Persona (1966)

Profound studie of the human psyche. Honest story about nooks of existence and vain hopes. Anatomy of helplessness and deep solitude. Life as convention, mask for feelings and expectations.

Another room of Bergman's universe. Same cruel instruments, game of flash-backs and dream sequences, visions and memories. Fight between two women as screen for interior struggle. Impact of consciences and lights of sin. Illness like armour against fake images and empty future. Confesions like way to be yourself. Like cries suffocates by silence of the other.

Story about refuse and cages. About dreams and disillusions. About chaotic values and flavour of extinction. People as rabbits for experiments. The other like sign of salvation. And the question of soul.

"Persona" is an act of confrontation between Ingmar Bergman and God. The silence, the cruelty of letters, the cries and the confessions of Alma are only guns in a strange and ambiguous war. So, any film of this great director is a religious personal answer to permanent subtle fear. In this case, the shadow of divine presence is the Liv Ulmann smile.

Fmovies: There are few motion pictures that rely on bodily expression and imagery as most films depend too much on dialogue and speech. Persona(1966) is one of those raw movies that succeeds almost on a metaphysical level. Its about the relationship between an actress who broke down during a stage performance and the nurse who is assigned to take care of her. Bergman's camera has a fascination with Ullmann's figure as most of the film's closeup shots are on her. Liv Ullmann does an outstanding job in playing a character that hardly utters a line of dialogue.

There are a few scenes where the image dominates the screen in a manner that hasn't been done successfully since the silent film period. The director, Ingmar Bergman did an excellent job in presenting powerful images with the use of natural sound. Persona(1966) is a triumph of acting because both Bibi Andersson and Liv Ullmann are terrific in their perspective roles. There is hardly any movie music and this adds to the tension between the two women. Its a film that was deserving of a Oscar for Best Foreign Film in 1966.

One scene that was wonderful is when Alma describes her life to her patient. Another excellent scene is when Mr. Vogler mistakes Alma for his wife(its as if he too has suffered a breakdown and has failed to recognize his own wife). Finally, the sequence where Alma and Mrs. Vogler's image blends together to form one person. Its an errie image because they cease to exist as individual people. Persona(1966) would influence Robert Altman very greatly when he directed the film, Three Women(1977).

Writing from a hospital bed (as he did with Wild Strawberries, two of these being films strung out from anguish), Ingmar Bergman put down almost anything that was in his head to start with (the first five minutes- some of the most startling and thoroughly symbolic minutes he's ever directed), then transposed into a story of two women, or one. This was one of the landmark 'art-films' of the 1960's, with hints of the horrors of war (in one memorable scene, Elisabeth looks at a television screen at images of death), introspection regarding sex and identity, existentialism, and what it means to be an actor.

Some of the more famous directors in history have a kind of 'notorious' film, by which many people who may not know the bulk of their works know them by one particular work (with Hitchcock it could be Psycho, Lucas' Star Wars, Bunuel with Un chien Andalou, Breathless). This could, arguably, be the one for Bergman, despite a couple of others likely also holding claim to that title. In other words, this could be a good place to start with the director if you're not familiar with his films, or it might not be. But keep this in mind- it's one of his most unique departures as a filmmaker.

Two of his leading ladies (and, ahem, loves), Bibi Andersson and 25 year-old Liv Ullmann, star as a nurse and an actress, who for the bulk of the film are at a Doctor's cottage as the nurse tries to help and likely cure Elisabeth of her ailment (froze on stage, silent but incredibly observant). In the meantime, Alma the nurse, in a role that gives Andersson more talking-points than any other film she's been in, goes through some hurtful parts of her past, and just tries to understand her counter-part. At one point, a vein of existentialism is ruptured thoughtfully, when Alma gets Elisabeth to say "No, don't", when she threatens her. When I first saw this film, I knew this scene would come after reading Roger Ebert's review. But I had no idea it would hit me like it did. There is such a great, compelling tension between these two that Andersson and Ullmann convey that it is what makes the film work. Any lessor actresses might fumble up the whole lot of it.

While it isn't my favorite Bergman film (though it is unfair to pick favorites sometimes when it comes to someone as huge in the cine-consciousness as him), there are many things that had me come back to it after being a little awe-struck on my first viewing last year. For one thing, there's Sven Nykvist, with one of the strongest, most varying eyes in all of European cinema.

In the first five minutes, of course, there is some fascinating stuff, but even in the scenes of long dialog and monologue (i.e. the unforgettable speech about being on the beach from Alma), where the lighting is so delicate and sharp with the shadows that you really feel like the weight of this situation is closing in on the characters. Or, of course, when the two actresses' faces are super-imposed, which can be interpreted in more ways than one (either as a grand statement, or as pretension, or something else). I was also very moved by the pace of the film, how it fills each minute (it's not a long movie) in ways that some movies just float minutes by.

Now, this is the kind of Bergman film that can't be turned on any time (not to make it sound un-watchable, it certainly isn't). But it does ask to be viewed when in a certain frame of mind- if you're looking for a movie to show off to your friends,

Persona fmovies. From its opening, seemingly random B&W images, Ingmar Bergman's "Persona" screams intellectualism. The film is cold, clinical, and abstract. It induces deep, philosophical questions that lack answers, or questions that provide for a multiplicity of emotionally unsatisfying answers.

About eight minutes into the film, the story begins. In a hospital, young Nurse Alma (Bibi Andersson) is assigned to care for Elisabeth Vogler (Liv Ullmann), an actress who, for no apparent reason, has ceased speaking. Concluding that there is nothing physically or mentally wrong with Elisabeth, the hospital exports her to a seaside cottage, where she is to be cared for by Nurse Alma. Most of the rest of the film is set at the cottage, where the two women get to know each other. But throughout, Elisabeth does not speak. She communicates only with facial expressions and body gestures.

For all of Elisabeth's silence, the film's script is remarkably talky. Nurse Alma talks in long monologues: asking, probing, recalling. She tries to build a relationship with Elisabeth, by vocalizing her own memories and emotional pains in life. Certainly, the film's curious narrative has a lot to "say" about the art, or rather the artificiality, of human communication.

The best element of the film is the artistic, B&W cinematography by Sven Nykvist. Lighting trends toward high contrast, with stark boundaries between light and darkness, a feature that contributes to the film's cold, intellectual tone. There are lots of close-up shots, even extreme close-ups, of the two women. The film's production design is ascetic, unadorned, austere. And this, too, enhances the analytic, abstract feel of the film.

Bergman conceived "Persona" while he was confined to a hospital. And I am inclined to think that the film is a cinematic expression of his own inward psychological struggles during that period of his life.

In other words, "Persona" communicates to us as much about Bergman's mindset, and his ideas of suffering and reality, as it does about any deep, universal questions in a post-modern world, although to some extent, the two dimensions intersect and overlap. Bergman is telling us that, ultimately, the film is not real. It is "nothing". It is an artificial human construct. That is, it is art, a perception that approximates, but does not replace, what we experience as reality.

Ingmar Bergman's 'Persona (1966)' opens with a bewildering montage of sounds and images, a frenzied newsreel of sex, death, cinema and comedy. The sequence is so far removed from my previous experience with the director that its effect is jarring, shocking; I momentarily wondered if I'd hit a wrong button and started playing Buñuel's 'Un chien andalou (1929)' by mistake. I question Bergman's motives for including such an uncharacteristic opening, for it appears to have very little to do with the narrative that follows. Is this montage - an account of the sickening and concealed horrors and desires of society - a possible explanation for Elisabeth's continued silence? Even so, it all seems somewhat exploitative, as though Bergman was simply going for shock-value, obliterating any notions of subtlety with which I had begun to associate him {though I'll admit that the strength of 'The Seventh Seal (1957)' arose from its not-so-subtle representation of Death}. The opening scene concludes with a young boy awakening in the morgue, his hand outstretched towards the vague image of a woman's face. Elisabeth's unloved child? Alma's aborted fetus?

An endless line of critics, it seems, have celebrated 'Persona' as a masterpiece, and among the greatest films ever made. I'd hate to be the lone voice of dissent, but the film is certainly the lesser of the three Bergmans I've hitherto seen, if only due to the noticeable absence of the good-natured humour to be found in both 'The Seventh Seal (1957)' and 'Wild Strawberries (1957)'. If, indeed, I were to describe 'Persona' as a masterpiece, it would be in regards to the visuals, which, photographed by long-time Bergman collaborator Sven Nykvist, are beyond description in their detail and intimacy. The film takes particular interest in the human face, and entire conversations of words and emotions are played out through the communication of the eyes, and the glimmering hint of a smile on the lips. There is one immortal moment in the film when Bergman juxtaposes the faces of each woman onto the screen, merging Elisabeth (Liv Ullmann) and Alma (Bibi Andersson) into a single entity.

Persona also includes one of the most vivid depictions of sex that I've ever seen. Though the film shows us nothing, Alma's whispered description of an intimate encounter on the beach is staggering in its effectiveness; her words allow the viewer to formulate their own visuals, every emotion and nuance perfectly incorporated from the rich story we are being told. Though I may exhaust hours spouting the merits of Ingmar Bergman's film, I can't escape the fact that watching 'Persona' felt very much like a chore. The film boasts a relatively short running time, but it never seems to attain any comfortable sense of rhythm, and, by the film's end, I was left wondering just what the film was trying to get at. Bergman includes various allusions to Bertolt Brecht's "Verfremdungseffekt" effect – highlighting the inherent artificiality of the cinematic medium – with the film at one point appearing to burn; but, unlike in Fellini's '8½ (1963),' these self-referential flourishes seem to serve little foreseeable purpose. Am I looking too far into this film for meaning? Or am I not looking far enough? Even just hours afterwards, another layer of meaning has unfurled itself. Maybe it'll get better.

PERSONA may well be Ingmar Bergman's most complex film--yet, like many Bergman films, the story it tells is superficially simple. Actress Elizabeth Volger has suddenly stopped speaking in what appears to be an effort to cease all communication with the external world. She is taken to a hospital, where nurse Alma is assigned to care for her. After some time, Elisabeth's doctor feels the hospital is of little use to her; the doctor accordingly lends her seaside home to Elisabeth, who goes there with Alma in attendance. Although Elisabeth remains silent, the relationship between the women is a pleasant one--until a rainy day, too much alcohol, and Elisabeth's silence drives Alma into a series of highly charged personal revelations.

It is at this point that the film, which has already be super-saturated with complex visual imagery, begins to create an unnerving and deeply existential portrait of how we interpret others, how others interpret us, and the impact that these interpretations have upon both us and them. What at first seemed fond glances and friendly gestures from the silent Elisabeth are now suddenly open to different interpretations, and Alma--feeling increasingly trapped by the silence--enters into a series of confrontations with her patient... but these confrontations have a dreamlike quality, and it becomes impossible to know if they are real or imagined--and if imagined, in which of the women's minds the fantasy occurs.

Ultimately, Bergman seems to be creating a situation in which we are forced to acknowledge that a great deal of what we believe we know about others rests largely upon what we ourselves project upon them. Elisabeth's face and its expressions become akin to a blank screen on which we see our own hopes, dreams, torments, and tragedies projected--while the person behind the face constantly eludes our understanding. In this respect, the theme is remarkably well-suited to its medium: the blankness of the cinema screen with its flickering, endless shifting images that can be interpreted in infinite ways.

Bergman is exceptionally fortunate in his actresses here: both Liv Ullman as the silent Elisabeth and Bibi Anderson as the increasingly distraught Alma offer incredible performances that seem to encompass both what we know from the obvious surface and what we can never know that exists behind their individual masks. Ullman has been justly praised for the power of her silence in this film, and it is difficult to imagine another actress who could carry off a role that must be performed entirely by ambiguous implications. Anderson is likewise remarkable, her increasing levels of emotional distress resounding like the waves upon the rocks at their seaside retreat. And Bergman and his celebrated cinematographer Sven Nykvist fill the screen with a dreamlike quality that is constantly interrupted by unexpected images ranging from glimpses of silent films to a moment at which the celluloid appears to burn to images that merge Ullman and Anderson's faces into one.

As in many of his films, Bergman seems to be stating that we cannot know another person, and that our inability to do is our greatest tragedy. But however the film is interpreted, it is a stunning and powerful achievement, one that will resonate with the viewer long after the film ends.

Gary F. Taylor, aka GFT, Amazon Reviewer