Roman Polanski
Il Pianista

THE REVIEW

Perhaps I chose the wrong day to watch it again.

The truth is that there is no right time to watch this film.

Today, a great man, who dedicated his life to music despite the terrible illness that had accompanied him for years, also decided to leave this unhappy earth. Bon voyage Ezio.

The thought that it was a cinematic representation did not ease the viewing, also because the events depicted are a snapshot of what really happened on the Polish front during World War II.

The discomfort and sense of unease clung to my back like a monkey; only the reading of Littell's The Kindly Ones had had a similar effect. There's no damn way to digest that filth, I can't understand how humanity can stoop so low.

I would like to write about my homicidal impulses, the desire to tear the hearts out of those filthy bastards with my own hands, and the deep sense of impotence and frustration that doesn't leave me, but what I think of the Nazi extermination is completely irrelevant, I just wanted to try an exercise in abstraction and talk to you about the film, yes, The Pianist, by Roman Polanski.

Based on an autobiographical book written by Polish musician Władysław Szpilman, the film is a snapshot of the talented musician's life during the Polish invasion until liberation by the Russian army.

Ideally, the film is divided into two parts, the first being the life of the Szpilman family coping with the difficult task of surviving in economic hardships and increasingly oppressive Nazi laws, but, all in all, the anguish of Nazi atrocities will only manifest later.

The second part, on the other hand, highlights the interpretative skills of an extraordinary Adrien Brody: it is the part of the film that, while it will challenge your sensitivity, will also allow you to empathize with the eyes and gaunt physique of the protagonist.

At times claustrophobic due to the frantic search for shelters to hide from the Nazi murderous insanity, the film reaches its peak, and one of the most beautiful pages in cinema history, when Szpilman is discovered by a German officer and, following a specific request by the officer himself, performs a piece by Chopin (Ballade No. 1 in G minor) playing a dusty piano in the apartment where he had taken refuge.

And this is where Polaski's magic comes to life. A ray of light filters through a damaged window, the livid and malnourished face and the gnarled hands laboriously wrapped around the keyboard of the piano, the water vapor forming from Brody's labored breathing due to the biting cold. And then the Nazi officer. A marble statue from which glimmers of humanity seep, a God who, finally, peeks into this genocide after 2 hours of film. And the hope that redemption is possible.

Adrien Brody proves to be a monumental interpreter: his perpetually melancholic gaze fits perfectly with the screenplay and is masterfully directed by Polanski.

A colorful note: 5 years earlier Polanski had refused to direct Schindler's List, evidently, his particular Holocaust was not yet ready and he had to wait until 2002 to gift us with this gem.