Bergman’s ability to fix spots of time has not deserted him. Fanny and Alexander are waiting in the kitchen. Their father is dying. The old cook is writing a letter to a faithful correspondent at a mission station in China. Another old retainer talks about dogs. The children are playing a game. A treacle sandwich is produced. The cook, consolingly, offers Alexander the stamp to lick. He politely declines. The scene, the everyday persisting when death is at the door, is knitted together with calm assurance. Death in the end has no dominion.