简介：In 1961, Stanislaw Rozewicz created the novella film &quotBirth Certificate&quot in cooperation with his brother, Taduesz Rozewicz as screenwriter. Such brother tandems are rare in the history of film but aside from family ties, Stanislaw (born in 1924) and Taduesz (born in 1921) were mutually bound by their love for the cinema. They were born and grew up in Radomsk, a small town which had &quotits madmen and its saints&quot and most importanly, the &quotKinema&quot cinema, as Stanislaw recalls: for him cinema is &quotheaven, the whole world, enchantment&quot. Tadeusz says he considers cinema both a charming market stall and a mysterious temple. &quotAll this savage land has always attracted and fascinated me,&quot he says. &quotI am devoured by cinema and I devour cinema I&#39m a cinema eater.&quot But Taduesz Rozewicz, an eminent writer, admits this unique form of cooperation was a problem to him: &quotIt is the presence of the other person not only in the process of writing, but at its very core, which is inserperable for me from absolute solitude.&quot Some scenes the brothers wrote together others were created by the writer himself, following discussions with the director. But from the perspective of time, it is &quotBirth Certificate&quot, rather than &quotEcho&quot or &quotThe Wicked Gate&quot, that Taduesz describes as his most intimate film. This is understandable. The tradgey from September 1939 in Poland was for the Rozewicz brothers their personal &quotbirth certificate&quot. When working on the film, the director said &quotThis time it is all about shaking off, getting rid of the psychological burden which the war was for all of us. ... Cooperation with my brother was in this case easier, as we share many war memories. We wanted to show to adult viewers a picture of war as seen by a child. ... In reality, it is the adults who created the real world of massacres. Children beheld the horrors coming back to life, exhumed from underneath the ground, overwhelming the earth.&quot 　　The principle of composition of &quotBirth Certificate&quot is not obvious. When watching a novella film, we tend to think in terms of traditional theatre. We expect that a miniature story will finish with a sharp point the three film novellas in Rozewicz&#39s work lack this feature. We do not know what will be happen to the boy making his alone through the forest towards the end of &quotOn the Road&quot. We do not know whether in &quotLetter from the Camp&quot, the help offered by the small heroes to a Soviet prisoner will rescue him from the unknown fate of his compatriots. The fate of the Jewish girl from &quotDrop of Blood&quot is also unclear. Will she keep her new impersonation as &quotMarysia Malinowska&quot? Or will the Nazis make her into a representative of the &quotNordic race&quot? Those questions were asked by the director for a reason. He preceived war as chaos and perdition, and not as linear history that could be reflected in a plot. Although &quotBirth Certificate&quot is saturated with moral content, it does not aim to be a morality play. But with the immense pressure of reality, no varient of fate should be excluded. This approached can be compared wth Krzysztof Kieslowski&#39s &quotBlind Chance&quot 25 years later, which pictured dramatic choices of a different era. 　　The film novella &quotOn the Road&quot has a very sparing plot, but it drew special attention of the reviewers. The ominating overtone of the war films created by the Polish Film School at that time should be kept in mind. Mainly owing to Wajda, those films dealt with romantic heritage. They were permeated with pathos, bitterness, and irony. Rozewicz is an extraordinary artist. When narrating a story about a boy lost in a war zone, carrying some documents from the regiment office as if they were a treasure, the narrator in &quotOn the Road&quot discovers rough prose where one should find poetry. And suddenly, the irrational touches this rather tame world. The boy, who until that moment resembled a Polish version of the Good Soldier Schweik, sets off, like Don Quixote, for his first and last battle. A critic described it as &quotan absurd gesture and someone else could surely use it to criticise the Polish style of dying. ... But the Rozewicz brothers do no accuse: they only compose an elegy for the picturesque peasant-soldier, probably the most important veteran of the Polish war of 1939-1945.&quot &quotBirth Certificate&quot is not a lofty statement about national imponderabilia. The film reveals a plebeian perspective which Aleksander Jackieqicz once contrasted with those &quotlyrical lamentations&quot inherent in the Kordian tradition. However, a historical overview of Rozewicz&#39s work shows that the distinctive style does not signify a fundamental difference in illustrating the Polish September. Just as the memorable scene from Wajda&#39s &quotLotna&quot was in fact an expression of desperation and distress, the same emotions permeate the final scene of &quotBirth Certificate&quot. These are not ideological concepts, though once described as such and fervently debated, but rather psychological creations. In this specific case, observes Witold Zalewski, it is not about manifesting knightly pride, but about a gesture of a simple man who does not agree to be enslaved. 　　The novella &quotDrop of Blood&quot is, with Aleksander Ford&#39s &quotBorder Street&quot, one of the first narrations of the fate of the Polish Jews during the Nazi occupation. The story about a girl literally looking for her place on earth has a dramatic dimension. Especially in the age of today&#39s journalistic disputes, often manipulative, lacking in empathy and imbued with bad will, Rozewicz&#39s story from the past shocks with its authenticity. The small herione of the story is the only one who survives a German raid on her family home. Physical survial does not, however, mean a return to normality. Her frightened departure from the rubbish dump that was her hideout lead her to a ruined apartment. Her walk around it is painful because still fresh signs of life are mixed with evidence of annihilation. Help is needed, but Mirka does not know anyone in the outside world. Her subsequent attempts express the state of the fugitive&#39s spirits - from hope and faith, moving to doubt, a sense of oppression, and thickening fear, and finally to despair. 　　At the same time, the Jewish girl&#39s search for refuge resembles the state of Polish society. The appearance of Mirka results in confusion, and later, trouble. This was already signalled by Rozewicz in an exceptional scene from &quotLetter from the Camp&quot in which the boy&#39s neighbour, seeing a fugitive Russian soldier, retreats immediately, admitting that &quotNow, people worry only about themselves.&quot Such embarassing excuses mask fear. During the occupation, no one feels safe. Neither social status not the aegis of a charity organisation protects against repression. We see the potential guardians of Mirka passing her back and forth among themselves. These are friendly hands but they cannot offer strong support. The story takes place on that thin line between solidarity and heroism. Solidarity arises spontaneously, but only some are capable of heroism. Help for the girl does not always result from compassion sometimes it is based on past relations and personal ties (a neighbour of the doctor takes in the fugitive for a few days because of past friendship). Rozewicz portrays all of this in a subtle way even the smallest gesture has significance. Take, for example, the conversation with a stranger on the train: short, as if jotted down on the margin, but so full of tension. And earlier, a peculiar examination of Polishness: the &quotHoly Father&quot prayer forced on Mirka by the village boys to check that she is not a Jew. Would not rising to the challenge mean a death sentance? 　　Viewed after many years, &quotBirth Certificate&quot discloses yet another quality that is not present in the works of the Polish School, but is prominent in later B-class war films. This is the picture of everyday life during the war and occupation outlined in the three novellas. It harmonises with the logic of speaking about &quotlife after life&quot. Small heroes of Rozewicz suddenly enter the reality of war, with no experience or scale with which to compare it. For them, the present is a natural extension of and at the same time a complete negation of the past. Consider the sleey small-town marketplace, through which armoured columns will shortly pass. Or meet the German motorcyclists, who look like aliens from outer space - a picture taken from an autopsy because this is how Stanislaw and Taduesz perceived the first Germans they ever met. Note the blurred silhouettes of people against a white wall who are being shot - at first they are shocking, but soon they will probably become a part of the grim landscape. In the city centre stands a prisoner camp on a sodden bog (&quotPeople perish likes flies the bodies are transported during the night&quot) in the street the childern are running after a coal wagon to collect some precious pieces of fuel. There&#39s a bustle around some food (a boy reproaches his younger brother&#39s actions by singing: &quotThe warrant officer&#39s son is begging in front of the church? I&#39m going to tell mother!&quot) and the kitchen, which one evening becomes the proscenium of a real drama. And there are the symbols: a bar of chocolate forced upon a boy by a Wehrmacht soldier (&quotOn the Road&quot) a pair of shoes belonging to Zbyszek&#39s father which the boy spontaneously gives to a Russian fugitive a priceless slice of bread, ground under the heel of a policeman in the guter (&quotLetters from the Camp&quot). As the director put it: &quotIn every film, I communicate my own vision of the world and of the people. Only then the style follows, the defined way of experiencing things.&quot In Birth Certificate, he adds, his approach was driven by the subject: &quotI attempted to create not only the texture of the document but also to add some poetic element. I know it is risky but as for the merger of documentation and poety, often hidden very deep, if only it manages to make its way onto the screen, it results in what can referred to as &#39art&#39.&quot 　　After 1945, there were numerous films created in Europe that dealt with war and children, including &quotSomewhere in Europe&quot (&quotValahol Europaban&quot, 1947 by Geza Radvanyi), &quotShoeshine&quot (&quotSciescia&quot, 1946 by Vittorio de Sica), and &quotChildhood of Ivan&quot (&quotIwanowo dietstwo&quot by Andriej Tarkowski). Yet there were fewer than one would expect. Pursuing a subject so imbued with sentimentalism requires stylistic disipline and a special ability to manage child actors. The author of &quotBirth Certificate&quot mastered both - and it was not by chance. Stanislaw Rozewicz was always the beneficent spirit of the film milieu he could unite people around a common goal. He emanated peace and sensitivity, which flowed to his co-workers and pupils. A film, being a group work, necessitates some form of empathy - tuning in with others. 　　In a biographical documentary about Stanislaw Rozewicz entitled &quotWalking, Meeting&quot (1999 by Antoni Krauze), there is a beautiful scene when the director, after a few decades, meets Beata Barszczewska, who plays Mireczka in the novella &quotDrops of Blood&quot. The woman falls into the arms of the elderly man. They are both moved. He wonders how many years have passed. She answers: &quotA few years. Not too many.&quot And Rozewicz, with his characteristic smile says: &quotIt is true. We spent this entire time together.&quot 立即播放