Kieślowski's grave (Photo credit: Wikipedia) |
A Short Film About Killing (Photo credit: Wikipedia) |
Anyone who saw the 1970-1990s films of the great Polish
director Krzysztof Kieslowski, who died in 1996 at the age of 54, will not need any recommendation from me about his genius, which has been on
show again at the Cinema du Parc in Montreal with the screening of his film
called A Short
Film About Killing, made in 1988 when he was at the peak of his powers. The
second film, Timbukto, directed by a
Malian filmmaker, Abderrahmane Sissako, who has lived in Paris for many years
after making his name with earlier films, is a more recent one. In fact it was nominated for Best Foreign
Language Film at the recent Academy Awards, and all I can say is that any film
that beat it must be of superlative quality.
From the very first shot of the Kieslowski film, the
camerawork seemed to emphasize a certain sense of danger, certainly of a dark,
urban atmosphere, in which, one had the feeling, almost anything could
happen. As the story was picked up,
through various characters, the film developed a certain air of aimlessness,
yet without letting go of its hold on the audience’s fascination. One after the
other, the characters drifted around the town, in most cases pursuing what
seemed like slightly irrelevant lives, as if they were slightly adrift in the
big city. A taxi driver washed and cleaned
his car, as he did so rejecting offers to use his services made by people who
seemed to be in desperate need of them.
When he had finished washing, he drove off, leaving yet another
prospective client standing on the sidewalk. Then, a young man who had just
taken a law exam seemed desperately anxious, doubtful as to his success, until,
to his intense surprise and immense relief, he discovered he had passed.
Meantime, a lanky, worthless-looking individual, with long, land hair, and a
big skin, had been drifting in and out
of camera, visiting various shops for no discernible purpose, until, with the
film well along on its way, he hailed a cab, and got into the cab driven by the
previously seen driver. He directed the cabbie to an isolated spot beside a
river, told him to stop, and then, taking him by surprise, beat the man,
himself got out of the car, pulled the unconscious victim from the car, and
proceeded to beat him to a horrible death, none of which was spared those of us
in the audience who were still wondering what the film was going to be about.
Cut to a courtroom, where the young man is on trial for
his life, defended byt he recently graduated lawyer. He is found guilty,
offering virtually no defence, nor any reasonable explanation for his actions.
But after he is taken away, the nervous young lawyer seeks out the judge in his
chambers to apologize for what he regarded as his own inadequacies in defence,
suggesting that a more experienced lawyer might have done a better job, might
even have got the young man off. The judge smiled indulgently and said that he
should stop worrying, because his speech against the death penalty was one of
the most eloquent he had ever heard.
The last part of the film deals with the reality of
capital punishment. It is not that long, but dramatic in its intensity. The young man wants to talk to the lawyer, tells
him abut his harsh upbringing and so on. On the day set for his execution he is
granted a final half-hour with the lawyer, again, and when the time is up and guards
arrive to tell the lawyer to leave, the lawyer says he is not leaving until
physically taken out. Of course, that is what happens, and the final moments of
the young man’s life are shown in excruciating detail. According to a note on
the Internet, a well-known film critic named this film in his list of the ten
greatest films of all time, because, he said, it was responsible for Poland
abandoning capital punishment. Even if that had not happened, there is no doubt
as to the superb quality of this film. Readers may have seen, among earlier
Kieslowski films, the brilliant trilogy called Red, White and Blue, and another series called The Decalogue, of which, I was told this week, this film is a part.
Timbuktu is
another film full of atmosphere. Some Arab families are living in isolated
tents scattered around a desert not far, it seems, from the city of
Timbuktu. The daily life of a particular
family, headed by a herder with eight cows, and with a wife and small daughter,
is shown, and it is established that this family prefers to stay where they
are, not to run away as most of their neighbours have done in face of the
intruders who have taken over government. In the city itself a loudspeaker is
being driven around the streets, telling women they must wear gloves, they must
wear socks, they must cover themselves, and one woman in the market scoffs at
them, asking, how could she handle fish while wearing gloves, and telling these
men to go away, and leave them alone. Music, laughter, cigarettes, even soccer are
banned, and these enforcers roam the city, determined to suppress every sound
of a song, even a religious song in favour of the Prophet, every sound of a
bouncing ball, indicating children at play. Their edicts are considered absurd
by the local people, but they result in harsh punishments.
Thus, the story of the film is elucidated, with the locals
resisting the strong-arm tactics used by the intruders, who, I believe, are
never named in the film, but who, according to a note on
Wikipedia, were supposed to represent Ansar Dine, a militant Tuareg group that briefly occupied
Timbuktu in 2012, imposing strict Sharia law during its reign.
The further action of the film is built around the death
of one of the herders cows that interfered with the nets of a fisherman. In a
quarrel the fisherman was shot dead, and he hunter was convicted in a sort of
kangaroo court atmosphere. Though these outlines make the film sound like a
polemic, the impact of the filming is rather that one is almost overwhelmed by
both the beauty of the desert and the old city, one of the oldest on earth, as
well as the beauty of the quietly
dignified rural life of the inhabitants.
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