POLISH FILM ACADEMY

Gazeta Wyborcza – Magazyn”, no. 19, 11.05.2000

Actors can play even with their backs 

Interview with Jerzy Kawalerowicz

Katarzyna Bielas, Jacek Szczerba

At the turn of the 1960s you spent almost two years in Italy. Why
did you leave?
It was a bad time. Jews were being forced to leave Poland. I was
against it so I tried to get away. I said OK to the first offer - from
an Italian producer. Then the hard part began. The producer -
Józef Fryd, a Polish Jew – wanted me to make a new modern
version of Mother Joan of the Angels. I started thinking about
it; people will do anything for money. Just at that time celibacy
was being much talked about in Italy. Some films were made,
one even with Sophia Loren. So me and an Italian guy thought
up this strange love story between a woman and a priest. The
film was called Maddalena. I could not show it in Poland (the
first public screening was in 2009; Ed.) It has many iconoclastic
scenes. When the main characters have fallen out, the woman
cannot stand the tension and comes to the church where the
priest is celebrating a mass. She ignores the people and comes
up to him. He turns round with the Host in his hand, sees her
and faints. Everybody expects a bed scene later on. In fact, there
is a kind of sex scene on the beach (the film is set at the seaside).
The woman provokes the priest – she strips naked and walks into
the sea. He gets undressed, too, and follows her. They struggle
with the waves. He swims farther out. She starts calling him...
At the end, a figure emerges from the water. It is her. He has
drowned himself, committed suicide. It is a sin – a priest must
not commit suicide; this is mentioned earlier on in the film. So
in the end she is the winner in a way. That film was a total failure.
Why?
It feels very decadent. It was a time of surrealist solutions in
cinema. For example, a suicide’s revolver would be painted green.
I got infected by the producer – a man with high ambitions who
was only a distributor. He had seen many films and wanted to
fit them all into his own film. He was always persuading me to
do things. I explained that it had nothing to do with our story.
He said, 'Look, this is my money, isn’t it. It won’t harm you to
do the film with my money, now will it?’ And so I did it. It was
an ordeal. Once Fred insisted on rapid zoom-ins on fountain
sculptures of peeing boys.
I have written off Maddalena. The earlier film, The Game, was
equally unacceptable. I abandoned realistic narration there. The
main character played by Lucyna Winnicka, my then wife, sees
herself at her own funeral without an apparent reason. It was to
be a kind of Lelouch-ian film about the play of emotions. It did
not work out.
The music to Maddalena was written by Ennio Morricone.
Surely, he was easy to work with?
Morricone is a brilliant collaborator. He recorded all the music
at home. He played the piano, mandolin, and something else. He
recorded each instrument separately, mixed them and had the
whole orchestra. We talked during the edit. It is difficult to talk
about music because you do not know how to define its dramatic
function. It is silly to say that here it should be 'warm’ and there
you should put some stress from time to time.
When living in Rome, did you get to meet your favourite
Fellini?
I only got to see him. But I met Vittorio de Sica, director of
Bicycle Thieves. There is a palace in Rome which belongs to an
impoverished aristocratic family. Filmmakers support them by
renting the place. I made my contribution, too. One day I leave
a room after shooting, and out goes De Sica from another room.
We had a short chat. Incidentally, I had problems with the
interiors for Maddalena. We needed a church in which a priest
could celebrate masses. Fry arranged a church not used for
sacred purposes. It had fantastic murals. Unfortunately, a few
days before the shooting Fryd comes in, all sweaty and sad, and
says, 'We can’t shoot in that church.’ 'Why not?’ 'I gave them your
screenplay to read.’ 'Are you crazy?!’ 'But it’s not the screenplay.
They read your name and figured out it was you who had made
Mother Joan of the Angels.’ I did not know what to do. Luckily,
a priest friend of mine was studying in Rome with the Pallottines.
I rushed to him and begged for help. He says, 'Tomorrow I’ll be
seeing a priest from the Vatican.’ After that meeting he said, 'Go
to Vazanello, 80 km away. There is a parish priest there who runs
two churches – one is in use, the other is a historic building. He is
a modern type of priest – he runs a men’s clothes factory. I’m sure
you’ll come to some sort of arrangement.’ So we got there by car.
We found the priest in a cellar tasting his own wine. He says, 'You
renovate my church, I’ll let you use the other one for free.’ I warn
him that we were refused once because of a film I had made. He
says, 'I don’t care. I am the Pope here.’
Mother Joan of the Angels really had problems with the Polish
Church, at Cannes...
The Communists said it was too Catholic; the Catholics said it
was too anti-Catholic. At Cannes the Vatican made a protest.
The festival’s director suggested bringing the show forward from
the second week to the second day. There was a likelihood of
withdrawing the film from the competition. From that moment
Mother Joan... became tremendously popular.
During your stay in Italy, wasn’t there a chance of making
something more satisfying?
There was, if I decided to stay in the West. I was encouraged to. The
Italians wanted to sign a contract for four films. At least one of them
could be artistically good; three would have to be commercial. I had
an offer of a film based on Pirandello’s Six Characters in Search of an
Author. I did not take it. I decided I did not want to be at the mercy of
producers and distributors. I knew all along I was sitting on a suitcase
and I might leave any time. In the end I did it after some arguments
with Fryd. Then he got me back again because I threatened that if he
spoiled my film completely in the edit I would withdraw my name.
And he was anxious to keep my name.
There was one more 'ghost’ film of yours – Return with Irena
Eichlerówna. What was that?
I was only an assistant. In 1948-1949 the director of Film Polski
was actor Tadeusz Kański, who had the ambition to make a film of
his own although he had no experience in film directing. He wrote
a screenplay - supposedly originated by Ważyk - about a village
teacher and he hired the Czech director Bozivoj Zeman. The final
title was Ślepy Tor (Dead End). The teacher was to be played by the
popular actress Wanda Bartówna.
There was a lot of talk at the time about attracting Poles back home
from abroad. Kański was a friend of Eichlerówna and decided to get
her back. Also, a very hot issue at the time was stardom and she had
been a Polish diva in the 1930's. Kański talked her into coming back
from Brazil but she made one condition: she had to get the leading
role in a film. Of course there were not many screenplays around;
actually, there was one available – Dead End, of all names. So
Bartówna lost the role, though she received the full fee. Eichlerówna
arrived as a rich star, with trunks full of incredibly rich south
American costumes, frilled crinolines and stuff. And she decided to
play in them, as if there had been no war, no tragedy here. (...) That
film was never screened.
Why not?
Because it was awful! Eichlerówna’s acting was frightfully affected.
She did not speak but kind of sang. In a play that might have been
interesting; in a film it was unbearable. After the flop of Dead End
Kański was sent to a labour camp. He overpaid to start with, he
paid double for the same role and, to top it all, the film was never
shown. As the head, he was made responsible. After a few months
spent in a quarry, I think, he was got out, with a shaven head.
Before that you assisted Wanda Jakubowska in The Last Stage.
What was that like?
It was a very spectacular film, so to speak, with many extras –
most of them women. Jakubowska worked with the actors; I and
Jan Rybkowski with the extras. Our job was not easy because we
had to control up to 400 women – former Auschwitz prisoners.
They knew everything. When they entered the barracks they
started behaving as if they were still in the camp controlled by the
Germans. They would run, line up, do everything automatically.
It was scary to us. (...)
Jakubowska had been an Auschwitz prisoner, too.
That’s why she was so good at work. She knew everything from
experience. She knew absolutely all about the camp and human
relations there. She did not have to think how to show things.
She only reconstructed them in a professional way. There was no
question of creating reality. That’s why she used real ex-prisoners.
In the early 1970's you were also encouraged to come back by the
high party official Wincenty Kraśko.
Those were just friendly conversations. Kraśko was persuading
me that the forcing of Jews to leave Poland would have no
consequences for the cinema and that I should continue my work
in Poland. I wanted to resign my chairmanship in the Filmmakers
Association; he insisted that I should stay on.
Were you promised the permission to film Julian Stryjkowski’s
Austeria, which had been blocked before?
It was blocked after Pharaoh. It was already greenlighted but in
1967 the conflict broke out between Israel and Egypt, and Poland
sided with Egypt. They said to me, 'Look, you can’t make this film;
it’s pro-Israel.’ Also after I returned from Italy, Austeria was out of
the question. Of course, I was allowed to start making any other
film. After my experience of Maddalena I had lost any interest
in fiction created for cinema. Besides, it reminded me of pre-war
cinema with its artificial, fictitious world. It was then that I met
with Bolesław Michałek and in a chat we hit on the idea of Death
of the President. We were puzzled by the fact that every Polish
town has a place or a street named after him and when you ask
people in the street they do not know who he was. They mistake
him for Niemcewicz or others starting with N; they take him for
a writer or a poet. We started to dig around in documents. We got
to parliamentary materials from 1919-1923. Of course, we were
also inspired by other assassinations of presidents like Allende or
Kennedy. And so a documentary feature was created about our
president shot dead in the Zachęta art gallery in December 1922.
Couldn’t you make Austeria together with the Americans that
you met in Hollywood when Pharaoh was being nominated for
an Oscar?
I tried to. In London I talked to the producer Sam Spiegel – the one
who made The Bridge on the River Kwai. I still have the unsigned
contract. Spiegel wanted to co-produce Austeria. When Poland
gave it up, he backed out, too. We had intended Chaim Topol for
the role of Tag.
Your friend Tadeusz Konwicki once said that your career was
determined by two characteristics of yours: perfectionism and
a slight weakness for dignitary positions.
Tadeusz likes to be slightly malicious.
What do you say to that?
I am a perfectionist, that’s true. But I am not particularly interested
in high positions. I am awfully democratic and I can prove it.
I have been elected chairman of the Filmmakers Association
three times – not for my love of high posts but for my inclination
for compromise. I am definitely not a confrontational type.
Is that a good thing?
I do not know. I should think it helps in human relations.
And in the relations with the authorities?
Also. I believe that, generally, trying to force through one’s own
view is the root of all conflicts, big and small.
As a director, you are prone to compromise as well?
Unfortunately, every film is a compromise. I manage to realize
40 per cent of what I have planned. It cannot be helped.
But Death of the President from 1977 and Austeria from 1982
seem to mark the end of your artistic activity. Afterwards you
tried your hand at politics, at things not particularly necessary
for an artist. You have been a party member, a member of
parliament, a member of the communist PRON movement.
What did you gain and what did you lose?
I gained experience. I am predisposed to social activity. I like to
get engaged in teamwork for others. That, of course, drew me
away from my professional work, but then it was also a sort of
excuse: I am not making a film because I have other things to
do. But those other things took an awful lot of time; communist
life was filled with meetings, conferences and sessions. What
was particularly onerous were international contacts. There was
always a symposium, debate or film show going on. That is, we
showed and watched films only within the Eastern Bloc. It was
a permanent melting pot of artistic works.
You are presenting it all as community volunteering, but
surely your activity had a political dimension, too.
Absolutely. The authorities cared about the filmmaking
community; they needed our love. That’s why one could get
certain things done. We were always negotiating.
You loved that Establishment?
It is nothing to do with love. I know one thing – at one moment
I realized that some contact with the authorities is essential and
that without it we could do nothing. There were many situations
when they tried to buy us with certain privileges. For a long
time I could arrange flats for filmmakers by using my contact
with the Minister of Culture Tejchma. A lot of people obtained
a flat that way.
And strictly professionally, as an artist, do you have a feeling
that your party membership gained you something?
It gained me nothing but trouble because more and more was
expected from me.
So how do you assess your losses and gains today?
Well, I was used by the authorities; I mean, they used my
name.
But you let them, didn’t you? That’s true. There were moments
when I believed in the system and the possibility of reforms.
Later I analyzed it all and saw that it did not make sense.
When did it happen?
I cannot remember.
In 1982 you made Austeria; they finally let you. Did they
interfere in the film or not?
Not during the production.
Some scenes were removed, weren’t they?
The film was shown at the Soviet embassy behind my back.
It turned out that it could not be released because of the final
scenes when Cossacks appear on the horizon and shoot at Jews
bathing in the river. It was not shown explicitly but there was
that implication. The film was interpreted as anti-Russian. They
could not say 'anti-Soviet’ because the action was set in 1914. The
distribution was restricted. As we planned to submit Austeria
for an Oscar nomination, they made every effort not to keep
the deadline. They wanted me to make changes. I said there was
nothing there to change because it was history – an Austrian-
Russian war. Still, certain scenes dropped out. It does not matter
today.
And didn’t that change your views? You are their man and they
treat you like this?
I could avoid any contact with politics. But then I would remain
hungry for life’s pleasures. I have always been interested in
volunteering; I think it runs in the family. My father, postmaster
in Gwoździec, was the initiator of Dom Sokoła – an association to
promote culture, also physical culture.
And in the 1970s, didn’t you think of joining Wajda’s
’opposition’ Zespół X unit?
I had been head of the Kadr unit for 24 years then and so
I saw no reason to change my status.
So what were the benefits of heading a unit at the time?
I was in a position to use my influence to get a screenplay
accepted, although that did not always work so smoothly.
Sometimes it helped, sometimes it impeded the process.
There was a time when films were commonly accused of
formalism, of not being true. Our unit had this problem
with Kutz’s Nobody’s Calling (Nikt Nie Woła). Allegedly, it
presented a distorted picture of Polish reality.
What are your criteria for casting? You cast Jerzy Zelnik
as the Pharaoh and the model Magdalena Mielcarz as
Ligia at the last moment.
I selected them for their physical and psychological
predispositions. An actor must have something that will not
have to be acted out. For example, In Death of the President
I cast Zdzisław Mrożewski in the role of Narutowicz. He
had this innate dignity and presentability. For Pharaoh I saw
about fifty young men but each lacked something. I realized
that the successful candidate would have to be aesthetically
ideal, his legs and arms well-proportioned. He would have
to be beautiful from the back, from the front, when bent
forward, when sitting. He would have to have the perfect
build because he would be naked for two hours. We are
wearing jackets now; we can put our hands in the pockets.
He could not. And then Zelnik appears. We found him in
the second year of drama school. His grace was absolute.
You seldom cast the same actors twice. Why?
I exploit the actors so much that they stop being a surprise to
me. I would not be able to use them again. My wife Lucyna
Winnicka was an exception. But I must say that after Mother
Joan of the Angels I felt that I had got everything I could out
of her. Bear in mind that she had played in Night Train before.
How do you work? Do you rehearse together?
You have to co-operate with the actor; you cannot just make
demands. An actor cannot see him- or herself. The only mirror
is me, my reception, and there is no acting without reception.
In the theatre it is the audience; on set it is the director. There is
something unusual in this contact, I have experienced it many
times – the actor in front of the camera cannot see me behind
it. Still, if I frown upon his or her play or make a gesture, they
will sense it. I always create situations in which actors know
that I am watching them and that their acting is affecting the
way I feel. (...)
Actors either have a magic in them or not. Can it be created
from outside?
I divide actors into cinemagenic – those who sort of leave the
screen – and non-cinemagenic. You cannot tell who is who
until the shooting starts.
A conversation is not enough?
No. Very often someone is nice and I want to cast them so
I tend to see more in them. The only objective (and ruthless)
judge is the screen. A man does not know oneself. We do not
know what we look like. We are always acting in order to make
a better impression on people. Cinemagenicity cannot be
forced. Normally, when we are talking we look the partner in
the eye or at their mouth. If we look away, it means something.
We look for truth in our partner’s eyes. The same happens
when a viewer is watching an actor on screen and can easily
tell whether the actor is telling the truth or not. It is the whole
behaviour that matters, not just the eyes. An actor can act
even with his or her back.
Can an actor be cinemagenic with one director and not
with another?
No. He or she is always cinemagenic but the filming may be
good or bad. The actor may play better or worse, depending
on the effort from the director. He may cast the actors badly
or he may stop controlling them. But cinemagenicity is
a gift; you do not lose it.
What is your decalogue as a film director?
I always say that anybody can direct films but they must
have enough money. With money you can buy a very good
screenplay. With money you can get a good assistant,
cinematographer, actors. A good actor knows everything
and needs no explanations. So you can come to the set
prepared by a good team and have everything ready. All you
need to do is say 'Action!’ and it all starts rolling. Then you
look and you like it all immensely. In the end, the assistant
comes and says it is all too long and needs to be stopped. So
you say 'Stop.’ This is all there is to it. If you have the money
you can do everything.
And that’s all?
Maybe one more thing which I call emotional-artistic
imagination. You need to be able to imagine it all combined
as a whole – what it will look like, what emotions it will
arouse, how it will move the audience.
Directing a film is not photographing the set but staging
scenes with a camera. And there is a world of difference
between the two. I do not film what is happening; I go
in with the camera and it gets out what is essential at the
given moment, what is the kernel of the scene. It passes
through me, through the camera, through the actor. It gets
to the viewer-receiver. What I am saying may be a little
abracadabra, but I cannot explain it any better. (...)
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