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Rating:
Let's say a few words about each of the three films, and then summarize a trilogy with a total duration of four and a half hours (nothing compared to the famous The Decalogue, however, with more than double the duration) and the individual films.
Blue Film explores the theme of freedom through the story of a woman who has lost her husband and daughter in a car accident. The sole survivor of the disaster, she first tries to commit suicide, then to eliminate from her life anything that might remind her of her deceased loved ones. What immediately strikes us on the scenographic level is the absolute predominance of the color blue, something that will be repeated with the respective colors also in Red Film and, perhaps less evidently, in White Film (the snowy Polish landscapes could be considered a reference to the color in question). The theme of mourning seems to reign in the first part of the film: how does one recover from a trauma like that of the protagonist Julie? Various heartbreaking scenes with a strong and often cruel emotional connotation follow one another almost relentlessly, making us partake in her pain. We learn that her husband was one of the most eminent living composers. His unfinished masterpiece is first destroyed by the wife, but then found by others and completed. A well-conceived plot that we cannot dwell on here unfolds to the epilogue, in which Julie comes to terms with life's possibilities: the Freedom to love and hate, to decide how to direct one's feelings, to do good for others even when they shouldn't expect it. But it's also the Freedom to start anew and smile after leaving the past behind. From a directorial standpoint, Blue Film is perhaps the most interesting of the trilogy. The film almost immediately opens with a close-up of the protagonist's eye, from which we can easily follow a man speaking to her and whose voice we hear clearly. Later, for instance, a close-up of a sugar cube soaking in coffee represents the protagonist's will to enclose herself in her world, one narrowed by her own hands. There is also a recurring use of a brief musical interlude to highlight some of the film's shocking moments, typically leading to a fade to black that immediately returns to the film once the music ends. The segments centered on the music are also interesting, with the score displayed on screen to follow along with, but even better is the scene where Julie and her late husband's former colleague discuss arranging the husband's unfinished symphony, with the soundtrack being modified in real time. The visionary final sequence is just one of the aesthetic peaks reached by the film, bolstered by an excellent performance from lead actress Juliette Binoche and impressive performances from all the actors.
White Film probably takes a step forward in terms of the plot, masterfully orchestrated though at times a bit implausible, a shift in general tone, and perhaps a step back in terms of content and emotion. It's the only film where the true protagonist is a man, Karol, a Polish man abandoned by his wife for being impotent, who leaves France returning home in a suitcase and from there builds his financial empire day by day with the aim of seeing his wife again (or maybe not), whom he still loves. The woman, Dominique, appears in relatively few scenes and immediately comes across as an incredibly acerbic and diabolical character, only to reveal a hidden side in the film's end. Her character speaks only in French, often leading the film to be subtitled. At the start of the film, one can notice Julie from Blue Film appearing in the courtroom scene, demonstrating the coexistence on different planes of different stories in the same place. Ultimately, they are stories of ordinary people, analyzed with Kieslowski's typical documentary perspective but carrying equal weight and, to some extent, interdependent. As mentioned earlier, it's the tones of the film that change the most in this title: Karol's bizarre and unfortunate personality often adds an almost comedic touch to the work, while his nearly absurd machinations only heighten this aspect of comedic absurdity. The result, however, provides a greater suggestive variety to the trilogy, otherwise predominantly dramatic in tone. Nonetheless, such tones are not lacking in what is ultimately a more serious story, capable of touching the soul no less than the others. The performances are excellent in this case as well; however, the directorial choices are generally more traditional, measured, and not particularly appealing to the eye or mind. Also less defined is how Equality, represented by the color white, seeps into the film's dynamic. It is undoubtedly a film with a strong theme of social climb – with a protagonist who goes from collecting two francs by playing in the Paris metro to being an exceedingly wealthy entrepreneur – and also of revenge in a sense, but not in a way that is so explicit or free from ambiguity. Identifying Equality in such dynamics isn't impossible, but it isn't entirely credible either to assert it must be so. In short, it's certainly a recommendable work but altogether mediocre, especially when compared to the two surrounding films.
Red Film, finally, beautifully concludes not only the trilogy of colors but also the director's entire career, who would soon pass away. Valentine's story is arguably, for some reason, the most fascinating of the three: the exceptional Irene Jacob (already the lead in The Double Life of Veronica) portrays the protagonist of the tale, which sees her encounter a series of events leading her to meet a retired judge (masterfully played by Jean-Louis Trintignant), initially gruff and cynical, who gradually opens up to her, resulting in a very special relationship. Again, the scenographies are predominantly dominated by red, as continuity with the other films is maintained through the use of the figure of the old lady with the trash can, present in all the films. The soundtrack, as well as the direction, are again meticulously curated. It is time to pay homage to Zbignew Preiner's work in the entire trilogy, consistently at excellent levels. The (relatively rare) times when the soundtrack breaks the silence of the films are always memorable. It's interesting to also note the citations in the trilogy regarding Van Den Budenmayer, the fictional composer in The Double Life of Veronica and mentioned several times in these works as a sign of continuity. From a plot perspective, it's interesting to note how different stories are followed from the start, albeit focusing on Valentine's, gradually revealing the reason for this narrative choice. The psychological analyses of the characters, particularly regarding the old judge, who undergoes a significant change and great characterization, are also excellent. He also engages in some of the film's most interesting conversations, such as the problem of truth and justice or the objectivity of someone called to judge others from an existential condition not superior to theirs. Finally, once again, the interrelation between all things is emphasized, not only through the emblematical final scene where all the protagonists of the three films appear but also through the judge's past story, revealing similarities to the life of a young character followed throughout the film. Just as in Blue Film, Kieslowski wanted to demonstrate with a certain scene that different people in different places can think the same things and compose the same music; in Red Film, the possibility of different people living the same life is even exemplified (a theme, at once again, not far from that in The Double Life of Veronica). Lastly, how does Fraternity fit into this cinematic discourse? Simply, it seems the relationship between Valentine and the judge exemplifies this value aptly: a strong fraternal love born by chance and passed through antipathy, challenge, attraction, and intimacy, to remain steadfast over time and aimed solely at mutual good. It's no coincidence that the judge guides the girl toward her new and happy existence, alongside the person he recognizes as a sort of alter-ego of himself but whom he wants to try to give a better life than his own.
Overall, therefore, the judgment on this trilogy can only be positive, with two excellent titles like Blue Film and Red Film, and a still enjoyable and interesting film like White Film. Kieslowski gracefully closes his career with the quintessence of his crepuscular cinema, prosaic yet simultaneously imbued with poetic tones and remarkable artistic insights, capable of impacting both the eye and the mind, both the ear and the soul.
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