Persona (1966) - Ingmar Bergman

By Lara Culcu.

With compelling lead performances and stunning cinematography, it's easy to see why Persona (1966) is widely considered one of Swedish director Ingmar Bergman's best films. 

The film follows a young nurse, Alma (Bibi Andersson), who has been assigned to take care of Elisabet Vogler (Liv Ullmann), an actress who has abruptly stopped speaking. The two women move to a beach house so Elisabet can recover from what appears to be a mental breakdown. 

Naturally, stuff gets weird. Despite the fact that the concept of 'weird' is entirely subjective, it's hard to deny that towards the end of the film, without giving spoilers, the plot becomes increasingly difficult to decipher without considering the figurative meaning of the visuals on screen. 

And the visuals are fantastic. Every shot is worthy of being framed and hung on a wall - or, in the digital age, used as a computer wallpaper. The actresses do a brilliant job of conveying their characters' emotions without directly telling them aloud, infusing the unspoken meaning of the film into their words. They play out their characters so naturally that the viewer is never reminded that they are simply playing roles.

This film isn't one you can throw on in the evening as casual watching while you chat with your family. It is one that requires concentration and active involvement in the narrative - blink, and you'll miss an important shot that held the key to the puzzle that is figuring out exactly what these two women are trying to say without saying it outright, and what the abstract ending represents. 

However, it definitely pays off. Once everything makes sense (as much as it can in a film so heavily based on personal interpretation), it's immediately clear how everything in the film has built towards the ending. 

Not a shot is wasted. Not a line is out of place. 

Even the notorious monologue in which Alma recounts an experience in graphic detail makes sense within the context of the story. Uncomfortable as it may be to watch, it is crucial to the plot, and reveals a lot about both characters. 

The color scheme - black, grey, white -  amplifies the sense of melancholy. Even the scenes that take place on the sunny beach have a feeling of dreariness. Dreamy lighting only contributes to this aesthetic. The lack of dramatic backgrounds and bright colors forces the viewer to focus on the characters' faces. 

Nothing is spelled out. Alma talks and talks, and what she says isn't important most of the time. What's important is how she says it. Why she is talking. What she expects from Elisabet, who rarely meets her expectations. 

Warning: Contains Spoilers.

A recurring theme is Alma talking to an unresponsive Elisabet, asking her to speak but receiving no reaction. While this can be interpreted in a literal manner, it also calls to mind the universal experience of wanting to be listened to, and the frustration of not having that desire met. 

Even when Alma confesses that she had an abortion, she receives no reaction from Elisabet. Later, when she finds out that Elisabet wrote about it in a letter to someone else, she is furious. Having spilled her greatest secret to Elisabet, she perceives this letter as a major betrayal. This is the catalyst for an incident where Alma threatens to throw boiling water on Elisabet, sparking the first word she hears from her - "No, don't!"

With these two words, Elisabet expresses much more than a desire not to get burnt. I don't want to be injured. I don't want to suffer. I don't want to die. 

Despite the fact that Elisabet is the invalid, she seems to show more strength than Alma. It is Alma who cries multiple times, and who begs Elisabet to talk to her. But it is Elisabet who remains silent, holding back her emotions, committed to her silence as if it was a role she was determined to play.

Her emotionless exterior breaks a few times during the film. Earlier, she sees the notorious video of a Vietnamese monk setting himself on fire and is visibly horrified. Later, she shows fear at the possibility of having a full pot of boiling water thrown at her - as most of us would. 

It isn't until the end of the film that we get a more solid reason as to why Elisabet has stopped speaking; a clearer image of her inner turmoil. 

In another monologue, Alma gives a speech about Elisabet's child, who she never wanted to have and who was born deformed due to an unsuccessful abortion attempt. This monologue is repeated twice - once with the camera on Elisabet's face, and once with Alma's face. 

There is even a scene where Elisabet's husband comes to the beach house and touches Alma's face, calling her 'Elisabet'. Elisabet uses Alma's hand to caress her husband's face. 

What is Bergman trying to say? Are we simply viewing the monologue from both their perspectives, or is there a deeper meaning? Was Elisabet's husband really there or was it a hallucination? Who was really with him? That is up for interpretation. 

However, the overall sense we get is that these two women are the same. 

It is clear that there are two separate women in the literal plot, but on an emotional level, they are the same. Two sides of the same coin. Elisabet is who Alma wants to be - the person she isn't strong enough to be - and Alma is the emotional side of Elisabet that she is repressing. 

Is that correct? Who knows?

As shown in the most famous shot of the film, two women's faces entwining into one, the underlying meaning of the film is that two personas have melded into one - or maybe they have always been one.

To borrow a quote from Roger Ebert's review of the film, "The title is the key. 'Persona'. Singular."