Welcome back to the home of the oxymoron. Evil genius. He asked the newspaper to print his obituary early so he'd enjoy it. That's like hiding at your own funeral. Yeah, a big, great gig. I'm Russell Kane. Join me to weigh in on whether the biggest players in history are more evil or genius. Becoming that rich, I'd say that is some level of genius. It also helps that it's a long time ago, right?

It's like the podcast version of telling your kids the ice cream van plays music when it's out of ice cream.

Listen to Evil Genius on BBC Sounds.

1957 was Inmar Bergman's most miserable, most successful year.

It was the year the public saw the

chess game he'd arranged between Max von Siddow and Death, one of the most resonant images

in all cinema. The year he directed a landmark stage production of Pierre Gint and Sweden's

first television play. It was the year his third marriage collapsed, and exhaustion, or something

sadder, put him in hospital. It was also the year that he made what's regarded by many as his

greatest film. Wild Strawberries, a picture that starts as a comic road movie about a vain old

academic driving to his alma mater to accept an honour,

but which soon veers off into more mysterious territory,

and at the heart of the picture a remarkable performance from a giant of the silent screen.

I'm hector Eberhardt Isaac Borj.

He was 78 years old.

Victor Scherström, bidding goodbye to the medium and the Swedish national cinema he'd helped to shape.

This edition of Freethinking belongs to Bergman, to Scherstrom and to Wild Storberies.

So let me tell you who'll join us for the trip.

The novelist and critic Colm Tobein is with us on a line from Pasadena.

And with me in London is the film critic Larushka Ivan Zadei and the Swedish cultural attache

Ellen Vetmark and we'll meet other figures on the way, but we'll come to them once we're ready.

Before we begin to describe the film in any detail, I want to first hear about what it stirs in you.

...