1) Persona (1966)
The inspiration for the 1966 masterpiece, Persona, came together for Ingmar Bergman during a time he was actually ill. Catching pneumonia and discovering an allergy to penicillin, meant plenty of rest and plenty of writing. An image of two women on a beach also kicked his creative juices into gear. The influence Bergman gave back to the film world with Persona was immeasurable. And it was not just film, but music videos, commercials, and not just a few. A whole parade through generations, mimicking a style derived from Persona.
A nurse, Alma (Bibi Andersson), is to take care of an actress, Elisabet (Liv Ullmann), following an abstract breakdown resulting in her lack of speech. Bergman was keen on the duality of these women, where one person who speaks and one who does not. Persona was shot in a matter of weeks, on the island of Fårö, Bergman’s own creative haven. And it is film itself that plays a part here. Opening and closing with a projector, then midway through the film, we witness the perishing of celluloid before our eyes. Intermission?
Persona is a beautiful headache of a film, no doubt about that, analysed, studied, hailed, copied, to death. Yet it has not aged. Bergman’s signature serenity and troubled minds is there in all its glory, but this still remains a somewhat shift on an already masterful path. The obscure, and the bleak, and the expressions of frustration, may all be reflective of Bergman’s own personal agony. These elements have served him well so far in his enigmatic cinema catalogue.
One of the most astonishing things Persona (as there are many), is the role merge, or even swap, between the two women. And a diversion of character and personality you hardly notice. There is no tipping point, or bookmark, the transformation of these women, in whatever form, is mysterious, but seamless.
Alma’s pure love in simply talking to Elisabet, who seems content to say nothing and listen, begins the steady snowball of the nurse’s role change. The candid retelling of an orgy allows Alma to confide in someone. But later, she reads the letter Elisabet wants mailing, stating she believes Alma is smitten by her, but that she enjoys studying her. Has Alma become the patient?
Stunning visual and spoken cues are all over the place. Reflections of depth, through windows, the infamous coverage given to close ups, and the trademark heads facing different ways. At one moment, Elisabet’s face dissolves into Alma’s, and then back again. A voice tells Alma to go to bed or else she’ll fall asleep on the kitchen table – we and Alma believe that could have been Elisabet. Shaking it off, Alma repeats the phrase as if her own impulse. The next morning she asks Elisabet if she spoke to her the previous night – to which she shakes her head.
The lack of speech takes its toll on Alma, she even asks Elisabet to try and talk to help her. Like communication itself can form a type of medicine. They squabble, and things escalate quickly. Alma goes to throw boiling water over Elisabet – “Don’t hurt me!” she cries. Did she speak? Did that just happen? As an audience member, we too are wondering. As things settle, Elisabet laughs a little, which still feels inappropriate, and Alma sinks further into frustration.
Mr. Volger, Elisabet’s husband, shows up and talks to Alma as though his wife. She deflatedly informs him she is not his wife. And then inhabits the role. With Elisabet watching on closely behind Alma. Bergman is dipping his toe into horror, as identities mix, reality blurs. Alma’s monologue, in close-up fixes on Elisabet, is a reflective, analysis of her current thought process. The tables may have have turned again.
The same session of dialogue is repeated, from a different angle, behind Elisabet this time. When the perspective returns directly to Alma, she is wearing the headband Elisabet has donned for large portions of the story. “I’m Alma.” she frantically claims, “You’re Elisabet.” – and before we know it, the face is formed through one half Alma, one half Elisabet.
A deeply psychological film, of course, the disintegration of personality, or abstract loss of self-reflection, creates chills to the senses. Bergman’s framework themes of mental decline, loneliness, personal identity, have hardly been utilized better. Stellar work, too, from regular cinematographer Sven Nykvist, the sporadic score by opera composer Lars Johan Werle, and devestatingly precise editing from Ulla Ryghe. Persona is a lucid montage of extraordinary composition, so deep in meaning and depth, we are still noting our interpretations and singing its praises, fifty years on.
[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NaTOpzYtV2I&w=560&h=315]
