Bergman's Persona: The Metaphysics of Meta-Cinema

Author(s): David L. Vierling

Source: Diacritics, Vol. 4, No. 2 (Summer, 1974), pp. 48-51
Published by: The Johns Hopkins University Press
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48

LEONARD BASKIN
Anguish
Herbert F. Johnson Museum of Art

David L. Vierling

BERGMAN'SPERSONA:
The

of
Meta-Cinema
Metaphysics

Late in Ingmar Bergman's film, Persona

(1966), Elizabeth Vogler is looking at a copy of the
famous photograph depicting the clearing of the
Warsaw ghetto by the Nazis. The fame of this picture clearly resides in its power to move a viewer
make the intellectual abstraction
emotionally-to
"Nazism" non-intellectual and apperceptive-and
yet Elizabeth reacts not emotionally but in an intellective way. Staring with detached curiosity, she
(and, via the camera, the audience) studies the photograph by breaking it down into sections which fill
the whole screen, fragmenting the image repeatedly
until, in the end, only areas of black and white grain
remain. Her dissection of the photograph analyzes
parts of the whole; yet, by seeing them only as parts,
she fails to experience the overall synthesis of the
parts-the emotion, the horror of the image. Such
analysis-such
typifies the
"seeing"-unfortunately
general critical response to Persona.
The critic who believes that the key to a film
can be obtained by fragmenting the film into parts
discovers not the meaning of Bergman's film (indeed, there is no "meaning" per se) but finds rather,
like the hero of Antonioni's Blow-up, that once parts
are separated from the whole, you can make anything you want of them just as the grain in Elizabeth's photograph could be a part of any image whatDavid L. Vierling is a graduate student in Comparative
Literature at Cornell University.

soever. By free association Persona is made to say

and be about whatever the critic wishes, whether it
is Vietnam and political violence (Robin Wood's
reading in Ingmar Bergman. New York: Praeger,
Inc., 1969) or God (Arthur Gibson's reading in
The Silence of God: Creative Response to the Films
of Ingmar Bergman. New York: Harper and Row,
1969-which
insists on seeing God in every Bergman film desipte Bergman's denials as voiced in an
interview with John Simon touching on Persona:
"No, [the question of God in my films is] past.
Things are difficult enough without God. They were
much more difficult when I had to put God into it";
Ingmar Bergman Directs. New York: Harcourt
Brace Jovanovich, Inc., 1972; p. 28). Even conscientious critics who try to re-synthesize after they have
analyzed often destroy the film by the simple act
is
of turning what is motion and rhythm-"Film
mainly rhythm," says Bergman (Four Screenplays.
New York: Simon and Schuster, 1960; p. 17)-into
fixity; John Simon goes so far as to run the film
frame by frame on a movieola, seeing it not as film
but as a series of still images. And, in dealing with
Persona, all critics seem to augment, consciously or
unconsciously, a problem which exists in any written
analysis of a visual medium: taking the limited and
particular information conveyed by the image (film,
by nature, a coercive medium in its particularizing),
they translate the image into a written equivalent
(words, by nature, a freer language than film, conveying much more freedom of connotation) which

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allows them a continually expanding field in which

to render and interpret the image metaphorically-a
field limited only by their imaginations, dictates of
logic (often ignored), and the need for a final
period. Such reductiveness (paradoxically, unwarranted expansion) and failure to see Persona as a
visual whole have allowed critics searching for their
own answers to avoid hearing the questions Bergman
is postulating.
Just as Elizabeth's photograph is a copy of an
original, so one should realize that Persona is a film
of a film from first image to last (a fact usually subordinated by critics to the "story line" of the film,
if it is mentioned at all); Bergman is questioning
his medium in Persona, showing us what film can
and cannot do. Again, like Elizabeth's photograph,
Persona works primarily on an emotional level; just
as the photograph meant nothing except as a totality,
Persona exists as a thematic meditation upon the
very idea of synthesis (primarily doubling) of two
becoming, or trying to become, one, of the breakdown of distinctions and categories yielding a unity.
These two views of Persona are not the ultimate answers to the critical question "What is Persona
about?", especially as this question implies the critical fallacy that there is a definitive message in a
work of art waiting to be decoded; Bergman once
said in an interview, "I have no answers; I just pose
questions. I'm not very gifted at giving answers"
(Ingmar Bergman Directs, p. 33). This view of
Persona as a questioning of film and as a thematic
meditation on the idea of doubling, should at least
allow us a legitimate avenue toward an understanding of the film.
With the first image of the film-that of the
two carbons of a projector's arc lamp coming toimmediately states these major
gether-Bergman
concerns visually. (1) We are about to see a film
about film (the film soon to run through the projector's sprockets and before the lamp). (2) The phenomenological response comes prior to any intellectual response (which, if it occurs, will be largely
de-emphasized by the film) as shown by the immediate burst of light (the birth of the film? creation from
the void?) which we apperceive before we realize
that we are watching an arc lamp, i.e., before we
bracket our sight and cease to really see. Also, (3)
we have a visual equivalent for the theme of doubling which will run throughout the film as the two
glowing carbons join and from the two weak lights
produce a single blinding light. These concerns, embodied in the image of the arc lamp, are elaborated
in the remainder of the film's prologue and credits
just as the entire film will continue the elaboration.
Perhaps the best way to see the different directions
in which Bergman will be working in the body of
the film would be, therefore, to examine closely the
opening montage and credit sequences.
Following the images of the film starting upparafictionally echoing the start of this film which
the audience watches-doubling is again implied as
an old cartoon image of hands being washed is followed by an actual film of hands being washed, the
two images being a synthesis of film, historically
(from animation to the recording of reality), while,
at the same time, we are reminded that as film both

images are an illusion, even though the living hands

seem more "real"-a first blending of reality/nonreality in the film and the first statement that they
are somewhat similar. Next, the old Bergman joins
the new Bergman as, parafictionally, Bergman inserts
a slapstick sequence from one of his earlier films:
a man terrified by a devil-implying
a fusion of
time (Bergman's own past and his own present)
while again echoing the tradition of film and the
merger of reality/non-reality or illusion, dependent
here on point of view; the man is terrified by what
he takes to be reality; we are amused by what we
take to be fiction.
The film then slows its pace with images of a
spider, a sheep with its throat slit, the palm of a
hand with a nail driven into it, and finally faces,
hands, and feet of people apparently in a morgueas if Bergman were continuing the idea he established in the rapidity of the opening shots, by showing what film can do best: creating images which
hit the viewer apperceptively, emotionally rather
than intellectively. These images are ominous and
ponderous, the rhythm of the shots forming an incantational montage for the viewer which, as Eisenstein first realized, bypasses the intellective faculties.
Subsequently, the eyes of a female corpse open,
a boy awakens, reads a book (again a fusion of old
and new Bergman: the boy, Jdrgen Linstrdm, and the
book, A Hero of our Time-each
from The Silence), and reaches out towards us. It is as if the film
is trying to unite with us. The boy is not only reaching towards us but rather/also towards a projected
and moving image on a wall or screen (done in reverse angle shot) which is film. The idea of fusion
suggests, through the boy, in the first instance, film
reaching towards us to communicate while, in the
second instance, he becomes us, trying to grasp the
film both he and we are seeing. Categories break
down: audience/actor fuse just as later in the film
Elizabeth Vogler will appear from nowhere, seeming to take our picture (of course, an impossibility),
and thereby usurping our role as voyeur while reminding us of our part in the film experience and of
her part as not only an image but as a real person.
The projected film toward which the boy
reaches is blurred and indistinct but it suggests the
faces of Alma (Bibi Andersson) and Elizabeth (Liv
Ullmann), the two main characters, merging and
blending, foreshadowing the basic story line of this
non-storying film. And, finally, the credits flash by,
music echoing the disjunctiveness and rapidity of
the credits and spacing shots (some from the film
to follow, others almost subliminal as they flash before us), the screen fading into white against which
a dark line cuts horizontally as a door opens and
with it the story.
In this opening sequence as in his first image
of the arc lamp, Bergman has emphasized film as
his own life, and as emotional response-apperceptive response-as against intellective response or categorizing, while at the same time he has played with
the idea of duality becoming unity, culminating in
perhaps the overriding statement of these sequences:
film itself is fusion, the bringing together of static
separate images and, by imparting temporality to
them, causing them to synthesize into a motion pic-

Cdicritics/Summer 1974
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49

50

ture. The black and white medium is itself a fusion

of opposites which blend to create the gradations
which make up the unity of the film image-all the
various tones between black and white. The white
frame cut by black, which becomes the film's opening scene, thus stands as Bergman's final visual statement on both his medium and the theme of doubling.
The film's final title (chosen over the working titles of Filmnand The Cannibals) further states
the theme of doubling and fusion which subsequently
yields the film's story line-the relationship between
Elizabeth Vogler and Sister Alma-a story line, however, which functions less as a story and more as a
pretext for Bergman's variations on the theme of
doubling as introduced in the opening sequences.
The word persona, originally referred to an actor's
mask, his role; later it came to be identified with the
actor himself. In psychoanalytic terms, these two
ideas have fused, persona being the mask we all wear
in social contexts, our role and identity at the same
time. Thus, using the idea of persona (aptly demonstrated by an actress and a psychiatric nurse), Bergman is able not simply to show the merging of two
definitions into one, but to concentrate on the idea
that one's role and identity are one and the same
and that to lose one's mask is catastrophic, parallel
to the loss of self. The "story" of Persona, simplistically stated, is of two people who are unmasked by
their relationship with each other and who, in the
end, apparently retreat to the security of their respective roles as actress and nurse. But, as mentioned
previously, such a story line is more central as catalyst than as story. Within the story, the major problem (fusion of the individual, of identity) joins the
problem of communication which Bergman began
examining in the opening sequences: Persona begins
to focus most centrally on the problem of communication as a means of defining self, a problem not
only for the fictional character but for their creator
as well.
From the very beginning of the film's "story,"
Bergman has gone beyond the normal concern of
of the Doppelgiinger, of
the double theme-that
characters who reflect each other-by introducing
the issue of communication and tying it to the problem of identity. Elizabeth, apparently from force of
will (if we are to accept the psychiatrist's reductive
diagnosis), has decided not to speak, thereby throwing off her role as actress, wife, and mother, in order
to become to some degree free of her persona, her
mask. She first appears as the non-communicative
one, using lack of communication to define herself.
Yet, ironically, those who do communicate in the
story fail to achieve identity (fail to define themselves), their communication being in fact a failure
to communicate. This is shown most notably in
Alma, the embodiment of the failure of verbal communication.
Alma, although constantly talking, only mouths
banalities throughout the opening part of the film,
as she tells Elizabeth that she is young, engaged, secure, and enjoys her work. We see and hear only
the surface Alma-a film image surface. Later in
the film, Alma will begin to relate her true self, as
during her sexual orgy on the beach and subsequent
abortion; still, even such communication does not

allow her to grasp her identity. Rather, she feels

that identity dissolve in the very act of speaking. She
says about herself, after her talk: "Can you be one
and the same person? I mean two people?"-an interesting phrasing since, both in her communication
with Elizabeth and what she interprets as Elizabeth's
silent communication with her, she ceases to be the
fixed entity Alma ("soul" in Latin) and realizes
her other side-the hurter alongside the healer, the
lesbian alongside the heterosexual, the hater alongside the lover. When she finally begins to become
aware of her other nature (beautifully echoed visually
by Alma's reflection in a pool of water after she has
read Elizabeth's letter to the psychiatrist), she experiences difficulty in defining her relationship with
Elizabeth. Finally, in surrealistic sequences reminiscent of Bufiuel, Alma succeeds in having Elizabeth
utter a word: the word is "Nothing." Verbal communication, then, collapses, and with it Alma's ability to define herself. "Many words and then nausea,"
she says during a breakdown scene with Elizabeth
in which her words and phrases become incoherent
sounds. After the "Nothing" of Elizabeth there is no
more talking in the film. Alma returns to her role
(in uniform-she had spent her time with Elizabeth
out of uniform, her clothing resembling Elizabeth's as the story developed) but the question
whether she has regained her identity is unanswered.
Through Alma, Bergman has shown the inherently
close ties-the unity-between communication and
identity. Bergman dispenses with Alma's resolution:
she has fulfilled her functional role by suggesting this
variation on the theme of doubling.
Alma's failure to unify identity and communication is echoed in other scenes where communication is directly tied to the question of identity. Early
in the film, Elizabeth listens to the radio and hears
a play to which she reacts with laughter and then
disgust-relaxing in and accepting only music, as if
music, in its direct emotional contact, were able to
bypass the problems created by other language systems (such as speech) which rely on the intellect.
The problem of the mind blocking communication
is shown not only as it relates to the question of character identity but, more importantly for Bergman,
as it relates to the problem (Bergman's, specifically)
of conveying his vision to us-the "how to tell" with
which Bergman is concerned along with all other
exponents of meta-cinema (most notably, Godard,
Fellini, and Antonioni)..
The mind, by its very inability to note apperceptively, to remain open, is seen as the immediate
cause of the breakdown between Alma and Elizabeth. After reading Elizabeth's letter, Alma uses it
to bracket Elizabeth as an unfeeling monster that
feeds on her parasitically-a reaction expressed by
Alma's predecessor in Strindberg's play The Stronger,
an obvious source for Persona: "Your soul bored
itself into mine as a worm into an apple, and it ate
and ate and burrowed and burrowed till nothing was
left but the outside shell and a little black dust"
(Plays. New York: Scribner's Sons, 1913; p. 175).
A major point of Strindberg's play, as here, is a
to catwarning not to jump to conclusions-not
egorize-since the speaker of these lines has no proof
of maliciousness on the part of the silent Mrs. Y,

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just as Alma has no proof of Elizabeth's maliciousness. Failing to realize that the letter was not written to her but to the psychiatrist-failing to be flexible in her point of view-Alma
over-reacts and
spoils what peace she had found at the seaside cottage, her love turning to hate. Thus, the mind-inhibited communication can be seen as the main cause
for the breakdown between Alma and Elizabeth and
as a prime reason for Alma's inability to define herself. On Bergman's level, intellective responses like
Alma's on the part of his audience would not only
preclude seeing any fusion of Alma/Elizabeth in the
film; they would prevent the film from communicating-defining itself-as Bergman would wish it to.
The viewer who tries to story the film, keeping its parts tied together causally and logically, will
experience difficulties from the start. Even in the
film's first half, which is relatively conventional as
narrative form (Bergman saying as much, playfully,
by inserting a short explanation of a change of setting through a narrative voice, his own), there is a
blurring of dream and reality in the scene where
Alma and Elizabeth embrace in the night. To describe this as a dream, or reality, rather than to leave
the question in flux (in unity) will cause the viewer
to specify the story in a way that will be contradicted later when he ultimately comes to the surrealistic dream sequences of Alma. However, in his
very confusion, the intellectualizing viewer, although
he misses the thematic statement of the film about
the fusion of apparent opposites, will become aware
nevertheless that his own form of bracketing was a
failure; in the end Bergman is able to make his point
for a phenomenological apperception however the
picture is "seen" or "mis-seen."
Still, Bergman is not interested in communicating after the fact. He would rather remain, with his
viewer, at the emotional level (immediate communication). In an essay on the differences between literature and film, Bergman confirmed his views:
Film has nothing to do with literature;the character and
substance of the two art forms are usually in conflict.
This probably has something to do with the receptive
process of the mind. The written word is read and assimilated by a conscious act of the will in alliance with
the intellect; little by little it affects the imagination and
the emotions. The process is different with a motion picture. When we experience a film, we consciously prime
ourselves for illusion. Putting aside will and intellect,
we make way for it in our imagination. The sequence
of pictures plays directly on our feelings. (Four Screenplays, p. 17)
For Bergman, then, film is to be experienced;
it is not thought about (at least not while the viewing occurs). The film breakdown that occurs after
Alma places a piece of glass in Elizabeth's path (her
first act of violence and hatred after reading Eliz-

abeth's letter) cannot be confused in any way with

Brechtian alienation; it shows best Bergman's affinity
with emotion rather than with intellect. The splitting
film, the burning emulsion, the figures of terror, both
comic (the slapstick scene again) and tragic (the
hand nailed through the palm), do not serve to distance the viewer but rather to render a filmic equivalent of an emotional state. We are made aware of
film as a medium, but also as a form of emotional
communication which breaks down under emotional
overload and, like a person trying to get ahold of
himself, laboriously refocuses and returns to the
story. There is no intellectualizing and no distancing
since such actions tend only to pull us away from
the film-a film into which Bergman drew us initially through the figure of the boy who fuses with us
in the prologue. Above all, communicating is, for
Bergman, the means of asserting his identity and it
is only in failing to communicate at all, or in misunderstanding communication (bracketing and intellectualizing), that identity fails both for Bergman
and his characters.
Ingmar Bergman's Persona is more than just the
story of the inter-relationships of two women who
come together at one point and who then separate
and disappear at the end; and it is more than any
small incident in the film separated from the whole.
In Persona, by dealing with the problem of fusion,
especially as it relates the fusion of parts to an
emotional work of art (film), Bergman has made a
statement about his art and his own ability to communicate. The fact that the film continues past the
word "Nothing" may seem to imply that film is superior to the word-is the new "Hero of our Time"
to whom the boy/audience turns for communication.
But at the end of Persona, the film runs off its
sprockets and the carbons of the arc lamp move
apart; fusion ceases and individuation occurs again
as the audience, no longer tied to the screen emotionally, rises to go: film too has limits and seemingly proves itself to be an inadequate means of
communication. Indeed, there is no absolute means
of communication. Bergman is most certainly aware
of this problem, a problem which he shares with any
artist: "I am caught in a conflict," he writes, "a conflict between my need to transmit a complicated situation through visual images, and my desire for absolute clarity" (Four Screenplays, p. 18). And yet,
although the film ends with a question not only about
the outcome of the story (do Alma and Elizabeth
return to their roles, reaccept their identities as defined by their respective modes of communication,
healing and art?) but also about the fate of film as
medium (has it too broken down?), the work of
Persona in its very unity (its ending echoing symmetrically the opening shots) stands as a statement
of integration, a success and affirmation of its form.

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51