Posted on 27-1-2003
Roman
Polanski's Landscape of Aloneness
By Terrence Rafferty* (Photo shows Adrien Brody, left, and Roman
Polanski
on the set of "The Pianist")
ROMAN POLANSKI is at an age — he'll turn 70 in August — when
most
filmmakers have little to look forward to except lifetime achievement
awards. When I last saw Mr. Polanski, three years ago in Paris,
those
honors were already starting to roll in. He had recently received
prizes
for his body of work from the Académie Française and the European
Film
Awards. Just a couple of days earlier he had been installed,
with great
pomp and ceremony, as a member of France's Académie des Beaux
Arts. And all
this recognition was making him nervous. "Is it a message that
I should
quit or something?" he wondered. "Does it mean life's over?
I'm not ready
to quit, I can tell you this."
He certainly wasn't. His 15th feature, the sleekly amusing occult
thriller,
"The Ninth Gate," was then in release in Europe, and he had
acquired, he
told me, the rights to a Holocaust memoir called "The Pianist"
by Wladyslaw
Szpilman, a Jewish musician who survived the war in hiding in
his native
Warsaw. Mr. Polanski had himself escaped a Polish ghetto (Krakow,
in his
case) and survived the Nazi occupation of his country — he was
12 when the
war ended — and he had been thinking for a long time about making
a film
set in that grim period. He had turned down Steven Spielberg's
offer to
direct "Schindler's List," because that story took place in
Krakow and
seemed too close to his own experience. But when he read Szpilman's
memoir,
which impressed him as "very dry, without sentimentalism or
embellishments," he thought, "It's either now or never." His
tone of voice
made it abundantly clear that "never" was not a serious option.
In retrospect, it seems providential that Mr. Polanski passed
up the chance
to direct "Schindler's List." That picture — sweeping, epic
and grandly
moving — is the Holocaust movie Steven Spielberg was born to
make. The more
intimate, introspective and ruefully ironic saga of Wladyslaw
Szpilman's
survival is a story that no one but Roman Polanski could have
told so well.
"The Pianist" is at its heart the tale of a man alone, and Mr.
Polanski has
been for the past four decades the cinema's pre-eminent connoisseur
of
solitude.
Ever since his first feature, the elegantly unsettling "Knife
in the Water"
(1963), Mr. Polanski has devoted his creative life to exploring
the varied
geography of loneliness, most obviously in intense chamber dramas
like
"Repulsion" (1965), "Cul de Sac" (1966), "The Tenant" (1976)
and "Death and
the Maiden" (1994), but also in his fierce "Macbeth" (1971),
whose
guilt-racked hero becomes more and more isolated as the story
marches
inexorably to its tragic conclusion, and in his Thomas Hardy
adaptation,
"Tess" (1980), whose heroine is brutally cast out of society.
Even his biggest commercial success, "Rosemary's Baby" (1968),
has as the
core of its considerable horror the progressive, systematic
isolation of
its protagonist, a friendly, normal young woman who is, by the
end,
completely cut off from the world outside her gloomy Manhattan
apartment
building — hemmed in, and slowly suffocated, by the narrowing
circle formed
by her narcissistic husband and her, let's say, overbearing
neighbors.
O.K., they're Satanists, which gives the story a pulp-melodramatic
aspect
(and probably accounts to some extent for the movie's popularity),
but as
Mr. Polanski treats the material — coolly, matter-of-factly
— "Rosemary's
Baby" seems less a lurid shocker than a kind of boldly stylized
existential
fable: Hell really is other people, especially when they are
people
determined to impose themselves on weaker creatures. Poor Rosemary
is like
a sick lamb separated from her flock by a pack of ravening wolves.
In "The Tenant" — which is to my mind Mr. Polanski's most grievously
underappreciated film — he himself plays the title role, a Polish
exile in
Paris who, like Rosemary, has a few problems with his neighbors.
The older,
established tenants in the building — solid bourgeois citizens,
one and all
— treat this unassuming little man, Trelkovsky, as if he were
a mortal
threat to their peace of mind, and so, gradually, insidiously,
they destroy
him. Everything they say, every suspicious look they direct
at him, tells
Trelkovsky that he is not one of them — alien, not truly French
(although
he is, like Mr. Polanski, a French citizen). Eventually, and
perhaps
inevitably, Trelkovsky internalizes his neighbors' view of him,
and winds
up totally alienated from himself: barking mad, in fact. At
one point late
in the film, he looks across the courtyard and sees his own
face staring
back at him from a dirty window.
Mr. Polanski plays his role in "The Tenant" with almost unseemly
conviction — a conviction whose source, it's tempting to speculate,
might
lie in his fugitive childhood, in the wartime experience of
a Polish Jew
forced to think of himself as an alien in his own country. This
is the
performance of a man who knows, in the most minute emotional
detail, what
it's like not to feel at home.
Advertisement
The distance between the tortured interior landscape of a Polanski
hero
like Trelkovsky and the blasted terrain of Nazi-occupied Warsaw
is not
vast. And in the achingly precise images of "The Pianist" we
feel in their
purest form the emotions — of the fugitive, the exile, the outcast
— that
give Roman Polanski's best work its formidable power to unnerve:
the fear
bordering on paranoia; the oppressive sense of confinement;
the desperation
and the fatigue generated by the struggle to maintain a fragile
identity in
a hostile world.
SINCE most of us are not as acutely or as persistently aware
of those
hour-of-the-wolf feelings as Mr. Polanski's characters typically
are, he
has often had to place his tormented protagonists in pretty
outré contexts
to make their extreme emotional states dramatically plausible.
That's why,
I think, he has so frequently invoked the supernatural — in
"Rosemary's
Baby," of course, and in "The Fearless Vampire Killers" (1967)
and "The
Ninth Gate" as well. (And, come to think of it, in "Macbeth,"
whose witches
are close kin to Rosemary's neighbors.) And why, too, so many
of his films
have been chronicles of madness: "Repulsion," in which Catherine
Deneuve, a
virginal French girl left home alone in London by her older
sister, goes
homicidally insane; "The Tenant," clearly; and the tense, disturbing
"Death
and the Maiden," in which Sigourney Weaver plays a woman who,
having
survived political torture, remains permanently, incurably,
ill at ease in
the world, and who finds herself, in the end, on the brink of
committing
murder.
In "The Pianist," however, no otherworldly power is needed to
explain the
hero's overwhelming loneliness and dread, and if, at the end
of his years
of running and hiding, Wladyslaw Szpilman (played exquisitely
by Adrien
Brody) seems half-mad, it's an insanity fully justified by his
circumstances: Nazi-occupied Poland is a paranoid fantasy grotesquely
come
to life. Although Roman Polanski did not invent Wladyslaw Szpilman,
and the
screenplay, by Ronald Harwood, is extraordinarily faithful to
the pianist's
memoirs, the movie's Szpilman is, in a way, the ultimate Polanski
hero. He
is solitude incarnate.
For daringly long stretches of "The Pianist," Mr. Polanski simply
contemplates the spectacle of a man alone, as starkly and as
irreducibly
alone as a human being can be. Szpilman's solitude, though absolute,
is not
monotonous. It seems to have different colors, shadings, subtle
dynamics;
it's an organism with a life of its own. At times, we see a
rapt, contented
sort of solitude, as in our first view of Szpilman, playing
Chopin in a
glassed-in Warsaw radio studio in 1939. There's another solitude,
whose
dominant feature is uncomplicated relief, as when the musician,
having
escaped from the ghetto, takes furtive tenancy of a small apartment
on the
other side of the wall. Because he cannot venture outside any
of his hiding
places, and depends on others to bring him food, there are times
when the
only salient facts of his aloneness are hunger and thirst —
the panicky
solitude of an animal abandoned in its cage. And there are times,
many
times, when the world outside his windows is noisy with screams
and bombs
and gunfire — when he's merely alone with a bone-deep fear of
death.
The uncanny depth and richness of the serial solitudes we experience
in
"The Pianist" are attributable in part to the respect Mr. Polanski
maintains for his hero's private grief. Szpilman's memoir, which
was
written immediately after the war, is strikingly reticent on
one important
subject: he doesn't let the reader into his thoughts about his
father, his
mother, his brother and his two sisters, all of whom he saw
for the last
time on earth as they boarded a German transport from the ghetto
in 1942.
The movie doesn't presume to tell us what Szpilman himself wouldn't,
or
couldn't.
And that's the correct choice, morally and aesthetically. Every
scene in
which we see Wladyslaw Szpilman alone is haunted by the absence
of his
family, by the unspoken anxiety he must feel for them as well
as for
himself. The movie shows us, in its swift opening scenes, that
Szpilman is
by nature something of a loner, an artist who, like many of
his kind, has
chosen to reduce his life to its essentials: the people he loves
and music.
And in his years of hiding, the absence of music haunts his
solitary
moments, too. Every now and then, maybe two or three times in
all, Mr.
Polanski's camera catches the hero fingering as if involuntarily,
some
unheard nocturne, playing a phantom piano in a dimming chamber
of his
memory. So when Szpilman, gaunt, bearded and wild-eyed, gets
to play a real
piano near the end of the film, the scene isn't about the redemptive
power
of music, or any such generalized notion. It's about a man remembering,
after years of savagely enforced forgetting, who he is.
Advertisement
Wladyslaw Szpilman survived (he died in 2000, at the age of
88), which
means that he was, unlike most of Roman Polanski's heroes but
very much
like Mr. Polanski himself, a lucky man. In Mr. Polanski's pictures,
fate
tends not to be friendly, and those who believe most firmly
that they are
its masters, like Macbeth and the lone-wolf private eye Jake
Gittes in the
noir classic "Chinatown" (1974), end up its stunned victims.
The director's
own life has given him ample reason to doubt the benevolence
of fortune:
his mother died in Auschwitz; his pregnant wife, Sharon Tate,
was murdered
by the Manson "family" in 1969. He has spent the last 25 years
as a
fugitive from American justice, having fled the country in 1977
after
pleading guilty to unlawful sexual intercourse with an under-age
girl in
Los Angeles.
Yet he, too, has survived. In his speech accepting his seat
in the Académie
des Beaux Arts, Mr. Polanski said, "I often ask myself what's
more
important in a director's career — talent or perseverance?"
I think it's
fair to say that this director's body of work has demonstrated
both, along
with a consistency of vision that makes nonsense of the popular
idea that
"The Pianist" represents some kind of comeback.
I'm sure Mr. Polanski is gratified that he's now winning awards
for an
individual movie (among the top honors, the Palme d'Or at Cannes
and best
film from the National Society of Film Critics), prizes that
do not deliver
a coded message that it's time to hang up his viewfinder. But
in a sense
these are awards for career achievement, too, because this film
seems to
contain the essence of every film Roman Polanski has ever made,
the sum of
all his solitary effort. "The Pianist" is the movie he's been
rehearsing
for his whole life.
* Terrence Rafferty is a critic at large for GQ magazine.
|