Le locataire, France / USA, 126 minutes
Director: Roman Polanski
Writers: Roland Topor, Gerard Brach, Roman Polanski
Photography: Sven Nykvist
Music: Philippe Sarde
Editor: Francoise Bonnot
Cast: Roman Polanski, Isabelle Adjani, Melvyn Douglas, Shelley Winters, Jo Van Fleet, Bernard Fresson, Lila Kedrova, Rufus, Alain Frerot, Jacques Monod, Claude Dauphin, Dominique Poulange
Director and cowriter Roman Polanski is now likely remembered most, unfortunately, for his sex crime(s). He has always been a good filmmaker and continued to be even when he wandered off into arguably dead-end projects like this. One of his great talents was simply for constructing movies. He recognized and could attract best talents, which probably explains what cinematographer Sven Nykvist (Persona, Fanny and Alexander) is doing here. Polanski's fondness for old Hollywood is even more apparent—in Rosemary's Baby as well—as he casts various icons well past their sell-by dates yet at least as good as you could expect: Melvyn Douglas, for example, a heartthrob leading-man rival of Fredric March and Clark Gable in the '30s, plays a curmudgeonly old landlord in The Tenant. A blowsy bellowing Shelley Winters works well as the concierge of the creepy apartment building. And Jo Van Fleet is decked out in perfect makeup to chew the scenery awhile as a hideous nosy neighbor. The camera itself seems to swoon in her witch-like dizzying presence.
There's a good case, however, that Polanski took a misstep by casting himself as the lead in this strangely toned movie. It turns out he's not bad at being mousy and timid although it never rings entirely true and at about the halfway point the whole project starts to go well off the rails. By the time we're encountering cryptic Egyptology symbols and the cross-dressing starts it kind of falls apart. But I've always been perhaps unnaturally attached to this movie even with all its flaws. It has many amazing small pieces, and if the whole is less than the sum, well, they're still pretty impressive taken on their own.
Director and cowriter Roman Polanski is now likely remembered most, unfortunately, for his sex crime(s). He has always been a good filmmaker and continued to be even when he wandered off into arguably dead-end projects like this. One of his great talents was simply for constructing movies. He recognized and could attract best talents, which probably explains what cinematographer Sven Nykvist (Persona, Fanny and Alexander) is doing here. Polanski's fondness for old Hollywood is even more apparent—in Rosemary's Baby as well—as he casts various icons well past their sell-by dates yet at least as good as you could expect: Melvyn Douglas, for example, a heartthrob leading-man rival of Fredric March and Clark Gable in the '30s, plays a curmudgeonly old landlord in The Tenant. A blowsy bellowing Shelley Winters works well as the concierge of the creepy apartment building. And Jo Van Fleet is decked out in perfect makeup to chew the scenery awhile as a hideous nosy neighbor. The camera itself seems to swoon in her witch-like dizzying presence.
There's a good case, however, that Polanski took a misstep by casting himself as the lead in this strangely toned movie. It turns out he's not bad at being mousy and timid although it never rings entirely true and at about the halfway point the whole project starts to go well off the rails. By the time we're encountering cryptic Egyptology symbols and the cross-dressing starts it kind of falls apart. But I've always been perhaps unnaturally attached to this movie even with all its flaws. It has many amazing small pieces, and if the whole is less than the sum, well, they're still pretty impressive taken on their own.
For example, the strange relationship between the Polish emigre to Paris, Trelkovsky (Polanski), and his love interest Stella (Isabelle Adjani). Stella was a friend of Simone Choule (Dominique Poulange), the previous tenant who unexpectedly committed suicide. Trelkovsky and Stella meet in the hospital. He did not know Simone but has somehow heard of the coming availability of the apartment (we never learn how) and is trying to get the inside track. Apartments in Paris in the '70s were apparently hard to come by. In the hospital, Stella is already distraught by the degree of Simone's injuries, grief-stricken when Simone does not seem to recognize her, and shocked when Simone begins screaming like her soul is on fire and the nurses insist they leave. Trelkovsky is a bumbling comfort to her—takes her for a drink and then they end up in a movie theater watching a Bruce Lee movie and groping one another. Stella, this good-hearted casual acquaintance, turns out to be Trelkovsky's best and practically only friend through all his sorrows and madness.
The screaming in the hospital by Simone is as unexpected for us as it is for the couple, and as profoundly unnerving too. The Tenant is best at being incomprehensibly creepy, working on unconscious levels: all the free-floating aggression and hostility of Trelkovsky's neighbors and coworkers, the tooth Trelkovsky finds wrapped in cotton in a hole in one of the walls of the apartment, the people in the communal toilet across the way who stand there motionless staring at him. The man at the corner coffeeshop keeps pushing Simone's brand of cigarette on him. Trelkovsky feels the pressure of all the subtle ways people—strangers, mostly—seem to be pushing him into becoming Simone Choule, whoever she was. He never knew her. He only wanted her apartment.
In a way, the movie's early scenes play like echoes of the ending, reverberating backward. It may be hard to get them to add up and make sense but it's not hard to see where this movie is going. The Tenant has echoes as well of Polanski's other "apartment" movies, Repulsion and Rosemary's Baby, particularly the former. All share the casual sense of people cracking up under the pressure of living in the big city. By making itself so explicitly about madness it unfortunately opens the door to anything-goes hijinks. That's how I take the cross-dressing particularly. Maybe Polanski wanted to do the dress-up part and thought his ticket in was as a character who's most inclined when out of our sight to be out of his mind. It almost verges on bad taste now.
As much as I like The Tenant I've always had to admit the second half basically loses its way in insane indulgence. But that's also true of Repulsion and maybe even Rosemary's Baby, so at a certain level I've been willing to forgive it because the first half so brilliantly sets up urban scenes of anxiety. It has a strange sound design, the result of looping and dubbing, set off with a soothing clarinet soundtrack. The attraction between Stella and Trelkovsky feels strange too, and uncertain—ultimately we see it's genuine on her part, but it's a little hard to understand. The Tenant is always good at unsettling scare revelations, notably those people in the bathroom staring. It's a decided break from the Hollywood glamour of Chinatown, Polanski's previous movie, yet in line with his other apartment movies. It is an uneven pastiche but I seem to check in on it regularly.
The screaming in the hospital by Simone is as unexpected for us as it is for the couple, and as profoundly unnerving too. The Tenant is best at being incomprehensibly creepy, working on unconscious levels: all the free-floating aggression and hostility of Trelkovsky's neighbors and coworkers, the tooth Trelkovsky finds wrapped in cotton in a hole in one of the walls of the apartment, the people in the communal toilet across the way who stand there motionless staring at him. The man at the corner coffeeshop keeps pushing Simone's brand of cigarette on him. Trelkovsky feels the pressure of all the subtle ways people—strangers, mostly—seem to be pushing him into becoming Simone Choule, whoever she was. He never knew her. He only wanted her apartment.
In a way, the movie's early scenes play like echoes of the ending, reverberating backward. It may be hard to get them to add up and make sense but it's not hard to see where this movie is going. The Tenant has echoes as well of Polanski's other "apartment" movies, Repulsion and Rosemary's Baby, particularly the former. All share the casual sense of people cracking up under the pressure of living in the big city. By making itself so explicitly about madness it unfortunately opens the door to anything-goes hijinks. That's how I take the cross-dressing particularly. Maybe Polanski wanted to do the dress-up part and thought his ticket in was as a character who's most inclined when out of our sight to be out of his mind. It almost verges on bad taste now.
As much as I like The Tenant I've always had to admit the second half basically loses its way in insane indulgence. But that's also true of Repulsion and maybe even Rosemary's Baby, so at a certain level I've been willing to forgive it because the first half so brilliantly sets up urban scenes of anxiety. It has a strange sound design, the result of looping and dubbing, set off with a soothing clarinet soundtrack. The attraction between Stella and Trelkovsky feels strange too, and uncertain—ultimately we see it's genuine on her part, but it's a little hard to understand. The Tenant is always good at unsettling scare revelations, notably those people in the bathroom staring. It's a decided break from the Hollywood glamour of Chinatown, Polanski's previous movie, yet in line with his other apartment movies. It is an uneven pastiche but I seem to check in on it regularly.
Polanski is good at blurring the line between prickly pedestrian characters and something more sinister and creepy. Is it all in the protagonists head or something else, etc. I liked this one too. -Skip
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