Blogical Conclusion

THE FRENCH DISCONNECTION

JULY 19, 2008 – AS LONG AS HE’S IN FRANCE, just about nothing goes right for Karol (Zbigniew Zamachowski) in Krzysztof Kieślowski’s White. As the film opens, this Polish citizen runs up the steps of an imposing courthouse and pauses to admire the view, when a pigeon, fluttering overhead, marks his shoulder with a runny deposit in the titular colour. It’s a sign from the heavens of the humiliations to follow. Once inside the courtroom, Karol hears the judge ask his wife something unintelligible. The judge is speaking in French, of course, which Karol does not follow. A translator leans over and conveys the gist: “Can you tell us your concrete reasons for wanting a divorce?” Dominique (Julie Delpy) looks down, as if the reason she’s about to offer is an embarrassment to her. Then she reveals, “Our marriage wasn’t consummated.”

Looking at Karol, whose face hangs in shame, it’s clear no translation is needed here, but the translator leans over nonetheless, determined to drive home the information that it is now a matter of official record in France that Karol is impotent. It’s his turn next, and he tries to reclaim for himself a little bit of his masculinity. When asked if his wife’s testimony is faithful to the facts. Karol counters, “But when we met in Poland, and even here at the beginning, I think I gave my wife pleasure.” He takes a deep breath. “It’s only afterwards…” He pauses for the corollary that the troubles began only after his legal affiliation to France, after he married a Frenchwoman. He begins to talk about the problem in terms of the plural pronoun. “We stopped…” And then, in his innate decency, he corrects himself. “I stopped being able to. It’s only temporary…”

The judge motions him to sit, but, perhaps inflamed by rage born of his helplessness and shame, Karol strides to the centre of the courtroom and rails, “Where’s the equality? Is my not speaking French a reason for the court to refuse to hear my case?” The judge relents. “What is it that you want?” Karol looks down, as if taken aback by his effrontery and requiring a moment to collect himself. “I need time, Your Honour,” he says. “I want to save our marriage.” He looks at Dominique. “I don’t believe the love is gone. One night, I was ready to…” The judge picks up from where Karol trails off. “Was the marriage consummated that night?”

We leave the courtroom for an instant and see Dominique in her bridal finery, running down the aisle, smiling as the confetti falls around her. In the background, juxtaposed against this joyous image, is Karol’s tragic reply. “No.” We return to the courtroom, as Dominique takes the stand again. Her translucent loveliness of a moment earlier, when she was dressed in white and bathed in a gauzy glow and when her face was lit up with the happy anticipation of the life that lay ahead, has evaporated now under the hard unforgiving light in the courtroom. Back in reality, back in the present, not only does Dominique look different, she feels differently about Karol, as is clear from her response to the judge who wants to know if she loves her husband. “I used to,” she says.

Once outside, she removes from her car a trunk containing Karol’s belongings. That look on her face – is that scorn? Is it derision that everything he owned in France, all the material evidence of his having made a life for himself there, can fit into one lousy piece of baggage? She drives off. Karol goes to a cash machine and discovers his card cannot be used. A banker inspects the card and informs him that his bank account is frozen. Karol, thus, is left divorced not just from his wife, but from France. He has no rights there any more. When he reaches out to reclaim the card, the Frenchman snaps it in two with a pair of scissors, completing the emasculation of Karol that began with the court proceedings. Karol will, one day, find himself back in Poland, powerful enough to snap this snotty banker in two – but now, in France, he’s just a nobody at whom everyone appears to be sneering, even Brigitte Bardot from a roadside poster of Godard’s Le Mépris, which translates as contempt.

Copyright ©2008 The New Indian Express. This article may not be reproduced in its entirety without permission. A link to this URL, instead, would be appreciated.