that I had "nothing to be concerned about" by the film because I am single. (A comment for which I received withering looks.)

Episode Two went by on shakier ground. But Three and Four are cutting to the quick of my previous relationships and those of probably every one else who's been in a long-term relationship and faced feelings of ambivalence about it. What's more, both characters in the film represent obvious sides of myself. And while I grant that the profound inner conflict I experience between my fundamental existentialism and my desire for attachment are not universal, I suspect the way I relate to these characters is not uncommon among those of us willing to look inward through as unvarnished a lens as we can manage.

What made Bergman a master filmmaker was his ability to elicit in viewers the recognition of some truths about our common humanity. In his own words (in John Simon's "Ingmar Berman Directs," published in 1972), Bergman addressed what he was trying to do:

"I want very much to tell, to talk about, the wholeness inside every human being. It's a strange thing that every human being has a sort of dignity or wholeness in him, and out of that develops relationships to other human beings, tensions, misunderstandings, tenderness, coming in contact, touching and being touched, the cutting off of a contact and what happens then."

"Scenes from a Marriage," which aired two years later on Swedish television, is just such a story. Very probing. Thoughout tonight's episode, I heard many of my classmates groaning and hissing over the behavior of the couple in question -- characters named Marianne and Johan -- as they vacillate one evening over dinner between divorce, separation and reunion following Johan's six-month departure to live abroad with his mistress. People were clucking their tongues.

Here in 2007, there's no questioning why. As I said following the screening, There was a feeling here in the class where you're wanting to yell, 'Don't open that door! Don't answer that phone!' like you do in horror movies. But this is so honest in its portrayal of the muddled, muddled feelings of a muddled relationship.

And the fear of loneliness, the isolation, the drive for companionship, the belief in one's responsibility as a caretaker for another... all of that SHIT that makes relationships -- or lack thereof -- so incredibly poignant and gives them such power in our lives? All of that was on display in Episode Four.

When the screening was done, it was pretty obvious many of my classmates were feeling as if some part of them -- from the past? in their present? worries about the future? -- had been raked over the coals. And I imagine that more than a few of us were silently regarding the burned, raw and exposed flesh left behind and perhaps, like me, were wondering: Is that really mine?

It is hard enough for me -- here in this strange empty pit of grief where I am for the time-being mired -- to consider any feelings whatsoever. A part of me shut off when Liz died, and I don't seem to be able to access it. As a consequence, it feels like much of my emotional experience is being acted out in half light. Think of my inner being like the face of the Phantom of the Opera, and you will have an accurate picture.

So I can't really describe with any accuracy the depth of feeling I might otherwise have with regards to this amazing film. I do, however, note the reaction of my classmates, and it seems to be hitting most of us on fundamental levels. S2 said tonight that each episode has given her a headache, if only in reaction to the sheer intensity of the subject and the emotional reactions she has to the behavior of the characters.

There is a long silence that persists in the class after the lights come up. For a bunch of therapists-in-training, most of whom are willing to spout off a quick opinion on relationships, this is an odd experience.

Personally, I think it stands as a testament to the emotional honesty of Bergman's filmmaking and to the power of the two actors in the starring roles. (As a point of note, they are pretty much all there is. Very few other characters have made appearances. This is about the heart and soul of a relationship between two people, and there's little need for others in what's essentially a six-hour-long film.)

In any case, I realized just what a fog this film (combined with essentially unprocessed grief over Liz) left me in when, this evening, I went to pick up some dinner at the Thai place downstairs.

How's it going? I asked the owner, Chin.

"Slow night," he replied.

I touched the belly of a jade green Buddha on the bar. Well, at least you've got a happy Buddha, I said absent mindedly.

"No," he said. "Everyone saving their money for tomorrow."

What's special about tomorrow? I asked.

He gave me a funny look. "Tomorrow ..." and said something with an accent so thick that I felt compelled to take a wild guess. Which ended up not being anchored in time whatsoever...

Tomorrow's the last Thursday of the month? (I was thinking: Well, why would people be spending money on dinner tomorrow? It must be the gallery openings or something. Because I live in an "arts district." Nevermind that tomorrow is *Wednesday.*)

Chin looked at me with a brow that was furrowed with ... pity. He spoke again, enunciating more clearly, "Tomorrow Val-in-tine Day," he said.

Oh! Valentine's...

Then he added, "Your life is like *that,* huh? Don't even know it Valentine?"

Yeah, my life is like *that,* I said. I had no clue. (This despite one of my classmates having shown a bunch of homemade Valentine's on the overhead this evening and my professor passing out heart-shaped chocolates to the class. Not to mention the box of candy "sweethearts" I had in my coat pocket.)

In any case, one of the Valentine's shown on the overhead said something like, "There are many reasons I hate Valentine's Day. But not having a Valentine has never been one of them." That's pretty much where I stand on the matter.

Especially after having my gut turned inside out by Ingmar Bergman for the third week in a row. Nothing quite like "Scenes from a Marriage" to help you appreciate the lulls in your romantic life. There are two more episodes. Hard to say what's coming next, but I'm looking forward to finding out what happens.

And, on a related topic: The impending arrival of Valentine's Day reminds me of two notable "anniversaries" which have come and gone while I've been lost in this intrapsychic void of mine:

First, it's been more than a year since I've had sex. Dr. M tells me this means I can reclaim my "virginity." I don't buy that notion, but it is noteworthy nevertheless. The next person who comes into this sphere with me will be lucky. There's enough sexual energy being stored up to send a few astronauts into orbit.

Second, it's been more than a year since I started penning this little blaaaahg o' mine. For nearly every day for the past year, I have written *something.* Much of it has been deeply neurotic but some of it has waxed philosophic. Some has been mundane, some meaningful.

However you characterize it, you have been witness to a Year in the Life of UCM. It has been a HELL ON WHEELS. But I wouldn't trade it. I wouldn't trade *any* of my life, to tell you the truth. It's what makes me me -- for all the glory, shame and tribulation and, in the words of my dear aunt Liz, all the "joy and laughter and love" that being me entails.

So here's wishing a belated Happy Birthday to extended psychosis. And Happy Valentine's Day to the rest of you.