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"Film is the first art. Who said that?" "Lenin." The cinematic interest of the factory worker (Jerzy Stuhr) is born together with his baby daughter, by the end he can hang on to only one. A whirring 8mm recorder suits "the born cameraman," who reports on the company's anniversary and quickly discovers editing, symbolism, censorship. Little documentaries become his specialty, portraits of children playing on the sidewalk and a dignified old employee, he tilts the tripod down from the balcony and stumbles upon a God's-eye shot. Krzysztof Kieslowski's own high angles are saved for later ruminations, for his comedy of the burgeoning artist he keeps the filming fast and close. The protagonist's "real gift of observation" doesn't go unrecognized, meanwhile the perturbations of his wife (Malgorzata Zabkowska) grows more acute. ("Don't win," she shouts as he takes off for the festival.) Flings with the comely programmer (Ewa Pokas), protests from the tough critic (Andrzej Jurga), advice from the visiting cinéaste (Krzysztof Zanussi). (Ken Loach is the other presiding sage, honored with a privileged close-up in a film manual plus a nightmare version of the Kes falcon.) The camera is a diary, a home-wrecking mistress, a chronicler of life (and death), a confessional, a manipulator and a truth-seeker. It also has its perils—when his wife walks out, the would-be auteur's impulse is not to run after her but to improvise a viewfinder with his fingers in order to frame her departure. A lesson in consequences for the amator, for Kieslowski a rough-hewn foundation in the search for transcendence. "The world can be beautiful... Your movies are so gloomy." The coda reveals how much Peeping Tom is called into play. With Stefan Czyzewski, Jerzy Nowak, Tadeusz Bradecki, and Marek Litewka.
--- Fernando F. Croce |