Andrzej Zulawski
Possession

Magmatic and overflowing, labyrinthine, anguishing, alienating, Possession by Andrzej Zulawski is one of those dark pearls of world cinema unjustly unknown or forgotten by many, a true jewel with constantly changing reflections that, like few films, aspires to summarize in itself all the most urgent questions of human existence.

In a desolate East Berlin, painted by rapid camera movements that follow the frenetic paths of the characters, the anguishing descent into the despair of being and the emotional and moral emptying of a woman torn between doubt and faith are consumed. A beautiful and immense Isabelle Adjani bestows upon her a unique grace and aching fragility. Oppressed, ensnared, and torn by a dark evil of the soul, the camera mercilessly vivisects her, scrutinizing and recording her suffocating pain with breath-stealing close-ups.

It is the struggle between two irreconcilable forces, yet both necessary, which, like two sisters, Anna sees coexist in herself and the world, tearing at her soul: on one side Faith, the longing for a higher rational order, and on the other Fate, the disenchanted acknowledgment of the barren senselessness of the universe. Exasperated by this unresolved clash between Faith and Fate, yet searching for a third, impracticable path to finally penetrate reality sharply, to root herself in it without having to deform or surrogate it, Anna ends up drained of all vital sense, losing all ethical measures and rational principles. And she also ends up losing Faith, literally with a shocking miscarriage, thereby losing the possibility of finding meaning in a universe dominated by Chance.

Throughout the film, chaos reigns, the crisis of the pettiness that gives certainty by harnessing the formless matter of being into a precarious framework, neurosis and hysteria, uncontrolled spasms and catatonia, the emergence of self-disgust and repugnance, the aimless wandering in a world whose only sure pivot proves to be the uncontested dominance of Evil. Goodness is nothing but a mere reflection on Evil, in the futile attempt to understand and remedy it, when instead Evil itself becomes addiction, an urgent need, a necessity without which existence is impossible.

And precisely from the abortion of Faith and the advance of doubt within her, the incarnation of the very metaphysical principle of cosmic Evil will be generated, symbolized by the repellent sliminess of the creature of the apartment. With this, Anna will embark on a morbid symbiotic relationship, finding satisfaction for her carnal and spiritual need while caring for it as if it were a child: Evil, the only hold to cling to in the chaos of the world, thus becomes her Faith. At the end of an aberrant process of progressive maturation, this creature will finally reveal itself to be a double of Mark, Anna's husband and the focal character of the film, and in closing, it will even be hinted at as a sort of Antichrist, foreshadowing the shadow of a universal atomic apocalypse.

Under the aspect of a protean film, classified only with difficulty as dramatic/horror (but with ample nonsense contaminations and even a certain grotesque and surreal humor), there unfolds a profound and complex reflection on God, Evil, freedom, and existence, leveraging a visionary stylistic hysteria carried out in the name of excess and the exacerbation of the medium. The structure of the film, dispersive, redundant, and for this very reason fascinating and at the same time functional to its purposes, has as its heart and theoretical-programmatic center the heartrending monologue in which Anna, looking into the camera, explicates the philosophical dimension of the film, which throughout the first part was left in the background.

Astonishing are the directorial solutions with distorting and unusual angles, producing effects of grotesque alienation and hallucination, as well as the utmost care in scenography and cinematography, where cold tones shifting to gray-blue predominate. Indeed, the dominant color of the entire film is undeniably blue, explored in all its shades and associated in particular with the ivory whiteness of Anna’s skin, the Madonna of sorrow who thus recalls precisely the iconography of the Virgin Mary, essentially representing a negative counterpart: it is through her, in fact, that the metaphysical principle of Evil, the Antichrist, becomes flesh, and at several moments, the presence of God in her is hinted at.

Another central motif is that of the double, the doppelgänger, whereby in the finale, Anna and Mark will be replaced by their respective complementary doubles, the immaculate school teacher with emerald eyes and the wicked twin-child with a mocking smile: an element that further increases the charm and complexity of a work offering various levels of interpretation (metaphysical, existential, psychological, historical-political), appearing almost conclusive, summarizing everything that cinema can and will ever speak about, while remaining refractory to any attempt at univocally and entirely satisfactorily dissecting the heterogeneous collection of its components.

Possession is also an uninterrupted succession of scenes with devastating visionary impact and heightened intensity. The furious confrontations between Sam Neill and Isabelle Adjani are something masterful in terms of acting, writing, and choreography; the subway scene is of a delirium and anguish rarely matched; the impotence of Anna's gazes directed at the crucifix, from which she receives no response, and the stuttering disconnection of her monologue tighten the heart; the dance lesson scene succeeds in evoking an unbearable sense of discomfort and oppression where there should be none; also heartbreaking is the death of Anna and Mark at the top of the spiral staircase, and the finale gives goosebumps: the foreseeing and “shining” child running to take refuge in the bathtub warning not to open the door, while the lights overexpose, making the benevolent alter ego of Anna’s green eyes shine, the silhouette of the Antichrist transpiring from the glass door behind her, the roars of the impending deflagration of World War III growing in the background.

The only flaw of the film, in my opinion, lies in some supporting characters and humorous episodes where the excess is an end in itself and can therefore be irritating (see Margit and, above all, the zen uncle Heinrich), but it is a slight scratch widely hidden by the gem's brilliance. Shameful is the treatment reserved for such a masterpiece in various cut, re-edited, and rewritten versions due to a myopic and ever so obtuse censorship, including the 80-minute Italian version, where the debasement and trivialization of the original to a simple story of demonic possession evoke more pity than anger.

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