Off Colors
This So-So . . . could be better
by Peter Keough
KRZYSZTOF KIESLOWSKI: I'M SO-SO . . . Written and directed by Krzysztof
Wierzbicki. With Krzysztof Kieslowski,
Jacek Petrycki, and Michal Zarnecki. A First Run Features release.
At the beginning of the documentary Krzysztof Kieslowski: I'm
So-So . . . (which is screening this weekend at the Brattle
Theatre along with a selection of the director's films), a variety of "experts"
-- a clairvoyant, a policeman, a psychotherapist, a graphologist, and a
physician -- ponder artifacts of the creator of The Decalogue, The
Double Life of Véronique, and Three Colors. The priest
listens to a tape of a Kieslowski tirade against church dogmatism. "He's
succumbed to the old temptation," the priest comments. "Who's God? God or
myself?" The physician holds up a more ominous relic, a chest X-ray, and noting
that the patient smokes, drinks coffee, and has worked many years in a
stressful profession, concludes that his circulatory system will break down.
"It's inevitable," he says.
And so it was. In March 1996, a year after this film was made by his longtime
associate Krzysztof Wierzbicki, Kieslowski died of a heart attack at the age of
55. Regrettably, the title of So-So . . . is accurate.
The opening intimations of mortality and divinity are only a tease; like the
rest of the film, they offer tantalizing insights into the enigmatic filmmaker
that are never followed up on. Less than an hour long,
So-So . . . seems thin and is more frustrating than
illuminating. But for its glimpse of Kieslowski at his sphinxlike, dour and
playful best and its introduction to early works seldom seen in this country,
it's a welcome footnote to a body of work tragically cut short.
It's most forthcoming about the filmmaker's earlier years. Interviewed in
black and white in a shabby shed on the director's estate near Warsaw, he tells
of how the indirection and fatality celebrated in his films first guided him
into filmmaking itself. When he expressed a desire to be a stoker, his father
sent him to a firefighting school to disabuse him of the notion. It worked, and
Kieslowski transferred to a theatrical school, then applied to film school. He
was rejected three times; had getting in not become a point of honor, he might
not have persisted. Stubbornness and pride, not artistic inclination,
determined his calling.
Such fatalistic dismissals of genius are typical, but Wierzbicki is too
deferential to the master to press him on this or other subjects. Such is the
case with Kieslowski's response to the 1980 Camera Buff (screens Friday
at 4 and 9:30 p.m.), the story of an ordinary man whose obsession with a movie
camera destroys his life. In the end the man makes a politically charged
documentary that threatens the lives of those recorded. He exposes the film,
Kieslowski remarks, in a "pathetic attempt to avoid responsibility." "This is
true of me, too," Kieslowski adds. "I often feel like leaving a film
unfinished."
Or a film career. At the time the documentary was made, Kieslowski had just
retired from making movies. Certainly his health was a factor, as suggested by
the physician's prognosis earlier in the film, though that doesn't seem to have
made any inroads on his Marlboro consumption. But the sense of responsibility
brought up by Camera Buff is not pursued, and neither is that film's
depiction of the cinema as almost vampiristic, sucking dry the life of the
filmmaker, who with no other life to photograph ultimately turns the camera on
himself.
Wierzbicki instead focuses on Kieslowski's more political, earlier films, such
as his TV drama The Calm (1976), about union solidarity and treachery,
and the cryptic Blind Chance (1980). A precursor to the inexplicably
popular Gwyneth Paltrow vehicle Sliding Doors, Chance tells three
stories about the same young man whose fate hinges on whether or not he catches
a train. As Kieslowski points out to Wierzbicki while the latter waits for his
own train, in two versions the hero chooses sides politically and lives, in the
third he remains neutral and dies. "Why don't you exert political leadership?",
Wierzbicki asks. Showing rare pique, Kieslowski snarls out that he doesn't need
the responsibility.
Famous last words, perhaps. In truth, Kieslowski would have been merely
distracted by politics; his vision aspired to higher things, and what he saw
there didn't necessarily give him hope. Echoing the misanthropy of his retired
judge in the 1994 Red (Sunday at 3:30 and 7:30 p.m.), the concluding
feature of his Three Colors trilogy and his last film, he says, "My best
characteristic is my pessimism . . . the future is a black
hole." It's one that will be brighter because of the films he left to
illuminate it.