The Pianist is a movie that often gets bundled together with Schindler's List as being "about" the holocaust. But this is a misunderstanding, a simplification even, of this picture (and of Schindler's List). It relates to the holocaust, but it is not the story of the holocaust – it's the story of one man. Władisław Szpilman was an artist, with great talent in his hands and his mind, and in him is represented something very precious in humanity. He also appears, as many such people really are, someone to whom the music mattered far more than current affairs. As such, he provides a unusual view on atrocity, that of someone who, rather than actively fight against it, for the most part tried simply to exist in spite of it.
This somewhat passive yet dignified stance is ably reflected in Roman Polanski's direction, which has always been characterised by an excruciating intimacy with his subjects and a certain detachment from the world in which they inhabit. Here we see Szpilman glimpsing the war through windows and doorways, yet often himself or his hands in close-up. But Polanski's boldest strokes of genius are in his creation and presentation of the ghetto and its inhabitants, especially as regards how he draws our attention. The soldiers giving a cigarette to an elderly Jewish man and the couple fighting over a can of stew are foregrounded. Seconds later, a corpse lies innocuously in the background. When Władek's father is accosted by two Germans, we see a couple of Polish women hastily get out of the way. When the shot changes to reveal the officer's back, the focus is suddenly on his gun holster – it draws our attention to things that give a little extra breadth and context to a scene.
Central to The Pianist is Adrien Brody's portrayal of the title character. It's an incredibly sedate performance, with everything below the surface, utterly commanding of our attention despite its understatement. His emotions seem muted – when reunited with a friend the merest ghost of a smile plays across his lips, but by now we know the character and understand that this is a deep and sincere expression. Brody virtually carries the movie alone, and one of the unfortunate things about The Pianist is that not one other performance stands out at all, and the inadequacy of some of the supporting players does hurt the earlier scenes a little.
But perhaps the greatest thing about The Pianist is in the fine construction of its story. Although most of it is based incredibly faithfully on Szpilman's own memoir, the adaptation by Ronald Harwood gives it a certain dramatic course. There is one intensely poignant scene, and one of the few entirely fictionalised episodes, in which Szpilman is being sheltered by Dorota, wakes to the sound of her cello-playing and, just for a moment, he can imagine what life would be like if she had been his wife. Finally, the scene where Hosenfeld asks Szpilman to play for him seems to be the key to the whole thing. It's as if every moment, every narrative line, points towards that scene. We've seen Germans forcing Jews to dance for their entertainment, which makes us first question Hosenfeld's motives. We've seen Szpilman's desperation to be reunited with a piano, his fingers making keystrokes in the air. In retrospect, this all seems a set-up for that encounter. In effect, The Pianist becomes a tale of a harrowing time, filtered through the beauty of a musical performance.
This somewhat passive yet dignified stance is ably reflected in Roman Polanski's direction, which has always been characterised by an excruciating intimacy with his subjects and a certain detachment from the world in which they inhabit. Here we see Szpilman glimpsing the war through windows and doorways, yet often himself or his hands in close-up. But Polanski's boldest strokes of genius are in his creation and presentation of the ghetto and its inhabitants, especially as regards how he draws our attention. The soldiers giving a cigarette to an elderly Jewish man and the couple fighting over a can of stew are foregrounded. Seconds later, a corpse lies innocuously in the background. When Władek's father is accosted by two Germans, we see a couple of Polish women hastily get out of the way. When the shot changes to reveal the officer's back, the focus is suddenly on his gun holster – it draws our attention to things that give a little extra breadth and context to a scene.
Central to The Pianist is Adrien Brody's portrayal of the title character. It's an incredibly sedate performance, with everything below the surface, utterly commanding of our attention despite its understatement. His emotions seem muted – when reunited with a friend the merest ghost of a smile plays across his lips, but by now we know the character and understand that this is a deep and sincere expression. Brody virtually carries the movie alone, and one of the unfortunate things about The Pianist is that not one other performance stands out at all, and the inadequacy of some of the supporting players does hurt the earlier scenes a little.
But perhaps the greatest thing about The Pianist is in the fine construction of its story. Although most of it is based incredibly faithfully on Szpilman's own memoir, the adaptation by Ronald Harwood gives it a certain dramatic course. There is one intensely poignant scene, and one of the few entirely fictionalised episodes, in which Szpilman is being sheltered by Dorota, wakes to the sound of her cello-playing and, just for a moment, he can imagine what life would be like if she had been his wife. Finally, the scene where Hosenfeld asks Szpilman to play for him seems to be the key to the whole thing. It's as if every moment, every narrative line, points towards that scene. We've seen Germans forcing Jews to dance for their entertainment, which makes us first question Hosenfeld's motives. We've seen Szpilman's desperation to be reunited with a piano, his fingers making keystrokes in the air. In retrospect, this all seems a set-up for that encounter. In effect, The Pianist becomes a tale of a harrowing time, filtered through the beauty of a musical performance.