All language subtitles for Persona.1966.1080p.BluRay.x264-[YTS.AM]

You wished
to speak to me, Doctor?

Have you seen Mrs. Vogler yet,
Sister Alma?

No, not yet.

Let me explain her situation

and why you've been
hired to care for her.

Mrs. Vogler is an actress,
as you know.

In the middle of her last
performance of Electra,

she fell silent and looked
around as if in surprise.

She was silent
for over a minute.

She apologized
to her colleagues afterward,

saying she'd felt
a sudden urge to laugh.

The next day
the theater called

to ask if she'd forgotten
about rehearsal.

The maid went in her room
and found her still in bed.

She was awake but wouldn't
answer questions or move.

This condition's gone on
for three months now.

She's been given
every conceivable test.

The result is clear:

She's perfectly healthy,
both mentally and physically.

And it's not a question
of some hysterical reaction either.

Any questions,
Sister Alma?

If not, you can go
see Mrs. Vogler now.

Hello, Mrs. Vogler.

I'm Sister Alma.

I've been hired to take care
of you for a while.

Perhaps I should tell you
a bit about myself.

I'm 25 years old,
and I'm engaged.

I got my nursing certificate
two years ago.

My parents have
a farm in the country.

My mother was a nurse too,
before she got married.

I should go get your dinner tray...
fried liver and fruit salad.

It looked quite good.

Shall I raise this end up?
Are you all right like that?

Sister Alma,
what's your first impression?

I don't know
what to say, Doctor.

At first her face looks soft,
almost childish,

but then
you see her eyes...

Her expression's so hard.

Perhaps I shouldn't...

What were you going to say?

I was thinking I should
turn down the assignment.

Why? Did something
frighten you?

No, not exactly,

but perhaps Mrs. Vogler
should have an older nurse,

one with more life experience.

I might not be able to manage.
- Manage? In what way?

- Mentally.
- Mentally?

If she's made a conscious
decision not to speak or move,

which must be the case,
since she's healthy...

Then?

Then that shows
great mental strength.

I may not be up to it.

I thought you might want
to see the twilight.

I can draw
the curtains later.

Shall I turn on the radio?

I think there's a play on.

Forgive me, darling.

You must forgive me.

All I want
is your forgiveness.

What are you laughing about?
Is the actress so funny?

What do you know
of mercy? Well?

What do you know
of mercy?

I don't understand
those sorts of things.

I enjoy films
and the theater,

but I'm afraid
I don't go very often.

I have tremendous
admiration for artists.

I think art is enormously
important in life,

especially for those struggling
for one reason or another.

But I'm skating on thin ice,
telling you about such things.

Let's see
if I can find some music.

Is that all right?

Good night, then.
Sleep well.

Damn it.

It's funny.

You can go about
as you please...

doing almost anything
you please.

I'll marry Karl-Henrik
and we'll have a couple kids,

whom I'll raise.

It's all decided.
It's inside me.

I don't even have
to think about it.

It's a great feeling
of security.

I have a job
I like and enjoy.

That's good too...

but in another way.

But it's good.

Yes...

it's good.

I wonder what's really
wrong with her.

Elisabet Vogler.

Mrs. Vogler, would you like me
to open the letter?

Shall I read it?

Shall I read it to you?

"Dearest Elisabet,

since I'm not allowed
to see you, I'm writing instead.

If you don't wish to read
my letter, you can ignore it.

But I can't help trying
to contact you this way,

as I'm tormented
by a persistent question:

Have I done you harm
in some way?

Have I unknowingly
hurt you somehow?

Was there some terrible
misunderstanding between us?"

Should I really go on?

"As far as I know,
we've been happy recently.

Surely we've never been...

so close.

Do you remember saying,

'I'm only just beginning
to understand

what it means
to be married'?

'You've taught me...'"

I can't make it out.

"'You've taught...'"
Now I see.

"'You've taught me
that we must see each other

as two anxious children

full of goodwill
and the best of intentions

but gov...'"
Now I see.

"'...governed by forces
we can only partially control.'

Do you remember
saying all that?

We were walking
in the woods,

and you stopped and grabbed
the belt of my coat..."

There was a picture
with the letter.

A picture of your son.
I don't know if...

Do you want it,
Mrs. Vogler?

He looks awfully cute.

Elisabet, I don't think
there's any point

in your staying here
in the hospital.

It's just hurting you
to be here.

Since you don't want
to go home,

I suggest you
and Sister Alma move out

to my summer place
by the sea.

You think
I don't understand?

The hopeless dream
of being.

Not seeming to be,
but being.

Conscious and awake
at every moment.

At the same time, the chasm
between what you are to others

and what you are
to yourself.

The feeling of vertigo,
and the constant hunger

to be unmasked
once and for all.

To be seen through,
cut down...

perhaps even annihilated.

Every tone of voice a lie,
every gesture a falsehood,

every smile a grimace.

Commit suicide?

No, too nasty.

One doesn't do
things like that.

But you can refuse
to move or talk.

Then at least
you're not lying.

You can cut yourself off,
close yourself in.

Then you needn't
play any roles,

wear any masks,
make any false gestures.

So you might think...

but reality plays
nasty tricks on you.

Your hiding place
isn't watertight enough.

Life oozes in from all sides.

You're forced to react.

No one asks
whether it's genuine or not,

whether you're lying
or telling the truth.

Questions like that
only matter in the theater,

and hardly even there.

I understand you,
Elisabet.

I understand that you're
not speaking or moving,

that you've turned this apathy
into a fantastic setup.

I understand
and admire you.

I think you should play this part
until it's played out,

until it's no longer
interesting.

Then you can drop it,
just as you eventually drop

all your other roles.

Thus, at the end of the summer,
Mrs. Vogler and Sister Alma

move out to the doctor's
summer house.

The stay by the sea agrees
very well with the actress.

Her crippling apathy
at the hospital

gives way to long walks,
fishing excursions,

cooking, letter writing,
and other diversions.

Sister Alma enjoys
the seclusion of the countryside

and tends to her patient
with utmost care.

Don't you know it's bad luck
to compare hands?

Elisabet...

may I read you
something from my book?

Or am I disturbing you?

Here's what it says:

"All the anxiety
we carry within us,

all our thwarted dreams,
the inexplicable cruelty,

our fear of extinction,

the painful insight
into our earthly condition

have slowly crystallized our hope
for an other-worldly salvation.

The tremendous cry
of our faith and doubt

against the darkness
and silence

is the most terrifying proof
of our abandonment

and our unuttered knowledge."

Do you think that's true?

I don't believe that.

To change...
but I'm so lazy.

And then
I feel guilty about it.

Karl-Henrik scolds me
for not having any ambition,

for going around
like I'm sleepwalking.

I think that's unfair.

I graduated highest
in my class.

But maybe he means
something else.

You know...
Oh, sorry.

You know what
I think about sometimes?

At the hospital
where I took my exam,

there's a home
for old nurses

who were nurses all their lives
and lived for their work

and were always
in uniform.

They live
in their little rooms there.

Imagine believing
so strongly in something

that you devote
your entire life to it.

Having something to believe in,
working at something,

believing
your life has meaning.

I like that.

Holding on tight to something,
no matter what...

I think that's how
it should be.

Meaning something
to other people.

Don't you agree?

I know it sounds childish,
but I believe in that.

What a downpour!

Oh, yes, he was married.

We had an affair
for five years.

Then he got tired of it,
of course.

I was terribly in love,
and he was the first.

I remember it all
like one long torment.

Long periods of agony,
and brief moments when...

Your teaching me
how to smoke reminded me.

He smoked constantly.

In hindsight
it all seems so dreary.

A real dime store novel.

In some strange way
it was never quite real.

I don't know how
to explain it.

At least, I was never
quite real to him.

But my pain was real,
that's for sure.

But that was somehow
all a part of it

in some nasty way,

as if that's how
it was supposed to be.

Even the things
we said to each other.

Lots of people have told me
I'm a good listener.

Isn't that funny?

No one's ever bothered
to listen to me.

Like you're doing now.
You're really listening.

I think you're the first person
who's ever listened to me.

It can't be at all interesting.

You could be reading
a good book instead.

How I'm going on!
I hope I'm not irritating you.

It feels so good to talk.
It feels nice and warm.

I've never felt like this
in all my life.

I've always wanted
a sister.

I have loads of brothers...
seven.

Strange, eh?
Then I came along.

I remember being surrounded
by boys all my life.

But I like boys.

But I'm sure
you know that,

with all your experience
as an actress.

I like Karl-Henrik so much,

but you really
only love once.

I'm faithful to him.

Opportunities come up
in this line of work, I can tell you.

Karl-Henrik and I rented
a cottage by the sea once.

It was June,
and we were all alone.

One day, when Karl-Henrik
had gone into town,

I went to the beach
on my own.

It was a warm
and lovely day.

There was
another girl there.

She'd paddled over
from another island

because our beach
was sunnier and more secluded.

We lay there sunbathing beside
one another, completely naked,

dozing now and then,
putting suntan lotion on.

We had those cheap
straw hats on, you know?

I had a blue ribbon
around mine.

I lay there peeping out
from under my hat

at the landscape
and the sea and the sun.

It was kind of funny.

Suddenly I saw two figures leaping
about on the rocks above us.

They would hide
and then peek out.

"There's a couple boys
looking at us," I told the girl.

Her name was Katarina.

"Let them look," she said,
and turned over on her back.

It was a strange feeling.

I wanted to jump up
and put on my robe,

but I just lay there
on my stomach

with my bottom in the air,

not at all embarrassed,
completely calm.

Katarina lay there
next to me the whole time,

with her breasts
and thick thighs.

She just lay there
sort of giggling to herself.

I noticed that the boys
had come closer.

They just stood there
looking at us.

I noticed
they were terribly young.

Then one of them...
the more daring of the two...

came up and squatted down
next to Katarina.

He pretended to be busy
picking at his toes.

I felt so strange.

Suddenly
I heard Katarina say,

"Hey, why don't you
come over here?"

She took him by the hand

and helped him off
with his jeans and shirt.

Then suddenly
he was on top of her.

She guided him in
with her hands on his behind.

The other boy just sat
on the slope and watched.

I heard Katarina whisper
in the boy's ear and laugh.

His face was
right next to mine.

It was red and swollen.

Suddenly
I turned over and said,

"Aren't you coming
over to me too?"

And Katarina said,
"Go to her now."

He pulled out of her

and fell on top of me,
completely hard.

He grabbed my breast.

It hurt so bad!

I was ready somehow
and came almost at once.

Can you believe it?

I was about to say,
"Careful you don't get me pregnant"

when he suddenly came.

I felt it like
never before in my life,

the way he sprayed
his seed into me.

He gripped my shoulders
and arched backward.

I came over and over.

Katarina lay on her side
and watched

and held him from behind.

After he came,
she took him in her arms

and used his hand
to make herself come.

When she came,

she screamed
like a banshee.

Then all three of us
started laughing.

We called to the other boy,
who was sitting on the slope.

His name was Peter.

He came down,
looking all confused

and shivering
despite the sunshine.

Katarina unbuttoned his pants
and started to play with him.

And when he came,
she took him in her mouth.

He bent down
and kissed her back.

She turned around,
took his head in both hands,

and gave him her breast.

The other boy got so excited
that he and I started all over again.

It was just as good
as before.

Then we went for a swim
and parted ways.

When I got home, Karl-Henrik
was already back from town.

We ate dinner and drank
some red wine he'd brought.

Then we had sex.

It's never been as good,
before or since.

Can you understand that?

I ended up pregnant,
of course.

Karl-Henrik,
who's studying medicine,

took me to a good friend of his,
who performed an abortion.

We were both relieved.
We didn't want children.

Not then, anyway.

It doesn't make any sense.

Nothing fits together.

And the guilty conscience
you feel over little things.

You understand?

And what about all the things
you'd decided to do?

Don't you have
to do them anymore?

Is it possible to be

one and the same person
at the very same time...

I mean, two people?

God, I'm being silly!

Anyway, there's no reason
to start blubbering.

I'll get a handkerchief.

It's almost morning...

and it's still raining.

I've been talking nonstop

while you've just listened.

How boring for you.

What could possibly
interest you about my life?

People should be like you.

You know what I thought

after I saw a film
of yours one night?

When I got home and looked
in the mirror, I thought,

"We look alike."

Don't get me wrong.
You're much more beautiful.

But we're alike somehow.

I think I could turn into you
if I really tried.

I mean inside.

You could be me
just like that...

though your soul
would be far too big.

It would stick out
everywhere!

Go to bed...

or you'll fall asleep
here at the table.

I must go to bed now

or I'll fall asleep
at the table,

and that would be
rather uncomfortable.

Good night.

Elisabet...

did you speak to me
last night?

Were you
in my room last night?

Shall I take your mail too?

Let me have a taste.

See ya.

"Dear friend,
I could live like this forever.

The silence, the seclusion,
reducing my needs,

feeling my battered soul finally
start to straighten itself out.

Alma pampers me
in the most touching way.

I think she's actually enjoying it here
and that she's very fond of me,

perhaps even a bit smitten
in a charming, subconscious way.

In any case,
it's a lot of fun studying her.

Sometimes she cries
over past sins...

an orgy with a strange boy
and a subsequent abortion.

She complains
that her notions about life

fail to accord with her actions."

I see
you're reading a play.

That's a healthy sign.
I'll tell the doctor.

You think we should
leave here soon?

I'm starting
to miss the city.

Aren't you?

Would you like
to make me really happy?

I know it's asking a lot,
but I could use your help right now.

Nothing dangerous.

But I do wish
you'd talk to me.

Doesn't have to be
anything special.

We could talk about anything...
what to have for dinner,

whether the water's
cold now after the storm,

whether it's too cold
to go swimming.

Just talk for a few minutes.
One minute.

You could read to me
from your book.

Just say a few words.

I have to try
not to get angry.

It's your business
if you want to keep quiet.

But I need you
to talk to me now.

Can't you just say

one word?

I knew you'd refuse.

You can't know how I feel.

I always thought great artists

felt this great compassion
for other people...

that they created
out of great compassion

and a need to help.

That was silly of me.

You've used me.
For what, I don't know.

Now that you don't need me
anymore, you toss me aside.

Yes, I hear perfectly well
how phony that sounds!

"You've used me, and now
you're tossing me aside."

But it's true... every word.
And these glasses!

You've hurt me badly.

You've been laughing at me
behind my back.

I read the letter
you wrote to the doctor.

It wasn't sealed,
and I read the whole thing.

You got me to talk,

to tell you things
I've never told anyone.

Then you go and pass it on.
Great study material, eh?

You're not...

You're going to talk now!

If you have something
to say, by God...

No, don't!

Scared there for a minute,
weren't you?

For a second you were
genuinely scared, weren't you?

A genuine
fear of death, huh?

"Alma's gone crazy,"
you thought.

Just what kind of person
are you anyway?

Or maybe you just thought,
"I'll remember that face,

that tone of voice,
that expression."

I'll give you something
you won't forget!

You're laughing, are you?

Things aren't
that simple for me.

Or so funny either.

But you always have
your laugh.

Does it have
to be like this?

Is it really so important
not to lie, to tell the truth,

to speak in a genuine
tone of voice?

Can a person really live
without babbling away,

without lying and making up
excuses and evading things?

Isn't it better
to just let yourself

be silly and sloppy
and dishonest?

Maybe a person gets better by just
letting herself be who she is.

No, you don't understand.

You don't understand
what I'm saying.

There's no reaching
someone like you.

The doctor said
you're mentally healthy,

but I wonder if your madness
isn't the worst kind.

You act healthy,

and the worst thing is,
everyone believes you.

Except me, because
I know how rotten you are.

God, what am I doing?

Elisabet, forgive me.

I'm behaving like an idiot.

I don't know what got into me.
I'm here to help you.

It was that awful letter.

I was so disappointed.

You asked me
to talk about myself.

It felt so good. You seemed
so kind and understanding.

I'd had a lot to drink,

and it felt so good
to talk about it all.

And I suppose
I was flattered

that a great actress like you
would bother to listen.

I even thought
it would be nice if what I said

were of some use to you.

But that's awful, isn't it?
Sheer exhibitionism.

Elisabet,
I want you to forgive me.

I like you so much.
You mean so much to me.

I've learned
so much from you.

Let's not part as enemies.

You won't forgive me
because you're too proud!

You won't stoop to my level
because you don't have to!

I won't...

...we don't speak...

...don't listen...

...can't understand...

...what means...

...to persuade... to listen...

When you sleep,
your face goes slack...

and your mouth
is swollen and ugly.

There's a nasty wrinkle
on your forehead.

You smell
of sleep and tears...

and I can see
the pulse in your neck.

There's a scar there
that you cover with makeup.

He's calling again.

I'll find out
what he wants from us...

far away out here
in our solitude.

Sorry if I frightened you.

I'm not Elisabet.

I'm not here
to make demands.

I didn't mean to disturb you.

You think
I don't understand?

The doctor
explained everything.

But the hardest part
is explaining to your little boy.

I do the best I can.

There's something deeper down,
hard to get a grip on.

You love someone...
or rather, you say you do.

It's something tangible...
at least, as far as words can be.

Mr. Vogler,
I'm not your wife.

And you're loved as well.

You build a community.

It gives you security.

You see a possible way
of enduring, don't you?

How can I say everything
I've thought without getting lost...

without boring you?

I love you
as much as ever.

No, don't worry, my love.

We have each other.
We have faith in each other.

We know each other's thoughts.
We love each other.

That's true, isn't it?
- Yes.

And it's the effort that counts,
not what we achieve, right?

To see each other
as children,

tormented, helpless,
lonely children.

Tell our little boy
Mommy will be back soon,

that Mommy's been ill,
but she longs for her little boy.

Remember to buy
a toy for him.

A present from Mommy.
Don't forget.

I feel such great
tenderness for you.

It's almost unbearable.

I don't know what to do
with my tenderness.

I thrive on your tenderness.

Elisabet, is it good
for you with me?

Is it good for you?

You're a wonderful lover.
You know that.

Darling!

Give me a sedative.

Toss me aside.
I can't go on!

My darling...

Leave me alone!

This is shameful, all of it!

Leave me alone!

I'm cold and rotten
and indifferent.

It's all just a sham and lies!

What have you got there?

What are you hiding
under your hand?

Let me see.

It's the picture of your little boy,
the one you tore up.

We have to talk about this.

Tell me now, Elisabet.

Then I will.

It happened at a party one night,
didn't it?

It was late, and the party
was quite rowdy.

Toward morning someone
in the group said to you...

"Elisabet, you have
practically everything

as a woman
and as an artist,

but you lack motherliness."

You laughed,
thinking it was ridiculous,

but later you found yourself
thinking about what he'd said.

You grew
more and more worried...

so you let your husband
get you pregnant.

You wanted
to be a mother.

When you knew it was definite,
you became afraid...

afraid of responsibility,
of being tied down,

of leaving
the theater behind,

afraid of pain,
afraid of dying,

afraid of your body
that was swelling up.

But you played
the part the whole time,

the part of the young,
happy, expectant mother.

Everyone said,
"Isn't she beautiful now?

She's never been
so beautiful."

Meanwhile you tried
several times to abort.

But you failed.

When you realized
it was inevitable,

you began
to hate the baby

and hoped
it would be stillborn.

You hoped
the baby would be dead.

You wanted a dead baby.

It was a long
and difficult delivery.

You were in agony
for days.

The baby was finally
delivered with forceps.

You looked with disgust at your
squealing child and whispered,

"Can't you just die?
Can't you die?"

But he survived.

The boy cried
day and night...

and you hated him.

You were afraid.
You had a guilty conscience.

In the end,
some relatives and a nanny

took care of the boy,

and you could leave your sickbed
and return to the theater.

But the suffering wasn't over.

The boy was seized

by a vast, unfathomable love
for his mother.

You resist.

You resist desperately,

because you feel
you can't return that love.

You try and try...

but your encounters with him
are cruel and awkward.

You can't do it.

You're cold and indifferent.

And he looks at you.

He loves you,
and he's so soft,

and you want to hit him
for not leaving you alone.

You find him repulsive,
with his thick lips and ugly body

and his moist, pleading eyes.

You find him repulsive,
and you're afraid.

What have you got there?

What are you hiding
under your hand?

Let me see.

It's the picture of your little boy,
the one you tore up.

We have to talk about this.

Tell me now, Elisabet.

Then I will.

It happened at a party one night,
didn't it?

It was late, and the party
was quite rowdy.

Toward morning someone
in the group said to you...

"Elisabet, you have
practically everything

as a woman
and as an artist,

but you lack motherliness."

You laughed,
thinking it was ridiculous,

but later you found yourself
thinking about what he'd said.

You grew
more and more worried...

so you let your husband
get you pregnant.

You wanted
to be a mother.

When you knew it was definite,
you became afraid...

afraid of responsibility,
of being tied down,

of leaving
the theater behind,

afraid of pain,
afraid of dying,

afraid of your body
that was swelling up.

But you played
the part the whole time,

the part of the young,
happy, expectant mother.

Everyone said,
"Isn't she beautiful now?

She's never been
so beautiful."

Meanwhile you tried
several times to abort.

But you failed.

When you realized
it was inevitable...

you began
to hate the baby...

and hoped
it would be stillborn.

You hoped
the baby would be dead.

You wanted a dead baby.

It was a long
and difficult delivery.

You were in agony
for days.

The baby was finally
delivered with forceps.

You looked with disgust at your
squealing child and whispered,

"Can't you just die?

Can't you die?"

The boy cried
day and night,

and you hated him.

You were afraid.
You had a guilty conscience.

In the end,
some relatives and a nanny

took care of the boy,

and you could leave your sickbed
and return to the theater.

But the suffering wasn't over.

The boy was seized

by a vast, unfathomable love
for his mother.

You resist desperately,

because you feel
you can't return that love.

You try and try...

but your encounters with him
are cruel and awkward.

You can't do it.

You're cold and indifferent.

And he looks at you.

He loves you,
and he's so soft,

and you want to hit him
for not leaving you alone.

You find him repulsive,
with his thick lips and ugly body

and his moist, pleading eyes.

You find him repulsive,
and you're afraid.

No!

I'm not like you.

I don't feel
the same way you do.

I'm Sister Alma.
I'm only here to help you.

I'm not Elisabet Vogler.

You're Elisabet Vogler.

I'd really like to have...

I love...

I haven't...

I've learned quite a lot.

Let's see how long
I can hold out.

I'll never be like you.
I change all the time.

You can do what you want.
You won't get to me.

Say nothing.

Cut a candle.

A kind of otherness.

Not now. No, no.

Warning and outside time.

Unforeseen.

When it was supposed to happen,
it didn't, so... failure.

You stand there,

but I should do it.

Not inward, no.

Say collect
and advise others.

A desperate maybe.

I take, yes...
but what is closest?

What's it called?

No, no, no.

Us, we, me, I.

Many words
and then disgust,

unbearable pain,
the nausea.

Try and listen to me now.

Repeat after me.

Nothing.

Nothing.

No, nothing.

Nothing.

That's it.

That's good.

That's how it should be.

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