Ingmar Bergman's haunting masterpiece explores the gulf of communication that exists between a nurse and her silent patient
A claustrophobic drama with only four characters and only two sets, Persona is a stunning example of cinematic innovation. Charting the neurotic relationship between a nurse and her mute patient, Ingmar Bergman's multi-faceted film is at once a psychological drama, a philosophical meditation on the gap between art and reality, and a curious love story.
After forgetting her lines in the middle of a performance, theatre actress Elisabeth Vogler (Liv Ullman) retreats from the world, refusing to speak to anyone and becoming a patient at a Swedish sanatorium. With the help of a young nurse (Bibi Andersson), she takes a holiday cottage on the coast in order to recuperate, but their intense, brooding interaction leads only towards madness and despair. A film of flayed nerves and unspoken anxieties, Persona offers a distressing portrait of emotional and spiritual desolation from which Bergman's claustrophobic camera offers no hope of escape. Eschewing establishing shots in favour of a series of striking compositions in which the two lead actresses are forced to share a limited amount of screen space, Bergman tries to make the ever-increasing insanity of his protagonists affect the audience as well. Disorienting us with jump cuts and self-reflexive moments (a shot of a projector, a camera crew and - in a startling sequence - a sequence where the film literally collapses, burning a hole in the negative) this is an unsettling piece of cinema.
The characters' angst-ridden experience of what one calls "the hopeless dream of being" coupled with Bergman's transgression of the conventions of film production create a haunting nightmare of madness and despair. As much a response to the political insanity of the mid-1960s (a television set shows Vietnamese monks immolating themselves) as a film about nervous breakdowns, Persona is a rich, allegorical work that rewards repeated viewings.
After forgetting her lines in the middle of a performance, theatre actress Elisabeth Vogler (Liv Ullman) retreats from the world, refusing to speak to anyone and becoming a patient at a Swedish sanatorium. With the help of a young nurse (Bibi Andersson), she takes a holiday cottage on the coast in order to recuperate, but their intense, brooding interaction leads only towards madness and despair. A film of flayed nerves and unspoken anxieties, Persona offers a distressing portrait of emotional and spiritual desolation from which Bergman's claustrophobic camera offers no hope of escape. Eschewing establishing shots in favour of a series of striking compositions in which the two lead actresses are forced to share a limited amount of screen space, Bergman tries to make the ever-increasing insanity of his protagonists affect the audience as well. Disorienting us with jump cuts and self-reflexive moments (a shot of a projector, a camera crew and - in a startling sequence - a sequence where the film literally collapses, burning a hole in the negative) this is an unsettling piece of cinema.
The characters' angst-ridden experience of what one calls "the hopeless dream of being" coupled with Bergman's transgression of the conventions of film production create a haunting nightmare of madness and despair. As much a response to the political insanity of the mid-1960s (a television set shows Vietnamese monks immolating themselves) as a film about nervous breakdowns, Persona is a rich, allegorical work that rewards repeated viewings.
Verdict
One of Bergman's most important films, Persona creates a terrifying world in which filmmaking becomes bound up with insanity, anxiety and a crushing sense of angst
One of Bergman's most important films, Persona creates a terrifying world in which filmmaking becomes bound up with insanity, anxiety and a crushing sense of angst
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