Persona is a 1966 psychological drama written and produced by Ingmar Bergman. Though much of the film centers around two characters exploring their identities – something which is also hinted at by the films title, Persona – is clearly apparent that there is a lot more going on than simple narrative. The film is so clearly open to interpretation, and this makes it hard to define – as many have tried to over the years – and the film resists any firm analysis. That is, the film does not have one defined meaning and can be interpreted many different ways.
Persona follows the story of Elizabet, an actress who refuses to speak. After much psychiatric and medical evaluation, there is clearly nothing wrong with her – her refusal to speak is from raw determination alone. A young nurse, Alma, is assigned to care for her, though she initially fears she is not up for the task.
Regardless, she agrees to care for Elizabet while staying at an idyllic beach-side cottage, in the hopes that the fresh air will do Elizabet good. And Elizabet is still recovering, though still refuses to speak. At this point, there’s almost no plot – Alma talks about her past life, her having an orgy on a beach, then becoming pregnant… aborting the baby… but nothing seems to get through to Elizabet, who remains as silent as ever.
But the tables turn when Alma reads one of Elizabet’s letters, which is written to the doctor in charge of her case. Elizabet speaks about how she’s studying Alma, and finds it fascinating, as well as detailing some of Alma’s darkest secrets.
Alma is betrayed by this, and lashes out at Elizabet, threatening her with boiling water. Elizabet speaks, and it’s clear that her silence was all an act – like every other character she’s ever played.
At this point, it would be simple enough for the audience to claim that this film is simply about the mask someone puts on themselves, the act they hide behind to protect themselves. Alma has removed the mask, and is now hurt. In contrast, Elizabet has been lying, and has gained valuable experience. But Bergman makes some interesting decisions which make this film significantly deeper.
While she is angry, Alma leaves a piece of glass on the ground so Elizabet might step on it. Elizabet does, and as soon as she works out that Alma has placed it there, the image starts to fracture. The conversation with the doctor is played backwards, and seemingly random images flash across the screen – which includes a man’s hand being nailed (to a cross?) and an extreme close up of an eye peering around. The image is then blurred as Alma paces around the house, and it’s unclear for a moment what is happening.
The image of the hand being nailed is gruesome, and could easily be linked to Jesus on the cross… which, in the context of the film, can then be taken as a symbol of betrayal. The eye, flitting around in suspicion, is enhanced by the close up, and appears large, 
overwhelming… and in doing so, Bergman has highlighted the fragility of the human mind, the darkness and instability. This is supported by the doctor’s voice playing backwards, a nod to how the mind does not always remember conversations properly. At this point too, Alma’s emotions start to spiral out of control, with her claiming she is not going to get upset while shaking her fists and sobbing hysterically. The characters have almost switched places, at this point, with Elizabet now becoming the calm and collected one.
This is also the point in which the narrative becomes a lot less clear. A young man shows up at the beach house – no doubt Elizabet’s husband – and starts to talk to Alma. Alma tries to tell him that she is not Elizabet, but even as Elizabet stands beside her, the man does not believe her. He’s asking her to come home, and ends up in the bed having sex with Alma as Elizabet watches.
That moment’s surreal, and can make almost no realistic sense. Elizabet is only numbly watching, not making any effort to protest. Then, Alma sits across from Elizabet, very coldly telling her about the baby that Elizabet tried aborting, but had no luck. How she doesn’t want a child, but has one, and one whom loves her with everything he’s got. But then she starts shouting that she is not Elizabet. This particular scene plays twice, exactly the same, and there’s a moment in which the two actresses’ faces come together, half on each side, and they look almost identical. Then Alma is dressed in a nurse costume – which she hasn’t been seen in since the beginning – and she’s picking up a limp Alma… trying to get her to speak… then Elizabet is packing, and leaving the beach-side cottage, with Alma nowhere in sight.
And this is where the film is open to so much interpretation, as Bergman gives no definite conclusion – and certainly, never offered any definite answer – about the true meaning of the film. Is Elizabet just a representation of the vile elements of human nature, the manipulation, the lies, and Alma is innocent and pure? And by Elizabet being the one to walk away, Bergman is saying that they are ultimately the ones who win in the world? Are Alma and Elizabet one and the same? With the beliefs and desires of Alma being pushed under the rug so Elizabet can leave and live her life? Is Alma the part of her that didn’t want to be a mother, being left behind as Elizabet goes to do what society expects of her? Is it just a statement on the instability of the human mind, that we’re all crazy?
Any of those options could be supported by the curious method that Bergman has used to deliver the narrative – and that is, a story almost exclusively delivered through story telling. There is next to no active plot in the film, only the expositional stories told by Alma. This was an interesting decision made by Bergman – he could have had it all told through flashbacks, but Bergman decided not to do this, and his decision has an interesting effect on the film.
As Alma recounts her stories, even without paying attention to the context of her stories, there is a real sense of sadness. Alma has lost hope, cannot control this situation as it is in the past, memories gone by. A sense of hopelessness and loss is instilled, as though everything is out of reach, and cannot be controlled. And this is further expanded on by Bergman’s inclusion of two pieces of real-world media – a photo of a young Jewish boy surrendering to soldiers, and a Vietnamese monk burning himself. Both of these situations – the Jewish boy perhaps moreso, as the war was still on when Persona was released – are hopeless, cannot be changed – are an element of the world’s bloody history.
And this hopelessness becomes a large part of the film’s fabric – these characters are powerless against the social values instilled on them, their own mind… and the that the film, that Bergman, the filmmaker, wanted for them.
Because Bergman is definitely eager to remind the audience that they are watching a film. The film is uncanny and perfect, – very highly composed shots making up the film, with very deliberate lighting. The majority of shots are close ups, which very deliberately celebrates the medium of film. It’s more likely to cut between two close-ups than having a two-shot with both characters present, which really heightens the sense of instability by jumping constantly. The lighting is immaculate and perfect, creating bright highlights and dark shadows – much like the darkness and instability of the human mind.
The few long shots in the film are also very deliberate – Alma and Elizabet running along the beach, collecting flowers at the cottage – though are immaculate and idyllic – the scenery being utter perfection.
The flawlessness is then also reflected in the mise-en-scene – or lack off. Props are only present when they serve the scene directly, otherwise many of the shots have 
completely blank backgrounds – almost as though they have been filmed purposefully against a blank studio wall. Early on in the film, when Alma is getting ready to go to sleep, the only thing present in her room is the bed. There is no dresser, no sheets, nothing to suggest that anyone lives there – just her bed and blankets. Likewise, in Elizabet’s hospital room, only her bed and a TV set are present – no hospital equipment, or flowers… just what is absolutely necessary for the scene… kind of similar to theatre, which Bergman has often referred to as his wife.
All of this it pulls the audience from the reality of the film – it alienates them, changes their relationship with the character. These characters vary between being aloof and relateable, distant and close… as though the characters themselves are drifting unreliably through the film – as though they themselves are experiencing it rather than driving it. When Bergman cuts away, capturing himself and his own crew filming the action, it’s apparent that there’s more to the film than the story Bergman is telling.
And this is where the merit of the film lies – as though it is not only about the human mind, about these characters, but also about film, almost like it’s making a statement on the unreliability of film, and possibly the media. When Elizabet watches the footage of the monk burning himself, the narration from the television set does not match the footage… so is Bergman also trying to make a statement about the reliability of the real-world media, possibly (particularily) about the Vietnam war?
