Customer Reviews

Persona [VHS]

5 star:		(69)
4 star:		(11)
3 star:		(4)
2 star:		(3)
1 star:		(8)

 

 

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 each other 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 ambigious 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 know 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. On a technical note, I recommend the MGM video release (and am astonished that the film is not available on DVD as yet); although the subtitles have moments of what is clearly poor translation, they are easy to read. I cannot recommend this film too strongly.

This is one of Bergman's most challenging psychological studies ever. It asks (or rather inspires the viewer to ask) radical questions about personality, identity and character by presenting a woman who one day just stops living her life; stops talking, working or responding to others. This rejection of both self and society poses a threat to others who don't know how to interpret what is going on and can't ask her directly. Is your identity ("persona") something you are--a personal soul or essence? Is it something you choose to do (a series of actions)? Is it a role forced on you by society and culture? All Bergman fans should have a copy of this film. It is at least as essential as *The Seventh Seal* and much more important than anything he did in the 70s and 80s. Many of his films are about the silence or non-existence of God; but *Persona* dares to show us a world in which we are not even sure that people truly exist.

When talking of Bergman, critics and viewers usually name "Wild Strawberries", "The Seventh Seal" or "Cries and Whispers" ahead of Persona. While those films are all amazing and stay very high on my list of all time favorites, for me, the truly unique and unforgettable is "Persona" - Bergman's enigmatic masterpiece.

The story is seemingly simple:

"A nurse, Alma (Bibi Andersson), has been assigned to care for a famous actress, Elizabeth (Liv Ullman), who suddenly stopped speaking during a performance of Electra and has remained silent ever since. When they go to stay in a seaside house owned by Alma's psychiatrist colleague, the apparently self-confident nurse gradually reveals more and more of herself in the face of Elizabeth's silence, and is shocked to read a letter the actress has written implying that Alma is an interesting case-study. The two women seem almost to exchange identities, or to become one (strikingly expressed visually in a famous shot); in a dream sequence (or perhaps fantasy), Elizabeth's husband comes to visit and seems to think that Alma is his wife. Finally Alma, back in her nurse's uniform, catches a bus to go home, leaving the almost-mute Elizabeth alone."

Whether Alma was able to get her identity back remains one of the film's many questions.

What is absolutely wonderful in the film - performances from two actresses. Anderson is the one who has to carry almost the entire dialog, her voice is one of the film's priceless treasures while Ullman is equally powerful in expressing hundreds of emotions through her face and eyes. Sven Nykvist's camera, the third star of the film makes two stars shine so bright.

Each scene in 81 minutes long film is memorable, some of them just unforgettable. For instance, the long scene where Alma reveals her most intimate memories of a sexual encounter with two boys while sunbathing nude with another girl on an empty beach, is infinitely more erotic to listen to than it would have been to see in flashback.

There is so much to think about in Persona. One major question concerns Elizabeth's silence: is it elective, as happens in Tarkovsky's "Andrei Rublyov" , or is it some kind of mental breakdown?. The documentaries about the war horrors that Elizabeth watches on TV suggest the former; the fact that it suddenly happens during a stage performance of "Electra" suggests the latter. I keep thinking about it. Why "Electra" of all plays? The story of the daughter who hated her mother and wanted her dead - does it reflect the accusation brought up by Alma that Elizabeth did not love her deformed son and wanted him dead? Did Elizabeth become so overwhelmed by guilt realizing that her life reminded so much of Electra's story? We don't know for sure, and Bergman does not help. The identical monologue in which Alma is accusing Elizabeth is the film's resolution. We hear it twice: first time, camera is concentrating on Elizabeth's face, second time - on Alma's. Is Alma talking about Elizabeth or herself or both? After that encounter on the beach, Alma became pregnant and had an abortion. The monologue may reflect her feelings of guilt and emptiness as well as Elizabeth's. Does it really happen?

Is Elizabeth a vampire sucking the life out of her victims only to use them as characters for her acting roles? Is that the ultimate price the artist is paying for being a great artist? Does he need lives and souls of others to be able to create? Can he/she love the ones who utterly depend on them and need their love? This film and later Autumn Sonata (1978) with Ingrid Bergman as a concert pianist show famous stars as selfish women who can't and don't love their children. The same question was brought up also in the earlier "Through a Glass Darkly (1961)" - in the relationship of the writer and his daughter.

Then there is the question of whether there are really two women at all; could the whole film be played out as a fantasy of one of them, or indeed of somebody else? Is there a sexual attraction between the two women? It might be or might be not. I believe, David Lynch has watched "Persona" very carefully, thought about it and used some of its ideas in his own "Mullholland Dr."

There are so many questions in this incredible film that are left unanswered. For almost forty years, viewers and filmmakers alike have been trying to find the answers. One thing is obvious - this is one of the films you want to watch over and over again. I think it should be seen by any viewer. If you've seen it already - see it again. You'll learn something new. If you have not seen it - you are in for a great experience. See it for Sven Nykvist's camera work, for Liv's face, for Bibi's voice, for the unique and mysterious world that is Ingmar Bergman's universe.

The first time I saw "Persona" as an eager college student many years ago, my reaction was "huh?" I have seen the film several dozen more times since then, and much of the mystery remains, revealing another dimension with each viewing. Since Bergman's retirement and subsequent autobiographical writings, John Lahr speculates that this film is clearly about the two sides of Bergman's mother--and he makes a convincing case. Someone else here has posted that the film is really a disection of schitzophrenia. I have made the argument in the past that the movie is about...the movies. The working title was "Cinematography," and Bergman has expressed this duality about the role of the artist/filmmaker in the past and the trickery inherent in the process of making and watching films. My point is that all the above--and more--is true. Critic John Simon has stated that "'Persona' is to film what 'Ullyses' is to the novel." Yep...at least.

PERSONA is everything a film should be - visually groundbreaking, thematically complex, and a deeply involving emotional experience. The plot is almost laughably simple: A famous stage actress, Elisabeth Vogler (Liv Ullmann) appears to have a nervous breakdown. Unwilling to speak or even interact with others, she is sent to recuperate at the seaside home of her doctor in the care of a young nurse, Sister Alma (Bibi Andersson). Over time, the talkative Alma becomes more and more obsessed with her famous patient, and resorts to emotional blackmail and even violence in her attempts to force Elisabeth to communicate with her. Ultimately, the two women's identities seem to blur into one. Driven nearly insane by her relationship with Elisabeth, Alma leaves her service. It is impossible to overstate how complicated a viewing experience PERSONA is for the uninitiated spectator. Both of the lead actresses are phenomenal. Liv Ullmann delivers one of the most nuanced and complex cinematic performances in existence, despite having no more than one line of dialogue (or possibly two). Bibi Andersson's interpretation of Alma is equally stunning - cool, calm and professional at first, then slowly descending into a whirlpool of self-doubt and then madness. Characteristic of this film is its ambiguity - the viewer is forced think for themselves about the meaning of events and individual sequences, rather than being spoon-fed a series of definitive images, as in Hollywood movies. Is Elisabeth actually ill, or is she merely selfish, acting yet another role to manipulate those around her? Is Alma's mental breakdown the result of Elisabeth's treatment of her, or does she bring it on herself by using Elisabeth as a blank screen on which she projects her own fantasies? The emotional and intellectual themes of the film - what is identity and how do other people play a role in our construction of our own personalities? - are perfectly balanced by an extraordinary cinematic style which foregrounds the illusory nature of the "actions" taking place in front of us. Beginning with its opening montage, PERSONA explicitly reminds the viewer of its status as a fiction, and of the material process which transforms a set of still pictures into shadows with the illusion of life. Within the body of the main narrative, certain sequences (such as Elisabeth's midnight visit to Alma's room) are structured so that we are unsure whether what we are watching is "real" or merely an hallucination on Alma's part - indeed, the entire last half of the film may be no more than Sister Alma's fantasies, but then again...PERSONA'S mystery and meaning are best expressed in an astonishing shot within the opening montage - a boy interrupts his reading and reaches towards the camera/audience. A cut reverses the perspective, and we see the boy extending his arm to caress what seems to be a huge screen, on which colossal images of Andersson and Ullmann's faces appear, merge with one another, and disappear. In this single sequence, Bergman amalgamates Woman and the Screen of the cinema, and the child seeking the embrace of the mother with the cinema audience. PERSONA is one of the most unusual, even philosophical films ever made and it will certainly haunt your dreams as it haunts mine.

The word "persona" stands for the roles people assume on stage or in the world. It relates back to the masks that actors wore in ancient Greek drama. What happens in art or life when we refuse to wear our masks? What if we can't keep them on? How then are we to live? Persona is perhaps the furthest flight ever made by a filmmaker in search of answers to these questions.

Bergman shot Persona in the mid sixties, a time when all the big constructs - personal identity, the nature of art, the role of the individual in society - were up for grabs. The opening of the movie seems to mirror the intellectual jumble of the times: shots of film stock, a camera, an arc lamp; several disturbing images dredged up from the swamp of the adult unconscious; finally, an adolescent boy in a hospital-like room. The boy gets out of bed and walks toward the blurry, blown-up photograph of a woman's face.

After this disconcerting beginning, Bergman drops us into the actual start of the story. Elisabeth (Liv Ullman) is a famous actress who suddenly refuses to speak. She's sent to a psychiatric institution where she's attended by Alma, a young, seemingly naïve nurse (Bibi Andersson in one of the bravura performances in world cinema). Elisabeth turns on the television in her hospital room and sees one of the sixties' most indelible images: a Vietnamese monk burning himself alive on a sidewalk as a war protest. Perhaps Elisabeth stays silent because she refuses to participate in such a horrific world.

Elisabeth's psychiatrist arranges for a rest cure in a summer cottage on a small island off the Swedish coast, and sends Alma along to care for her. Once on the island, Alma's nurse mask starts to slip. She drinks too much one night and tells Elisabeth about an odd sexual encounter she had several years back with another woman and two boys. We watch the silent Elisabeth drink in Alma's words like a vampire draining the life force from a victim. Elisabeth's voyeurism feels almost repulsive, but then we realize it's no different from our own.

Alma tells Elisabeth that the sexual experience she described led to an abortion, after which she can no longer bear children. Elisabeth then casually reveals Alma's sexual secrets in a letter that Alma peeks at on the way to the post office. This betrayal knocks Alma off center. The kind, deferential nurse deliberately leaves a piece of broken glass where Elisabeth will step on it. Alma doesn't know herself any more, which Bergman dramatizes by cutting to a shot of the film stock snapping in two.

Social conventions are abandoned. Alma gives over to primal emotions - anger, violence, lust, cruelty - to try and break through Elisabeth's wall of silence. Alma attacks Elisabeth for being a monstrous egotist, and accuses her of hating her son and wishing he was dead. Andersson does all the talking in this scene, but the camera is focused exclusively on Ullman's face. Then Andersson repeats the same monologue, word for word, only this time the camera stays fixed on her own face. Now we're not sure if Alma is talking about Elisabeth's son or describing the guilt she felt at aborting her own child. Alma denies that she's like Elisabeth; at the same time, on the screen their two faces merge into one.

From here, fantasy and reality blur even further. In one gruesome sequence, Elisabeth literally sucks the blood from Alma's arm. Alma briefly surrenders. A look of sexual pleasure flits across her face, but then she recoils and slaps Elisabeth viciously across the cheek. In another dreamlike scene, Alma, back in uniform at the hospital, wakes up Elisabeth and holds her. "It's all nothing," Alma says. Which is what all of Bergman's authorial intrusions into Alma and Elisabeth's story seem to be telling us: creative illusions are just that, no thing. Yet they signify everything, and great artists will surrender their social and psychological security in service to them.

The two women pack up and leave the cottage. The movie ends with a series of images that relate back to the opening. There's Elisabeth back on stage - is she cured, or has she succumbed to a worse illness than silence and withdrawal? We see a closeup of a mask sculpture that we saw before outside the cottage, then a cut to the film crew, including the great cinematographer Sven Nykvist behind his camera. Alma flags down a bus, presumably headed back to her "normal" life as a hospital nurse. We see the little boy from the opening sequence again, looking at images of Ullman's and Andersson's faces. The film unspools, and we're staring at a screen gone to black.

For movie that deals with such abstract ideas, Persona is surprising sensual. The camera caresses the faces of Ullman and Andersson; they caress each other; Sven Nykvist sculpts the light into pleasing, mysterious textures. Using only a black and white palette, Bergman turns morning into twilight, sun to shadow, beautiful faces into harpy masks. The rhythms of physical reality shift and morph like the psychological foundations of Alma's identity.

In a sense, Bergman has recast the Icarus myth. Elisabeth soars above accepted social constraints, but may not be able to return to normal life. Too much self-knowledge that she can't emotionally handle melts Alma down, as surely as solar heat melts wax wings. In this, as in his other movies, Bergman, despite his own bouts of incapacitating doubt and despair, simply refuses to stop flying right toward the sun.

The five stars is for the movie. As for MGM they've committed a sin. The picture is grainy, the special features freeze up on my copies of this and Hour of the Wolf. And the commentary on both is just awful. All this guy does is point out the obvious. "Max Von Sydow is a troubled man, the bushes..." Where's criterion with its top notch restoration and commentaries done by real scholars. Isn't MGM paying attention? They have no respect for this movie. They should have never got their hands on it.

"Persona" is the equivalent of cinematic poetry, and like many poems, it relies on striking visual imagery and symbolism to convey its meaning (or meaninglessness) rather than the conventional, linear narative of most films. While hauntingly beautiful, "Persona" is clearly open to interpretation, as many great poems are. The film is a frustrating, paradoxical enigma, but leaves the viewer breathless with its dazzling images and thought provoking "silences".

The paradox at the heart of the film involves the together yet separate place in which these two women find themselves. How can two people, two personalities, two entities be so merged yet so apart?

On a universal level, one could venture that the two women represent the ever-present duality in both man and nature; forces that are inter-related, yet so separate from each other: good vs. evil, the belief in God vs. the meaninglessness of existence (or as Aristotle might have phrased it: creation in time vs. the eternity of the universe) or love vs hate (among the many dueling dualities in the universe). The reason that these two women can never really merge is that the universal battling of conflicting forces could never allow it. Confliciting forces will always be separate, as hard as they try to connect or compromise.

On a personal level, the two women represent the vast abyss that separates one person from the other. As hard as we try to understand each other, the human psyche is a nearly inpenatrable puzzle that defies trite pschological categories. Because life is basically a stage, we are forced to play roles that are set up by other's expectations, fears and desires that don't necessarily reflect our true selves. The camera is always on, as the film implies, and we are are rarely free to be ouselves,if we are even able to discern who we are underneath the many masks that we wear. We are like "marionettes" with others pulling the strings of our personalities for us. For Bergmann, it seems, all relationships (husband/wife, parent/child, etc.) are doomed to failure. No matter how close we are able to get to each other, we will always be separate, with false and misleading notions (that we have created ouselves) of who the other person is.

From the above discussion, it is clear that the film is enormously complex. (I have not even begun to touch on all the elements of the film- that would take volumes.) Almost any other interpretation of the film would be equally valid. That is the daunting challenge and huge joy of this film. The meaning of beautifully symbolic poetry is often hard to penetrate. The effort, however, is worth it, so that we may learn about ourselves, about our relationship to others, and about our relationship to the universal forces.

Persona (Ingmar Bergman, 1966)

It's been a while since I've added a movie to my all-time 100-best list after only one viewing. I've been doing a good deal of shifting stuff around recently, but always with movies I've seen ten, fifteen, twenty times that have held up well over decades. Tonight, however, I saw Ingmar Bergman's Persona for the first time, and I really found myself with no choice. I've seen a few Bergman movies over the years, and I've always found them thought-provoking and enjoyable; this is the first one, however, that's grabbed me by the throat and not let go until the final frame.

Bergman's eerie meditation on identity begins with Elisabeth Vogler (Liv Ullmann), a famous actress, in the hospital after what we assume is some sort of mental breakdown. A young nurse, Alma (Bibi Andersson), is assigned to care for her, and as part of Elisabeth's recuperation, the two spend the summer in a remote cottage on the shore. Elisabeth is mute, but Alma does enough talking for both of them. The isolation and Elisabeth's continuing silence, however, begin to play tricks on Alma's mind-- or is her reality changing?

The movie hinges on Andersson's performance, which is as shocking today as it must have been in 1966-- her dialogue ranges from the mundane to the explicit, and she delivers it all with the same bubbliness (at least, in the early stages of the movie). Her character never slips, and she plays it to the hilt. Absolutely riveting. Even more impressive, however, is Ullmann, the silent spectre who often seems as if she's floating through the background of the movie; she doesn't have the benefit of dialogue here, so the power of her role comes solely from her body-- her facial expressions, the way she moves, her posture. And despite the greatness of Andersson's performance, Ullmann steals the show here. That's impressive.

A powerhouse of a film. One of the best ever made. *****

I hate to spoil the lovefest... yes, I agree with previous reviews as to the greatness of the work, but people need beware the truly horrendous quality of the transfer. The image and sound quality are appalling; it's discouraging that such a cinematic masterpiece gets such slipshod treatment.
My message to the company that released this: get your act together or give the rights to someone who can do the job properly! Don't buy this version!