As a young man, Ingmar Bergman possessed the kind of nondescript, level proportions of face that bear no markings of an uneven mien behind them. His cheeks and jowls were full, yet never exaggerated.

Ghosts haunt the house Marianne has just entered. Doors slam shut without warning or visible agent; a cuckoo clock breaks the silence with its bizarre chimes and chirps. The middle-aged woman survives ...