Cinema Masters: Kieślowski’s The Double Life of Véronique (1991)

Sometimes I wish that films would stop being released for a few years just so that I could catch-up on all of the great ones I’ve missed; particularly those that require a large amount of reading. Not that I mind subtitles of course, it’s just that occasionally (okay, frequently) my lazy-ass would rather watch comfort films for the umpteenth time instead of broadening my horizons. Well, no more. Roll on the masterpieces.

The Double Life of Véronique is considered by some to be Krzysztof Kieślowski’s finest film. While I have not seen enough of his work to voice my opinion, I can say that it is a work of beguiling beauty.

The film has, what I have heard described as, a European sensibility; it takes its time to get going and, in so doing, trusts the patience of the audience. In Peter Biskind’s book Down and Dirty Pictures, Alison Anders equates narrative to “a clothesline”. She goes on to say “I’m interested in what’s on the clothesline, not the clothesline itself.” Like Anders, Kieślowski seems more interested in the clothes; the themes, ideas, and characters of his film; than any narrative through-line.

What little there is of a plot follows Weronika, a Polish girl played by Irene Jacob as she deals with a sexual relationship and her desire to sing. When she suddenly collapses and dies, the story swiftly shifts to follow Veronique, a French girl, also played by Jacob, and her strange sense of loss.

While some films sign post where they are going, Véronique, on first viewing at least, is a bit of a mystery from beginning to end. It would take a repeat viewing to pick up on the moments in Weronika’s story that link her to Véronique and hold the clues to the overall scheme of the film. While I do plan to watch it again in the near future, I think it would be interesting to look at the effect that two sequences had on me and how Kieślowski creates those effects.

When Weronika dies we are thrust (no pun intended) into the middle of a love scene. The camera lingers close to the two bodies and pans up to Véronique’s face. This first shot is distorted and hazy, almost dreamlike. The intimacy of the camera with the two characters highlights the interconnectedness between these two souls.

It’s useful to discuss sex scenes in general at this juncture to look at what Kieślowski achieves with the scene. Someone, I wish I could remember who, said that as soon as an actor/actress disrobes in a film it switches from a work of fiction to a documentary. And in most cases I agree with that sentiment. I get the sense watching many actresses disrobe in films that it is a calculated move in the hopes that the given role will propel them into a better career. Unfortunately, because they are effectively forcing themselves to do something that they do not want to do, in a society, particularly in the States, that looks at sex in films as titillating, gratuitous, and downright unsavoury, their uncomfortableness often translates into their performance; so we end up watching the actress (or actor, although men seem more comfortable with nudity, perhaps because they are less objectified) instead of the character disrobing. So I often find sex scenes in films uncomfortable and self-concious.

However, like the European narrative sensibility, there also seems to be a different attitude towards sex and nudity in Continental Europe. Whether it is due to the cultural differences within which the film was made, or just her own convictions and skill, Irene Jacob shows no sign of slipping from under the mask of her character in this scene (or any scene for that matter). Combined with Kieślowski’s ability to focus on what a scene is about; in this case the bonding of two souls, as opposed to the bonding of two loins; the scene is the most natural and least-sexualised love scene I have ever seen. And, most importantly it communicates the idea of the scene, and essentially the film.

Once the act of lovemaking is over Véronique looks lost. Her lover, who we never see again, asks her if she is sad. She initially says no, but then agrees that she is. She feels grief but is unsure why. In one swift stroke (again, pun unintended) Kieślowski has highlighted his theme and then used it to connect the two story threads. Véronique continues through the film trying to fill the void that the death of, the unknown to her, Weronika has created. He could have used all manner of artificial tricks to perform this function but instead utilises his exceptional ability with cinema technique. This technique is also on display in a scene from later in the film.

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This short scene shows us several things. The first is that  Véronique is not engaged with her class. While she talks to them and leads them through rehearsal she walks away from them, the camera closely following her, so that she ends up at a window without the children in view. The class is marginalised and becomes less important. The second is her preoccupation with the tape that she holds in her hand. It is a tape she has received in the previous scene and it  is a mystery to the audience, and, it also appears, to her. So while her thoughts are not on the class they are likely with the mystery of the tape. The third is that she, most likely, is daydreaming about the old woman who appears in the next shot. It is this part of the scene I find most interesting.

As Véronique approaches the window it establishes that she is looking at something outside of the class. The next shot, of an old woman walking out of the front garden of a house and onto a grassy lane, cannot possibly be what she is actually looking at. On first impressions it looks like the scene has stopped and we have cut to action elsewhere. However, several things point out that this is, most likely, not the case. Up until this point the camera has stuck close to the characters, trying to inhabit their skin. In some cases the camera actually does become the characters; such as when it falls to its knees and then tilts to the side as Weronika kneels and looks down a street. However, in this shot the old woman is distant. The soundtrack also provides information as the sound from the music class, and Véronique’s voice, seamlessly continues over the shot of the old woman. All of these simple things add to the impression that Véronique is thinking about the old woman in her head. Kieślowski could have cut back to Véronique in the window to confirm that this is the case but he instead cuts straight to the next scene; leaving it ambiguous and adding to the dream-like quality of the film.

While this daydream sequence could have been reinforced using a different film stock, or tricks such as zooming in on Véronique’s eye, I would argue that Kieślowski’s method is more effective, and, perhaps more importantly, less disruptive to the mood and style of the film. While each of the devices he employs are simple on the surface, they are well-thought out and integrate into a cohesive whole. He efficiently, and purposefully, uses the language of cinema to expertly communicate ideas to the audience. It is a masterclass in film direction.