Critics’ polls usually
place Wild Strawberries, Fanny and Alexander, and The
Seventh Seal ahead of Persona as far as Ingmar Bergman’s work
is concerned. While those three films are all outstanding achievements,
none can claim to be as truly seminal and unique as Bergman’s enigmatic
masterpiece of 1966, despite its extreme difficulty and wide variety of
interpretation. Having seen it for the first time in some 15 years on its
recent (2003) re-release in the UK, I should like to offer my own thoughts
which are necessarily highly provisional, more questions than answers;
it is that rare film which can yield more and more in successive viewings.
Lengthy essays have been devoted to it, for example by Susan Sontag, and
those interested in reflective analysis should refer to them.
First, a very brief “plot-summary”.
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. Almost-mute, because
Alma has drawn out of her the single word “nothing”.
An
essential element of Persona is the several reminders that we are
watching a film. The opening montage consists of a projector lamp
flaring to life, brief glimpses of very early film and other material,
followed by a shot of a boy awakening, feeling a sheet of glass through
which he seems to be observing us the viewers, who turn out to be the fuzzy
features of Alma/Elizabeth. Halfway through the film, the projector
seems to stop and the film to catch fire, a shock for the unprepared viewer.
At one point Elizabeth points her camera straight at us; at another, we
briefly see Bergman and Sven Nykvist, his cinematographer, at their camera
on a crane. At the end, we see the film running out of the camera
and the projector lamp dying down; there are no closing credits, and no
“the end”. This self-reflexivity can be expected from Godard, in
his playfully postmodern manner, but not from Bergman, so it is particularly
significant here. For whatever reason, he wants to remind us that
we are watching a film.
What struck me most forcibly
on first seeing Persona was the wonderful performances Bergman achieves
from his two actresses. Andersson has to carry almost the entire
dialogue, while Ullman is equally powerful in conveying everything through
her face: a performance comparable with that of Renee Falconetti in The
Passion of Joan of Arc. In fact Persona shares with Dreyer’s
silent masterpiece an emphasis on huge close-ups of the human face, warts
and all.
Particular scenes are
specially memorable, such as Alma’s recounting of a beach orgy, infinitely
more erotic to listen to than it would have been to see in flashback; Alma
accusing Elizabeth of neglecting her son, recounted twice so that we can
contemplate each woman’s face in turn during the telling; and Elizabeth’s
single instance of unpremeditated utterance by screaming “no, don’t!” when
Alma threatens to throw a pan of boiling water over her.
There is so much to think
about in Persona (which, needless to say, requires rapt concentration).
One major question concerns Elizabeth’s silence: is it elective, as happens
in some of Tarkovsky’s films, or is it some kind of mental breakdown?
There are clues which point both ways: the fact that it suddenly happens
during a stage performance suggests the latter, while on the other hand
she seems a perfectly normal, intelligent, feeling woman in every respect
save for her silence.
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? This
hardly seems likely, though the idea has been entertained by some critics.
At one point Alma says that she seems to be becoming two people, the respectable
self she shows in public, and the real self which Elizabeth is bringing
out of her. Again, is there a sexual attraction between the two women,
or at least by Alma for Elizabeth? Several moments of physical tenderness
seem to suggest this.
It has also been questioned
whether there are dream (or fantasy) sequences at all; perhaps all we see
can be taken as “real”? This would include the husband’s visit, with
his bizarre mistaking of Alma for his wife, and a scene where Elizabeth
comes to visit Alma during the night, but emphatically denies it (by shaking
her head) the next morning.
Critics of a more cynical
bent have suggested that Persona is nothing more than pretentious
rubbish. This notion can be dismissed; Bergman has always been a deeply
serious artist, and so many intelligent people have found the film deeply
satisfying, if mystifying. The fact that a work of art gives rise
to puzzlement and differing interpretations is no reason to call it pretentious.
Personally I do not rate
Bergman in the greatest pantheon of directors. While he is superb
at “chamber-pieces” involving intense emotions among (especially) women,
his range is rather narrow; one cannot imagine him producing the cinematic
sweep of an “epic” like, say, Tarkovsky’s Andrei Rublev. But
I have come to the view that Persona is not just Bergman’s finest
work, but that it is also one of the essential films in the history of
the medium
Alan
Pavelin