Persona: Time & Proximity
To this day the close-up remains a unique
aspect of the cinematic experience. On the big screen its nuanced details and
poetic properties widen our anthropological understanding and breathe life into
inanimate objects. In abstract terms the close-up holds a strong affinity to
time. In her intriguing (though maddening) article ‘The Close-up: Scale &
Detail’, Mary Ann Doane believes the close-up is “always at some level an
autonomous entity” operating “synchronically rather than diachronically.” As a
synchronic element, which hinders narrative progression, this intimate
component creates a “temporality of contemplation,” allowing the audience to
examine the subject in frame. Ingmar Bergman’s volatile 1966 feature Persona contains a plethora of close-ups
of its voiceless protagonist Elisabet Vogler (Liv Ullmann). Two scenes in
particular relate to, and contradict, Doane’s argument of the close-up as a
separate, synchronic entity.
From the eerie vacuity of Ullmann’s face in the
psychiatric ward to the climactic sequence of dual-sided revelations Persona denies clear explanations.
Having watched the film innumerable times I have managed to untangle threads of
its complex web of enigmas whilst revelling in its opacity. If the typical dose
of hyperbole demonstrated by many actors was present then the meaning behind Ullman’s spiritless visage could be easily deciphered. Doane highlights
the inherent opposition between “exteriority and interiority” suggesting that
there is always something beyond our visual understanding. When confronted with
an indefinable stare in close-up, the spectator is encouraged to contemplate
its presence on screen and “dismantle it as a pathway to the soul.” Thus the
face itself becomes a sight of subjectivity, granting viewers a bottomless
supply of interpretations.
Analogous to Doane’s statement, Bergman himself
exalts film as the only art form that “goes beyond ordinary consciousness” into
“the twilight room of the soul.” With the taciturn Elisabet, including the
unhinged nurse Sister Alma (Bibi Andersson), Bergman employs the camera as a
tool that transcends the exterior limits in order to reveal the characters’
hidden imperfections.
