“All films are dreams, some of them more than others”. The troubled nights of David Lynch’s cinema are like Krzysztof Warlikowski’s dark evenings of the theatre. His works are played out in similarly dreamlike, phantasmagorical depths in order to portray an enlightened vision of the world, a dream both outraged and pessimistic, a clear-eyed gaze at the dark night of the human condition and the loss of innocence. A disquieting strangeness casts its shadow like the obscure threat of the imminent manifestation of some hidden, mysterious and inexplicable reality. The Iphigenia in his production, a frail, aeging diva and a recluse in a nursing home – a tiled universe of hard, rigid, clinical austerity, is like Lynch’s Diane in Mulholland Drive: emerging from an impossible reality and from her own macabre farce, she dreams, living through her reminiscences: the introspective mulling over her existence and the resurfacing of forgotten memories. The vestiges of what is absent, memories of the past are at the heart of this contemporary narrative of an Iphigenia tortured, vacillating and confused. The lost time returns in flashbacks. Doors open and close on a vertiginous fiction that doubtless leads nowhere other than to an existential impasse.
Sombre and disturbing, Krzysztof Warlikowski submits theatre to cinema and its spectres. Eternal old women wander through the hospice in which his Iphigenia, the survivor of a domestic nightmare, is dying; they advance like dumb zombies, the living dead. Phantoms always return. Here they are invoked in the form of a mute chorus of young women brought back from his Triumph of Time and Truth, an early oratorio by Handel, and which he staged in a set resembling a cinema auditorium, the seats of which also featured in the scenography of The Macropoulos Case.The Polish director fills his theatre with images, displacing the narrative to a sort of annexe opening onto the spaces of the mind, a rhizome-like internal labyrinth of multiple dimensions. In the nocturnal huis clos of Iphigenia’s nursing home, which could just as easily be a psychiatric hospital for the senile and decadent, videos project images of the bloody tragedy. It is not a film as such, but the images are in the tradition of Krzysztof Warlikowski’s formally syncretic work. He assembles, joins, cuts, quotes and extracts in the form of a collage as if editing a film or a narrative. He borrows, juxtaposes and builds bridges to create a hybrid, a poetic translation. He alters and recreates.
Krzysztof Warlikowski is not simply a director under the influence of David Lynch, even as regards his stylisation and his aesthetic, which evoke a pictorial heritage drawn from the work of Hopper and Bacon. He is not so far removed from Bergman in his combination of oneirism, lyricism and symbolism. Film culture plays an active role in his protean approach and his productions regularly include extracts from films: in Cabaret de Varsovie, John Cameron Mitchell’s Shortbus; in Parsifal, Roberto Rossellini’s Germany, Year Zero; in The Triumph of Time and Truth, an extract from the film Ghost Dance by Ken McMullen; sequences from L’Année dernière à Marienbad by Resnais as a prelude to Die Frau ohne Schatten.In Warlikowski’s theatre, an eccentric movement entirely displaces both narrative and perception. But why the devil has he been pigeonholed? Enfant terrible? Provocateur? Experimentalist? The creator creates, and Warlikoswki cannot be contained within such limitative clichés.
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Your reading: Krzysztof Warlikowski in images from the cinema and its ghosts