Ladies And Gentleman, What You Are About To Witness Is An Exorcism

Rating: Null/10 (7 March 2011)

Roman Polanski's genius is questionable. Whether or not he does possess a certain cinematic genius is neither urgent or necessary to conclude. His body of work speaks for itself, his 1974 magnum opus speaks for its decade, reality in the face of theatricality, and for the sanctity of the cinema itself. Now although it is not completely justifiable to prove whether Polanski is or is not a genius, it is rather important to discuss the life of this idolized and wanted man. Roman Polanski was born in the year 1933 in Paris to Polish parents. When his mother and father were forced into concentration camps for being Jewish, Polanski was faced with the unmeasurable difficulty of surviving the Holocaust on his own. His Mother, ultimately, fell victim to the horrors of Auschwitz. If that's not enough, if you would so melodramatically, fast forward to the year of 1969. To the Summer Of Love. To the end of the small portion of Polanski's life he would later recall as the happiest he's ever had. He had a beautiful, talented, and adoring wife. Her name was Sharon Tate. The baby inside of her, she and Roman would never name. In August of 1969 the Manson Family laid slain to Sharon Tate and the baby inside of her, both terrorizing and taunting, the darkest chapter of Polanski's life was marooned with notoriety and fear. It was only a few years after the death of his wife where Roman would leave his mark on the world forever. Chinatown flows with a lavishly perfected Noir tone, and I should add here, the film is the Neo Noir archetype, the best of its kind and one of the best that Film Noir carries in its respective canon. Also, whenever one sets out to write about Chinatown, one cannot understate the delicacy, the supreme handling of pacing which is to be found in this particular film. Not before, and not since, has pacing been so well thought out, so marvelously calculated, and devilishly crafted. Jack Nicholson and Faye Dunaway stand immortal in this film, bellowing through the tenement halls inside of every dirty city confined within every Noir film in rotation. If Jack Nicholson and Faye Dunaway stand luminous as Kings of their respective Kingdom, then John Huston stands apart; shrouded in darkness, transparent, eager, vicious, immediate. John Huston's 'Noah Cross' exists, alright, and the most dangerous thing about the 'Noah Cross's of the world is that the evil within them is otherwise ordinary, bottomless, and unstoppable. Robert Towne's script is simply impeccable. Flawless storytelling accompanied by snappy dialogue, and a climax that cuts deeper than that of documentary reality. But it is Polanski who is the true star of this picture. You can see him in every shot, peering in through the lens, and directly into your heart. You can taste him in every dry patch of dialogue, smell him in the midst of gun smoke, and fear him as the tension culminates into the wake of tragedy. It is there, in the tragedy, he dares you to hope for the best, he wants to feel safe because films make you feel comfortable. He takes the trust that he'd earned from the audience, and crushes it, oh, and he makes sure it stings. He makes sure it hurts. And in in the aftermath of the his final act, his final betrayal, the ultimate tragedy, he makes sure you can feel him. He leaves you in pain. He leaves you guilty in satisfaction. Knowing that tragedy is the most universal of luxuries, Polanski makes that perfectly clear, and for the first time, his voice is heard, his war cry. Coherent and horrifying.