Terra Incognita

Hmmm...but by the time the scene with the husband happens, the cover's been blown and we don't really know what's real and what's not. The cover was blown when Alma discovered a third person was involved in their relationship--the intended recipient of the letter. For one to maintain one's persona intact in relationship, there can only be two involved. In reality, there were always three (minimum) involved, because it was the doctor who orchestrated the cloistered world Alma and Elisabet shared--which took place, if I understood correctly, in her house (and she was also I think named by Alma as the recipient of the letter?). So it was always a ménage à trois, at least--which is why Alma succumbed to the temptation to read the letter. Alma had just chosen to block awareness that they were not really alone, as did we, the audience.

In any case, once we all accept it, it's never entirely clear what the story is. Did the husband ever really come? If so, did he really have sex with Alma or are Alma and Elisabet just so psychically intertwined by then that she experienced it as such? Or...is it a hallucination and if so shared by who? The two women, or are the three so psychically intertwined? Etc. Once the cover is blown--once we accept that there are others involved, there are spectator/participants beyond the two main players---we don't and can't be totally sure of anything (including what came before). The most explicit instance is that ultimately we simply do not know when Elisabet first spoke.

Roshan wrote: ↑Sat Oct 16, 2021 8:46 am Granted that there's a lot in Persona that was 'a first' for a film destined for commercial release, but it's been talked about and imitated so much since (and its antecedents dredged up so often for those interested in that kind of thing), that it's really the purely human element that stood out as fresh for me. And I wanted to get that down before I start talking and focusing on all the other things that are so much more 'important'. That was a really good story when it was, discounting the opening, 'just' a story.

It was a damn good story indeed, i absolutely agree with this.

I had read a few things about Persona, and seen some excerpts of it, but i had never watched it before.
Based on that, i was kind of expecting less of a story from it.
But i was really seized and stroke by it.

That first watch was a pretty powerful experience.
I will rewatch it very soon and i'll try to say more about it.

tbcd.

Persona notes:
- Bleak manic like visuals foreshadowing death (?)
- The movie is directed in a way that you become centered on the character, and wanting to understand the individual rather than any action going on around them
- Okay so I’m realizing this movie is in Swedish. I did put on CC, though I may miss some dialogue while taking notes (though the visuals speak for themselves I’m sure)
- So, the leading question is why does she choose* not to speak, and why can she sometimes only laugh?
- At one scene after the silent woman (not sure if they said her name – never mind it’s Elizabeth Vogler) laughed at the radio (can’t understand at what exactly). She seems endeared by the nurse’s attempt at connection with her, and how art is necessary, especially for those struggling. She takes back her somber look when the nurse says that she probably wouldn’t want to be reminded of that. Was it a painful memory that came back, or does she feel the nurse no longer understands her like she thought she did?
- The scene where Elizabeth is stunned and horrified by the news covering riots and a man burning himself alive stands out. Like it’s a reminder to her of why she continues to shut the pain of the world out (?)
- Tying into the theme of truly seeing someone, the letter starts as an attempt of Elizabeth’s (ex?) husband asking her if he ever did anything (because of her no longer speaking) but implies that he saw nothing wrong and thought they were happy (we don’t know their history as an audience, but she likely didn’t feel truly happy or seen, at least in my opinion so far). The letter continues, with a quote from Elizabeth, “I’m only just beginning to understand what it means to be married. You’ve taught me (…) that we must see each other as two anxious children full of goodwill and the best of intentions but governed by forces we can only partially control”. From the quote I wonder if I should see this as a moment of purity and vulnerability. Or naïve and possibly codependent. Either way Elizabeth is again stunned and wants seemingly nothing to do with that point in her life as she tears a photo of her own son.

- Okay so there’s a lot here, but I feel that the older nurse covers the heart of Elizabeth and the theme so far of the movie really well. So I’m going to put her monologue with my thoughts in brackets. “You think I don’t understand? That hopeless dream of being. Not seeming to be, but being. Conscious and awake at every moment. At the same time, the chasm between what you are to others and what you are to yourself (there’s the excruciating distance between who you are, or really your self-perception, and how others perceive you that you can never really tie together, at least not fully without these ‘different selves’ coming undone again from the true you of it all. It seems very 9 wanting to desperately stay existing in the womb without moving to the perceptions and roles of 3 or the uncertainty in defining what something or someone is at 6). The feeling of vertigo, and the constant hunger to be unmasked once and for all. To be seen through, cut down… perhaps even annihilated (if you can’t return to ‘the womb’, to yourself, then how else do you unravel to the truth?). Every tone of voice a lie, every gesture a falsehood, every smile a grimace (again roles at 3 and distrust at 6). Commit suicide? No, too nasty. One doesn’t do things like. But you can refuse to move or talk. Then at least you’re not lying. You can cut yourself off, close yourself in, then you needn’t play any roles, wear any masks, make any false gestures. So you might think… but reality plays nasty tricks on you. Your high place isn’t watertight enough. Life oozes through all sides. You’re forced to react. No one asks whether it’s genuine or not, whether you’re lying or telling the truth (again all very 9, stubbornly not wanting to deal with the outside world, not wanting to react. The womb doesn’t come with an airtight seal). Questions like that only matter in the theater, and hardly even there (funnily enough the lace of acting is expected more honestly and follow through then in day-to-day interactions. It makes sense why Elizabeth seemed touched when the younger nurse was speaking to her about the importance of art), I understand you Elizabeth. I understand that you’re not speaking or moving, that you’ve turned this apathy into a fantastic setup. I understand and admire you. I think you should play this part until it’s played out, until it’s no longer interesting. Then you can drop it, just as you eventually drop all your other roles (this part hits especially because it’s like after all that talk about how Elizabeth strongly does not want to be moved by the outside world and forced to be insincere in a world where there’s no time to find sincerity. Even her silence and her apathy is a role itself. She left the theater, and she still can’t escape it).”

- The theme continues with the younger nurse reading, “All the anxiety we carry within us, all our thwarted dreams, the inexplicable cruelty, our fear of extinction, the painful insight into earthly condition have slowly crystalized our hope for an other-worldly salvation. The tremendous cry of our faith and doubt against the darkness and silence is the most terrifying proof of our abandonment and our unuttered knowledge”. The earthly children have been abandoned from the womb once more. The overall feeling of hopelessness that can only maybe be fixed through such drastic measures (‘salvation’/ savior, ‘faith’, ‘doubt’ at 6). We have been abandoned and have abandoned our own minds. There’s a subtle but sharp contrast here in Elizabeth and her nurse when the nurse asks Elizabeth if she agrees with the above statement (Elizabeth nods, the nurse says she disagrees).

- Even the Elizabeth’s nurse (I’m sure they said her name before. I’ll try to catch it later) has been told she ‘sleep walks’ (9 non-participation). However, she also admires the nurses (and people in general) who aren’t just alive, but truly live in their beliefs (but ‘who’s more sincere?’ is another question. Either way this seems like ‘faith’ at 6. Including wanting to ‘mean something to other people’. A meaning here is desired, certainty, but so is genuine connection deeper down).

- The nurse is searching for connection in her own way “no one’s ever bothered to listen to me”. Earlier she talked about how her love, and her pain, despite being inside her and sincere, wasn’t enough for her to be ‘real’ (to hold the meaning she desires) to a man she was once in an affair with.

- The raw intimacy of the story about the beach (the dialogue is all very alluring, not so much the story itself, but how she tells it, and I feel it speaks for itself emotion wise, so I’ll be brief) contrasted with the nurse’s daily life and that agony once more about feeling split into multiple people and never reaching that level of ecstasy again.

- “I think I could turn into you if I really tried”. There’s less distance between who the nurse is and who Elizabeth is now (9 merging). At this point Elizabeth feels truly seen, or at least empathetic (in my opinion) because she finally speaks. Or at least that’s my impression of what’s happening. Elizabeth’s head is nearly entirely out of the shot, but you can tell it isn’t the nurse talking to herself. However, the nurse doesn’t acknowledge her speaking, so I guess it makes sense why the audience doesn’t see her speaking either. She does however utter the same thing as Elizabeth about not falling asleep at the table. Which reflects their growing similarity to each other inside.

- Okay so the nurse kind of realizes Elizabeth did speak, even if she isn’t fully sure of it, but why didn’t she remember the scene where Elizabeth was in her room? Where does the symbolism end from the reality? Is Elizabeth lying or was that part a dream?

- Younger nurse = Alma

- Alma reads Elizabeth’s letter seeing her view and how she ‘studies her’ about how Alma’s subconsciously smitten and her cries about how her past sins don’t align with her current actions. Alma is silent right when she returns home and Elizabeth utters an ‘ow!” (Almost subtlety switching roles/ becoming each other). Next comes similar/same imagery that was seen in the very beginning of the movie, and then Elizabeth is a blurred figure (lack of identity?) before becoming clear to the audience again, so I feel this is leading to something more important.

- The nurse passively confronts Elizabeth by slamming a door by the serene sea after saying she misses the city. Then when she tells her she needs her to sleep and eggs her on implying ‘real artists have compassion for other people, and that they create out of that compassion’. Alma no longer feels ‘smitten’/ attached but unreciprocated and used by Elizabeth in the life they live. The silence is no longer peaceful to both. She finally tells Elizabeth she angry and hurt about the letter that Elizabeth wrote about her (Alma’s) private issues to the doctor. Betrayed even that she Elizabeth could make herself so easy to talk to and then go behind Alma’s back and continue her silence to Alma’s face. Elizabeth does finally say something when the confrontation gets physical, and Alma nearly throws a pot of scalding hot water on Elizabeth.

- Elizabeth begins to smile and even laugh a little to Alma’s dismay when Elizabeth says how she was ‘genuinely scared of death when she saw her act crazy’. This links back to near the beginning when Elizabeth said ‘all (she) could do was smile’.

- Alma questions the idea of having to live an honest life through silence. Honesty and being genuine is important, but so is the need to speak, and so are the ‘lies, evasions, and excuses’ that come with speaking for long enough. So, in a way ‘silly dishonesty’ is a more human and genuine way to be then what Elizabeth is choosing to do. She feels out of touch with Elizabeth, and that despite doctors saying she’s healthy, that she knows Elizabeth is rotten for her act and keeping each other in such a state. She then frantically tries to apologize to Elizabeth as she walks away from her, saying once again she was mad about the letter. In some ways Alma betrayed herself by projecting the type of person (a ‘good listener’, ‘kind’, ‘understanding’, ‘a great actress’) Elizabeth was to her. Even to the point of wanting to be of use to Elizabeth on a personal level and feeling discarded when Elizabeth exclaimed no such thing. Alma cries once again when she exclaims how Elizabeth is ‘too proud’ to stoop to her level. The need to be needed, and pride all seem like very 2ish themes as well.

- To add to the last part, Robin made note of how Elizabeth is likely envious of Alma’s ‘zest for life and her normalcy’ as well. Pride and envy. 2 and 4.

- There’s a postcard of citizens surrounded by military (police?) that seems related to the news Elizabeth saw earlier at the hospital.

- Okay side note I just checked the movie summary again (doesn’t spoil much of anything). Elizabeth’s name (said as Elisabet technically in CC) is well, Elisabeth, but the nurse’s name is apparently Anna. I could have sworn I read ‘Alma’ in the subtitles. So, I’m not going to change what I have above right now, but Alma/ Anna/ young nurse are all referring to the same person.

- Elizabeth’s ex-husband (?) visits (unless Anna’s seeing things) and speaks to Anna as though she’s Elizabeth (merging of identities). Then you realize that he is blind, and so Anna tells him that she loves him as like she’s a vessel for Elizabeth. Or is he literally blind? I’m flipping back and forth her a lot, but I wonder if that’s the point or if that matters so much, because either way the line between Elizabeth and Anna are more and more blurred. Anna lives like Elizabeth’s husband is truly hers and Elizabeth just sadly lets it all play out. She even lives out the feeling of indifference and shame of lying the actual Elizabeth must have felt, so it’s like eerily watching a play by play of Elizabeth’s past relationship. The nurse confronts Elizabeth about the recent photo, with the one boy being her son, just like from the earlier photo she ripped in half. I’m beginning to wonder if that scene with her husband was only in her mind.

- Elizabeth’s reaction to seeing her son is better explained as Anna talks about how Elizabeth tried to overcome her fear of being ‘unmotherly’ as a woman by having a child. Only to be overcome by the new fear of losing herself, her freedom, her body, and yet continuing ‘the act’ anyways. Elizabeth’s confronted with how much she didn’t want her child, even going so far to wish it was a still born, even after birth, despite fitting into the new mother role and being told kindly that she’s ‘never seemed more beautiful’ by the public. Maybe part of the reason Elizabeth went silent is because she knows firsthand how cruel spoken honesty can be. ‘The boy loved his mother, but she (Elizabeth) felt she couldn’t’ also seems very 9ish with the fear of being unlovable, of not being able to love, or not being enough, no matter how much you try to reach into the heart of the issue (something I need to sit with myself).

- The above scene was all in Elizabeth’s mind to show the audience her true fears, Anna is only now seeing the photo for real (?). The scene continues the same as before. However, this time Anna exclaims like she once did earlier, that she is not like Anna, that she does not relate, as though she’s untethering herself from their merged identities. Not sure if the next scene is being translated properly, or if she’s just making less and less sense at this point, but you see the frustration return to Anna, to say the least.

- Some previous imagery returns, we see a bus come as Elizabeth is shown in makeup with cameras. As if to say the performance is finally coming to an end.

Anthony wrote: ↑Sat Oct 16, 2021 4:22 am In my opinion, nature was portrayed quite interestingly throughout the film—

To provide an example, I'd urge you to look closely at the shot at 43:50: this is the scene directly after Alma discovers Elisabet’s letter, and we see Alma outside, under the shade of some trees. Alma remains in high-key lighting, but the trees, despite being in the forefront, are in very low-key lighting, almost black. However, although the camera placement in the mise-en-scene definitely seems intentional, the lighting itself seems natural, untouched by Bergman. I was inclined to see this almost as though Bergman was using nature 'subliminally;' by depicting nature authentically, almost non-diegetically, and contrasting it with the inauthenticity of the film’s narrative world, he reminds the viewer of the distinction between the shadowy inexplicability/background presence of our natural condition and the lenses we see our condition through—the human experience, the “roles” and “personas” we interact through, and experiential lenses we see our lives through as opposed to seeing life-in-itself.

In addition to your guys' notes, what did you guys think of the way Bergman represented nature?

For me, there isn't really anything ultimately inauthentic about the narrative of the relationship between the two women on the island; they revert to a primal, animalistic state, alternating roles of predator and prey. This is why it doesn't matter in the ambiguous parts what 'really' happens, because they're partaking of an elemental consciousness together. So they fit in very well as part of that rather unforgiving isolated nature.

I'll be posting here quite a bit more mañana.

ps Forgot to say I just watched it a second time (well, lifetime third) before posting here again.

In the beginning of her essay on Robert Bresson in her book Against Interpretation and Other Essays, Susan Sontag says,

Some art aims directly at arousing the feelings; some art appeals to the feelings through the route of intelligence. There is art that involves, that creates empathy. There is art that detaches, that provokes reflection.

Bergman’s Persona hits all of these notes for me. My first introduction to Bergman was either in high school or early college with The Seventh Seal, and I was blown away by it. Years later, I would watch Cries and Whispers and I was sucked into the austere and tense atmosphere of the period drama.Persona affects me by way of an insidious crawl; right from the beginning, the film immediately hooks its claws into me with its Eisenstein-like montage and then of course the iconic image of the young boy touching the projected images of Alma’s and Elisabet’s faces that fade in and out of each other. Throughout the film, I was immersed in the relationship between Alma and Elisabet for not only how well written and well acted the dynamic was, but in some ways it has mirrored my own relationships from the past to some degree. And even after watching the film, I can’t help but keep thinking about it because in a lot of ways, the film not only demands interpretation and it also gives us so many avenues to approach it.

I did some research online and many people have commented on the Jungian themes of the film: duality of the self, the fractured ego, and so on. But what struck me immediately after watching the film was the use of language in it. The act of speaking instantiates our thoughts and language frames how we think. Talking is our main mode of communication and with that we follow common rules on how to and when to speak and what to say. In some circles, like in religious ceremonies and occult rituals, incantations are evocations or invocations. They make our intent known within the cosmos and create an active relationship between us and the force we’re trying to come into contact with. As an actress, speaking is, in a way, currency. Elisabet’s mysterious condition forces her to be impassive and mute. But her silence, as the psychiatrist ascertained, is just another role she’s playing into and eventually she’s going to speak again. Her reticence is not only a silent rebellion against the roles she’s had to inhabit, it’s a resistance against the order of things; her refusal to speak places her outside of conventional modes of communicating and relating.

Elisabet’s silence forces her to communicate in more indirect and subtle ways and through the silence, her gestures are imbued with meaning and weight since they’ve supplanted her spoken language. In the beginning of Alma’s and Elisabet’s stay at the psychiatrist’s summer home, Alma felt that Elisabet’s silence gave her space to be intimately open and induced her to share her most vulnerable moments, as well viewing her silence as infantile. Over time, especially after Alma reads the letter, her silence is seen as predatory and exploitative. The silence brings to the surface the shadow that threatens to break the mask of the persona, and the visual silence of the film also brings this facet to the fore. To answer Anthony’s question about nature in the film, the general setting, from the hospital to the summer home to the island is sparse, austere, and clinical, and the only background sounds present are the diegetic sounds of the environment. Without any further distractions for both the audience and the characters, the sparse setting foregrounds the characters and their dynamics while subtly framing the way we see the characters.

In some regard, I can’t help but see Alma’s (soul) and Elisabet’s relationship as a metaphor for post-war European identity. Bergman was foremost an artist and not a political animal but I guess any film made in post-war Europe is a commentary, whether it be explicit or implicit, on European identity. Elisabet’s silence attempts to subvert the persona since it falls outside the normal order of things especially as it introduces ambiguity, interpretation, deconstruction, and new ways of communicating and relating, things that threaten the status of any grand narrative. The embers of World War 2 have brought European identity into a crisis - it showed that no matter how advanced, cultured, and enlightened a society is, it can still fall prey to the worst instincts. If anything, the tools of rationality and enlightenment themselves can even bring forth these atrocities. In the beginning of the film, Elisabet looks in horror at the footage of the Vietnamese monk, Thích Quảng Đức, self-immolating in protest of the South Vietnamese government persecuting Buddhists. Later on in the film, she sees a photo of a Jewish boy being held at gunpoint by Nazis, and I wonder in these moments, if she questions how effective and meaningful her silence is, if it’s nothing but a shallow rebellion, another role that she’s taken on. These events, from the near past to the present day, showcase the shadow of European culture: how the vestiges of European colonialism have negatively affected other countries around the world, and the horror at home, the Holocaust. And those events beg these questions (and many more): What do the stories that we’ve been told growing up truly mean and with everything that has happened, are these stories nothing but lies? Who are we at the end of it all and what can we hold onto? Must we even hold onto anything?

Ftr, I'm not ignoring this thread. I've been reading along, but I'd like to rewatch the film before posting here again since quite a bit of it is escaping me at the moment. I'm going to do this today.

-Sarah- wrote: ↑Sun Oct 17, 2021 2:18 pm
In some regard, I can’t help but see Alma’s (soul) and Elisabet’s relationship as a metaphor for post-war European identity...The embers of World War 2 have brought European identity into a crisis - it showed that no matter how advanced, cultured, and enlightened a society is, it can still fall prey to the worst instincts.

Not just post-war. During the war. Sweden was neutral during WWII. Following its efforts to save the League of Nations, in return for not being invaded, Sweden provided the Reich with the iron ore for its armaments, and it provided access for the conquest of Norway. However if it had not it would have been crushed and wound up doing the same by force. Instead, Sweden actually profited, while selling its soul, so to say. And as neutral territory, Sweden was over-accommodating to the Reich in not allowing refugee status to Jews until the Reich began losing the war. Then Sweden took in many Jews from other Scandinavian countries.

Alma is a 9-fixed 2 but Elisabet is a 2-fixed 9. Alma immediately perceives Elisabet's silence as the act of a stronger will, but it is also the ultimate ironic over-accommodation.

I don't have much to add right now since I'm going by the top of my head, but this part, "Over time, especially after Alma reads the letter, her silence is seen as predatory and exploitative. The silence brings to the surface the shadow that threatens to break the mask of the persona, and the visual silence of the film also brings this facet to the fore." that -Sarah- wrote also seems to parallel with that scene where Elisabet slowly up to Alma as she's sleeping. She's graceful, but I got a similar 'predatory', or more so an eerie feeling, until they essentially melt into each other again. This contrasted with Elisabet massaging Alma'a shoulders earlier, where she seemed more 'nurturing' (which by the end of the movie you realize she doesn't identify with that role). I think Alma shows a similar role when she's speaking to a 'sleeping' Elisabet (I think she said something like "you can't"), but that part I'm having trouble recalling at the moment.

As for Anthony question about nature. I didn't really make note of this at the time. I agree with Roshan about it reflecting the women's primal state. I noticed more how the lack of background allowed for more attention to be focused on the characters themselves. There was the contrast between nature itself and the little space in the house as well. The house didn't feel claustrophobic exactly, but I can see how Alma would've felt trapped with Elisabet's perceived betrayal, and later Elisabet herself when she's confronted with who she really is. The scenes with nature either felt serene, or like that one scene where Alma threw herself down crying near a rock when Elisabet won't forgive her, just an open force of emotions (so, primal). Versus inside the house where there were some emotional outbursts but they were more apologetic, less open.