MARCEL ŁOZIŃSKI: I’M A DOCUMENTARY FILMMAKER “because something is happening around and inside
me, and I try to connect these two realities, because I like to ask about the nature of happiness,
fear, pain and hope, because I want to understand ‘what’s what,’ because I don’t believe in objective registering of
reality, because I trust chance more than my own
imagination, because I’m curious if others feel as I do, because it’s my chosen profession since I gave up
engineering,
because I like to ‘thicken’ reality, but never to distort it, because I must make a living, because I’m trying to communicate with others, because the truth in nonfiction films can be shocking, because I don’t like substitutes for reality, because I’m often repulsed by the artificiality of fic-
tion films,
because I abhor intolerance, stupidity, pretense, because I want to immortalize a fraction of my reality, because I like to listen and to watch people, and I want others to enjoy it, because I’m annoyed by so many things, because I don’t see myself as an artist, but I try to be a
good craftsman, because I like to poke holes in things that seem
whole,
because I hold certain values sacred, because I want to know the thoughts of a stranger who looks out the window, as I watch him, because I liked to take apart watches when I was a
kid, to see how their mechanisms worked. And this is why I make nonfiction films.”
Marcel Łoziński, the arch-provocateur of Polish nonfic- tion cinema, can seemingly turn any situation into a play- ground for ideas. For decades, he has been fomenting creativity and critical thinking with undaunted persis- tence, all the more admirable under communism, which often stymied invention and dissent. In December 1981, Poland’s Communist Party leader General Jaruzelski declared martial law and imprisoned thousands of dis- sidents in internment camps, to clamp down on the independent union Solidarity. Merely months before this bleak episode in Poland’s history, Łoziński was asked by a reporter from Sztandard Ludu (People’s Standard) why he continued to make films. So many of them had been shelved, i.e., censored or denied distribution. “If you knew you stood no chance,” the reporter asked, “why go on?” Łoziński replied, “We were hoping better times might come .…” This guarded hope points to what is so poignant about Łoziński’s films. They are probing, their insight often scathingly caustic, yet just as often compas- sionate towards their subjects. It is as if Łoziński is saying that we are all victims of circumstance, and in even the most painful or tragic moments, we owe each other the benefit of the doubt. It is common to split Łoziński’s extensive oeuvre into
earlier, more political films and later, more personal ones. In a way, the Neither/Nor series is shaped to highlight this aesthetic trajectory, allowing viewers to observe how Łoziński’s style evolves. At the same time, asserting a linear progression has pitfalls: indeed, some of Łoziński’s films not shown in this series point to the permanence of his themes and modes, making his artistic journey look a lot more circular. This is particularly true for the films that deal with Łoziński’s Jewish heritage—from Witnesses (1986) and Seven Jews from My Class (1991) to the later psychodramas, Tonia and Her Children (2011) and Father and Son on a Journey (2013). Łoziński repeatedly returns
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