Ingmar Bergman's Persona opens with a barrage of images, none of them pleasant, designed to put an audience on edge. Or perhaps the goal is give the casual filmgoer a chance to leave before the difficult subject matter arrives. Either way, they appear to be unrelated to the narrative of Persona, or maybe they're everything. Hard to say for sure.

Some of them are Freudian, some comic, some famous, and a few are just weird, but Bergman's trying to establish something here, be it a reminder that this is all just a movie, or an indication of what's to come, or a feeling of unease. Whatever his motives, it's an effective sequence, as it tends to get different reactions from different audience members, to the point that no one can seem to agree what Bergman's trying to do.

What follows is the a story of Sister Alma (Bibi Andersson), a young nurse put in charge of the care of Elisabeth Vogler (Liv Ullmann), a famous actress who has inexplicably stopped talking. By all accounts she is not sick, nor is she emotionally damaged, she just refuses to talk. So Alma does the talking for her, revealing more and more until it's difficult to see the line where Alma ends and Elisabeth begins. This culminates in the film's most famous image: a split screen combination of Ullmann and Andersson, made to appear as if they are one person. Then, we get another barrage of images.

It is, to be completely honest, a little off-putting and weird.[1]

So let's assume that's Bergman's desired effect — to put us on edge and creep us out a little bit — and go from there. What we get is a compelling dynamic between Andersson and Ullmann, two actresses at the top of their profession, in a film that can't help but showcase their talents. Save for a few brief appearances by a nurse (Margaretha Krook) and Elisabeth's husband (Gunnar Björnstrand), this is a two-woman show that relies heavily on the abilities of the leads, and they are more than capable.

Andersson appears to have the more difficult role of the two, as she has all the dialogue, talking for long stretches about everything and anything, partly as a means of filling the silence, but partly, I assume, because it's cathartic. After a while, though, the catharsis is no longer enough and she begs Ullmann to speak, to say anything at all. Naturally, this is triggered by something, but more than that it's just a culmination of being with someone for weeks and never hearing them speak.