POLISH FILM ACADEMY

Jerzy Kawalerowicz. Malarz X Muzy/Jerzy Kawalerowicz. Painter of the Tenth Muse, Editor: Mieczysław Kuźmicki, Krystyna Zamysłowska, Stanisław Zawiśliński, Publisher: Muzeum Kinematografii w Łodzi, 2012

Loneliness, anguish, love nad consolation

About Night Train, Mother Joan of the Angels, Pharaoh and Austeria

Denitza Bantcheva

In the world that Jerzy Kawalerowicz knew and filmed, silent evil overpowers or threatens from all around not allowing generous souls to live in peace. And loneliness and isolation in a desolate world of human anguish is closely linked with the value of rituals which exist in the worlds Kawalerowicz chose to film.

Typical characters in the films of Kawalerowicz seem to be trapped in their loneliness or isolation at times when they are so closely surrounded by people that not for a single moment are they ever alone. In Night Train the doctor and the young woman are forced by circumstances to share a compartment and, initially, they feel even more lonely and unhappy, because this face to face encounter has to be endured against their will.

Their behaviour and dialogues in scenes preceding the beginning of their relationship constantly draw the viewers’ attention to the fact that these anonymous persons who do not know each other, basically have no other choice but to construct false preconceptions about each other and perform gestures which only seemingly draw them together as they, paradoxically, push them even further apart. The settings and the way they are filmed – either each of them on his or her own bed, or in shots where one of the elements of scenography creates a ‘covering’ frame which hides their faces or other parts of their bodies, magnifies our impression that these two are cellmates in some kind of moving prison, locked up in a double way – each of them in his or her inner self, heavily burdened with secrets, and at the same time, in a tête-à-tête which remains in conflict with the grossly limited space.

The lover, who is trying to regain his loved one, is lonely as well. He is separated from her because she has run away from him, but also because the train does not make it easy for them to find each other again – mostly due to the carriage doors, which are an insurmountable obstacle to the lover, finally, because of the walls of the carriage. In a breath-taking scene Zbigniew Cybulski hangs on the outside of the train and threatens to jump. He almost perishes after the woman has kissed him passionately and then vehemently pushes him away.

All the efforts he undertakes to be closer to her remain in vain, and a misunderstanding makes him give up and remain at the station, whereas the doctor, whom he considers his victorious rival, will find his wife, ultimately leaving Marta on her own on the train which continues its journey to its final station.

The killer is lonely as well – both at the time when he hides in a crowded second-class carriage and during his escape when he becomes the scapegoat for other passengers.

Among them there appear many characters and many forms of obvious loneliness – the sleepless ex-prisoner of Buchenwald, the old canon foreseeing his own death and the young priest who speaks to the passengers with words full of faith, although the passengers are not capable of sharing the state of his soul; the cuckold-husband whose wife, the flirt, constantly leaves his side on the slightest pretext in order to try and seduce the doctor, who is completely indifferent to her charms; the mature in age ticket inspector, who might build a relationship with a traveller, if not for the fact, that as is their nature, travellers get off and disappear from sight…

Besides, the microcosmos, which takes the form of a train, moves throughout the whole film as through some kind of desert: a territory almost completely deprived of populated areas (for a brief moment we catch a glimpse of some kind of village, but we never get to see any town), also even deprived of trees, and this is what creates the impression that the railway is the only space crowded with people. The action of Pharaoh also takes place in a desert, together with most of the scenes which are not situated in the confined spaces of the palace or the labyrinth. Similarly, and in a surprising way, the cloister of Mother Joan of the Angels is situated in the centre of a deserted terrain, with only a single inn which constitutes the ‘surrounding’ world. Theoretically, nearby, there should be some village and a sizeable forest, but the filmmaker consciously chooses not to show them, so the universum of the film is limited to two buildings placed at a distance from each other – one from the sphere of the profanum, and the second from the sacrum, both at the centre of an unfriendly emptiness.

In the inn there is a sinful atmosphere which Father Józef becomes aware of after his arrival in a marvellous scene in which a grotesque innkeeper and a flirtatious maid attempt, each in their own way, to torment and humiliate him. The cloister is also ruled by evil: evil haunts the Mother Superior, a frenzied nun is tempted to discard her habit; anonymous nuns create a kind of herd and in a mechanical way follow rituals or some kind of diabolical rampage of madness; four priests who remain silent when they are not praying or not performing exorcisms.

In the whole cloister the only feasible, almost inevitable dialogue involves Father Józef and Mother Joan; if they eventually fall in love with each other, each of them will remain locked up in his or her own loneliness. For Joan is condemned to a life of separation of body and soul; as a daughter of a poor prince, she is too proud to aspire to mystic love or to leave the cloister ( where she suffers , but at the
same time holds a privileged position if only for the fact that she is ‘the first demoniacally possessed’. ) Whereas Joseph, a merciful man of deep faith and too different from her, can only ‘come closer’ to his loved one by taking upon himself her sins, her possession and himself choosing the criminal act. Before it comes to that, he will try to seek advice and support from the old priest and the young rabbi. But the priest, being of a down-to-earth nature, is not capable of comprehending his anguish and of saving him.

The rabbi, in turn, will turn out to be some kind of a second Father Józef: not only does he resemble him physically, but he also reads the works of St Paul (!) and defines himself as a Christian, ‘I am you! You are me!’ - a statement that stirs feelings and weighs as a heavy burden on Father Joseph, who more and more clearly sees the deep and horrifying truth: whether a Jew or Christian, one of
these two exceptional people, is helpless when confronted with evil or with love, which ( as the rabbi says ) ‘is as strong as death’. Pharaoh Ramesses XII also has his double – Lykon, a double of Greek background who hates him so ferociously that it does not satisfy him to take his concubine - he kills his first wife Sarah and their son. Manipulated by the priests, Lykon at long last receives the mission of killing Ramesses and he manages to inflict a fatal injury before he himself is strangled by Ramesses. In this universum created by Kawalerowicz everything is played out in such a way as if our doubles could be destroyed only by us, or by our worst enemies. Is this inevitable?

The protagonist of The Inn, old Tag, also possesses his alter-ego (although this time, they differ to a great extent physically): he is a priest, his friend – an enemy from his childhood who once tried to force him to be baptised and who will to try bring about his confession in an effort to save his life, despite their struggle, their religious differences and other obstacles. Both of them will be particularly drawn to each other (although not wholeheartedly), trying to receive pardon for young Bum from the commander - which is an act of no avail and could end in the death, if not of both the pleading parties, then at least of Tag. This form of co-operation beyond differences between the two men, where each of the men can be seen as quite an original person (much different from others ) seems to be one of rare ways in the films of Kawalerowicz of leaving behind a life of fundamental loneliness; but the Jewish and Christian ‘doubles’ will soon be divided by death.

In this film, as in Mother Joan of the Angels, love – either in the form of mercy, friendship or feelings typical of amorous love, is condemned to failure or death.

So it is in the case of Pharaoh: Sarah was right to pray to God for mercy when she fell in love with the young prince – the successor to the throne; the friendship of Thutmose and Pentu will neither console her nor will it save Ramesses XIII; his concern and wish of saving his people from poverty and strengthening his country will end in fatal consequences for the pharaoh.

And even when he becomes aware that ‘a moment of tender love is worth a year of reign’, he will be consoled by this thought only for a very short time, for the last day of his life.

Rituals, irony, mockery

The theme of loneliness and isolation in a desolate world of human anguish is closely linked with the value of rituals which exist in the worlds that were chosen by Kawalerowicz for his films. Rituals of ancient Egypt, of the Christian cloister of the 17th century, of the synagogue and Jewish Hassidic rituals of the beginning of the 20th century are shown by this filmmaker in a way which makes them purposefully and consciously comparable to each other – like the religious bows of homage of the Hittites to the Scarabaeus, where great priests are similar to Father Józef; or Sarah’s prayers similar to those exercised by contemporary Jews; or exorcisms of a young Hasidic Jew, similar to those performed by Catholic priests on Mother Joan.

If Kawalerowicz includes these rituals in his script and films in a way which reveals their common essence, it is also because, for him, all social existence is in a fundamental way based on rituals (religious, demonic, those connected with trends), on oppressive limitations that do not leave any space for freedom of choice or individuality. This presumptive idea is exposed to an even greater extent in Pharaoh, in the portrayal of a world made up almost completely of cruel limitations, where it is not even sufficient to be a ruler to avoid helplessness; but it is no less evident in Night Train where the rules of polite manners or the rules of the train force this or that person to behave in a certain way, where the excess of bunk beds brings back memories of Buchenwald and where a chase after another man seems to be the only feasible group activity.

In confrontation with the ever-present oppression of rituals, the spirit of freedom is condemned to defeat ( if it is contained in a character), or it becomes visible ( through the filmmaker’s optics) in irony – which is not to be mistaken for ‘diabolic laughter’ which expresses either weakness or meanness or evil, as is so clearly shown in Mother Joan of the Angels, a film in which a character laughs more often and harder if he or she is unworthy – like the innkeeper, or possessed – like the nuns.

Irony appears in the scenes in different ways, with the help of different nuances: when Ramesses watches the parade of the defeated with their amputated arms while Pentu brings him the tragic news and he has to listen and retain the posture of a victorious leader; when the Hasidic Jews with the approval of the Tzadik, celebrate in the inn, where vigilance is kept by the side of a young deceased woman and where loud singing could attract the Cossacks who will massacre them; when the priest brings the lady-flirt from Night Train her lost shoe, whereas she, in an attack of anger directed against her husband, had thrown out the other one; finally in highly symbolic games of the children of the burned priest, not very far from the pile. Most often it is a cruel irony – bitter and deprived of illusions; the filmmaker directs it also at himself, by creating the character of a scriptwriter in The Inn, helpless in confrontation with the viewers who walk away; several times, though, his irony points our attention to the fact that in this world which is ruled by evil, there will always be islands of joy or unawareness – such as was experienced by the newly weds, who spent the whole trip in their compartment, only to leave it at the final stop of the train.

Wisdom… and consolation?

Is this the only consolation in the universum of Kawalerowicz? Not necessarily so, because at least one of the films commented on in this article points to a different option: one derived from the wisdom of two characters – the aged Tag and the rabbi, who does not want to admit that the innkeeper had offended God.

Far from getting angry at the act of sacrilege in the synagogue, the wise rabbi helped Tag realize that no mortal being would be capable of threatening Godliness (or Holiness). Tag reminds us of this scene in a retrospective placed between two sequences presenting the Hassidic Jews and the rabbi, with a fair amount of ironic distance; and the viewer, who for the first time experiences the extravagance that the protagonist is capable of (to wave a ham around in a synagogue!), notices that till this very moment the innkeeper had been the only sensible and reasonable man, distanced and the most intelligent out of all the characters in the film.

Paradoxically, the discovery that he wished ‘to offend God’ and provoke the whole Jewish community magnifies our initial impression that Tag is a wise man, and if he has not always been so, then at least he has become wise now; and his blasphemy will, in the long run, make him understand others better (he understood the wisdom of the rabbi) and will aid his gift of meditation. This leads us to the conclusion that even if he is not free from inner struggles, then out of all the characters of the four films, it is Tag who comes closest to the state of inner peace.

The supporting characters, such as the rabbi and the Hassidic rabbi are perhaps closer to that state, even incarnating it, but it is not by chance that they are placed in the background: this status corresponds to the idea that perfect inner peace is in this world too rare and marginal a phenomenon to be capable of changing in any way the course of earthly affairs.

Wise Tag is a protagonist: he is both exceptional and close to being common, due to both his ‘sins’ and his sympathetic understanding of others and their suffering. If complete consolation is given to him for a moment, together with generous sacrifice, then this happens most certainly because in the world that Jerzy Kawalerowicz knew and filmed, silent evil overpowers or threatens from all around not
allowing generous souls to live in peace – instead they ‘open up to the devil’, just like Father Józef did, or they expose themselves to death, like the Jewish innkeeper.

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