Split Reflections: What “Persona” Says About Womanhood

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HORIZONTAL IMAGE: A haunting black-and-white cinematic image inspired by Ingmar Bergman’s Persona. The scene is set on a rugged Swedish shoreline under an overcast sky, with uneven rocks stretching into the cold, churning sea. In the foreground, a Swedish woman in her late 30s with short, slightly unkempt hair stands in profile. Her face shows subtle signs of age or weariness, with creased brows and lines around her lips, as if shaped by unspoken struggles. She wears a practical, well-worn sweater, damp from the sea spray, her posture tense and weighed down. In the background, another Swedish woman in her late 30s stands on a higher rock, slightly out of focus but solid and present. She wears a loose, utilitarian dress that clings to her in the coastal breeze, her hair tied back in a simple knot, exposing a bare, serious face. She gazes out toward the horizon with an unreadable expression. The sea crashes against the rocks, sending white foam into the air, with sharp contrasts of light and shadow emphasizing the rawness of the natural landscape. Distant skeletal trees rise along the edge of the frame, their bare branches stark against the sky. The mood is one of profound isolation and tension, the figures existing together yet apart, reflecting the layered humanity and ambiguity of Bergman’s themes.

There is a moment in Persona where the faces of Alma and Elisabet blur into one—a surreal, haunting image that feels less like a cinematic trick and more like a revelation. It lingers, not because it shocks, but because it speaks to something deeper—a merging of identities, of selves, of womanhood. Ingmar Bergman’s 1966 film Persona is less a narrative than an exploration—a deep dive into the complexities of identity, intimacy, and, ultimately, womanhood.

Alma (Bibi Andersson) and Elisabet Vogler (Liv Ullmann) are two sides of the same coin, yet they couldn’t be more different. Alma, the nurse, is open, talkative, eager to connect. Elisabet, the actress, is silent, withholding, enigmatic. But as the story unfolds, it becomes clear that these differences are not boundaries; they are layers. The two women reflect, absorb, and even consume each other in ways that feel as natural as they are unsettling. Their relationship is less about competition and more about collision—a mirror held up to both women, and perhaps to all of us.

Here’s a short video from the Criterion Collection offering three compelling reasons why Persona remains a masterpiece:

This collision speaks to something deeply ingrained in the experience of womanhood: the tension between who we are and who we are expected to be. Elisabet’s silence is powerful, even defiant. In a world that demands constant performance, she chooses to withdraw, to withhold. Alma is desperate to be seen and understood, pouring herself out until she feels hollow. For Alma, Elisabet becomes a vessel—a place to pour her confessions, fears, and desires. For Elisabet, Alma is both a witness and a mirror, reflecting truths she refuses to confront. Together, they unravel, bound by a connection that is both intimate and alienating.

These themes feel as urgent today as they did when Persona first premiered. Women are still navigating the delicate balance between authenticity and expectation, often pressured to wear masks or adopt roles that obscure their true selves. Elisabet’s defiant silence and Alma’s desperate openness are two extremes of this ongoing struggle, making their dynamic timeless and deeply resonant.

But Persona doesn’t stop at examining the roles women play; it digs into the spaces where those roles dissolve. As Alma and Elisabet’s identities blur, so do the boundaries between friend and foe, nurse and patient, self and other. Bergman seems to ask: Are we ever truly separate from the people who shape us? The answer, at least in Persona, is a resounding no. Women, especially, are often cast in relation to others—as caregivers, muses, rivals. The film exposes how those roles can both define and confine.

Yet, there is no simple moral to Persona. Bergman isn’t offering answers, only questions. Why does Elisabet choose silence? Why does Alma react so violently to her own reflection in Elisabet? And perhaps the most unsettling question of all: Are they truly separate people, or two halves of a fractured whole? The film resists explanation, forcing the viewer to sit with its ambiguity, much like the women it portrays.

What makes Persona timeless is its refusal to shy away from the messy, contradictory nature of womanhood. It is at once a celebration and a critique, a meditation on the masks women wear and the truths they hide. Alma and Elisabet aren’t just characters; they are archetypes, mirrors, shadows. Watching them is like looking into a kaleidoscope—fragmented, beautiful, impossible to pin down.

In the end, Persona doesn’t try to define womanhood. Instead, it shows us its edges, its overlaps, its fractures. It reminds us that being a woman is rarely straightforward—it is a series of reflections, split yet whole, constantly shifting. And perhaps that’s the point. Womanhood, like Persona itself, is a mystery we’re not meant to solve but to experience. But in experiencing it, can we see our own reflections more clearly?