Shakespeare distills the most basic human choice in six words: "To survive, or to perish?" Elizabeth answers it in one word: "No!" In "Masquerade," she stops speaking in the middle of a performance and refuses ever since. Speak up. When her nurse, Alma, was angry and wanted to throw a pot of boiling water on her, she shouted, "No!" The implication was: I don't want to suffer, I don't want to be hurt, I don't want to die. She longed to survive, and she couldn't ignore her own existence.
Since The Mask (1966) came out, we have often looked back on the film because of its visual beauty and our desire to understand its mysteries. Obviously, it's not a hard movie to read: everything that happens is clear, and even the series of dreams within it appear organized. But the truth hidden beneath the surface of the film is disappointing. "Masquerade" was one of the first films I reviewed in 1967, before I understood it. A third of a century later, I have mastered most of what I know about film, and now I think the best way to understand "Masquerade" is to start at the surface.
The movie is exactly what it looks like. "One of the great things about "Masquerade" is that it takes the pretentiousness without it," says a viewer named John Hardy on IMDb. Bergman presents us with everyday actions and ordinary conversations, and Sven Nikvest's photography brings it to life with these extraordinary images. One or two of their faces, front or profile portraits, have become the hallmark of the film.
Elizabeth (Liv Ullman) stopped speaking halfway through the show and has since refused to speak. A psychiatrist thinks it might help Elizabeth's condition if she spends time with her nurse Alma (Bibi Andersson) at her seaside villa. But somehow, the two people who were placed under the same time and space gradually merged into one. Elizabeth said nothing while Alma gushed about her plans, her fears, and finally, in a long, bold monologue, of one of her obscene and delightful experiences .
The two actresses look somewhat similar. To underscore this similarity, Bergman grouped the two actors' half faces together. Then he superimposed the two faces, like a graphic gradient. Anderson once told me that she and Uman didn't know Bergman would do this in advance, and when she first saw the image, she was disturbed and horrified. Bergman told me, "A good film art theme is always about the human face. It's all there."
Their visual fusion suggests a deeper spiritual gravity. As a patient, Elizabeth, although silent, has a stronger spiritual power than Alma, and finally conquered Alma's soul. There is an interlude before Alma's rage erupts, in the sunny courtyard, as she picks up shards of glass, deliberately leaving a shard where Elizabeth might have walked. Unsurprisingly, Elizabeth hurts her foot, and it looks like the nurse has the upper hand here, but it's essentially a victory for Elizabeth, as she exposes her weak side by forcing the nurse to violate her work ethic.
Elizabeth looked at Alma and seemed to know that the glass shard was not an accident. Meanwhile, Bergman makes the picture appear to be tearing and burning, followed by a blank space. After that, the screen returned to normal. This series of shots reflects the way the film is presented. At the beginning of the film and after the two scenes here, the projector lights will start to flicker violently, like a beam of life, and the director uses a montage of images that appeared in early films: silent skeletons, coffins Imagery, the nailed hand. This "split" of the film is finally fixed in front of an eyeball. As the camera gets closer and closer, the blood vessels of the eyeball are also enlarged, and the lens seems to have an insight into its soul.
A sequence of shots in the film's opening shows that "Masquerade" begins at the beginning of the film, and the "split" in the middle shows that the film goes back to the beginning and starts again. Finally, there is a scene where the film runs out and the lights fade away, and the movie ends. Bergman is trying to tell us that he has returned to the beginning of all things. "God said, let there be light, and there is light." Near the end, there's a shot of a camera crew shooting the film on a crane, and Nikovest and Bergman are tinkering with it. This shot that includes the creator is meant to show that they are in the film, the film is theirs, and they cannot stay out of it.
In the first half of the film, Elizabeth saw a picture of a Vietnamese Buddhist monk self-immolating on the TV news. Later, she turned out a photo of the Warsaw Ghetto, a group of Jews surrounded by soldiers, and the camera gradually fixed on the face of a young boy. Did these horrors make Elizabeth stop talking? While the movie doesn't tell us, it's clear her silence has something to do with it. For Alma, the horror comes more from the family: she doubts her bond with her fiancé, her ability to be a nurse, her courage to face Elizabeth.
Elizabeth suffered a deeper pain, which Bergman expresses succinctly and boldly. The first is a series of dreams (whether it is a dream is debatable): Elizabeth arrives at Alma's room in the middle of the night. In Swedish summer, the night is just the transition between dusk and dawn. A soft, pale light filled the room, and the two women looked at each other as if they were looking in a mirror. They turn to face the camera, and Elizabeth strokes Alma's hair. A man's voice sounded: "Elizabeth." It was her husband Vogler. They came outside, and Vogler stroked Alma's face and called her "Elizabeth." No, she said, she was not Elizabeth. Elizabeth took Alma's hand and stroked her husband's face.
Later indoors, Alma gave a monologue about Elizabeth and her children. The child was born deformed, Elizabeth left him to relatives to raise, and she went back to continue acting. The camera is on Elizabeth, and Alma's voice is constantly heard, and the story is tormenting her. Then the story is told again, only this time the camera is on Alma. I believe that Bergman's intention is not to try two ways of shooting, but to want two women to tell the same story - with Elizabeth's part being performed by Alma, to show that the two exist as one. .
Another monologue in the film is more famous, the passionate story of Alma and her friends and two men on the beach. The imagery of this monologue is so strong that it is immersive. In all three monologues, Bergman shows us the limitless possibilities of language, about how it creates images and constructs reality.
The most authentic external experience of the film is the broken foot and the boiling water that was almost poured. Through this "destruction", the film reveals to us the fact that everything else in the film is created by thought (or art) constituted. The most authentic experience in Alma is an orgasm on the beach. Both Elizabeth's pain and Alma's pleasure are essentially shattering the illusions in their lives. Much of what we know about ourselves comes not from direct experience in the world, but from the transmission of spiritual thoughts through ideas, memories, media, others, all walks of life, duties, desires, hopes, and fears. Elizabeth chose to be who she is, and Alma didn't have the courage to refuse to be Elizabeth. The title of the film says it all: the mask, the persona, is one.
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Shakespeare used six words to pose the essential human choice: "To be, or not to be?" Elizabeth, a character in Ingmar Bergman's "Persona," uses two to answer it: "No, don't!" She is an actress who one night stopped speaking in the middle of the performance, and has been silent ever since. Now her nurse, Alma, has in a fit of rage started to throw a pot of boiling water at her. "No, don't!" translates as: I do not want to feel pain, I do not want to be scarred, I do not want to die. She wants . . . to be. She admits . . . she exists.
"Persona" (1966) is a film we return to over the years, for the beauty of its images and because we hope to understand its mysteries. It is apparently not a difficult film: Everything that happens is perfectly clear, and even the dream sequences are clear--as dreams. But it suggests buried truths, and we despair of finding them. "Persona" was one of the first movies I reviewed, in 1967. I did not think I understood it. A third of a century later I know most of what I am ever likely to know about films, and I think I understand that the best approach to "Persona" is a literal one.
It is exactly about what it seems to be about. "How this pretentious movie manages to not be pretentious at all is one of the great accomplishments of 'Persona,' " says a moviegoer named John Hardy, posting his comments on the Internet Movie Database . Bergman shows us everyday actions and the words of ordinary conversation. And Sven Nykvist's cinematography shows them in haunting images. One of them, of two faces, one frontal, one in profile, has become one of the most famous images of the cinema.
Elizabeth (Liv Ullmann) stops speaking in the middle of Electra, and will not speak again. A psychiatrist thinks it might help if Elizabeth and Nurse Alma (Bibi Andersson) spend the summer at her isolated house. Held in the same box of space and time, the two women somehow merge. Elizabeth says nothing, and Alma talks and talks, confessing her plans and her fears, and eventually, in a great and daring monologue, confessing an erotic episode during which she was, for a time, completely happy .
The two actresses look somewhat similar. Bergman emphasizes this similarity in a disturbing shot where he combines half of one face with half of the other. Later he superimposes the two faces, like a morph. Andersson told me she and Ullmann had no idea Bergman was going to do this, and when she first saw the film she found it disturbing and frightening. Bergman told me, "The human face is the great subject of the cinema. Everything is there."
Their visual merging suggests a deeper psychic attraction. Elizabeth, the patient, mute and apparently ill, is stronger than Alma, and eventually the nurse feels her soul being overcome by the other woman's strength. There is a moment when her resentment flares and she lashes back. In the sunny courtyard of the cottage, she picks up the pieces of a broken glass, and then deliberately leaves a shard where Elizabeth might walk. Elizabeth cuts her foot, but this is essentially a victory for the actress, who has forced the nurse to abandon the discipline of her profession and reveal weakness.
Elizabeth looks at Alma, seeming to know the glass shard was not an accident, and at that moment Bergman allows his film to seem to tear and burn. The screen goes blank. Then the film reconstitutes itself. This sequence mirrors the way the film has opened. In both cases, a projector lamp flares to life, and there is a montage from the earliest days of the cinema: jerky silent skeletons, images of coffins, a hand with a nail being driven into it. The middle "break" ends with the camera moving in toward an eye, and even into the veins in the eyeball, as if to penetrate the mind.
The opening sequence suggests that "Persona" is starting at the beginning, with the birth of cinema. The break in the middle shows it turning back and beginning again. At the end, the film runs out of the camera and the light dies from the lamp and the film is over. Bergman is showing us that he has returned to first principles. "In the beginning, there was light." Toward the end there is a shot of the camera crew itself, with the camera mounted on a crane and Nykvist and Bergman tending it; this shot implicates the makers in the work. They are there, it is theirs, they cannot separate themselves from it.
Early in the film, Elizabeth watches images from Vietnam on the TV news, including a Buddhist monk burning himself. Later, there are photographs from the Warsaw ghetto, of Jews being rounded up; the film lingers on the face of a small boy. Have the horrors of the world caused Elizabeth to stop speaking? The film does not say, but obviously they are implicated. For Alma, horrors are closer to home: She doubts the validity of her relationship with the man she plans to marry, she doubts her abilities as a nurse, she doubts she has the strength to stand up to Elizabeth.
But Elizabeth has private torments, too, and Bergman expresses them in a sequence so simple and yet so bold we are astonished by its audacity. First there is a dream sequence (if it is a dream; opinions differ), in which Elizabeth enters the room of Alma in the middle of the night. In a Swedish summer, night is a finger drawn by twilight between one day and the next, and soft pale light floods the room. The two women look at one another like images in a mirror. They turn and face us, one brushing back the other's hair. A man's voice calls, "Elizabeth." It is her husband, Mr. Vogler (Gunnar Bjornstrand). They are outside. He caresses Alma's face and calls her "Elizabeth." No, she says, she is not Elizabeth. Elizabeth takes Alma's hand and uses it to caress her husband's face.
Inside, later, Alma delivers a long monologue about Elizabeth's child. The child is born deformed, and Elizabeth left it with relatives so she can return to the theater. The story is unbearably painful. It is told with the camera on Elizabeth. Then it is told again, word for word, with the camera on Alma. I believe this is not simply Bergman trying it both ways, as has been suggested, but literally both women telling the same story--through Alma when it is Elizabeth's turn, since Elizabeth does not speak. It shows their beings are in union.
The other monologue in the movie is more famous; Alma's story of sex on the beach involving herself, her girlfriend and two boys. The imagery of this monologue is so powerful that I have heard people describe the scene as if they actually saw it in the film. In all three monologues, Bergman is showing how ideas create images and reality.
The most real objective experiences in the film are the cut foot and the threat of boiling water, which by "breaking" the film show how everything else is made of thought (or art). The most real experience Alma has ever had is her orgasm on the beach. Elizabeth's pain and Alma's ecstasy were able to break through the reveries of their lives. Most of what we think of as "ourselves" is not direct experience of the world, but a mental broadcast made of ideas, memories, media input , other people, jobs, roles, duties, lusts, hopes, fears. Elizabeth chooses to be who she is' Alma is not strong enough to choose not to be Elizabeth. The title is the key. "Persona." Singular.
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