Film Review: Persona (1966)

The annals of cinema are littered with filmmakers who court controversy and demand intellectual devotion from their audiences, their reputations often inversely proportional to their accessibility. Among these, Ingmar Bergman stands as a towering figure whose work epitomises the chasm between avant-garde acclaim and mainstream appeal. The 1960s, a decade of seismic shifts in cinematic language, saw a stark bifurcation between art-house experimentation and commercial storytelling, with Bergman’s Persona (1966) emerging as one of its most polarising totems. Praised by critics as a “grand, ground-breaking classic,” the film remains a textbook example of art that thrives on obscurity, alienating casual viewers while rewarding those willing to wade through its dense, oblique symbolism. For every viewer who finds transcendence in its ambiguity, another emerges baffled, questioning whether its acclaim is rooted in genuine merit or merely the self-fulfilling prophecy of art-world snobbery.

On paper, Persona presents a straightforward premise: an actress, Elisabet Vogler (Liv Ullmann), undergoes a mysterious breakdown mid-performance of Electra, lapsing into silence and retreating into a catatonic state. Hospitalised, she is cared for by her nurse, Alma (Bibi Andersson), a young woman grappling with her own existential anxieties. At the suggestion of the doctor (Margaretha Crook), Alma accompanies Elisabet to her secluded summer home, where their relationship evolves into a psychological labyrinth. Alma’s confessional monologues—revealing her traumatic past, including a harrowing abortion following a group sexual encounter—initially strengthen their bond. Yet tensions escalate when Elisabet begins echoing Alma’s revelations in letters to her family, blurring the line between caregiver and patient, identity and performance. Bergman’s narrative, though anchored in this domestic drama, unravels into a labyrinthine exploration of identity, reality, and the fragility of self.

Persona is undeniably Bergman’s most intimate work, forged during a period of personal and professional upheaval. Conceived while recovering from pneumonia, the script was written in fits and starts, with Bergman reportedly improvising much of the film on set—a radical approach for even the most seasoned director. His collaboration with cinematographer Sven Nykvist proved pivotal, yielding crisp black-and-white visuals that amplify the film’s emotional intensity. Nykvist’s technical brilliance shines in sequences like the famous merging of Alma and Elisabet’s faces, a visual metaphor for their collapsing identities. The camera’s unflinching close-ups and stark lighting transform mundane moments into haunting tableaux, while the false film-spool destruction near the climax—a meta-commentary on cinema’s illusions—exemplifies Bergman’s playful yet profound engagement with form.

The film’s success hinges on its two lead performances, which Bergman meticulously crafted for Ullmann and Andersson. His romantic entanglement with Andersson and his burgeoning relationship with Ullmann (who became his partner for five years) infused the roles with raw emotional authenticity. Ullmann, tasked with conveying Elisabet’s turmoil through silence, delivers a masterclass in non-verbal acting, her every twitch and gaze telegraphing repressed anguish. Andersson, meanwhile, grounds the film’s abstraction with vulnerability, her monologues—particularly the harrowing account of her abortion—revealing the cost of emotional exposure. Bergman’s use of close-ups amplifies their connection, their faces dissolving into one another both literally and metaphorically, suggesting a merging of selves.

Yet for all its technical and performative brilliance, Persona falters as a conventional narrative. Bergman discards linearity entirely, embracing the avant-garde ethos of the 1960s with a vengeance. The film opens with a disorienting montage of jarring imagery: a flickering projector, a burning Bible, a subliminal close-up of an erect penis—a visual trope later echoed in Fight Club. These sequences, designed to unsettle, prioritise visceral impact over coherence, leaving viewers to grapple with their own interpretations. The dialogue oscillates between poetic abstraction and mundane triviality, while scenes of violence and trauma are juxtaposed with banal domesticity. Bergman’s meta-commentary peaks in a climactic sequence where he and Nykvist break the fourth wall, filming themselves filming the film—a reminder that the audience is complicit in constructing its meaning.

The film’s refusal to clarify its themes invites both admiration and frustration. Scenes that critics laud as “ecstatic” or “profound” can feel interminable to others. Alma’s graphic recounting of her sexual encounter—a group experience involving two boys and a female acquintance—stands out for its audacity. Though verbal rather than visual, the scene’s explicitness defied 1960s censorship norms, leading to cuts and mistranslations in international releases. Yet such transgressions, while groundbreaking, risk overshadowing the film’s deeper concerns: the erosion of identity, the parasitic nature of artistic creation, and the tension between reality and performance. Bergman’s deliberate ambiguity—leaving unresolved questions about Elisabet’s motives or the nature of their relationship—catapults the film into the realm of abstract philosophy, alienating those seeking narrative closure.

Despite its artistic ambition, Persona flopped commercially in Sweden, its slow pacing and cryptic themes failing to entice mainstream audiences. Yet this failure only fuelled its mystique. Critics, eager to anoint it as a “groundbreaking masterpiece,” heaped praise upon it, culminating in its 1972 ranking as the fifth-greatest film ever made in Sight & Sound’s poll—a position that cemented its status as an art-house cornerstone. Swedish critic Olof Lagercrantz dubbed it Personakult, a term encapsulating its cult following among cinephiles. Its notoriety as a “difficult” film became its selling point, transforming bafflement into a badge of intellectual superiority.

The film’s ambiguity has made it a Rorschach test for critics and scholars, spawning a cottage industry of interpretations. Some see it as a lesbian love story, others as a metaphor for vampirism or artistic parasitism. The merging of Elisabet and Alma’s identities invites readings of gender fluidity or existential dissolution. Even political subtext surfaces: references to the Vietnam War and Holocaust suggest Bergman’s preoccupation with collective trauma. Yet these readings often feel imposed rather than inherent, a testament to the film’s malleability. For every plausible theory, the film resists definitive meaning, demanding viewers project their own anxieties and desires onto its enigmatic surface.

Ultimately, Persona is a film of profound contradictions. Its technical brilliance, acting, and thematic ambition are undeniable, yet its avant-garde style—while revolutionary—can feel exclusionary. For casual viewers, even with relatively short runtime, its inaccessibility leaves many questioning whether its acclaim is justified. Critics may laud it as a pinnacle of cinematic innovation, but its cold, intellectual distance alienates those seeking emotional resonance. Bergman’s genius lies in crafting a work that is as much about the act of watching as it is about its narrative—a meditation on the limits of art to convey truth. Yet this very quality ensures that Persona will forever be debated, adored, and dismissed in equal measure. For every viewer who finds it revelatory, another walks away wondering why it’s not as “good” as its reputation suggests. That tension, perhaps, is its greatest triumph—and its most enduring flaw.

RATING: 5/10 (++)

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