Some filmmakers cannot be classified as “filmmakers” in the conventional sense. In terms of form, Ingmar Bergman’s films are closer to theatrical plays—unsurprising, given that he was also an accomplished playwright. The sets and staging of his films resemble a theater stage, and dialogue (or silence) is the core element of his cinematic language. In terms of content, Bergman’s work can also be seen as a form of psychoanalysis through film—much like how Robert Bresson considered film to be a cinematographic pen with which he wrote, or how one might argue that Mohammad-Reza Aslani philosophizes and writes poetry through cinema, or that Abbas Kiarostami plays intelligent yet childlike and feminine games with his films (feminine here evoking innocence and beauty). Bergman’s Persona, released at the peak of a highly political decade in Europe, like his later film Shame (1968)—which earned him sharp criticism—is a clear testament to this perspective.
But Bergman simply did what he intended to do. Persona is essentially a monologue play, despite having two characters—only one of whom speaks, while the other listens and responds through brief, ambiguous bodily gestures. The story revolves around a famous actress who, during a performance of Sophocles’ Electra (a feminine counterpart to the male Oedipus, which is telling in itself), suddenly loses her ability to speak and perform. The morgue scene, the dead child that comes back to life, the mirror in which she sees her mother, and the recurring mirror sequences in the film—all are rich in symbolic interpretation.This actress (played by Liv Ullmann as Elisabeth) is first admitted to a hospital and later taken to a seaside retreat, where she is cared for by another woman (Bibi Andersson as Alma). Electra abandons her earthly role, kills the god, and ascends to a celestial one—one in which speech and action are no longer necessary.
The film’s opening and closing sequences represent a form of cinematic “deconstruction” in Bergman’s unique language: erratic flashes of light, seemingly meaningless bursts, and disjointed images—sometimes absurd, sometimes brutal—are drawn from the viewer’s cinematic memory and assembled into a fragmented whole. This may be Bergman’s way of placing himself, from the outset, in an “other” world—a god-like figure external to the film, akin to Karl Otto’s idea of the “Ganz Andere” But the true narrative begins when Elisabeth suddenly realizes, in the middle of her performance, that she has lost her ability to speak and act—and this condition persists until the end of the film. In this situation, Alma begins not only to speak for herself, but also on behalf of Elisabeth. An intensely emotional bond develops between the two women, in which Elisabeth seems to pour all her suppressed feelings into Alma, who receives them with calm acceptance. The two characters gradually merge into a single persona.
Elisabeth, freed from the burden of the transcendent existential pressure, no longer feels the need to speak or perform. As the film progresses, her initial terror—the solitude of human existence in a vast universe—fades, replaced by a growing serenity, perhaps akin to a “Spinozist divine particle.” Alma, in contrast, unloads the full weight of her existential anxieties and personal memories onto Elisabeth, who absorbs them without needing to respond. This reversal of roles leads Elisabeth to become the caregiver and emotional anchor for Alma.
Bergman himself once remarked in an interview about Persona: The idea for Persona came to Bergman during a moment of anesthesia before surgery. As meaningless, disjointed images led him from consciousness into unconsciousness—like those in the opening and closing sequences of the film—he experienced anesthesia as a kind of imaginary death (recall the myth of Electra), in which one is liberated from the pain and pressure of a transcendent power.
In that state, there is no longer a need to justify one’s existence—to oneself, to others, or especially to the gods. One can instead sink into a calming silence and simply be, enjoying existence like a plant, a stone, an ocean, a bed, a smile, or a distant memory. This is a pleasure redefined—entirely different in nature. Life, for once, lifts its weight and hardship off the shoulders of the individual and sets them free. There is no longer a need to be like Sisyphus, endlessly pushing a massive boulder uphill in punishment for betraying the gods, only to watch it roll down again. Instead, one can sit quietly and peacefully, observing life as it flows—or better yet, living life as it is.
This perspective may seem anti-existentialist, even anti-Camusian, yet it is profoundly emotional, deeply personal, and perhaps closer to Rousseau’s vision—or more precisely, to Spinoza’s. Life without struggle, life without speech, life without performance—like the calm, waveless sea we repeatedly see in the film—remains life, and perhaps becomes even more pleasurable. When we speak of “vegetative life,” we tend to see it as the lowest, most undesirable form of existence—because it implies passivity, a lack of intervention in the world in any active direction. Yet we have never been able to answer this paradox: if vegetative life is so shameful and insignificant, why is it that we can only imagine a world without plants as a terrifying hellscape?
This may be one of the psychoanalytic secrets of Persona: one of Bergman’s greatest masterpieces, a film that must be watched multiple times to fully appreciate not only his cinematic and theatrical genius, but also his unique, intimate vision of life.
Film details (English):
Persona, Ingmar Bergman, 1966, 84 min, Sweden.
This is an AI-generated translation of a note by Nasser Fakouhi (16-07-2025). The original text is available at the following link:
