This quality is the saving grace for Charlotte, and its lack is what dooms the dour, anomic Eva at film’s end. Lena fares the worst of all, condemned to a slow death, seemingly as punition for betraying her mother in a very Woody Allenish way — having a pseudo-incestuous affair with her mother’s lover. Yet, she seems to truly want her mother in her life, although the reverse is not true, for in one scene Charlotte dreams Helena’s hands (for they wear the same yellow frock as we’ve seem Helena in) try to smother her. It is this very symbolic dream which sends Charlotte downstairs to recuperate, but which leads to the row with Eva, and propels the film to its greatness.
Ingmar Bergman is certainly a great director, but that greatness stems from his being a great writer, first and foremost. His writing is for adults, and not the deliterate preteens that current publishers (think Dave Eggers, James Frey, Elizabeth Wurtzel) and Hollywood studios aim their wares at. Be thankful for that, and for this film. Autumn Sonata is a masterpiece. Period.
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