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Premise: this review begins with some personal polemic reflections regarding some extracinematographic themes of these months; if you wish, you can skip the first part and go directly to the chapter dedicated to the film.
The old Roman is still here. He fights and struggles among us, who have always loved his cinema.
Despite the crowd of hypocrites who, in the name of neophyte puritanism disguised as a fight for rights and against harassment and abuse of power, represented by neo-Nazi movements also publicized by "our" Asia Argento (already a signatory of the pro-Polański petition, already reinventing herself as a lyncher, now herself caught in the storm she fueled... When divine perverse justice is mentioned) who have just prematurely ended the career of the other "great monster" Woody Allen, with a forced stop (the first in fifty years) and the cancellation of his last completed film A Rainy Day in New York; and who, certainly, would rejoice to see on the gallows the director of Rosemary's Baby and The Tenant now eighty-five years old (only Eastwood, among the indefatigable masters still fully active, is older, and the aforementioned Allen just a little younger).
Polański, in any case, has been once again criticized and excommunicated in recent months; they even brought up old statements from Tarantino to turn them against him (he too embroiled thanks to some accusations from his old favorite Uma Thurman, but Quentin is still too big a cash machine to be abruptly stopped like Woody), they expelled him from the Academy, only to then invite his wife to join the golden circle of those who vote to award the most politically correct and liberal statuettes in the star system. Receiving memorable and splendid rebuffs from Seigner herself.
Seigner has never stopped supporting and standing by her husband. Humanly, morally, and professionally. As here, in this their latest film together according to timeline.
D'après une histoire vraie.
From his debut with the cult film Knife in the Water, and then throughout his entire career, Polański has never ceased to question the nature and development of the complex and fragile power dynamics between a few individuals, delving into minds and psychologies, weaknesses and paranoias, creating a directorial style, though not immune to lessons from some masters - Hitchcock first and foremost -, very personal and historical as one of the most influential and studied. Whether it’s marital relations, actors ready to make pacts with the Devil, respectable individuals unsuspectable former torturers of a time, or writers in crisis, the difficulties, frustrations, repressions and hypocrisies of the bourgeoisie are ruthlessly shown, in films that range from dramatic to grotesque to chamber drama (with Rope coming to mind, as in the highly successful Carnage). And even in this latest effort, Polański returns once again there, among only two protagonists, as in the previous Venus in Fur.
This time, for the first time, two women. The double: a ground that Polański has not explored so often, in reality. If the context is not as extreme as in the previous one, with Seigner and Amalric as the only actors of the entire film, here every other small character is a mere extra. There are only them: Delphine, a writer in crisis (precisely), and Elle (Elisabeth, She-Leila in Italian to maintain the play on the feminine pronoun), ghostwriter for biographies of entertainment and political figures, a mysterious great admirer of Delphine.
Emmanuelle Seigner and Eva Green. Already, for a pair like this, the film deserves to be seen.
The film, however, was received very coldly even by several Polański enthusiasts; unfairly, in my opinion. Because, if it is true that, in fact, apart from having two female protagonists, it proposes nothing new and, in hindsight, adds little to his career, it is once again a work of splendid craftsmanship. Shot with inevitable mastery, where no frame is wasted, where the tension does not drop but instead grows more and more until, between the two, a sicker and sicker relationship is triggered, almost reminiscent of Misery.
But throughout the film ambiguity and allusions are favored over something more explicit, especially from an erotic point of view (and here there is the regret that Roman did not dare a little more, but indeed it is a deliberate choice), The purest Polański is undoubtedly found in the final part, in a crescendo of memories and confessions, claustrophobia and anguish, mysterious illnesses and psychological violence. Nothing from the outside world can physically come between the two even for an instant. And although the twist may not surprise those used to the Polish director's cinema, even for those who do not know the book (clearly autobiographical of Delphine de Vigan) that inspired the work, the sensation is of another successful film; even considering it as an exercise in style, or a “on autopilot” work. Such considerations, these, are legitimate.
But that, in any case, as far as I'm concerned, never translate into disappointment. For 100 minutes I enjoyed this small latest Polanskian work. And, as I find myself repeating every time I finish a new film of his, I said: long live Roman.
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