Persona opens with a projector and a screen full of images: a crucifixion, a spider, a lamb killed, a boy waking in a hospital or morgue, a blurry picture of two women. That opening sequence sets the terms of the film: not a story told straight, but a collage of fragments meant to unsettle the viewer before the main characters even appear. Then Alma, a young nurse, arrives at a hospital ward to care for Elisabet Vogler, a famous actress who has stopped speaking and moving. The film never explains why. Alma talks to Elisabet constantly, and gets no answer.
Ingmar Bergman wrote and directed Persona in 1965, shooting in Stockholm and on the island of Fårö. It stars Bibi Andersson as Alma and Liv Ullmann as Elisabet Vogler. The film runs 85 minutes and has been called Bergman’s most personal work. Its reputation rests on its refusal to explain itself: the duality between the two women, the blurring of their identities, and the question of whether Elisabet is a patient at all or simply a mirror for Alma’s own fears and desires.
Trailer, via Austin Film Society.
The Nurse and the Actress
Alma is the film’s anchor. She is a young woman who has just finished nursing school, newly engaged to Karl-Henrik, and she has never felt heard before. She talks to Elisabet about her fiancé, her first affair, and a sunbathing incident with a woman named Katarina that ended in an orgy and a pregnancy. Alma feels guilty about the abortion that followed. She is earnest, trusting, and deeply lonely.
Elisabet Vogler is the opposite. She is a famous actress who has stopped speaking, though the doctors determine that her silence comes from willpower rather than illness. She is distressed by television images of a man burning himself alive in Vietnam. She tears up a photograph of her son from a letter her husband sent. When the doctor suggests sending her to a cottage by the sea to recover, she goes willingly. There she spends her days silent, motionless, staring at the wall.
The film does not establish whether Elisabet is faking her condition. That ambiguity is deliberate. Bergman structures the film as a study of two identities merging: Alma’s voice, her stories, her anxieties, begin to leak into Elisabet’s silence. By the end of the film, it is unclear who is talking to whom.
The Cottage and the Fight
At the cottage, Alma reads a letter from Elisabet’s husband, Mr. Vogler, and finds a photograph of their son. She tears it up, furious that Elisabet has used her as a confidante. In the resulting fight, Alma threatens to scald Elisabet with boiling water, stopping only when Elisabet pleads with her not to. It is the first time Alma is certain Elisabet has spoken since they met, though she thought Elisabet had whispered to her earlier.
The fight is the climax of the film’s tension. Alma’s anger is real, but it is also a reaction to her own fear: she has poured out everything to Elisabet, and now she cannot tell whether Elisabet is listening or mocking her. The threat of violence is sudden and shocking, and it breaks the quiet rhythm of the earlier scenes.
Smoke and Mirrors
The film is built from a handful of scenes that carry most of its weight:
- The opening projector sequence, which introduces the film’s collage technique.
- Alma’s confession to Elisabet about her first affair and the abortion.
- The fight at the cottage, where Alma’s rage erupts.
- The final shot, which leaves the audience unsure whether the two women have merged completely.
Each of these scenes uses close-ups, long takes, and minimal dialogue to build a sense of dread. The film does not rely on spectacle. It relies on the slow accumulation of unease.
Bergman shot the film with Andersson and Ullmann in mind for the lead roles, and the pairing was born from a previous project that Bergman abandoned after falling ill. Ullmann said that her face became the one Bergman wanted because it could convey what he wanted to say. That fit made her the one he wanted to work with. Steve Vineberg wrote that Bergman abandoned his past use of ensemble casts in films like Smiles of a Summer Night and focused instead on two leads.
The Prologue and the Final Shot
The prologue sets the tone. A projector screens a series of images: a crucifixion, a spider, the killing of a lamb, a boy waking in a hospital or morgue, and a blurry picture of two women. These images are not explained. They are simply presented, and the film asks the viewer to sit with them. The sequence is avant-garde in its approach, and it prepares the audience for a film that will not offer easy answers.
The final shot is equally ambiguous. It shows two women sitting side by side, their faces nearly touching. The camera holds on them, and the film ends without resolution. The viewer is left to wonder whether the two women have become one, or whether Alma has simply collapsed into Elisabet’s silence.
Everything one says about Persona may be contradicted; the opposite will also be true.
Peter Cowie, film historian
The Critical Reception
Persona has been the subject of much critical analysis, interpretation, and debate. Its exploration of duality, insanity, and personal identity has been linked to Jungian theories of persona. Critics have connected the film to issues of filmmaking, vampirism, homosexuality, motherhood, and abortion. The experimental style of its prologue, storytelling, and end has been noted repeatedly.
The film has been called the Mount Everest of cinematic analysis. Cowie’s quote captures the difficulty of pinning it down: every reading can be contradicted, and the opposite reading is also true.
The Ensemble Cast
The supporting cast is small. Margaretha Krook plays the doctor, and Gunnar Björnstrand plays Mr. Vogler. Both appear briefly, and Vineberg described their roles as “abbreviated guest appearances.” Bergman cast Jörgen Lindström as Elisabet’s son after working with him in his 1963 film The Silence. Lindström, born in 1951, was a child actor who played children in other films.
The film’s credits include archive footage of Thích Quảng Đức, the self-burning monk from Vietnam. His image appears in the hospital scene, and it is one of the few concrete references to the wider world.
What Persona Does Well
Persona succeeds because it commits fully to its central mystery. It does not explain why Elisabet has stopped speaking, and it does not resolve the fight at the cottage. Instead, it lets the tension sit and simmer. The film trusts the viewer to find meaning in the images, the silences, and the repetitions.
The performances are essential. Andersson plays Alma with a nervous energy that borders on hysteria, while Ullmann plays Elisabet with a stillness that becomes terrifying over time. Their chemistry is electric, and the film would collapse without it.
The film’s technical innovations deserve note too. Bergman and his crew experimented with smoke and mirrors to frame one scene, and they combined the lead characters’ faces in post-production for another. These effects are subtle, but they reinforce the film’s central theme of identity blurring.
Where It Falls Short
Persona is not an easy film. Its refusal to explain itself can feel frustrating, especially in the middle stretch where the pacing slows almost to a crawl. Some viewers will find the lack of resolution a flaw rather than a strength. The film asks for patience, and not everyone is willing to give it.
The film’s reputation as a masterpiece has led some viewers to expect more than the material delivers. The themes are rich, but the execution is not always matched to the ambition. The final shot, in particular, has been praised endlessly, yet it offers no closure.
The Verdict
Persona is a demanding film, and it rewards patience. It is not for everyone, but it is a landmark of Bergman’s career and of cinema as a whole. The film’s willingness to leave questions unanswered is rare, and it makes the experience memorable.
The film’s reputation is deserved, but it is not perfect. It is a great film, not a flawless one.
The film’s greatness lies in its refusal to explain itself, not in its willingness to be explained.
Get the Notebook.
The day's best stories and every fresh verdict, in plain English, in your inbox by seven. One email a day, no more.
