Possession (1981, Andrzej Zulawski) (Patreon)

58/100

Second viewing, last seen 2002. A film that I admire, respect, and desperately want to love more than I actually in-the-moment enjoy, and one for which every imaginable reaction—ranging from "laughably unwatchable fiasco, seriously wtf happened here?" all the way to "cinema's greatest achievement, 10,000,000/10, would happily let it demon-fuck me again and again"—makes complete sense. That I fall somewhere in the middle reflects an epic tug-of war between my strong general preference for thoughtful coherence and my awestruck appreciation of Zulawski's (and Adjani's and Neill's) sheer go-for-broke insanity. On some level, it's just hard not to give it up for such a manic display of commitment, even if it sometimes feels like the equivalent of a symphony orchestra playing that atonal "A Day in the Life" freakout for two solid hours. (And then we never get the McCartney bit.) At the same time, though, there's a sense in which Possession looks singular simply because everyone else had correctly concluded that there's no real value in sustained hysteria. When Anna has her frenzied subway-tunnel miscarriage spasm-fit, it's hard to perceive any true artistry in either the scene's conception or in Adjani's performance—what's striking and memorable is how fucking nuts it is, the spectacle of a César-winning, Oscar-nominated actor flailing and shrieking and ignoring all inhibitions for minutes on end. You can't believe you're seeing it, but does it actually mean much of anything in the context of the movie? Does this movie have a context, other than "end of a marriage as filtered through Hieronymus Bosch"?

Zulawski does at least keep things vague enough to avoid actively irritating me. Occasional shots of guards atop the Berlin Wall (which every key location just happens to abut) foreshadow the film's mysterious aural-martial climax; whatever the intended metaphor may be, it's too incidental to inspire more than a slightly raised eyebrow. Likewise, while I don't really understand why Bob's teacher looks exactly like Anna (except with green eyes), or why the creature eventually turns into Mark's doppelgänger—and also frankly don't care enough to seek out other people's theories on the matter—those questions function much like, say, "Why does middle-aged Audrey Horne suddenly find herself in a different location, dressed in white and staring into a mirror?" Or "Why is Charlyne Yi crawling on the Roadhouse floor screaming her head off?" Seeking concrete answers seems futile—you either accept the proffered mindfuck or you don't. This, like a lot of Twin Peaks' third season, is a case in which I find myself intrigued without quite being satisfied (as opposed to e.g. Barton Fink, which does somehow register as a perfectly realized vision even though I can't articulate what everything means). Zulawski certainly can't match Lynch's high points, so I don't want to push this off-the-cuff comparison too far; point is, Possession merits un certain regard just for having the courage of its convictions, whether or not my own nerves got any sort of workout. They didn't, to be honest. I just watch this movie and think: Damn.